My home is crumbling, just as are the homes back in Kashmir of everyone else from my illustrious community. But still it stays as a special home; because it is a tribute to many noble souls that my home still stands on its foundations despite dilapidation inflicted on it by the conflict there.
It is a tribute to Swami Sedbub of Haenzwyoor and Swami Swyamananda (Soom Bub) of Brari Angan, who would stop by on their “flying visits” to the beautiful village. While Sedbub would straightway and speedily head to what we had named as Bubsund kuth, Soom Bub would ask me to waharaav a kapar chaddar on the grass that we would try to maintain well every year. “You are a child, so you would not know,” he would put his blessed hands over my head and add, “You are living in a home full of sanctity and I am here to have Shavbub’s naveed.” In a swift and overlapping voice he would command my mother, “Anni mogil chai. ”
It is a tribute to one Shavji Bhat, who later came to be known as Swami Shavrattangir; and the one who established Durganaag at Sonawar. Swamiji was born and brought up in this home and it saw him rise to being the last Shankaracharya of Northern India. Swamiji – dubbed as a great saint and a statesman by many who know of him – was my father’s uncle.
It is a tribute to Swami Sedbub of Haenzwyoor and Swami Swyamananda (Soom Bub) of Brari Angan, who would stop by on their “flying visits” to the beautiful village. While Sedbub would straightway and speedily head to what we had named as Bubsund kuth, Soom Bub would ask me to waharaav a kapar chaddar on the grass that we would try to maintain well every year. “You are a child, so you would not know,” he would put his blessed hands over my head and add, “You are living in a home full of sanctity and I am here to have Shavbub’s naveed.” In a swift and overlapping voice he would command my mother, “Anni mogil chai. ”
It is a tribute to one Shavji Bhat, who later came to be known as Swami Shavrattangir; and the one who established Durganaag at Sonawar. Swamiji was born and brought up in this home and it saw him rise to being the last Shankaracharya of Northern India. Swamiji – dubbed as a great saint and a statesman by many who know of him – was my father’s uncle. My home is a tribute to my grandfather, Pandit Ram Chand Parva, a forester then, who, I am told, was a man of mettle and dignity and respected all over the territory that he managed. He, as my father reveals, was very kind-hearted, would maintain his own stable, and would carry out his inspections, riding fine horses.
It is a tribute to those gallant troops from a Company that were based here and in our orchards nearby for a long period before the Kargil war in 1999. As Kargil war broke out most of them were sent to fight; only to return dead to their loved ones; courtesy impotent Indian governance and the country’s lack of proper understanding on Kashmir (and Kashmiris). A typical case of a culturally rich nation ruled by a bunch of shameless, senseless people!
On non-partisan, unbiased and non-emotional introspection I feel it is this nation that has deprived this home of its dwellers; Pakistan has just abetted in the move. But I am happy that the home still stands on its own on a purran that will always be ours. Look at the pictures and you will see how both exude a strange exuberance even now!
The home now shrinks partly into the mailbox, partly in the heart, some part of it in the dreams; all the fragments leaving behind a lot of clutter in the mind. The clutter rises like a migrainous eruption when I see Pandits weigh their fortunes in terms of non-airy enclosures called double or triple bedrooms in pigeon holes called multistorey luxurious apartments in the heart of this and that city that, actually are, nowhere near the heart. Even though we have gained much, yet we have lost everything.
