Through The Lens Of A Daughter: Tribute To A Father

Nestled in the heart of Srinagar, at 65 Karan Nagar, stood our home—a haven of warmth, laughter, and unspoken strength. It was here that I grew up under the quiet yet firm guidance of my father, Mr. Santosh Kumar Raina. A businessman by profession, he ran New Light Stores in Budshah Chowk, but to me, he was far more than a successful shopkeeper. He was my mentor, my teacher, my friend, and most profoundly, the man who shaped not just my values, but my voice.

From a young age, I watched him turn his modest store into a space not just of commerce, but of connection. His sharp mind knew the rhythm of the market, but it was his mastery in communication, his ability to listen patiently and respond wisely, that left a lasting impression on me. He would often remind me, “Words are bridges—choose them carefully, and you can reach anyone.” In quiet corners of our home, he trained me to speak with clarity, to carry myself with confidence, and to never underestimate the power of respectful dialogue.

He never forced lessons; he lived them. Whether it was handling a stubborn customer with patience or resolving a family matter with dignity, I saw in him the embodiment of calm strength. He was the first to cheer for my smallest achievements, and the last to judge when I stumbled. He knew when to be a father, and when to become my friend.

But then came the night that changed everything—the night of the exodus. The fear, the hurried packing, the haunting silence of abandonment. As we left behind our beloved Kashmir, our home in Karan Nagar, and New Light Stores—my father did not cry. Instead, he held our hands tightly and whispered, “We carry our roots within us.”

In the chaos of displacement, he remained our anchor. He never allowed bitterness to seep into his words. He spoke of resilience, of starting anew, and taught me that exile could take us from our land, but never from our identity.

Years have passed. The fragrance of Kehwa, the crispy telwor from kandur, the rustling Chinar leaves, and the echo of temple bells remain etched in my memory, just like the sound of his voice—firm, kind, full of purpose. Today, every skill I hold dear, every strength I draw upon in life and work, traces back to him.

My father, Mr. Santosh Kumar Raina, was not just a resident of Karan Nagar. He was the soul of our home, the spirit of our store, and the steady light in our darkest hour. His legacy lives in me—in my words, in my courage, and in my quiet determination to carry forward the lessons he so gently, so powerfully, taught me.