Where The Pigeon Still Waits…

In the winding lanes of Habba Kadal, memory weaves its gentle spell. Even 35 years after the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits, the past lingers: footsteps echo from quiet alleys, laughter wafts like the aroma of Mun Halwai’s sweets and the solitary pigeon still waits atop its favourite rooftop by Purshayar temple, as if the boy who once trained it might return. Here, every street held stories—the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer, Sat Lal’s banter, Makhan Kandur’s soft kulchas and the sly tricks of Ghulam Daen, who spirited away your money with a three-card hustle. The river Vitasta flowed through farewells and festivals, Rahman Kuchu’s shikara always ready for rescue, while neighbours shared bowls of kheer and moments of mischief. Though the old homes have crumbled and silence now drapes the once-bustling corridors, the spirit of the community endures in memory and longing. In Sumbly’s words, "Home is not a place, but a patchwork of faces, rituals, fragrances and songs. As long as we remember, truly remember,  Purshayar and Drabiyar are never lost."