Between Fear and Belonging: One Afternoon in Soura

Sudesh Manvati had always believed that memory was like a quiet river, sometimes gentle, sometimes loud, but never really gone. Coming back to Kashmir after nearly twenty years felt like dipping his both hands into its familiar icy waters.

He had left in 1990 with the tide of fear that swept his community away. But time changes things. It changes people, places and sometimes, even courage. This time, courage had brought him back. He had returned to Soura to attend the wedding of his old Muslim friend, Yusuf, the boy who had once shared his school bench, his cricket bat, and half the winters of his childhood before the storm of militancy tore everything apart.

Yusuf’s younger sister, Aaliya, the bride, called him “Sudesh Bhai,” just like she did in their childhood. The family welcomed him with tears of warmth and apologies for the tragedies no one could control. For two days, everything felt like old times; wazwan platters, teasing cousins, women singing wanwun and the fragrance of kehwa and kangri smoke in cold corridors.

Sudesh walked through those rooms and thought, maybe Kashmir still remembers me… Maybe I still belong here.

On the third day, after lunch, he decided to go alone to the small bazaar near Soura Jama Masjid to buy some Kashmiri tea and masala packets to take back to Bhopal. It will take only ten minutes, he told Yusuf. Go, but come back soon, Yusuf smiled. And don’t wander far. These days people are unpredictable.

Sudesh laughed lightly. “I’ve seen worse, yaar.” But destiny sometimes waits quietly behind ordinary moments.

THE CROWD THAT GREW LIKE A STORM………

It was 4 pm. The winter sun had already turned pale. Inside the small grocery shop of “Qayoom Khan & sons,” Sudesh picked a packet of noon chai and some Kashmiri masala and was just looking for some more items. Just then, he heard a distant shout.

“Yi chhu kuss?—Who is he?” and another voice rose sharper, “Pandit chu, He’s a Pandit.”

Sudesh looked up. Within minutes, maybe less than five, a crowd swelled outside.

Young boys, older men, bearded youth, even some young girls stood around, their eyes fierce and curious. Some whispered, and some pointed. Sudesh felt the floor under him shift. He stepped out, holding his small packet.

A voice sliced through the crowd. “He is a CBI agent, Catch him!” Sudesh froze. “He was spying, Kill him!” Someone yelled, and the mixed crowd got involved.

Then he saw them, a group of three men in pherans, AK-47 muzzles poking through the folds, raised toward the grey sky.

People pushed, pulling him forward. His breath became thin. The world shrank into one narrow circle around him. He lifted his hands, palms together.

“Brothers… I have come only for a wedding. Please listen to me…” But frenzy does not listen. Frenzy only echoes.

A teenage boy spat near his shoes. Someone slapped the packet from his hand. Someone tugged his muffler. Even a bearded Moulvi type man shouted, “Tie him to the pole, Let everyone see what happens to agents! CBI, CID…”

An electricity pole stood nearby, tall, splintered, indifferent. The militant with the AK stepped forward. Sudesh’s heart hammered against his ribs.

“Please… please listen to me!” Sudesh pleaded. “Yes, I am a Kashmiri Pandit, I am a banker. I work in Bhopal. Here is my ID card, look… look!” He pulled out his SBI identity card with shivering hands. The militant snatched it, glancing at it with contempt.

“ID cards?” the man laughed coldly. “Even real agents carry IDs.”

The crowd roared in agreement, and in this moment, someone kicked the back of Sudesh’s knee, forcing him down.

Someone shouted, yemis deevsa Phansi…. Things started turning ugly. “Bring rope!” “Bring the ruzz….”

Sudesh’s throat dried. He looked at the gun barrel pointed so close he could see dust on its edge.

Is this how the life ends? Alone, misunderstood, in the same land where he was born? He is reminded of the stories told to him by his parents, cousins, and having read some books about militancy that killed a thousand Kashmiri Pandits in the last so many years. Maybe it’s my turn today… again.

THE MOMENT HOPE RAN TOWARD HIM…..

Suddenly, from across the lane, footsteps pounded like a sprint of desperation. “Stop! Stop him! Stop everything!”

It was a Muslim woman’s voice—Aaliya’s. Screaming allahoo, ya allah ya Allah, parvadigara raham……

Her bridal bangles jingled as she ran, still in her marriage-day shawl, tears streaking her face.

Behind her came Yusuf, breathless, eyes wild with fear. Their parents followed, shouting through the chaos.

Aaliya pushed herself into the circle, grabbed Sudesh’s arm, and stood like a shield in front of him. “This man is my brother!” she screamed. “He is our family guest—our family! He is no spy!” Yusuf’s father, old but authoritative, folded his hands before the militant.

“My son… he came from Bhopal after twenty years just to bless my daughter. Please… please don’t do this sin.”

The militant stared at them. The crowd murmured… For a moment, the air seemed suspended.

Yusuf moved closer, standing almost nose-to-nose with the gunman. “I swear on Allah and on this Masjid—if you kill him, you kill me first.”

Silence dropped like a stone.

Even the militant blinked. Aaliya clutched Sudesh’s ID card from the militant’s hand and thrust it back at him.

“Look properly! See the date, see the posting! He is nothing but a simple banker!”

More family members arrived, uncles, cousins, neighbours—pleading, shouting, crying. Five elderly men, respected in the locality, stepped forward to reason.

“Let the boy go. Do not commit zulm (injustice).”

Arguments stretched. Tension thickened and then slowly, very slowly, began to drain.

Finally, the militant muttered, “Take him. On your responsibility. If anything is false… it’s your burden.”

The crowd broke into murmurs.

Several boys stepped aside. Aaliya grabbed Sudesh’s hand. His legs trembled so much that Yusuf had to hold him around the shoulders.

As they escorted him away, Sudesh heard a man whisper bitterly behind them: “He is lucky. Most don’t leave alive.”

THE WALK BACK—AND THE TRUTH OF FEAR…

Halfway to the house, Sudesh’s knees finally collapsed. He fell on the road, shaking. Aaliya knelt beside him. “Bhai… breathe… you’re safe now… you’re safe…”

Sudesh held his head in his palms and broke down. “Yusuf… I would have died today… in our own Kashmir… like a stray dog… without guilt… without crime…”

Yusuf’s eyes filled. He touched Sudesh’s shoulder and whispered, “And I would have never forgiven Allah… if I had lost you like that.”

They stayed like that—three people sitting on cold road tar, trembling with the weight of the nearly impossible escape.

THAT NIGHT—A PROMISE MADE..

Sudesh decided to leave the same night. Fear had dried something inside him. As he prepared to go, Aaliya approached him.

“You came to bless my wedding… and almost lost your life…”

Sudesh smiled faintly. “May Allah give you a life where no friend ever fears another.” Yusuf hugged him tightly.

“One day… Kashmir will not scare her own children.” Sudesh closed his eyes.

“One day… let us pray.”

YEARS LATER NOW….

Every time Sudesh stirred his tea in Bhopal, he remembered one thing: it takes only five minutes for hatred to gather, but a lifetime for trust to return. And that memory, that winter afternoon in Soura, never left him. Not even once.