There are No Maps For This
Some mornings are born from silence so deep; it is as if the world is holding its breath, dreading its own dawn. That was the air we woke up to on 27th February 1990, the last day I was home in Kashmir. Before the first light had touched the treetops, we had already begun leaving, untethered and uncertain, not so much running as being swept away by a current too fierce to resist. There was a chill that morning that could not be measured in degrees, a cold that seeped beneath the skin and beside hope. The kind that didn’t just nip your fingertips but wrapped itself around your soul, reminding you that safety is not just about warmth but about belonging. My sister and I, bundled in sweaters thick as armour, sat stiffly in the back of a car filled not only with our hastily packed belongings but with worry pressed so tightly between us, it felt like a third passenger.
Papa stood by the door, caught between shadow and shivering porch light, his goodbye weighted by absences he could not fill. Even the old black Ambassador waited with unusual gravity at the threshold, its engine idling like a muted heartbeat. We barely carried anything, hoping not to be found out, but my mother packed books with trembling determination, as if stories and lessons might stitch up the chasms opening under our feet. The Bata schoolbags at our sides, once symbols of routine and possibility, now became relics of another life, one we had finished living before we realised it had ended.
Kakni brought her beloved kangri, silver chalan and all, full of glowing coal that barely lasted any of the journey, but its warmth mattered more than anything that day. She wore her fear like a scarf, wound tightly over her mouth. Bobji sat in the front next to the driver, pretending to have it all together, but broken like a shattered glass deep inside. Only the Sikh driver greeted the morning with the sort of calm that comes from ferrying the lost.
We drove through streets that had belonged to us yesterday but felt alien today. The army waved us down every so often, their pointed guns and polite stares like twin watchdogs. They peered into the backseat, to check on the frightened cargo, perhaps or simply to reassure themselves that we were not, in fact, an enemy worth catching.
Soon, the sky dropped a curtain over the mountains, snow, sudden and heavy, shrouding our nerves. The highway closed soon after, ‘for safety,’ they said, but the word had lost its meaning. We waited in a highway dhaba perched on rain-warped wooden benches. Steam from an aluminium bucket of rice fogged the air and for a moment of time, the world was filled only by the taste of rajma chawal, my old favourite, now inexplicably dull and distant. Sometimes in life, the things that once comforted you come to taste of nothing at all.
That was the moment, even as a little girl, when I first understood:
You can lose your home in a single sunrise and the world will not pause to let you say goodbye.
Between Leaving and Arriving
We arrived in Jammu, a city we had visited often for its forgiving winter sun, always as tourists, never imagining we’d stay. And here we were, expected to make it home forever, though we didn’t know for how long. Jammu wasn’t easy. It was nothing like the deep greens and crystal rivers of the Kashmir Valley. Still, we held our heads high, feeling our way through a new world alive with scorpions, centipedes, millipedes and snakes; creatures that seemed to claim the land as their own, while the fierce glare of summer and punishing heatwaves bore down on us. We went to great lengths to track down monj haakh (kohl rabi), after all, how could our meal be complete without it?
Life was no longer what it had been, but it was the life ahead of us, and we learned to carry on.
Redrawing the Map
Years later, my parents brought me to Bombay (now known as Mumbai, but always Bombay to me), enrolling me in university, dropping me into an unfamiliar world to discover independence. The woman they believed I could be. We arrived at Mumbai Central Station during the monsoons, small VIP suitcases in one hand, dreams clasped tight in the other. Misdirected to a hotel that didn’t exist, we found ourselves in a shapeless room with perpetually damp sheets beneath a complaining fan.
But Bombay, with its noisy compassion and easy excess, worked its magic. Slowly. It coaxed out confidence, drowned loneliness in the neighbourhood’s bustle, tucked my homesickness into its backstreets.
And then, once again, I found myself leaving.
Another Country, Another Atlas
I arrived in the UK in September 2001, 10th to be precise. The air felt granular with cold, as if breathing in uncertainty. London was strangely familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Crowded streets felt empty, homesickness choked silent in my throat. No WhatsApp, no easy voices from home.
My first day passed like I was a ghost, wandering around Victoria, browsing the shelves at Sainsbury’s, walking up to Big Ben. Both the city and I feigned openness, while my heart quietly retreated beneath my coat.
When the World Stops Turning
On my second day in London, the world literally fell silent. The news flashed in the TV lounge: towers burning, people poised to leap. September 11th, 9/11 as it would forever be known, cracked open a fissure that split continents.
In the kitchenette in Wigram House Halls that night, a few of us hovered around mismatched mugs and over‑steeped tea, a small group of international students talking in low, unsure voices, not really knowing what to say.
I didn’t sleep that night. Anxiety pressed raw against my chest.
What had been personal loneliness became something collective: a grief of dislocation, the dread that nothing would ever be truly predictable again.
Tiny Rescues
And yet, nostalgia crept in. The wintry dawn of Srinagar flickered in my memory. I was building home again, in another unfamiliar place where little kindnesses recalibrate the world. Gathered over instant noodles and faltering conversation, we pooled immigrant grief, tiny mosaics of loss and bewilderment.
Routine returned. We found friends, adopted new habits. One unsteady day at a time, we started creating lives from scratch.
The Truth About Arriving
Looking back, I realise no map can truly guide you through the experience of starting over. Heartbreak and new beginnings shape us one fragile morning at a time, yet our roots hold firm as the earth shifts. If I could speak to my younger self back in Kashmir, I’d say this:
Where you belong might keep changing, but you have the ability to build home wherever you are. Each goodbye allows something new to begin. Over time, the snow melts, unfamiliar places grow familiar and even the quietest moments fill with new voices and stories.
No matter how far you travel, you carry your beginnings in your bones and every day you choose to move forward, guided by an inner compass and grounded traditions.
There are no perfect maps for this. There never were. The only compass that truly matters is the one you carry within and for me, that has always been enough.
Sheetal Raina
Dr. Sheetal Raina is the founder and editor of ISBUND, an immersive platform dedicated to preserving and celebrating Kashmiri culture. Deeply connected to the heritage and traditions of Kashmir, she brings a distinctive voice to cultural discourse - blending academic insight with heartfelt commitment to her roots.
21 Comments
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Sheetal Raina
Thank you Subhashji for your kind words.
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Rajender Koul
You were forced to leave Kashmir on 27th February 1990 — blending emotional acknowledgement, personal connection, and respect for the sensitivity of that moment while being so Empathetic & Reflective.
“Your words bring back the piercing cold of that winter, but even colder was the silence of departure. February 1990 was not just a month—it was a wound in our shared history.
Thank you for capturing the ache so truthfully.
Reading this, I could almost hear the crunch of snow under hurried footsteps and the unspoken goodbyes between neighbours.
I too left in that month but on the night of 28th February 1990 in a truck with my brother and my office colleage following a militants death warning a declaration note received in our Mohalla .
Your story feels like a mirror held up to my own.This is not just your story Sheetal Ji—this is the story of thousands.
But the way you have told it, with every sensory detail intact, ensures that history will not be reduced to numbers or dates, but will remain alive in memory.”
February 1990 froze time for us.
You have thawed a corner of that frozen moment with your words, letting the pain and humanity flow back into view.
“Thank you, Sheetal, for telling what so many still cannot bring themselves to speak of.
Your courage in revisiting those days is also a comfort to those of us who lived them in silence.
When you describe leaving, I can smell the kahwa that went cold on the table and see the window that was shut but never locked. Your memory keeps the Kashmir we knew alive.
Thanx for sharing and keeping us all alive with the pain of this mysterious pain of lost Homeland ,our Mother Kashir.
Happy Independence Day and Greetings to you.-
Sheetal Raina
Thank you, Rajender ji, for your deeply heartfelt words. It means more than I can say that my memories resonated with yours, though the pain we share is one neither of us ever wished to carry. It was very hard to write this piece.
The 27th of February 1990 remains etched in me, a cold that seeps into the soul. Reading about your own departure that very next night brought it all back — the hush, the crunch of hurried footsteps, the unspoken goodbyes.I still see that cat hiding in our chini peet in my dreams, as if teasing me to come home. Your words about kahwa gone cold and windows shut but never locked are so true — each small detail stays forever.
Like you said, this is not just my story, but that of thousands. Perhaps by telling it, we keep our lost Kashir alive.
Warm greetings to you too on this Independence Day.
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Manju Vali
Painful,it made me travel to the nostalgic corridors…where pain…separation filled the air as well as our heart
This inititave by you Dr Sheetal is connecting our community and the fragrance of isbund gives us a message …be a hope, and change for good -
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Dr Sundeep Kaul
my dear Sheetal, your words went straight to my heart. You’ve poured so much love, truth, and courage into this piece that I felt myself walking beside you on that cold February morning. Every detail — the hush, the crunch of footsteps, the quiet ache — brought back a Kashmir we still carry in our bones. Thank you for telling our story with such tenderness. You’ve kept our homeland alive not just in memory, but in spirit.
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Sheetal Raina
Thank you Sunny Bhaiya
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Neetu
Great write up ! I walked with you with every word you wrote . You my friend were always destined to do great things and with that super kind face and deep compassion u made your place in many hearts ! So the road does end up in some hearts 💕
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Sheetal Raina
Ah Neetu, thats such a sweet and kind comment. I will forever remain your adorable junior!
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Geeta
My Dear Sheetal
I was part of this journey — just a 10-year-old then, not knowing I would never see my home in Kashmir again. I still remember how our mother packed only two schoolbags from all our belongings, filling them not with valuables but with what she felt mattered most. She has always been proud of that choice, and I understand why — she carried our past and our future in those bags.-
Sheetal Raina
Your words bring back so many memories, both tender and bittersweet. You were not even nine! Being part of that journey with you, even though we couldn’t grasp its magnitude at the time, truly shaped who we are today. We carry all of that with us, always.
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Suneel Khar
Ditto : 28th Feb 1990. Rest every detail remains the same.
From time to time, we should reopen this old wound so that we remember “why” of it. Your piece does that exactly and clinically too.
Thank you 🙏!
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Sheetal Raina
Thank you, Suneel ji, for sharing your own date and for affirming how these memories mirror your own experience. It’s true: the wounds of displacement and loss remain and revisiting them can remind us not only of the “why,” but also of the resilience and dignity with which so many have faced their histories.
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Ashok Bhan
What a heart chilling hard truth to recall and remember?
I was in Delhi since 1980 but my brother Pupu ji & his wife Kiran ji escaped death near Kani kadal, in late 1989. Bhabi & Babu ji were with me. It was horror around when my younger sister and her entire family left during early 1990 from their recently constructed home at Rawalpura. It was rebuilding everything from scratch though we had a reasonable settled living in Delhi. Extraordinary spine chilling pain criss cross my mind while I recall the horror killing of the innoncent Pandits.
You have been an example of courage, inspiration and path finder for many through your deeds and doings. All of us are proud of you. Stay blessed-
Sheetal Raina
Thank you Sabaji for sharing your deeply personal reflections and the anguish your family endured. Your words echo the pain and trauma that so many in our community have carried.Thank you for your kind words and blessings.
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Leena Patil-Thakoor
Hi Sheetal,
You have narrated it so beautifully.
One can truly feel the pain of the original citizens of Kashmir who were forced to leave their homes just to save their lives. At that time, the rest of India was hardly aware of the severity of the situation.
Even during our college days, at that young age, we couldn’t fully understand what Kashmiri girls around us must have been going through emotionally and mentally.
Your journey is filled with immense life experiences, and it is a matter of pride to see all the success you have achieved today. Stay blessed always.
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Sheetal Raina
Thank you so much, Leena, for your heartfelt words and thank you for acknowledging the pain and upheaval faced by so many Kashmiri hindu families. You are absolutely right, much of what we lived through remained invisible to the rest of the country and even among friends. It was often too difficult to fully articulate or for others to comprehend at the time.
Looking back, I realise that those unspoken struggles shaped not just my journey, but the journeys of so many who were displaced. The empathy and kindness so many people like you have offered over the years has made a real difference. Thank you for seeing not just the pain, but the resilience and growth that followed. Your support and blessings mean a great deal to me.
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Kamlesh Kumar
Your date and my date are just a year apart. On 26th February 1991, Kuwait was liberated from the Iraqi invasion — not Kashmir. My evacuation was on 27th September 1990.
If I compare, your story carries more pain than mine. Mine felt almost like a “luxurious” evacuation in comparison. In Kashmir, militants brought real life-threatening fear into daily life. But for us in Kuwait, the Iraqi soldiers were mostly just teenagers with guns, sent by their leaders. They would even play football with us sometimes. Since we were expats and not citizens, we were relatively safer. The real suffering was borne by the Kuwaiti people, whose situation was much closer to what Kashmiris faced.
My map went Kuwait → India → Kuwait → USA. I was in high school at the time, not in 6th grade like you. Facing that kind of trauma as a young child is a different weight altogether.
Before Kuwait, I honestly didn’t know what Kashmir was going through. News there was heavily censored since Kuwait is an Islamic country. It was only when we got admission in school midway through the session in India that I learned about it. I discovered a new word — “Kashmiri refugee.” Until then, I thought the word refugee applied only to international travelers. Later, in Delhi, I saw peaceful protests at Jantar Mantar about the Kashmir issue. Back then, who even reads the news at a high school level? But that was the first time I really understood what Kashmiris were facing.
Years later, around 9/11, I got married. Some of my guests couldn’t attend the wedding because flights were diverted. Instead of flying over Afghanistan, they were rerouted through Kuwait and Gujarat airspace to Delhi.
Looking back, I feel like my story — with its safer evacuation and less direct danger — almost inspired me to reflect more deeply when I heard yours.
Looks like my story inspired you too write also.-
Sheetal Raina
Thank you, Kamlesh, for sharing your story. Even though our experiences were different, I relate deeply to that feeling of being uprooted and facing the unknown at a young age. Your honesty about not realising what was happening in Kashmir until later rings true for so many of us shaped by sudden change.
It helps to hear from someone whose journey crossed some of the same world events and emotions. Stories like yours remind me that the pain of leaving is real for all of us. Yet the courage to start again connects us, wherever our maps take us.
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Vanessa Waithe - Golland
I’m silenced by the picture your words created in my mind! You are truly awesome Sheetal!
I am deeply pleased to know you! 🩷🩷
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