Fiction: A Kashmiri Pandit family moves into new home but a secessionist movement changes everything

We reached Jammu around nightfall. The contours of the city were dark and alien, the air damp and viscous. We were woefully unprepared for the dual assault of heat and humidity. The multiple layers of clothing we wore did not help alleviate matters.

In the truck, Papaji and my father shed their pherans. But in the taxi, out of a sense of propriety, my mother and Byenji kept them on and suffered. As we went deeper into the city, on our left, appeared a canal filled with murky, olive-green water. On our right was a market facade punctuated by alleys at regular intervals. These alleys led to Talab Tillo – the locality where Papaji’s cousin had found accommodation for us. Our taxi, following the truck, took a right turn and entered one of them. The road inside was narrow with open drains on both sides. Crumpled milk packets, straws, plastic bags, black slush and sewage peeking out of the gutters welcomed us to our new neighbourhood. A few minutes and a few turns later, the truck and the taxi came to a stop. We disembarked from the vehicles and were greeted by the sight of a dilapidated 12x12-foot hovel with a...

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