Recently, I went on a trip to Ladakh. Well, Dras, Kargil and Zanskar to be specific. Forgive me for the pedantry here, but details are crucial.
I was accompanied by two Anands - my husband and my childhood best friend. No, that is not a typo. I do have two Anands in my life. It’s a flex, I know, and I can pluralise a proper noun without an apology.
For the purpose of avoiding confusion hereon, I will call my childhood friend ‘The Veg Anand’. No explanation is required there, I feel.
The three of us started together from Srinagar. And while on our road trip, I was often asked this one question: “Where are you from?” For years, this simple question has often thrown me into an existential rabbit hole. “I am from Kashmir”.
“Oh! Where do you live in Kashmir?”
“Well, we have a house in downtown. But we don’t live there currently. My parents moved to Delhi during the 90s.” It aches to say mum and dad out loud; dad passed away recently.
“Right. Right. So you are from Delhi?”
“No, actually my parents (read mom) stay there. I am currently living in Nagpur. My husband is from Nagpur.”
On our way, we were stopped by a local policeman for parking in the wrong lane. While he was directing us to another spot, he ended up asking; “You are coming from Jammu, yes?”
How could he possibly know? I had spent 10 years of my adult life in that city. I had stepped from childhood to adulthood in that small town. As much as that city was dear to me, it barely made it into the line-up of ‘places I was from’.
And that’s when I realised. Our car was a borrowed one. It bore the number plate JK 02. Jammu, of course. My bad.
“Yes. We are from Jammu.” Veg Anand had already stepped out of the car and landed at the tea stall on the other side of the road. My husband and I had quite distinct experiences while staying in Jammu. You could say we were somehow coming from Jammu.
We continued on our journey. I had read and heard that Ladakh was an otherworldly experience. But you really have to see it for yourself. It had these tall, rocky, snow-clad mountains. And those rivulets cutting through the rocks and making way for civilisation in its valleys.
Mountains and rivers have a way of making you slow down. I have never been able to name the exact circuit that reprogrammes in my head. But somewhere along the way, things become clear.
Identity refuses the same courtesy. People tend to identify you and box you into a neat category. Based on where you live or how you speak, they may imagine you as a person you can barely recognize.
Take Veg Anand, for instance. He is a Tamil Brahmin. His parents grew up in Kerala, so he calls himself a Malayali. He owns a house in Bangalore. He works in Delhi. But I am absolutely sure that he identifies as a Punjabi. For, which South Indian talks like this: “Menu Siddhu Moosewala Chaida Ae”. Nevertheless, he says that he is from Delhi.
By that extension, the last time I was working, I was staying in Mumbai. But I don’t live there anymore. And I haven’t started working in Nagpur yet.
I like to think of home as a person(s) rather than a place. Because how else do I explain that I don’t belong in Nagpur; yet my current home is here?
But this allegory only works until here. My dearest friend is currently in Japan. I call her my home. But I have never been to Japan.
Why do we need to call a single place our home anyway? The feeling of belongingness may be as transient as the walls that surround us; literal as well as metaphorical.
The three of us, along with Saldon, Murtuza, and Ali, were having a lovely afternoon dinner next to a river at a place called ‘The Chhutuk Heights’ in Kargil.
“You are from Kashmir? Well, it's quite surprising that you don’t have the accent”.
For years, this was like some common theme whenever I was in the region. I did not sound Kashmiri enough. The place that I resonated with the most internally was not the place I seemed to belong externally. Comfort food at home meant haakh and rogan josh. Kehwa was my favourite chai, not Lipton. Vacation days from work were reserved for Herath.
“Well yes. I am a Kashmiri Pandit. You see my upper ear piercings? Well, we have them for putting dejhores in our ears. They are sort of this sacred symbol of marriage.”
“Very well then. Tell me something. Why is it that in the rest of the country, Muslims are seen with such suspicion? I once was house-hunting in Delhi. My broker and I had even finalised a place. But just when the owner saw my name, he refused. He did not take Muslims as tenants.”
Jammu, Kashmir and Ladakh are uniquely cosmopolitan. You find villages and towns where Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs & Buddhists are living together in the same neighbourhood. The locality where I live in Nagpur is a 100% Hindu colony. Unfamiliarity tends to evoke hostility.
“Most locals do not have a lot of friends from different religions. That may be part of the reason,” I said desperately, trying to think of a non-offensive, non-emotional, logical reason.
“The broker told me that the owner of the flat was a Sardarji. They had fled from Lahore around the time of the partition in 1947 and therefore, did not like Muslims.”
I realised that this was a template. Some members of community A wronged some members of community B. As a result, some children of community B did not like the children of community A. They were carrying the grudges of their forefathers.
“Bhaiya, I am from Ladakh. Historically, most of us were Buddhists. Later on we converted to Islam. I have nothing to do with Aurangzeb.”
Turns out, it did matter where we came from in this world.
The river was gushing across the valley. The sound was like a peaceful lullaby. The Sun was playing hide and seek with the clouds. And the vast mountains were overlooking all of us.
I definitely know that I belonged in the mountains.
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