Many times, I find myself reading the thoughts etched by my mind upon the walls of my heart, words born not on paper, but in pain, love, and remembrance. They are soaked in the soulful memories of a land we once called our own, evoking the echoes of a lost paradise, of a home now distant, yet forever alive within us.

My journey has not been recorded in books. It is written in silence, in tears, in the quiet endurance of exile. It is a story retold in the stillness of the night and in the yearning that refuses to fade. I have lived through joy and sorrow, through betrayal and compassion. Some gave me wounds, others healed me with their presence. What I faced may have been new to me, but it was not unfamiliar to my community. For centuries,my community people, the Kashmiri Pandits, have borne suffering, injustice, and abandonment, often silently, always bravely.

I was born in the sacred soil of Kashmir in the lap of a large, affectionate joint family. Our home was filled with warmth and faith: parents, uncles, aunts, siblings, cousins, all united by love and tradition. Our mornings began with the happiness , and our nights conclude cheerfully. Life was modest but deeply fulfilling. The streets of our mohalla, the aroma of noon chai, the chirping of birds , the flowing rhythm of streems and canals, all wove together the music of a life once whole.

I grew up, received my education, was married, became a father, built friendships, all within that comforting world. But then, without warning, everything changed.

The harmony was broken. The home I loved was no longer mine. Overnight, we became refugees in our own country. Threatened, hunted, and marked for our identity, we were uprooted and thrown into exile ,not because of any crime, but simply because of who we were ?.

What followed was a life of struggle displacement, uncertainty, and pain. We had to rebuild everything from nothing: our lives, our identities, our livelihoods, and our dreams. And yet, the spirit of our community never gave up. Though wounded, we remained unbroken. Though exiled, we held on to our culture, our faith, and our will to survive.

Today, I carry not just memories, but truths. deep, difficult, and proud truths. My life mirrors the centuries-long saga of my people, our suffering, our sacrifices, and our strength.

To the younger generation of my neglected community, I say with folded hands and an open heart: Know your roots. Understand your history. Respect your identity. You are the torchbearers of a community that has endured centuries of pain, yet never bowed down. Learn our story, speak our truth, and carry our legacy forward. Let our past be your strength. Let our wounds become your wisdom.

Let remembrance not be a burden, but a badge of honour. Let our exile ignite your resolve. Let our sacrifices guide your path forward.

With deep love and unwavering commitment,
Kundan Kashmiri
Sevak & President, KPC
Mobile No 8802167955