Our Moon Has Blood Clots: The Exodus of the Kashmiri Pandits by Rahul Pandita Page A

his voice against the brutality that had been unleashed against the Pandit community. ‘ Aisee baatein chalti rehti hein —such things keep on happening,’ he shot back.
    We were already becoming nobody’s people.

    Shortly afterwards, we slipped away from home one morning and took refuge in my mother’s sister’s house. Her family lived near the army cantonment, and it was safe there. Father spent the day listening to news bulletins. But the state radio and television carried no news reports. It was only BBC Radio that gave the correct picture. From the news reports, it was clear that the situation in the Valley had spiralled beyond control.
    After a week or so, Father grew restless and wanted to return home. So we left my sister behind, and the three of us returned late one afternoon.
    The whole neighbourhood had moved out. The entire locality was deserted. The Razdans had left, so had the Bhans, and the Mattoos. It looked like a ghost street. Not a soul was to be seen anywhere. We slipped inside our house like robbers. We walked past the kitchen garden, frost-ridden and barren, and entered the house through a side door. Then Father made sure the main door was locked so if somebody were to check, he would think the house was vacant, like every other house in the locality. Father instructed us not to switch on any lights and to keep the curtains drawn across the windows. He also urged us to speak in hushed tones. To feel a little more secure, Father had asked one of his staff members, Satish, to come and stay with us. Satish had married recently, and Father and I had attended his wedding in Budgam. Satish had made his family move to Jammu. His government job had been hard to come by and he was not sure if he would be able to keep it were he to move to Jammu, so he stayed behind.
    We just sat there in a room upstairs and talked about the situation. Satish spoke about how Pandits were being killed all across the Valley.
    Suddenly, we hear laughter outside. Then someone passes a remark and there is the sound of laughter again. Father goes to the window and after taking a deep breath lifts the corner of the curtain to look outside. I kneel on the ground near him and peep outside as well. Near the main gate below, there is a gang of boys. Some of them are smoking. I know most of them. They are boys from our neighbourhood—near and far—and I have played cricket with some of them. Their ringleader is a boy who lives nearby. ‘He is even trained in rocket launchers,’ one of them says loudly, boasting about his cousin who is with a militant group now .
    ‘ Let’s distribute these houses,’ one of them shouts. ‘Akram, which one do you want?’ he asks .
    ‘ I would settle for this house any day,’ he points to a house .
    ‘ Bastard,’ shoots back another, ‘how you wish you could occupy this house with their daughter! ’
    There is a peal of laughter. They make obscene gestures with their fists and Akram pretends as if he is raping the girl and is now close to an orgasm. Since I am kneeling next to Father, from the corner of my left eye, I can see that his legs have begun to shake .
    In the next few minutes, all of them have one house each. In between they discuss other girls. And then Akram asks the ringleader , ‘Hey Khoja, you haven’t specified your choice! ’
    The ringleader is wearing a pheran and there is a cricket bat in his hands. He is smoking. He savours the question for a moment. Everybody is looking at him now. The ringleader then turns and now he is facing our gate. He lifts his arm, and points his finger towards it. He lets it stay afloat in the air for a moment and then he says it .
    ‘ I will take this! ’
    The corner of the curtain drops from Father’s grip. He crumbles to the floor right there. He closes his eyes and is shaking. I think I hear someone from the gang shouting: ‘Good choice , baaya, good choice .’
    Then it all blanks out. I can hear nothing more. There is a buzzing sound