I first heard it in 1994. Under the dry skies of Rajasthan, in a makeshift Vayu Saint camp near Kota, our Kashmiri friend told us Tamil’s what it meant to live one day as a Hindu in the Valley.

He didn’t dramatize. He just described.

The silence. The threats. The bombs.

That winter, his letter carried more than words. It carried news of a neighbour’s death in a blast. A name reduced to smoke.

We were kids. But we understood something big had broken.

It’s been 30 years.

The camps still exist—not in tents, but in memories, in neglected policies, in cold government files marked rehabilitation pending.

We failed to protect the Kashmiri Hindus.

And now?

Now we let go of tourist Hindus—pilgrims who walk barefoot to temples older than modern maps.

Killed not for what they did, but for who they are.

We mourn, trend hashtags, light a candle.

And forget. Again.

I see you.

The ones who quietly preserve what’s left. The temple guardians. The mothers who teach their children slokas while hiding their surnames. The pundits without platforms.

You’ve been told to stay silent in the name of secularism.

Taught that pain must not disturb the peace.

But what is peace, if it demands your erasure?

It’s okay to say we’re tired.

It’s okay to say we feel betrayed.

It’s okay to say that justice delayed is not justice—it’s denial.

If you’re reading this and wondering if your voice matters—it does.

It’s time to speak—not in anger, but in clarity.

Not to divide, but to remember.

To demand not revenge, but recognition.

To protect—not just people, but civilization.

You are not alone in this journey.

Not in 1994.

Not now.

And never again in silence.

— For those who remember. For those who still believe.

For Those Who Carry the Weight of Memory

This is for you—the ones who fight silently, who feel the world teeters on the edge of forgetting your pain, your history, your existence.

In 1994, under Rajasthan’s brittle skies, I sat in a makeshift Vayu Saint camp near Kota. A Kashmiri friend, eyes heavy with exile, shared what it meant to be a Hindu in the Valley. No theatrics, just truth: the suffocating silence of neighbors turning away, the whispered threats, the bombs that tore through homes. That winter, his letter arrived, not just words but a wound—news of a neighbor’s death in a blast, a name dissolved into smoke. We were kids, but we knew something sacred had shattered.

Today, April 22, 2025, the Valley bled again. In Pahalgam’s Baisaran meadow, a place of serene beauty, 28 lives—tourists, locals, Hindus, Muslims, a Navy officer, doctors, families—were stolen in a terrorist attack. The Resistance Front, a shadow of Lashkar-e-Taiba, claimed it, calling it vengeance. Among the fallen was Manjunath from Shivamogga, whose wife and child now cling to survival. They were not soldiers or politicians, just people: pilgrims seeking solace, visitors chasing beauty, locals living their days. Killed not for what they did, but for who they were, where they stood.

It’s been 30 years since the exodus of Kashmiri Hindus, and the scars remain—tent camps replaced by memories, promises of rehabilitation buried in cold government files. We couldn’t protect them then. And now? Now we mourn 28 souls, light candles, trend hashtags like #PahalgamAttack, and risk forgetting again. The security lapses, the unheeded intelligence inputs, the hollow claims of peace—each a betrayal echoing the failures of decades past.

I see you. The temple guardians sweeping ancient steps. The mothers teaching their children slokas while guarding their surnames. The pundits without platforms, preserving a civilization against erasure. You’ve been told your pain disrupts the peace, that secularism demands your silence. But what is peace if it costs your identity? What is justice if it’s delayed until it’s denial?

The Pahalgam attack is not just a headline; it’s a mirror. It reflects the same violence that drove Kashmiri Hindus from their homes, the same indifference that lets their stories fade. It’s Manjunath’s family, it’s the Blue-and-White Flycatcher you photographed, its fragile beauty blurred by chaos—a bokeh of loss in a world distracted.

It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to feel betrayed. It’s okay to demand more than hashtags—accountability, recognition, a future where no one dies for their faith or their presence.

If you’re reading this, your voice matters. Speak, not in rage, but with clarity. Share your stories—on X, in letters, in gatherings. Amplify the voiceless, like the families of Pahalgam’s fallen. Hold leaders accountable, not just for condolences but for action—stronger security, real rehabilitation, justice that doesn’t linger in files. Remember, not to divide, but to protect a civilization woven from every soul in the Valley.

You are not alone. Not in 1994. Not in 2025. And never again in silence.

— For Manjunath, for the 28, for those who still believe.