“Rice shouldn’t be such a luxury, should it? It shouldn’t even be something to ask for…But how do I…?” — These words still echo in my mind, as they remind me of my teenage days which were spent begging for it.

Being a Kashmiri Pandit myself, it was hard for me to flip the pages beyond this sentence. Rice is a part of our daily diet and we have been accustomed to it for ages. A Pandit living in any corner of the world would relish “haak bat” or “roganjosh bat” to satiate.

A teenage boy who was uprooted from his homeland and living in the tent just wanted more rice in the meal, yet it was difficult. How tough would that moment be for him?

When you start reading Siddhartha Gigoo’s A Long Season of Ashes, there are many such sentences and phrases that will resonate with the reader. It doesn’t matter whether you are a Kashmiri Pandit or not, some stories just need to be shared so that they do not dissolve with time, especially in a country where we are meant to understand history only from two perspectives.

The most heartbreaking thing about this book are the copious emotions of the writer who despite suffering the horror of exodus is not able to express it and yet wants to be the silent pillar for his family.

While narrating his initial days after the exodus, at a barn in Jammu, he mentions the pathetic state of affairs of where he is living, with cows and buffaloes in just another hall. The hardship his grandparents' generation, especially his grandfather, faces in the hope of returning back and eventually dying in exile, is the story of thousands of such people. The poignant letters between him and his father are treasure troves and captivated by love and history.

Gigoo’s iteration about the growing turbulence in Kashmir in the 1980s is a reminder of how the situation started getting worse for the community. How a Muslim invigilator failed him in the only subject he loved (English), how some neighbours or shopkeepers would casually mention to his father that Pandits would have to eventually leave the valley for a bigger cause.

Somewhere in 1989, Gigoo’s mother, who was teaching in a school, narrates about a young kid and his excitement to make firecrackers at his home. These stories are very common among the Pandit brethren as almost every Pandit would share how their neighbours or friends at that time told them not to construct or change anything new in their house, as it would eventually come to them.

The suffering doesn’t end here. Post exodus, many landlords in Jammu refused to give rooms to Pandits. Those who gave, would sometimes shut off the water supply, increase the rent, etc. The Gigoos, like many other Pandit families, would eventually find many helpful local landlords and also build their own houses.

With a quest for justice growing every year since the exodus, he mentions the constant disappointment from the successive governments, the Human Rights Activists, and the National Commission for Human Rights and very subtly mentions how heroes turned out to be indifferent to our fight. This is a constant battle Pandits have been facing since the exodus.

Even though it is a humongous challenge, the story of the exodus of Pandits should be taught and advocated for better education about our systematic ethnic cleansing.

Gigoo’s story is of resilience, patience, hope, despair, and frustration and he refrains from making the story look theatrical. The name and story of the chapters move from safety, a place to hide, waiting, a dream of settlement and a dream of justice. His story makes us question the banality of claims of normalcy, wherein the 'Aborigines' and their living conditions in Kashmir are a joke in the name of rehabilitation.

I have refrained from mentioning the majority community here. A community which has till now refused to accept the wrongdoings of their own, has no iota of guilt attached to it and still shields those who wanted our blood and flesh, can never being trusted again. The author too has very meticulously written about it.

A Long Season of Ashes is an exquisitely and unwaveringly written testimony, which needs to be read. To end, I take a quote from my conversation with the writer, and he says, “This book is just a footnote of what we suffered”.

Shristhi Kaul

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