She is a part of every childhood memory of mine. Her name is Namita Zutshi and she is a Kashmiri Pandit.
Namita and I were in the same school, the same section, sat next to each other in class, rode the same bus to school, and lived in the same neighbourhood. We were at each other’s home over the weekends, shared meals, learnt cycling, and rarely fought despite spending nearly every waking hour together – until the January of 1990.
I don’t know how or when Namita left; and I couldn’t find out where she was. It’s hard to imagine now but it was very difficult then when there was no Google, no Facebook, no WhatsApp. I was in the seventh grade when it happened — old enough to understand what was happening but too young to comprehend the painful consequences. Over the next two years, I kept thinking about her every day, wondering where and how she was.
Two years later, in the winter of 1992, I was in Jammu. I found a slam book in which Namita had scribbled what appeared to be an address in the city. She had a maternal uncle at whose house she often spent her winters before trouble started in the Valley. I decided to write her a letter. Using a fountain pen and a pink onion skin paper which was very popular back then, I wrote her a simple letter. I wrote that I was in Jammu and I prayed the letter would reach her. I added the address where I was staying and posted it.
A week later, Namita was in our living room. My father took a photograph of us. “You don’t know how precious this moment is,” he said. I still have that photograph; Namita still has that letter. She still curses me for having a better handwriting than her and reminds me how her mother, Nancy Aunty, would point that out to her each time.
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Away from Kashmir, its politics
When her father was forced to sell their Srinagar house for a mere pittance, he came to my parents and handed over the cheque to my mother asking her to keep it safe because he trusted us the most. Namita and I lost our fathers a year apart and grieved together.
When I joined college in Delhi, Namita was already there. She opened her home to me and I lived with her for a year. We never discussed Kashmir or its politics. Ever. Not that we did it deliberately. It just never happened. If she felt any pain or loss, she perhaps hid it so that I don’t feel uncomfortable. Nancy Aunty would sometimes break down but there was never a harsh word against Kashmiri Muslims. She missed Kashmir with a heartache that only a Kashmiri can understand.
‘I miss the fresh air,’ she would tell me as we would suffer the sweltering heat of Delhi during those frequent power cuts in their government-allocated flat. Namita’s father was in the BSF and her brother is a Colonel in the Army currently posted in Srinagar.
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Meeting after Article 370
A few years ago, Namita moved to Mumbai. We have a ritual of meeting every weekend. This Saturday, we sat at a coffee shop in Bandstand with Shah Rukh Khan’s sprawling bungalow Mannat looming behind us. Over a pan and some cappuccino, Namita and I discussed Kashmir and politics. Perhaps for the first time in 39 years.
This was our first meeting since the revocation of Article 370 — a decision that has affected both of us equally. Among other things, both of us married non-Kashmiris and the implications for both of us had been the same. However, our conversation was hardly about land ownership. She was worried about my mother and wanted to know first-hand how it was when I went to get her out of Kashmir.
As I described the situation to her, I learnt that Nancy Aunty was also in the Valley. She had gone to be with her son who is serving in Baltal – the alternate route to the Amarnath cave. Namita told me with a laugh, “It’s been 20 days since I have heard from her. I am sure she is fine. Haven’t been able to get in touch with her. Her (return) ticket is for the next week. So I guess we will know then.”
It struck me then that my closest friend is the strongest person I know. And nothing can break our bond.
The author is a Mumbai-based freelance journalist. Views are personal.