The displacement has left us with a void where our cultural roots should be. Every festival, every ritual feels like a performance of a play where we've lost the script. We celebrate with what we remember, but the essence, the true connection to our homeland, is lost

Hey! Are you from Kashmir? You must have seen the tulips, and collected the Chinar leaves? Do you have one at home? How is it to play in snow? What do you speak at home? 

I am a Kashmiri pundit and my grand–parents used to live in a beautiful villa called the Dhar House, on the 7th Bridge of the Dal Lake, in a picturesque place called Safa Kadal Lake (Kadal means bridge in Kashmiri). Nestled among apple orchards overlooking the lake, the house is a distant memory imagined by the stories told by my dad on the innumerable trips to the Hyderabad zoo. 

My parents had to leave everything and flee during the 1990s as the famed spirit of Kashmiriyat or the centuries-old tradition of religious syncretism was murdered. When people ask me- "So how often do you go there?" My heart skips a beat and breaks me in pieces. 

I do not know the language, nor the smell of the most beautiful place on Earth. What do I answer? The sands of time have taken us far away and there is no one to go to. It is just stories of the glorious days told to us by our parents and grandparents remain etched in memory. 

The displacement has left us with a void where our cultural roots should be. Every festival, every ritual feels like a performance of a play where we've lost the script. We celebrate with what we remember, but the essence, the true connection to our homeland, is lost. Every Diwali, I light a lamp not just for light, but for the hope of returning to a land that feels more like a dream with each passing year.

Yet, in the heart of Hyderabad, where we've built new lives, there’s a community that clings to the remnants of our heritage. We gather, sharing stories and food, trying to keep the culture alive. But there's a constant tug at our hearts, a longing for the mountains, the lakes, and the life that was once ours. We're Kashmiri Pandits by blood, but our souls are scattered, searching for a home that might never be ours again.

Yours truly, a Kashmiri pundit who lives in Hyderabad but dreams of Kashmir— Divya Dhar