Subtraction

“Kashmir is the crown jewel of India.” I remember my mother saying those words as we stood at a stationery shop, buying a fresh set of political maps for a geography exam. I didn’t fully grasp the weight of that phrase back then. To me, it was just another chapter to memorize — a line repeated in textbooks, marked with bold borders and shaded in soft blue on those crispy freshly printed maps. But memories have a way of outgrowing their definitions.

The last time I visited Kashmir was in 2009, with my parents to Srinagar. I was just a child then — curious, naïve, and wide-eyed at the snow-kissed chinars and shikara boats gliding over Dal Lake. It was beautiful, almost dreamlike. Yet, even in that dream, there was a chill that crept up my spine every time I passed an Indian army jawan — standing watchful by the roadside, walking silently with his rifle, eyes scanning the distance like a sentinel between worlds.

At the time, I didn’t quite understand why their presence unnerved me. I mistook vigilance for danger. But now, as I look back, I realize — those men were not shadows to fear. They were the reason I could walk those streets, sleep in peace, and return home with only good memories. They were the invisible hands holding up a fragile peace, the reason I could breathe easy in a place where every breath, for some, comes at a cost.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve never claimed to be the smartest person in the room. Perhaps I never was. But I carry within me something I’ve come to cherish more — a memory that doesn’t forget. A memory that doesn’t just record the facts, but clings to the emotions — the tremors beneath the surface, the quiet fear behind a child’s smile, the unspoken gratitude in a soldier’s silence.

Kashmir, for me, is no longer just the crown on the map. It’s a place that taught me that peace isn’t the absence of war — it’s the constant presence of those who risk everything to preserve it. And sometimes, it’s only in remembering those moments that we begin to understand the true cost of calm skies.

I was born into what many would call a “semi right-wing” Hindu family. And I use semi deliberately — because while we stand firm in our faith, in the richness of Sanatan Dharma and the quiet discipline of Hindu values, we were never the type to impose, never the kind to hate. We simply lived with pride, not with prejudice. But even in our silence, we watched — how our beliefs were perceived, twisted, diluted, and politicized over the years.

I was nine when 26/11 happened. Not near the blasts, not near the blood, but close enough to feel the fear ripple across a city I called home. What stayed with me wasn’t just the soundbites or the breaking news headlines — it was the strange aftermath. The almost choreographed outrage, the carefully worded condemnations, the celebrities holding candles while quietly shifting the narrative. Instead of mourning as a nation, we were being reminded — over and over — that “not all Muslims are terrorists.” And even at that tender age, I remember feeling it: something about this… wasn’t right.

In school, we were always taught: India never fires the first bullet. That we are a peace-loving nation with a history untainted by invasion. I believed that for a long time. I found comfort in it, even a sense of pride. But growing older and understanding the cruel arithmetic of geopolitics, I began to question — has this noble restraint come at too high a cost? In a world where power respects power, had we reduced ourselves to a nation that bleeds quietly?

I remember flying Turkish Airlines a few years back, casually flipping through the flight entertainment system. On the world map, I paused — India was shown without PoK or Aksai Chin. A foreign airline, with the audacity to display an incomplete India, as if our borders were suggestions. That moment stayed with me, not because of a graphic, but because of what it revealed — how little the world respects what we don’t fiercely claim as our own.

And then, during the heated debates in Rajya Sabha over the abrogation of Article 370, I watched in disbelief as a Congress leader demanded to know whether the government had taken “consensus” from Pakistan and China before making a decision about Kashmir. Consensus? With those who illegally occupy what is rightfully ours? That wasn’t just betrayal — that was treason dressed in parliamentary procedure.

Are you telling me PoK and Aksai Chin aren’t part of India? Are you saying our sovereignty is up for debate because of your party lines? Are you truly so blinded by political desperation that you’d rather seek validation from our enemies than stand with your own country?

This isn’t just a rant against the Congress party — though god knows I’d have a thousand pages’ worth of reasons if I ever chose to write one. This goes beyond corruption, beyond dynasty, beyond the self-serving politics we’ve come to expect from them. This is about something far more dangerous: decades of silence dressed up as diplomacy, compromise masquerading as secularism, and cowardice repackaged as restraint. It’s about how successive Congress regimes, under the pretense of peace, allowed separatism to ferment like poison in the bloodstream of Kashmir. It’s about how they looked the other way while radicals were nurtured, how they handed the keys of governance to the very people who sabotaged the soul of the valley. And it’s about how their inaction forced generations of Kashmiri Pandits to abandon their homes, their roots, and their futures — all while Delhi watched in silence.

I will never forget — and I will never forgive — how Nehru, in a single stroke of arrogance and misjudgment, gifted away Pakistan-occupied Kashmir. Nor how, after our soldiers reclaimed territory in the first Indo-Pak war, he chose to return it — not to its rightful motherland, but to the enemy that bled us. That wasn’t statesmanship. That was surrender.

I will never forget how the Congress party empowered a cabal of elite businessmen and politicians in Kashmir — gave them autonomy, resources, and a blind eye — and in doing so, turned the valley into a breeding ground for ISI-sponsored separatists and terrorist sympathizers. They weren’t just negligent — they were complicit. And I say this with full conviction: every Indian soldier who has died in Kashmir — every single one, from the first drops of blood spilled after independence to the present day — has fallen not just to a bullet or a blast, but to the chain of betrayals that began with that very Congress government.

Uri. Pulwama. The countless ambushes, encounters, and martyrdoms in the icy heights and winding alleys of the valley — all of them trace back to a history written in cowardice, sealed with appeasement, and fed by political convenience. This isn’t hyperbole. This is the truth our textbooks were too scared to print. And it’s time we stopped whispering it.

India has been fighting a 2.5 front war, as Ajit Doval once said — and that “half front” is the one that hurts the most. It’s the battle within. The battle against a hatred that’s been planted in our soil. The battle against a narrative that paints the majority as oppressors, even when they’re the ones mourning their dead.

We’ve all heard the line — terrorism has no religion. And yet, when the terrorists of 26/11 were caught wearing Hindu threads, dressed to look like us — I couldn’t help but feel violated. Not just as a Hindu, but as an Indian. If Constable Tukaram Omble hadn’t given his life, Kasab would’ve died with that lie on his body, and the world would’ve believed it.

April 22, 2025. Palgham Valley, again. Different date. Same blood. Twenty-six innocent tourists — gunned down after being asked their religion. Twenty-six lives ended not because of politics or policy, but because they were Hindu.

And yet, we are still expected to chant the same old tune. Still expected to stay silent. To not call out the ideology, not name the radicalism, not upset the fragile balance of “secularism.” But how long do we play this game? How long do we keep turning the other cheek, hoping the world notices?

Let me be clear — this is not about hating Muslims. Some of my dearest friends are Muslim, and I know their hearts. But we cannot keep ignoring where the radicalization is coming from. We cannot keep pretending that this is just a fringe issue. When children are taught to hate before they are even taught to think, when young minds are poisoned inside madarsas, when martyrdom is sold as glory — we are staring into the abyss.

I remember the day Article 370 was abrogated. I was in hostel. And I still remember the faces of a few Kashmiri students — panic, disbelief, even rage. They spoke of going back, of dying on their land. And I remember thinking — what kind of deep programming must it take to feel that level of loyalty to an ideology instead of a country?

I’m tired. Tired of the selective outrage. Tired of being told what to feel. Tired of watching media outlets twist every tragedy into a narrative that fits their agenda. And most of all, I’m tired of watching my country bleed while everyone debates whether or not we’re allowed to be angry.

You say an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. But what if the other side is already blind — blind with rage, blind with hate, blind with generations of indoctrination? Then maybe it’s time to stop waiting for peace to arrive at our doorstep. Maybe it’s time we earn it.

This is not about subtraction. This is about what has been stolen from us — safety, unity, dignity. And if we don’t find the courage to confront this now, there may not be much left to defend.