MORELS ( KANNA-GICHH / GUCHHI ) : THE HIMALAYAN GOLD

                                             

               

Morels (Kanna-gichh / Guchhi): The Himalayan Gold :  Source, Nutrition, Cooking Uses, and Why They Are So Expensive

Morels are among the most prized mushrooms in the world, and in Kashmir they carry an almost legendary status. In Kashmiri, morels are known as Kanna-gichh, while in North India people call it Guchhi. In scientific terms, they belong to the Morchella species. These strange, hollow, honeycombed mushrooms appear for only a few weeks each year, yet they command prices that rival saffron, dry fruits, and even silver. To understand why, one must look at where they come from, what they contain, how they are cooked, and why some varieties cost far more than others.

Source and Natural Habitat

Morels are not grown in fields like button mushrooms. They are wild fungi, and their appearance depends on a precise combination of soil, moisture, temperature, altitude, and trees.

In India, morels are found mainly in the western Himalayas : Kashmir, Himachal Pradesh, Uttarakhand, and parts of Ladakh and Jammu. They also grow in the temperate forests of Europe, North America, Turkey, China, and Pakistan. In Kashmir, collectors walk into the forests of Kupwara, Baramulla, Shopian, Kulgam, Anantnag, Poonch, and Rajouri in spring, usually from March to May, searching under trees and on forest floors.

Morels are mycorrhizal and saprophytic, meaning they live in a close relationship with trees and decaying organic matter. They are often found near ash, elm, apple, apricot, poplar, deodar, pine, and oak trees. They prefer moist, shaded, well-drained soil rich in leaf litter and humus. One of the most fascinating facts about morels is their connection with forest fires. After a wildfire, morel growth often increases dramatically the next spring. Scientists believe the disturbance, the change in soil chemistry, and the death of trees trigger the fungus to fruit heavily.

Morels cannot be farmed easily on a large commercial scale. Although some laboratories in China and the United States have managed controlled cultivation, the yield is uncertain, the process is expensive, and the flavour of cultivated morels is often considered inferior to wild ones. This dependence on nature is the first reason for their rarity. A collector cannot plant morels and guarantee a harvest. He must wait for rain, snowmelt, and the right temperature, then search forest after forest.

Harvesting itself is painstaking work. Morels blend into the forest floor. Their brown, grey, yellow, or black caps look like pinecones, dry leaves, or stones. Collectors often crawl through undergrowth, climb slopes, and walk for hours to find a few hundred grams. Because they are hollow and fragile, they must be picked gently, cleaned carefully, and dried or carried down the same day. In remote villages, entire families  , men, women, and children  take part in the short season.

After harvest, morels are graded. Fresh morels are perishable and last only a few days, so most are sun-dried or shade-dried. Drying reduces their weight by almost ten times. It takes about 8 to 10 kilograms of fresh morels to make 1 kilogram of dried morels. This weight loss is another major reason for the high price of the dried product that reaches markets in Srinagar, Delhi, Amritsar, and abroad.

Nutritional Value

Morels are not just a delicacy. They are remarkably nutritious, especially for a food that is naturally low in calories and fat.

A 100-gram serving of fresh morels contains only about 30 to 35 calories, with almost no fat and very little sodium. The same serving provides around 3 grams of protein, 5 grams of carbohydrate, and 2 to 3 grams of dietary fibre. Dried morels are far more concentrated because the water has been removed. By weight, dried morels contain much more protein, fibre, minerals, and vitamins.

Morels are particularly rich in iron. In fact, they contain more iron per serving than many leafy vegetables and are often recommended in traditional diets for people with low haemoglobin. They are also an excellent source of copper, manganese, zinc, selenium, phosphorus, potassium, and magnesium. Copper supports blood formation and nerve health, manganese supports bone and metabolism, and selenium acts as a powerful antioxidant.

In vitamins, morels are one of the few non-animal foods that naturally contain vitamin D, especially vitamin D2, which is important for bone health, immunity, and mood. They also contain B-vitamins, including niacin (B3), riboflavin (B2), pantothenic acid (B5), folate, and vitamin B6. These vitamins help the body convert food into energy, maintain healthy skin, support the nervous system, and form red blood cells.

Morels are also rich in antioxidants, including phenolic compounds and ergothioneine, which help protect cells from damage caused by free radicals. Some studies have shown that morels contain polysaccharides and other bioactive compounds that may support immune function, reduce inflammation, and help regulate blood sugar. While morels are not a medicine, their traditional use in Himalayan, Chinese, and Unani systems of medicine as a tonic for strength, digestion, and vitality is supported by their nutrient density.

Another important point is that morels are low in calories but high in satiety. Their fibre and protein make them satisfying, which is why they are popular in healthy diets. For vegetarians, especially in Kashmir and the Himalayan belt where meat may be expensive or avoided on certain days, morels provide a meaty texture and umami flavour that make a meal feel rich without meat.

However, morels must always be cooked. Raw morels contain small amounts of toxins, including hydrazine compounds, which can cause stomach upset, nausea, and vomiting. Cooking, especially boiling and thorough sautéing, destroys these compounds. People with mushroom allergies, kidney problems, or who are pregnant should eat morels in moderation and consult a doctor if unsure.

Cooking Uses

In Kashmir, morels are not an everyday vegetable. They are reserved for feasts, weddings, festivals, and for guests. The most famous Kashmiri dish is Kanna-gichh Pulao, where dried morels are soaked, cleaned, and cooked with basmati rice, ghee, saffron, cardamom, cloves, and dry fruits. The result is fragrant, earthy, and deeply satisfying. Another popular dish is Kanna-gichh  Yakhni, where morels are cooked in a light yoghurt-based gravy with fennel, ginger, and dry mint, similar to the famous Kashmiri Yakhni for mutton.

Morels are also cooked as a simple curry with onions, tomatoes, turmeric, and garam masala, or stuffed with paneer, minced meat, or spiced potatoes. In Himachal and Uttarakhand, they are cooked with potatoes, peas, or spinach. In European cuisine, morels are sautéed in butter with garlic and cream, added to risotto, pasta, omelettes, soups, and sauces for steak and chicken. French chefs consider morels one of the finest ingredients for spring cooking. They pair especially well with cream, butter, eggs, asparagus, peas, chicken, and white wine.

Before cooking, dried morels must be soaked in warm water for 20 to 30 minutes. This softens them and removes grit, insects, and forest debris hidden inside their honeycomb caps. The soaking liquid should be strained through a muslin cloth and can be used as a stock, because it carries much of the flavour. Fresh morels should be brushed clean, cut lengthwise, and rinsed gently. Because morels are hollow, they absorb sauces beautifully. They should never be overcooked into mush; a gentle simmer preserves their texture.

One key rule in Kashmiri cooking is to clean morels thoroughly. Since they grow wild, small insects and soil can hide inside. Most cooks soak them twice, rinse, and then squeeze gently. Some cooks boil them once and discard the water before the final cooking to ensure safety.

Morels are also used in pickles, dried powders, and even as a flavouring for soups in winter. In some villages, dried morel powder is mixed with spices and stored for months, to be used in small quantities to flavour pulao and curries.

Why Are Some Varieties So Expensive?

The price of morels varies enormously. In Kashmir, fresh morels may sell for Rs. 1,500 to Rs. 3,000 per kilogram during the season, while dried morels can sell for Rs. 15,000 to Rs. 35,000 per kilogram, and in international markets even more. Some rare black morels and large, unbroken, premium-grade dried morels can cost Rs. 50,000 per kilogram or more.

The first reason is scarcity and seasonality. Morels grow for only 4 to 6 weeks a year. If the rains fail, or if the temperature rises too early, the season fails. Climate change, deforestation, and forest fires have made the harvest even more unpredictable.

The second reason is labour. Harvesting morels is manual, slow, and often dangerous. Collectors walk into remote forests, sometimes at high altitude, facing wild animals, steep slopes, and bad weather. After collection, cleaning, grading, and drying take days. The supply chain includes collectors, village aggregators, town traders, and exporters, each adding a margin.

The third reason is weight loss on drying. As mentioned, 10 kg of fresh morels becomes only 1 kg of dried morels. The buyer is paying for concentrated flavour, nutrition, and shelf life.

The fourth reason is grading. Not all morels are equal. Large, whole, light-coloured, unbroken caps with a strong aroma are graded as premium. Small, broken, dark, or insect-damaged morels are sold cheaply. Black morels (Morchella elata group) and yellow morels (Morchella esculenta group) are valued differently in different markets. In Europe, black morels are often preferred for their intense flavour, while in India, large yellow-brown Kashmiri Kanna-gichh is considered the best. The rarer the variety and the more perfect the piece, the higher the price.

The fifth reason is demand. Morels are in demand in India, China, Europe, the United States, and the Gulf countries. Five-star hotels, exporters, and gourmet stores compete for a limited supply. Kashmiri morels, in particular, are marketed as Himalayan, organic, and wild, which adds a premium.

Finally, there is the cost of storage and transport. Dried morels must be stored in airtight, moisture-free conditions, or they will lose aroma and get infested. Export involves quality checks, packaging, and certification.

In short, morels are expensive because nature makes very few of them, humans must work hard to find them, and the world wants them. They are not just food; they are a seasonal gift of the Himalayan forest, a source of income for mountain families, and a taste that cannot be reproduced by farming alone.

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.

Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

RADHA KRISHAN KAUL GUMKHWAAR

                                        

RADHA KRISHAN KAUL GUMKHWAAR.

Portrait of Radha Krishan Kaul Gumkhwaar photographed by Robin Koul in Shimla  Museum and posted on his Timeline. Since Robin Koul has sought details about the person , I add to his photo what I know about this painting and the person.

This is Pandit Radha Krishan Kaul Gumkhwaar. The painting done in 1840  is in Pahari miniature style, done by Chhaju Ram, who belonged to the Raina Razdan lineage of Pahari artists who revolutionised Pahari miniature art in the western Himalayas. They are the progeny of a Kashmiri Pandit Shiv Raina, or Sieu Raina. Shiv Raina’s children and grandchildren formed a core group of artists, which included Manaku, Nainsukh, Ranjha, Nikka, Fattu , Khushala, Kaama ,Sukh Dayal, Deviditta, and many more. They were the court painters of Guler, Chamba, Basohli, Jasrota, Kangra, Nurpur and many more hilly kingdoms.

Radha Krishan Kaul Gumkhwaar was a Persian poet and one  among many astrologers of Maharaja Ranjit Singh. Later, he moved to a hilly kingdom in the Western Himalayas. He was from the family  of Pandit Lala Kaul, who served the Amir of Afghanistan and later entered the service of Maharaja Ranjit Singh. Pandit Lala Kaul also served as governor of Multan during Sikh rule. He took part in the Sikh expedition to Kashmir in 1819, later commanded the Pindivala Dera cavalry regiment, and fought his last action at the Battle of Sabraon in 1846. His grandsons, Pandit Daya Kishan Kaul and Pandit Hari Kishan Kaul, became prime minister and revenue minister respectively in the Patiala court, during the reign of Maharaja Bhupinder Singh.

Look closely at the painting. A white turban. A plain white choga. A tied manuscript. A pen case. A small slip of paper, perhaps a horoscope. No sword. No hawk. No royal attendant. His authority was learning.

And Birbal Dhar had also met  Pandit Lala Koul  in Lahore when he went to invite Sikhs to Kashmir to get rid of the  cruel Afghan rule..

( Avtar Mota)

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.

Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

THE RĀJATARAṄGIṆĪ ENTERS UNESCO: A TRIBUTE TO KALHAṆA

                                                               

THE RĀJATARAṄGIṆĪ ENTERS UNESCO: A TRIBUTE TO KALHAṆA

UNESCO has inscribed the Srinagar manuscript of the Rājataraṅgiṇī on its Memory of the World Asia-Pacific Regional Register. The decision was taken in Jakarta, and the manuscript, preserved in the Oriental Research Library in Srinagar, has been recognised alongside manuscripts of the Mahābhārata and the Arthaśāstra. This is a great honour for Kashmir, a fitting tribute to Kalhaṇa, and a well-deserved recognition of the extraordinary work he bequeathed to posterity.

Kalhaṇa composed the Rājataraṅgiṇī in Sanskrit in Kashmir in 1148–49. Comprising 7,826 verses divided into eight books, it is arguably the finest historical work in Sanskrit literature. No other Sanskrit text undertakes quite the same ambitious enterprise: presenting a continuous account of Kashmir's history, from the legendary draining of the ancient Satisara Lake to the middle of the twelfth century. No other work has given Kashmir such an enduring historical memory.

Kalhaṇa: The Historian and His Method

Kalhaṇa was a historian of exceptional distinction, especially by the standards of his age. He recognised the importance of historical sources, acknowledged earlier chroniclers, examined their accounts and, where necessary, questioned and criticised them. Among the earlier authorities he mentions are Kṣemendra's Nṛpāvalī and works associated with Padmamihira and Helārāja. He also drew upon the Nīlamata Purāṇa, genealogical traditions, inscriptions, royal grants and other documentary material. His use of earlier accounts was not one of passive reproduction. He compared different narratives, examined inconsistencies and pointed out errors. He also made use of coins, monuments, family records and oral traditions. His father and uncle had served at court, giving him access to valuable information about political affairs. For events closer to his own time, he could draw upon the testimony of people who had witnessed them.

His conception of historical objectivity was remarkably advanced. Kalhaṇa maintained that only that poet deserved praise whose account of the past, like the judgement of a judge, remained free from love and hatred. The historian, in his view, must not allow personal affection or animosity to distort the truth. This commitment to impartiality is among the most remarkable features of the Rājataraṅgiṇī. Kalhaṇa did not hesitate to expose the failings of kings, condemn the corruption of ministers or describe the suffering inflicted upon ordinary people by those in power. He recognised that historical greatness must be measured not merely by conquest and wealth, but also by justice, character and the responsibilities of kingship.

 The Poet's Imagination: History as Mahākāvya

Kalhaṇa was not merely a historian; he was also a poet of the highest order. The Rājataraṅgiṇī is composed in the Mahākāvya tradition, employing elaborate descriptions, similes, metaphors, dramatic contrasts and profound emotional expression. His poetic imagination is evident in his descriptions of Kashmir's landscapes, royal processions, religious ceremonies, military expeditions, human suffering and the tragic consequences of political ambition. He makes history come alive through individual characters and memorable incidents. His command of Rasa, the Indian aesthetic theory of emotional experience, is particularly impressive. Śṛṅgāra (love), Vīra (heroism), Karuṇa (pathos), Raudra (fury), Bhayānaka (terror), Bībhatsa (revulsion), Adbhuta (wonder) and Śānta (tranquillity) all find expression in his narrative. His poetry frequently moves from the grandeur of royal achievement to the fragility of human existence. Kalhaṇa wrote to instruct and delight, but also to free the mind from passion and prejudice. Drawing upon the great narrative tradition of India, associated with the Bṛhatkathā, he transformed historical events into compelling literature. He made history live and raised storytelling to the level of historical art.

That is why the Rājataraṅgiṇī continues to be read and admired after nearly nine centuries. It moves the heart even as it instructs the mind.

 Kashmir: A Centre of Indic Civilisation

The Rājataraṅgiṇī places Kashmir in a position of distinction as a land with a recorded historical tradition extending from antiquity to the twelfth century. Few regions in the world can claim such an enduring indigenous historical record. It presents Kashmir as a great centre of Sanskrit and Indic learning, while also illuminating its historical and cultural connections with Gandhara. Kalhaṇa describes a land in which Sanskrit was the language of administration, poetry, law and philosophy. Its courts patronised learning; its temples and mathas sustained religious and intellectual life; and its scholars and poets contributed to the development of literature, aesthetics and philosophy.

Kashmir was connected with the intellectual centres of Kanauj and Bengal and stood at an important meeting point between the Indian subcontinent and Central Asia. It maintained close historical connections with Gandhara to the west. These were relationships shaped by art, Buddhism, trade, marriage, warfare and scholarship.

The Rājataraṅgiṇī thus challenges interpretations that treat Kashmir as a borrowed civilisation, a mere frontier outpost or a province of an exclusively foreign cultural world. It presents Kashmir as a centre in its own right, rooted in Indic civilisation, nourished by Sanskrit learning and enriched by its interactions with Gandhara and other regions.

Its references to Varanasi, Gaya, Prayaga, Kanauj, Malwa, Bengal, the Deccan and other parts of the subcontinent demonstrate the extensive political, religious, commercial and cultural connections that existed during the period. Kashmir was never an isolated valley. It participated in the larger currents of Indian intellectual, political and religious life.

The Mahābhārata, Buddhism and Kashmir's Sacred Traditions

The Rājataraṅgiṇī also places Kashmir within the cultural world of the Mahābhārata, reflecting a shared epic imagination and the larger traditions of Dharma, sacred geography and Indian wisdom. It was a land of literature, poetics, aesthetics, music and sacred texts, a university, a temple and a capital in one.

It refers to Śrī Krishna's visit to Kashmir for the coronation of Queen Yashovati and to Kashmir's participation in the Mahābhārata war. It also records the strong association of the Buddhist philosopher Nagarjuna with Kashmir. These traditions are significant in understanding how Kashmir's historical memory situated the valley within the wider religious and epic imagination of India. The text also refers to the Jauhar performed by Sahi queens within Vijayeśvara, as well as to the Nṛtyamaṇḍapas in certain temples, where music and dance were performed as sacred offerings to the deity.

Its descriptions extend well beyond royal and religious affairs. Kalhaṇa informs us about the festivals, food habits, dress, temples and viharas of Kashmir. He records what people ate and wore, how they worshipped and celebrated, and how they constructed their religious and civic institutions. Rajatarangini describes a landscape in which Śaiva temples and Buddhist Viharas existed side by side, and in which the worship of Śiva, Viṣṇu and the Buddha formed part of the religious life of the region.

 Kings, Queens and Statesmen: The Political History of Kashmir

One of Kalhaṇa's greatest achievements is his portrayal of Kashmir's rulers as complex human beings rather than idealised figures. He records their virtues and accomplishments, but also their weaknesses, excesses and failures. Among the important personalities whose lives and reigns he describes are Suyya the engineer, King Avantivarman, Śaṅkaravarman, Harsha, Queen Didda and numerous rulers of the Utpala and Karkota dynasties.

Suyya stands out as an exceptional engineer who regulated the waters of the Vitasta, transforming the agricultural landscape and helping to make the valley more fertile. His achievements demonstrate the importance of engineering and water management in Kashmir's economic history. King Avantivarman restored order after a period of anarchy and undertook significant public works, including the development of towns and temples. His reign represents an important phase of administrative and economic reconstruction. Śaṅkaravarman extended the kingdom and strengthened its political and military power. Harsha emerges as a ruler of learning and ambition, but also one whose eccentricities and pride formed part of his character. Queen Didda stands out for her courage, political acumen and statecraft. She held Kashmir together during a period of factional struggles and demonstrated the formidable capacity of a woman ruler to exercise power.

 The Karkotas gave Kashmir one of its greatest imperial periods, while the Utpalas made significant contributions to its administrative development. Each dynasty left its mark on the political and cultural evolution of the valley.

 Lalitāditya Muktāpīḍa: The Glory of Kashmir

Among the great rulers of Kashmir, Lalitāditya Muktāpīḍa occupies a particularly distinguished place in the Rājataraṅgiṇī. Ruling in the eighth century, Lalitāditya is remembered for his military campaigns, extensive political ambitions, architectural patronage and the remarkable influence he exercised beyond the boundaries of Kashmir.

Kalhaṇa associates him with the construction of the magnificent Sun Temple at Martand, as well as with the establishment of towns and canals and the patronage of poets and scholars. His reign is presented as a period in which Kashmir emerged as a formidable political power. He defeated Yashovarman of Kanauj and undertook military campaigns towards the east, south and north. The fame of his kingdom, according to Kalhaṇa's account, extended as far as China. Lalitāditya is one of Kalhaṇa's greatest gifts to Kashmir and, through Kashmir, to India and the wider world.

 Kashmir's Architectural and Spiritual Heritage

It is largely through Kalhaṇa's immortal Rājataraṅgiṇī that the world has come to appreciate the grandeur of ancient Kashmir's temples, sacred shrines, pilgrimage centres and royal cities. The monuments and sacred sites associated with Kashmir's extraordinary architectural, spiritual and intellectual heritage include:

 Martand Sun Temple.

 Avantīśvara and Avantīsvāmin temples at Avantipura.

 Naranag temple complex.

 Narasthan Temple.

 Parihasapura.

 Sugandheśa Temple.

 Śaṅkaragaurīśvara Temple.

 Pandrethan Temple.

 Jyeṣṭheśvara Temple (Shankaracharya).

 Vijayeśvara Temple.

 Payar Temple.

 Mamaleśvara Temple.

 Bumzu temples. 

Śāradā Pīṭha.

These and countless other sacred sites stand as testimony to Kashmir's extraordinary architectural and religious traditions. They represent a period of remarkable artistic accomplishment, intellectual vitality and spiritual expression. Kalhaṇa's chronicle has preserved the memory of their former splendour and historical significance. Tragically, many of these magnificent monuments now lie in ruins, having suffered destruction and desecration during episodes of religious iconoclasm under certain later Sultans and other rulers.

The Moral Vision of the Rājataraṅgiṇī

Beyond its historical and literary achievements, the Rājataraṅgiṇī offers a profound moral understanding of political power and human conduct. Kalhaṇa records how kings rise through virtue and fall through vice; how ministers betray their masters; how ambition corrupts institutions; and how ordinary people suffer the consequences of famine, war and misgovernment. His underlying message is unmistakable: power without Dharma destroys itself; wealth without learning becomes vulgar; and conquest without justice is little more than crime.

The chronicle is therefore not merely a record of dynastic succession or military achievement. It is a moral history of Kashmir, offering lessons that remain relevant to statesmen and societies even today.

A land with such a text cannot be described as a land without history. A people with such an enduring record cannot be described as a people without a past.

The Continuity of Kashmir's Historical Tradition

One of the most remarkable features of the Rājataraṅgiṇī is that Kalhaṇa's work did not remain an isolated literary achievement. It inspired a continuous tradition of historical writing in Kashmir.

 Kalhaṇa recorded the history of his own age, and his successors continued the task. Jonarāja followed him, then Śrīvara, Prajyabhaṭṭa and Śuka. Each chronicler carried the historical narrative forward, century after century, down to the period of Mughal rule.

The Kashmiri Pandit Scholars Who Preserved Kalhaṇa's Legacy

The UNESCO recognition is also a tribute to the generations of Kashmiri Pandits who preserved, copied, studied, explained, edited and translated the Rājataraṅgiṇī, making it accessible to the wider world. The story of its modern recovery begins with the Codex Archetypus, the most authentic Śāradā manuscript of the Rājataraṅgiṇī. It had been preserved for nine generations by a Kashmiri Pandit family and was located by Georg Bühler in 1875 in the possession of Pandit Kesavram. In 1889, Kesavram's three sons, Pandit Balakram, Pandit Madhavram and Pandit Kavalaram, made their three inherited portions available to Marc Aurel Stein. These manuscripts became the foundation of Stein's critical Sanskrit edition, published in 1892, and his English translation, published in 1900. This was a landmark in the modern study of Kalhaṇa. Yet the achievement would not have been possible without the knowledge, guidance and scholarly assistance of numerous Kashmiri Pandits.

Pandit Govind Kaul, who worked with Stein from 1888 to 1899, contributed indispensable erudition to the translation and editing of the text. His command of Sanskrit and his knowledge of Kashmir's historical and cultural traditions were essential to the undertaking. Pandit Sahaz Bhatt also worked with Govind Kaul on the Hindi translation.

Pandit Sahib Ram Kaul made another outstanding contribution. He procured manuscripts, undertook a critical study of the Nīlamata Purāṇa, an important source for understanding Kalhaṇa's work, and compiled the sacred geography of Kashmir from references in the Rājataraṅgiṇī. His research was invaluable in interpreting the historical and geographical references in the chronicle. His son, Pandit Damodar Kaul, continued the chronicle tradition and provided guidance to Stein in his work. Mahāmahopādhyāya Pandit Mukund Ram Shastri offered valuable guidance and assistance in translating the text. Professor Nityanand Shastri, whom Stein described as the crest jewel of Kashmiri scholars, rendered important scholarly assistance. Rajanaka Ratnakantha's manuscript, containing glosses and corrections, became the foundation of the modern edition.

Another major contribution came from Ranjit Sitaram Pandit, who published a complete English translation of the Rājataraṅgiṇī in 1935, making Kalhaṇa's work accessible to a wider readership.

 The Role of Maharaja Pratap Singh and the Persian Translators

Recognition must also be given to Maharaja Pratap Singh, who sanctioned grants and provided support for the scholarly work undertaken to recover, edit and publish the Rājataraṅgiṇī. An important role was played by Pandit Suraj Kaul, Finance Member of Maharaja Pratap Singh's Royal Council. At the insistence of his son, Hari Kishen Kaul, a student of Stein at Lahore, Suraj Kaul mediated with the three sons of Pandit Kesavram to persuade them to make their inherited portions of the manuscript available for the critical edition. This became a landmark in the recovery and publication of one of India's oldest and most important historical records. The contribution of the Persian translators must also be acknowledged.  The Rājataraṅgiṇī was translated into Persian on three important occasions: Mulla Ahmad undertook the translation under the patronage of Sultan Zain-ul-Abidin. Shah Muhammad Shahabadi translated it during the reign of Emperor Akbar. Haidar Malik produced a Persian version during the reign of Emperor Jahangir.

The Rājataraṅgiṇī is far more than a chronicle of Kashmir's kings; it is the intellectual testament of a civilisation conscious of its past. Through its historical vision, Kalhaṇa preserved the political fortunes, geographical imagination, scholarly achievements, cultural splendour and collective memory of Kashmir. His work transcended royal genealogy to become a remarkable exercise in historical inquiry, reflecting upon the impermanence of power and the continuity of civilisation. The UNESCO recognition of the Srinagar manuscript honours not merely an ancient text, but Kashmir's enduring contribution to humanity's intellectual heritage.

 Kalhaṇa gave Kashmir its history; Kashmir gave Kalhaṇa to the world.

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

THE PLUNDER OF KASHMIRI PANDIT PROPERTIES: ANOTHER UNTOLD STORY

                                                 

                                                                                       (AI-generated image )

THE PLUNDER OF KASHMIRI PANDIT PROPERTIES: ANOTHER UNTOLD STORY

 We know of numerous instances in which people living in the Kashmir Valley purchased immovable properties belonging to Kashmiri Pandits for a fraction of their actual worth. A property valued at ₹80 lakh in Rawalpora Housing Colony was sold for a mere ₹10 lakh. Another, worth ₹40 lakh in Indira Nagar, changed hands for just ₹3.50 lakh. Old residential houses in Srinagar city were mostly sold for sums ranging between ₹50,000 and ₹2 lakh. Shops, agricultural land and orchards belonging to Kashmiri Pandits met a similar fate. These were distress sales. We shall leave aside large-scale encroachments and unauthorised occupations, which constitute altogether different and equally painful chapters of this tragedy.

 In the aftermath of 1990, numerous unscrupulous property brokers from Kashmir descended upon Jammu, visiting refugee camps and residential localities, as well as other cities across the country. They went looking for displaced owners of properties in the Valley, persuading, pressurising and, in many instances, intimidating them into signing Powers of Attorney authorising the sale of their properties for ridiculously low amounts. We saw these brokers moving about in the scorching summer heat, going from one camp and residential locality to another, tracing owners who were struggling to survive in unfamiliar surroundings. They knew that these people, having fled their homeland to save their lives and honour, were in no position to negotiate from a position of strength. Many desperately needed money to meet their immediate needs. Their predicament offered unscrupulous middlemen an opportunity to strike lucrative bargains at the expense of desperate families.

 These brokers skilfully employed every conceivable stratagem to secure their ends: Saam, Daam, Dand and Bhed, the four traditional methods of persuasion and coercion described in ancient Indian political thought. In the hands of unscrupulous brokers, these methods became instruments of calculated deception. A displaced family, already traumatised by the circumstances that had forced it to abandon its ancestral home, found itself negotiating with people who understood its desperation all too well. The owner was often emotionally attached to a house that he could neither occupy nor protect, yet compelled by circumstances to consider selling it for a fraction of its worth.

 Kashmiri Pandit leader H. N. Jattu once described this sordid business in particularly disturbing terms. His words deserve to be reproduced in their entirety:

 “Most of us are privy to the trapping of many innocents in these cruel and criminal sales by the greedy brokers who tied them with petty advance amounts till they found a buyer. It was cruel. It was pathetic. It was unjust. It was sheer deceit. Mysterious fires, removal of doors/ windows, removal of sanitary fittings and many other methods were employed by these criminals masquerading as property brokers to convince innocent owners that there was no buyer for the house they left behind, given its prevailing conditions. Babademb area in Srinagar city became a Kabaadi hub for the sale of the old wooden frames, old doors, old windows, old wooden furniture and other wooden junk removed from the deserted houses of Kashmiri Pandits. Some carpentry shops opened in this area for remodelling these plundered wooden frames, doors, windows, furniture and other items for sale to prospective buyers. Some of these greedy brokers and shady buyers are currently active on social media, giving loud sermons on moral values, peace, humanism, and justice. They also speak about Baichaara (brotherhood) and Kashmiriyat.”

 The account brings us to Babademb, an area of Srinagar that acquired an unenviable notoriety in the aftermath of the exodus. It became a marketplace for scrap of old wooden frames, doors, windows, furniture and other material removed from the vacant houses of Kashmiri Pandits. Carpentry shops emerged to remodel and refurbish these articles for resale. What had once been part of someone's home, carrying memories of generations, was reduced to saleable timber and second-hand merchandise. The doors that had sheltered families, the windows through which children had watched the changing seasons, and the furniture that had witnessed the joys and sorrows of domestic life were now being recycled into a commercial enterprise. This is precisely the painful reality that remained inadequately represented in much of the discourse surrounding the Kashmiri Pandit exodus. The tragedy did not end with the forced departure of a community. For most of the Pandit families, it continued through the loss of their property and the erosion of their last remaining material links with their homeland.

 Maharaj Shah has brought this neglected and deeply disturbing dimension of the tragedy to the very centre of his film Azadi. By drawing attention to the distress sales, the predatory brokers and the sordid commercial activity associated with the abandoned homes of Kashmiri Pandits, he has dared to place before his audience a chapter that many would perhaps have preferred to remain outside public scrutiny. The film speaks of distress sales, encroachments and illegal occupation of properties left behind by Pandits. It speaks of fake mutations and change of title as well. His film does not allow the story of the exodus to end at the moment of flight. It draws attention to what happened afterwards, when displaced families discovered that even the homes they had left behind were not safe from those who sought to profit from their absence.

 (Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

JAMMU ,JUNE 1990: WHEN KASHMIRI PANDITS DIED OF SNAKE BITE AND HEAT STROKE

                                           

             ( Stills from Maharaj Shah's film Azaadi)

Jammu ,June 1990 : Kashmiri Pandits in the Snake-Bite and Heat-Stroke Ward, GMC Jammu

They had come from a cool climate. They had lived their whole lives in the valley where summer evenings brought a breeze from the mountains, where nights remained bearable, where shade was plentiful, where water was cold from the spring, where the body had never been taught to endure the burning plains. In June 1990, they walked on the roads of Jammu when the temperature rose to 43 degrees Celsius. They had never experienced this heat. They had never walked in it. They had never waited in it. They had never stood in queues in it. They had never slept in it. They had never been forced to live in it without a roof, without a fan, without cold water, without rest. The heat did not come as weather. It came as punishment. It came as a second exile. It swept them. It struck the old first. It struck the frail first. It struck those whose bodies were already tired from the uprootment journey, from fear, from hunger, from sleepless nights. The elderly men and women who had left their homes with little more than a bundle of clothes found themselves walking from office to office under a sky that rained fire. They walked to the banks to see whether their accounts had been transferred. They walked to the relief office to see whether their names had been entered. They walked to Geeta Bhawan to see whether their dear ones could be located. They walked because no one came to them. They walked because no list was complete. They walked because no system was ready. It was confusion. It was disorder. It was a city unprepared for their arrival and a people unprepared for the city. The sun beat down on their heads. The tar melted under their feet. The air burned their lungs. Their sweat soaked  clothes stuck to their bodies. Their mouths dried. Their legs trembled. Their eyes blurred. A high temperature seized them. Vertigo seized them. Loss of faculties seized them.  They forgot why they had come out. They collapsed on roadsides. They collapsed outside offices. They collapsed in queues. They were carried to hospitals by strangers. They were carried by sons who were themselves exhausted. They were carried by neighbours who had become family in the camps. The wards filled.In one week, twenty-one died in hospitals. In one week, seven died in one ward alone. The numbers were not statistics. They were fathers. They were mothers. They were grandmothers who had told stories by the hearth. They were grandfathers who had tended orchards and taught in schools. They were men and women who had survived a lifetime in Kashmir only to die of heat in Jammu.

 The Government issued advisories. The advisories asked people to stay indoors. The advisories asked people to drink water. The advisories asked people to avoid the sun. But the exiles had no indoors to stay in. They had tents put on open lands. The tents trapped the heat. The tents offered no shade from the sides. The tents turned into ovens by noon. The ground beneath them burned. The air inside them did not move. Children and old people gasped inside them. At night, the heat did not leave. It stayed in the earth. It stayed in the canvas. It stayed in the body.

And at night, another terror came. Snakes came out of the fields.  Snakes came out of the open land where the tents had been pitched. Snakes stung many. Many died of these bites. The bites came without warning. They came in darkness. They came while people slept on the ground. They came while mothers held children close. A cry rose in the night. A leg swelled. A face turned pale. Breath grew short. The body went cold and then hot. The victim was rushed to GMC Jammu. GMC Jammu had many coming with deadly snake bites. The casualty ward saw them through the nights. The doctors saw them without rest. The nurses saw them without pause. The antidote was brought on priority.  It was brought because lives could not wait for procedure.

At the same time, the heat-stroke cases also kept coming. The hospital had no time to choose between one tragedy and another. Ice slabs were brought into the hospital. Ice slabs were laid on the floor. Elderly Pandits were put on ice slabs to save them from deadly heat strokes. Their bodies burned with fever. Their skin burned to the touch. Their pulse raced. Their breathing failed. The ice cooled them slowly. Rarely did any person who saw that scene forget it. Rarely did any doctor who worked that night speak of it without pain. Rarely did any family that stood beside a slab of ice believe that this was the fate of a people who had lived with dignity in their own homes. The old men who had once walked with pride in Srinagar lay motionless on ice. The old women who had once kept homes, kitchens, shrines and courtyards lay with wet cloths on their foreheads. Their hands were wrinkled. Their feet were cracked from walking on hot roads. Their eyes were closed. Many did not recover . The ward became a place of waiting. It became a place of prayer. It became a place where the sound of a monitor was the sound of hope. Families waited outside. They waited without food. They waited without shelter. They waited for a word from the doctor. The city outside continued. Traffic moved. Shops opened. Offices functioned. But inside GMC Jammu, time had stopped for the exiles.

Inside those wards, the whole story of 1990 was written in bodies. It was written in heat. It was written in venom. It was written in exhaustion. It was written in the silence of those who had no one to complain to. No one had planned for this. No one had imagined that a people who had fled for their lives would die not of bullets but of sun and snakes. No one had imagined that tents would become furnaces. No one had imagined that open land would become a field of danger. Yet it happened. It happened in June. It happened in July. It happened when the summer was at its cruelest. It happened when help was slowest. The tragedy was not only in death. It was in the manner of death. A man who had lived eighty years died without a room. A woman who had raised five children died without a fan. A couple who had never left the valley died within days of each other in different wards. 

 The memories of those days did not fade. They stayed in the minds of those who carried bodies. They stayed in the minds of those who held ice to a father's forehead. They stayed in the minds of those who watched a mother shiver on a slab of ice. Time may heal wounds but memories are stubborn. They do not vanish. They return in summer. They return when the temperature crosses forty. They return when a snake is seen near a house. They return when a hospital siren sounds. They return when an old person complains of dizziness. For years, this tragedy remained untold.

For years, this subject remained unfilmed. Other filmmakers chose to ignore it. Other films chose easier stories. Other cameras turned away from the ward. Kudos to Maharaj Shah for showing this tragic aspect in his film Azadi made in October 2026. It is the first film to depict this tragedy. It is the first film to take the camera inside the heat and the fear. It is the first film to show the ice slabs. It is the first film to show the snake-bite and heat stroke ward.Praise is due to the creative vision of Maharaj Shah, who saw what others did not see, who remembered what others chose to forget, and who gave the dead a place in memory that no advisory, no file and no relief list could ever give.

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

MARKETS THAT SOLD GOODS LOOTED FROM PANDIT HOUSES

                                                                  

                

MARKETS THAT SOLD OF LOOTED BELONGINGS

 

Everyone saw it. The keepers of conscience saw it. The civil society saw it. The spiritualists saw it. The religious preachers saw it. The intellectuals saw it. Yet nobody raised a voice. Nobody stood up to say, "No. This is wrong. This is theft. These are not abandoned goods. They belong to people who were forced to leave their homes."                                                                            

Babademb, near Khanyar and Iqbal Park ( Hazuri Bagh ) in Srinagar, became marketplaces of an altogether different kind after the exodus of the Kashmiri Pandits. After 2000, these places gradually acquired the character of a market dealing in household goods and material salvaged from deserted Pandit homes. These goods were sold on the road or on cots. These cots could  be seen in Iqbal Park especially  on Sundays . The sellers were there in 2008.  The story of such a market was not merely about a market. It was about the fate of a community's belongings after that community had disappeared from its ancestral homes.

The Pandits had left behind more than houses. They had left behind lives. Behind locked doors were brass thalis used for generations, samovars that had witnessed countless family gatherings, bronze Khasus , brass Degchas( with the owner's name engraved at the rim),  utensils, literature,  religious books, manuscripts, family photographs, idols, crockery, mattresses, toys and other objects of everyday domestic existence. There were gas cylinders, bicycles, scooter parts, books and countless things that had once formed the ordinary furniture of ordinary lives. All these items were sold at various places in the city and Babademb finally became a notorious market which traded in the old doors and windows frames of Kashmiri Pandit houses. 

                                                                       

There were doors and window frames. There was flooring.  Many articles found their way into these shady shops. The market offered a bewildering assortment of possessions whose owners were scattered across Jammu, Delhi and other parts of India. A bronze thali was not merely a bronze thali. It might have been part of a wedding gift. A samovar was not simply a vessel for preparing tea. It might have stood in the same corner of a family kitchen for decades, witnessing births, marriages, festivals, mourning and conversations that had long since become memories. An old photograph album was not waste paper. It held faces, relationships and moments that could never be recreated. A manuscript could have contained the accumulated learning of generations. A small household idol might have been worshipped by a grandmother, a mother and then a daughter-in-law. Its value could never have been measured in the money it fetched in a marketplace. Yet these things appeared there for sale.

 Everything was sold at throwaway prices. But the most disturbing question was not how cheaply these goods were sold. It was how they had reached the market in the first place. The original owners had neither sold them nor gifted them. They had not walked into Babademb to negotiate a price. They were thousands of miles away, struggling to rebuild their lives in unfamiliar surroundings. The owners had left Kashmir in circumstances of fear and uncertainty, carrying little more than the belongings they could manage to take with them. Their absence had created an opportunity for others. And there were buyers, too.

The most painful part was not simply that the belongings were taken and sold. It was that the act appeared to attract so little moral outrage. Where were the voices that could have said, "This is not yours"? Where were the religious leaders who could have reminded their followers that another person's property remained another person's property, even if its owner was absent? Where were the intellectuals and civil society representatives who could have condemned the spectacle? Nobody needed to organise a political movement to oppose this trade. A simple sentence would have been enough.

 “No. This is wrong. This is theft.”

 That sentence was missing.

Many films were subsequently made on the tragedy of the Kashmiri Pandits. They depicted their displacement, their suffering, their separation from their homeland and the destruction of a way of life. Some explored the violence and fear that accompanied the events of 1990. Others spoke of exile, nostalgia and the longing to return. Yet, in all these cinematic representations, one crucial reality remained largely absent: Babademb and the market that had emerged from the material remains of deserted Pandit homes.

The market was not a peripheral detail of the tragedy. It was one of its most disturbing chapters. It showed what happened to the material world of a community after its people had been forced out. It revealed how displacement could be followed by the appropriation and commercial circulation of the possessions left behind. It took filmmaker Maharaj Shah to bring this uncomfortable reality to the screen in his film Azadi, made in October 2026. He dared to show Babademb. He should have also shown the  Iqbal Park Sunday Market of 2005 . He did what many filmmakers dealing with the Pandit tragedy had not done. He placed before the audience a marketplace that had become a symbol of a moral failure. His camera did not merely record a market. It brought back a chapter that had remained outside the familiar narrative of exile. It reminded viewers that the tragedy of 1990 did not end when the Pandits crossed the Banihal tunnel. Their homes, their belongings, their family memories and their inherited possessions continued to have a history of their own. Babademb and Hazuri Bagh were the marketplaces of the past.However,their stories ,belonged to the conscience of the present.

This is what Prof. T. N. Ganju, the eminent Sanskrit and Sharda scholar who stayed on in Kashmir even after the 1990s, once said:

"In Kashmir, post-1990s, many people would come to me with Sharda or Sanskrit manuscripts, obviously removed from puja rooms of deserted Pandit houses. They wanted to know what the manuscript was about. On being asked where had they come across it, they would simply smile. One person in Brian, Nishat has a huge collection of these Sharda or Sanskrit manuscripts ."

In 2008, at the Sunday market at Polo Ground, I came upon a cot-seller dealing in second-hand books.There, lying among the worn volumes, was the famous Penguin edition of V. S. Naipaul’s travelogue, "An Area of Darkness", priced at just fifty rupees.I opened the first page and paused. In a faded hand it read: “Bansi Lal Dhar, 05-08-1983. Bansi Lal Dhar had signed it.

I did not buy the book, for I already owned a copy, purchased long ago from the old Hind Book Shop on Residency Road, Srinagar. Instead, I casually  asked the cot owner whether he had a Kashmiri Pandit brass Samovar. He replied promptly that such articles were not sold there, that I would have to go to a different market. Then, with the ease of a man well-versed in this trade, he offered to bring a samovar to my place of stay, and began enquiring whether I might also need a bronze  Khasu or thaali or a brass Degcha.I moved away informing him that I need to check up and shall revert.

In Shalimar the Clown (2005), Salman Rushdie has a long, staccato passage on the Pandit exodus. This passage  is always quoted:

 “Hindu community houses, temples, private homes, and whole neighbourhoods were being destroyed … Kill one, scare ten, the Muslim mobs chanted, and ten were, indeed, scared … Three hundred and fifty thousand Pandits, almost the entire Pandit population of Kashmir fled from their homes and headed south to the refugee camps where they would rot, like bitter fallen apple, like the unloved, undead dead they had become.” 

And he also adds :

 “In the so-called Bangladeshi markets in Iqbal Park-Hazuri Bagh area of Srinagar the things looted from temples and homes were being openly bought and sold ." 

Rushdie describes it  happening in 2005. And I saw with my own eyes this in 2008  .

Hazuri Bagh and Babademb markets  remain dark and indelible stains on the much-hyped Kashmiriyat. These  were not merely places where plundered goods were sold; these were actually the marketplaces  where the dispossession of an entire community was turned into an opportunity for commercial gain. The tragedy was compounded by the silence of those who should have protested. Maharaj Shah deserves appreciation for having the courage to bring this uncomfortable and shameful reality to the screen, when so many others chose to look away.

In 2001, I saw many Sharda manuscripts and miniature religious paintings from Kashmiri Pandit households on sale in khaat-bazaar opposite Amritsar Railway Station. I also saw these items on sale in the shady Sunday markets of old Delhi especially in Chawri Bazaar . A network of criminals ensured a wide market for these plundered goods. It may not surprise us to see the paintings looted from the deserted  houses of eminent  artists like Triloke Kaul ( more than 150 precious works including gifts from S H Raza and other artists ) ,Mohan Raina ( more than 300 paintings ) and P N Kachru ( paintings and library) reaching art auction houses of Europe and the US through the network of criminals. These art thefts appear in various books and magazines having published interviews of either the artists or their family members .

 

 (Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

WHEN PANDITS GARLANDED THEIR COWS ,HUGGED THEM, KISSED THEM AND LEFT WEEPING

                                       

               ( A scene from Maharaj Shah's film Azadi )

The Last Morning With Those Who Could Not Speak

There are partings that are announced with speeches, with embraces, with long promises to write and to return. And then there are partings that take place in silence, because one side has no words at all, only large, trusting eyes, and a warmth that has leaned against your shoulder every winter morning of your life.

In the villages of Kashmir, before 1990 broke the valley open, a cow was never merely a cow. She was Lil, or Gonur, or Heemal, or Sondhur, or Saanpa. Her calf was Lalaa, or Saaba. They had names because they had places. They were spoken to in the morning as one speaks to a child. They were called by name from the courtyard, and they came, unhurried, knowing the voice, knowing the hand that would feed them.

The old lady of the house was their keeper, their mother in all but birth. Before she had eaten herself, she had fed them. Before the family sat down to its own meal, their share had been set aside. She knew which one liked her voice low and soft, which one grew restless if her calf was taken too far away, which one would nudge her sari with her head until she turned and stroked her forehead. They recognised her footsteps. They recognised her smell. They recognised the sound of the brass vessel she carried, and they would low, softly, not in hunger alone, but in welcome.

                                       

For the family, milk was not bought. It was given. It was a gift exchanged between two kinds of life that had learned to trust one another completely. The cow gave milk because she felt safe. The family gave care because they felt loved. That was the whole economy of the home, and it was more honest than any market in the world.

Then came the winter of 1990  when everything had to be left behind.

No one had told the animals that they were to be abandoned. How could they be told? They could not be told where their people were going, or why, or for how long, or whether they would ever come back. They stood in the courtyard that morning as they had stood every morning, waiting to be fed, waiting to be milked, waiting for the familiar routine that had held their small world together.

And so the family did what broken hearts have always done. They performed a farewell that was also a prayer.

They fed them first, one last time, with their own hands, as if by feeding them they might somehow make up for the days to come when another hand would feed them. They garlanded them with marigold, their necks bright with colour against the grey of that frightened morning. They applied tilak to their foreheads, red and trembling, as one does for a departing traveller, as one does for a goddess. The old lady pressed her forehead to the cow's forehead and wept, not quietly, but with the deep, tearing sobs of a mother who knows she is leaving her child in a world she cannot protect.

The children clung to them. They buried their faces in their warm flanks. They kissed their muzzles. They called their names again and again, Lil, Heemal, Lalaa, as if by repeating them they could keep them from being forgotten. The animals looked on, bewildered, patient, innocent. They did not understand why the hands that stroked them were shaking. They did not understand why the eyes that looked at them were full of tears. They only knew that something was wrong, and they stood still, as animals do when they sense grief, offering the only comfort they had: their nearness.

Some were handed over to neighbours, with folded hands and a choked voice: Please, look after her. She likes warm water in winter. She gets frightened in thunder. Please, do not let her calf go hungry. Promises were made that could not be kept, because no one knew if the neighbours themselves would stay. Some animals were left standing in the courtyard, watching their people walk away down the lane, carrying a single bag, not looking back because to look back would have been unbearable.

Many wanted to carry them along. Oh, how they wanted to. But where were they going? They themselves did not know. They were fleeing to save their lives and their honour, with no home waiting, no shed, no courtyard, no field. To take a cow on that journey would have been to condemn her to a suffering worse than parting. And so they left them, and the cruelty of it was that it was done out of love.

That is the particular pathos of this separation. A man can explain his leaving. A woman can promise to return. A child can write a letter. But a speechless creature cannot be consoled with reasons. She cannot be told that this is not abandonment, that this is compulsion, that her people wept for her long after they had left her. She can only watch the gate close, and wait, that evening, for a footstep that does not come.

For the first time in any film on the tragedy of the Kashmiri Pandits, Maharaj Shah has dared to film what was never been filmed before ; not just the leaving, but the loving. The farewell to the cows, the garlands, the tilak, the tears, the packed bags, the waiting truck, the neighbour stepping forward to receive what a family could no longer carry. In that one dawn scene, he has captured an entire civilization’s grief, faith, and dignity.

This is why this scene in Maharaj Shah’s film Azadi moves one so deeply. It does not invent grief. It remembers it. It shows what history books forget: that exile is not only about houses and land and temples. It is about the breaking of a thousand small, daily loves. It is about an old lady’s empty hands in the morning. It is about a cow, garlanded and blessed, standing in an empty courtyard, waiting for a voice that will call her name, and will never call it again.

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.