Every Grain You Eat

I spent a week in Delhi prior to leaving for Kashmir. May 2006 had been an especially bloody month in the region, with fatal clashes between the Indian army and supposed militants, deadly attacks on tourists and the massacre of 34 Hindus. Every night I watched scenes of carnage broadcast from Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, and asked myself: What makes you think you are ready to walk into this mess? These moments of paralyzing fear undermined the little confidence I had left. But on June 1, I mustered all the courage I had and boarded the plane for Srinagar.

My family members had given me plenty of advice before I left for Kashmir. Don’t tell anybody there that you’re an American. Tell them you study in Delhi. Don’t tell them that you’re a Kashmiri Hindu. Tell them you are doing research. Don’t tell them that it’s about the Kashmiri Hindu community. Make sure to check underneath every car you ride in for a bomb. Don’t talk to anybody you don’t know. Even if you talk, don’t say much. Don’t go anywhere without somebody you can trust. Don’t go outside unless you have to.

I had begun to wonder if I was going to Kashmir or prison.

I knew only one person in Srinagar—the Director of Tourism—and it was he who picked me up from the tiny but heavily guarded airport and took me to the women’s hostel where I would be staying for the next three weeks. He looked exhausted when I met him; his office was under tremendous pressure because of the numerous tourist attacks that had occurred over the last few weeks. He had spent the previous night in the local hospital with the families of the victims. Several people had passed away.

I was shocked by the relative peace as we drove through the streets of Srinagar. Everything looked so normal. Over the next few weeks, I would learn how one grows accustomed to violence and unrest. A gunfight between the Indian military and a militant would take place in Lal Chowk, the crowded marketplace in central Srinagar, and within minutes, everything would be back to business as usual.

The women’s hostel I stayed at housed 15 women. The first women I met were my roommate, Sheeba, and the warden of the hostel, Daisy Ma’am. I was as curious about them and their lives as they were about me. Sheeba felt hopeless about her future and was desperate to leave Kashmir, but her family did not approve. After all, she was engaged. It hardly mattered that it was to a man she had barely seen and did not love.

Sheeba and I talked about the United States and my life there; she told me that she had applied for a passport and visa to the United States. When I asked her where she would go and what she would do there, she mentioned a cousin and some other vague plans. In reality, Sheeba knew that going to the United States was a pipe dream, but applying for a passport and visa gave her something to do and something to live for.

I had decided to loosely follow my family’s advice and not disclose too much information about myself, even to the women with whom I lived. Most of them were Muslims, and as my family had repeatedly warned me, I had no idea who they would talk to about me. It only took a few hours for me to realize that withholding my identity was entirely unnecessary and worse yet, deceitful, especially considering how forthcoming and gracious the women were being toward me. Still, it was with a hint of hesitation that I told them I was a Kashmiri Hindu and that my research was about the Kashmiri Hindus who had stayed in Kashmir. The women could not have been less bothered.

Over the next several weeks, the women in the hostel treated me with an affection and love that I could have only expected from family and close friends. We walked around Srinagar, talked endlessly about life, politics, family and relationships, and watched Hindi movies late into the night. Within the walls of the hostel, we created a small haven of friendship and camaraderie. My purpose of being in Kashmir included interviewing Kashmiri Hindus who had stayed in the region despite the exodus of most of the Kashmiri Hindu community. Those who remained in Kashmir are commonly referred to as “non-migrants.” In 1989, before the start of the separatist movement, there were more than 200,000 Kashmiri Hindus who lived in Kashmir; today there are merely 7,000 Kashmiri Hindus who permanently reside there.

The interviews took me to all corners of Srinagar and to several outlying regions. The Kashmiri Hindus I met shared various reasons for staying in Kashmir when most of their family and friends had left. Many of these non-migrants faced economic constraints: their livelihoods were connected to agriculture and the land they owned. Some just did not have enough money to leave their houses and resettle in another city. Others were tending to aging and ill family members who were physically and emotionally unable to leave Kashmir.

The most intriguing stories I heard were of Kashmiri Hindus receiving protection and support from their Muslim neighbors and friends. Even more inspirational was the fierce determination that many of these non-migrants expressed about staying in Kashmir. As one Kashmiri Hindu activist put it, “If someone asks me now to migrate from Kashmir, I will refuse. I have given the last 16 years of my life to Kashmir.”

In my brief encounters with Kashmiris—Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs alike—I felt a strong, impenetrable connection. The line between ethnographer and community member was often so blurred that my tape recorder would remain unused for days at a time. It took only a few interviews for me to realize that all they wanted to know was that I cared—that I wasn’t just there to record a story, write a report and never look back.

The most unnerving interview I conducted was with a Kashmiri Hindu woman who taught at a local university. She was willing to talk to me, but she wanted her opinions to remain anonymous. She feared being associated with anything controversial and said that she and her family had managed to survive in Kashmir because they stayed out of politics. Talking in a hushed voice in an empty room at the university, the woman shared stories of survival, how she maintained hope and her thoughts about the future of Kashmiri Hindus. As we parted, she repeated a proverb that I will never forget: “Dhane dhane par likha hai, khane walle ka naam,” loosely translated as, “Every grain that you eat is destined for you and you only.” I realized that no matter how or why I went there, it was part of my destiny to go to Kashmir. I will find a way to return.


Nishita Trisal is a senior at DePauw University in Greencastle, Indiana. Nishita immigrated to the United States from Pune, India at the age of eight. This past summer, she conduced ethnography in Kashmir, her ancestral homeland, and traveled throughout Northern India. Nishita plans to pursue a career in International Relations.