Kashmir has always been praised for its beauty its snow-clad peaks, whispering rivers, and skies that change colour like a living canvas. Yet the true soul of Kashmir does not lie in its mountains or valleys alone; it lives in its people and in a brotherhood shaped by centuries of shared existence. A brotherhood that did not ask one’s faith before offering warmth, that did not measure identity before sharing bread. Perhaps kindness runs in our blood. Perhaps culture moulded us this way. Or perhaps, after witnessing so much loss, we learned that humanity is the only refuge left

We grew up sharing the same winters, warming our hands at the same fires.
Faith had different names, but pain always spoke one language.
Kashmir’s brotherhood was not a slogan it was a lived reality. Neighbours were family, and differences were threads in the same fabric. But history intervened, tearing apart what had been woven with care.
Recently, I came across a social media video that reopened wounds many of us carry in silence. Two elderly women were seen saying goodbye one a Muslim woman still living in Kashmir, the other a Kashmiri Hindu who had migrated to another part of the country due to political unrest. Their farewell was not merely a parting; it was a quiet mourning of everything they had lost.They held each other as if trying to stop time. Their eyes carried decades of memories shared kitchens, shared prayers in different forms, shared laughter that once echoed freely. The Hindu woman spoke of her Muslim neighbour not as “the other,” but as her own closer than blood, closer than kin.
Some separations do not scream, they whisper through trembling hands.
Some goodbyes are not spoken, they fall silently from the eyes.
Watching them felt like watching Kashmir itself grieve. That video pulled me back to an incident from my own life an encounter that once felt ordinary but now stands as one of the most profound moments of my existence. Years ago, while traveling on the Delhi metro, I was speaking in Kashmiri with a friend. An elderly lady sitting a few feet away overheard us. Slowly, with a limping leg and cautious steps, she approached me. Her voice was gentle, hesitant, as she asked, “Are you Kashmiri?” When I said yes, she asked where I was from. There was a brief pause when I replied, “Shopian.” It was a place that, at the time, was synonymous with violence and unrest. I could see fear mixed with recognition in her eyes not fear of me, but fear of memories that had never left her. She asked where I was going. When I said Mukherjee Nagar, she sat beside me, knowing the journey would be long. And then she began to speak. She told me she was a Kashmiri Hindu who had migrated years ago. Her words flowed like a river held back for too long. She spoke of her home, of neighbours who were Muslims but never strangers, of friendships that felt eternal. Suddenly,
Sometimes a person becomes a place, sometimes a voice becomes a home.
In crowded cities, memories search for familiar faces.
she hugged me tightly and called her granddaughter, saying, “Look, he is from the place where we lived.”
At that moment, I was no longer just a young man from Kashmir. I was her past walking beside her. I was her lost street, her childhood laughter, her shared evenings of tea and stories. She narrated tales of togetherness how doors were never locked, how sorrow was shared, how joy belonged to everyone. Her eyes lit up as she spoke. Her face softened. I later learned she was suffering from depression and that it had been a long time since she had smiled that way. For those few minutes, it was as if she had reclaimed a piece of herself. As her station approached, she hesitated to leave. Letting go of me felt like losing Kashmir all over again. When she finally stepped off the train, tears welled up in both our eyes
Some journeys end at stations, others linger for a lifetime.
Some meetings last minutes, yet echo forever.
At the time, I was too young to understand the depth of her pain. But time has a way of teaching what age cannot understand.
When I recently watched that video of the two elderly women saying goodbye, every word that old lady in the metro had spoken came rushing back. I realised how many untold stories exist how many hearts on both sides carry the same ache.
Migration brought safety for some, but it also carved wounds that cannot be seen. Houses can be rebuilt, livelihoods restored but what of the loss of belonging? What of the pain of separation from neighbours who were family? What of children who inherit memories of a home they never saw
Exile is not only about leaving land, it is about leaving people behind.
It is about carrying keys to doors that no longer exist.
This pain belongs to every Kashmiri those who stayed and those who left, those who speak and those who remain silent. It belongs to mothers who still remember the names of their neighbors’ children, and to elders who still recall shared winters and shared warmth. Kashmir’s tragedy is not merely political it is deeply human. It is a story of bonds broken by fear, not hatred. And yet, even in separation, the brotherhood survives in overheard languages, in sudden recognition, in tears shared between strangers who were once family
We were not divided by faith, we were separated by fate.
And still, our hearts recognise each other.
The world speaks of Kashmir in terms of conflict and borders. Rarely does it speak of the pain of togetherness lost. Until that pain is acknowledged, healing will remain incomplete.
Because Kashmir is not just a land. It is a memory.
It is a wound. And above all, it is a brotherhood that still lives
quietly, painfully, and enduringly in the hearts of its people.

Email:------------essarbhat22@gmail.com