Kashmir: Ek Katha

Do you know which animal all scavengers love to feast on together?

This place — Our Kashmir.

What was lost first? Trust.

What was lost next? Sacred plurality.

What was lost next? Knowledge as worship.

What was lost next? The idea of home.

What was lost next? Kashmiriyat

Only after all this, land was lost.

Part 1: The Night Kashmir Left Home

“Raliv, Galiv, ya Chaliv” — At first glance, these may sound like just three words in the Kashmiri (Koshur) language. But for the Kashmiri Pandits, they are etched in memory like a scar that never heals.

Raliv — Convert.
Galiv — Die.
Chaliv — Leave.

A simple translation doesn’t carry the weight of what these words meant in 1990. They weren’t just whispered threats. They were broadcasted over loudspeakers. They were shouted from mosques — places that are meant to be haven of peace. They echoed through alleyways and were etched on the walls of houses, filling the air with dread. They weren’t just slogans; they were ultimatums.

This is the story of Kashmir, once a cradle of knowledge, where Shaivism and Sufism coexisted, where neighbors celebrated each other’s festivals, where shared language — Kashmiri, bonded communities.

If you will burn down my home, how will I pack my whole life in a small bag? How will I stand, pick and choose what is important in my life and what is not? Choose which memory to keep and which one to let go of?

One day, I was supposed to pack everything in a small bag. I sat there, trying to shake off the feeling — What if something happens when I come back, and nothing is the same anymore? I packed whatever I could find of my beloved life in that small bag, hoping everything would be the same as I left it, when I would come back.

What about those who didn’t even have a tiny bag to collect pictures, old photographs, memoirs, letters, their hard-earned money, food — those who left barefoot?
Left? Left is a soft word.

They were thrown out — barefoot, broken, and betrayed.

The Pandits were not simply asked to leave. They were forced, hunted, abandoned. To say they were asked to “move away” would be a cruel simplification.“Thrown away” perhaps touches the pain — but even that feels insufficient for those who watched their homes burn, who left without time to collect photographs, books, or even the ashes of their loved ones.

But why?

Why would you be thrown out of your own homeland?

“Oh child,” the old woman says in Kashmiri, “How naive you are.”

“Don’t you realize? You were a Hindu in Kashmir.”

It takes just one sentence to erase centuries of belonging — to wipe out your identity, your roots, your homeland.

What really happened in Kashmir in the 1990s — the truth no one wants to talk about? Why is it called an exodus, when every Kashmiri says it was a genocide? Why, even today, are the Kashmiri Pandits still living in fear? Why, in Kashmir, can someone be killed simply because of their faith?

Part 2: What Was Lost Before People Were Lost?

Kashmir was the cradle of the spiritual tradition known as Kashmir Shaivism, a powerful school of Hindu philosophy that attracted numerous followers, philosophers, and intellectuals over the centuries.

This ideology flourished in the Kashmir Valley between the 8th and 12th centuries CE, leaving a lasting impact on Indian metaphysics and mysticism.

This philosophy was centered around Shiva, one of the principal deities of the Hindu spiritual trinity. Kashmir Shaivism views Shiva as the ultimate, formless reality or pure consciousness.

Utpaladeva was one of the prominent early thinkers of the Kashmir Shaivism school. His philosophical outlook differed in subtle yet significant ways from that of Abhinavagupta.

While Abhinavagupta viewed art as a yogic path to liberation, elevating aesthetic experience to a spiritual level, Utpaladeva leaned toward a more structured approach to spiritual awakening.

This contrast doesn’t necessarily diminish the value of art in Utpaladeva’s framework. In fact, structure is often primary to artistic expression. For instance, Bharatnatyam relies on precise eye and hand movements, Kathak on intricate footwork, and Mandala art on geometric perfection. Yet, in modern thinking, art is often associated with chaos.

According to Utpaladeva, liberation lies in the recognition of one’s own true nature as Shiva. The divine is neither distant nor external, it resides intimately within the very fabric of one’s own body and soul. In this view, you are not praying to an external, metaphysical deity, but rather turning inward, introspecting within the bounds of your own self. The path to the divine is not outward but inward, where realization dawns that Shiva, the ultimate reality, is none other than the essence of your own being.

Abhinavagupta, regarded as the most influential figure in Kashmir Shaivism, was a true polymath, often likened to a Hindu “Aristotle”. He was a philosopher, poet, dramatist, theologian, musician, and mystic, whose intellectual legacy shaped not only Indian spirituality but also classical art and aesthetics.

Among his many writings, two of the most celebrated are Tantrāloka (“The Light on Tantra”), a comprehensive work on the philosophy and practices of Tantra and Abhinavabhārati, a seminal commentary on Bharata’s Nāṭyaśāstra, where he explains the concept of Rasa (aesthetic emotion).

Theory of Rasa: Rasa literally means “flavour” or “essence.” In the context of art, it refers to the emotional essence or aesthetic experience that a viewer undergoes while engaging with a creative work be it dance, drama, music, or visual art.

In his work Abhinavabhārati, Abhinavagupta unfolds the deeper meaning of Rasa, going beyond the surface to reveal its spiritual dimension. He emphasizes that the emotions evoked through art are not merely personal but universal. When one experiences art deeply, they transcend their everyday self and momentarily enter a different realm of consciousness, a state where the ego dissolves and a purer, more expansive awareness emerges.

According to Abhinavagupta, this emotional upliftment is not trivial, it can be a legitimate path to the divine. Just as Buddhists view meditation as a tool for spiritual awakening, Abhinava saw aesthetic experience as a form of inner elevation, where Rasa becomes a bridge between the self and the universal.

However, Abhinavagupta defines Rasa not only as a means to reach the divine but also as a state of pure emotional bliss, a beautiful yogic path in itself. He presents art as far more than mere expression or entertainment; rather, art becomes a profound vehicle for spiritual liberation.

On deeper reflection, Kashmir Shaivism resonates closely with the Islamic mystical tradition of Sufism. Both philosophies emphasize the need to look within oneself to find the divine, believing that God is not distant or external but intimately present in the core of one’s being. Furthermore, art holds a vital place in both traditions as a path to liberation from the material world.

When we hear the word Sufism, one name that often comes to mind is Shams Tabrizi, the Persian poet and spiritual guide of the famous mystic Rumi. For Shams, the concepts of love and God were deeply intertwined. He famously said,

“You can study God through everything and everyone in the universe because God is not confined to a mosque, synagogue, or church. But if you still need to know where exactly His abode is, there is only one place to look for Him: in the heart of a true lover.”

These words reveal his belief that God and love are inseparable.

This comparison shows that, despite apparent differences between Islam and Hinduism, at their deepest spiritual core, these religions often converge on universal truths. Everything is connected.

Historically, Kashmir was a unique melting pot where such mystical traditions coexisted and influenced each other, enriching the region’s spiritual and cultural heritage.

Part 3: A Civilization That Learned in Silence

The Rajatarangini by Kalhana: Kalhana, a 12th-century Hindu scholar and poet, authored one of the most significant historical chronicles of India — the Rajatarangini (“River of Kings”). Written in Sanskrit verse, this literary masterpiece provides a detailed and structured narrative of Kashmir’s rulers and political events over centuries.

What sets Rajatarangini apart is its modern approach to historical writing. Kalhana relied on genealogies of kings and dynasties, inscriptions, local traditions, and temple records to compile his account. Unlike earlier mythological or religious texts, it follows a chronological and analytical style, offering valuable insights into the political, social, and cultural landscape of Kashmir.

Rajatarangini remains an indispensable source for historians. It is, in many ways, a historical book that captures history itself.

The Sharada Peeth: The forgotten Oxford of Kashmir?

Sharada Peeth — literally meaning “The Seat of Sharada” — was far more than a temple; it was a sacred center of learning where knowledge itself was revered as divine. Dating back to the 6th century CE, it stands as one of India’s earliest temple universities, often regarded as comparable to ancient seats of learning like Takshashila and Nalanda.

Located in the Neelum (Kishanganga) Valley of present-day Pakistan-occupied Kashmir (POK), the temple was dedicated to Goddess Sharada, a form of Mata Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of learning, wisdom, music, and the arts.

The people who came here weren’t just worshippers of a deity, they were worshippers of knowledge itself. Seeking blessings wasn’t just about rituals, it was about understanding, learning, and growing.

More than just a temple, Sharada Peeth functioned like a university. It was a space where scholars debated, discussed, and deeply studied a range of subjects. The Peeth had a renowned library that housed important Sanskrit texts — covering Shaivism, Nyaya (logic and justice), and Buddhist philosophy. Buddhist ideas that emerged here later found their way into Tibetan Buddhism, showing how Sharada Peeth wasn’t isolated, it was connected to a much larger world of philosophical exchange.

Many of the foundational ideas of Utpaladeva and Abhinavagupta were debated, refined, and spread from Sharada Peeth. But it wasn’t just a center for Hindu philosophy — Sharada Peeth was secular in its approach. It welcomed diverse thoughts and teachings. Alongside Shaivism, Buddhism was also studied and taught here, making it a true hub for intellectual exchange.

It is said that Adi Shankracharya, the great Hindu philosopher of the 8th century CE, visited Sharada Peeth during his travels to Kashmir. To gain entry, he had to pass a challenging test and is believed to have engaged in debates with the scholars there.

Many people call Sharada Peeth “The Forgotten Oxford of Kashmir” or “The Cambridge of the East.” But honestly, that comparison feels like a disservice to its true legacy. Sharada Peeth was built centuries before Oxford and Cambridge even existed. It wasn’t just another university, it was a glowing beacon of knowledge and wisdom, influencing not only India but the entire world.

To reduce its greatness by comparing it to relatively modern European institutions feels almost like forgetting the history and spirit of this sacred place. Sharada Peeth deserves to be remembered and honored for what it truly was — one of the oldest centers of learning humanity has ever known.

Sharada Peeth is still deeply revered by Kashmiri Pandits as one of their holiest pilgrimage sites. Yet, because of ongoing political instability and conflict, visiting this sacred place remains an unfulfilled dream for many Kashmiri Pandits, even though it lies right within Kashmir.

The great philosopher of the 8th century CE, Shri Adi Shankaracharya, born in Kerala, travelled all the way to Kashmir to meditate in the serenity of the snow-clad peaks. A prodigy who mastered the Vedas by the age of eight, he sought not just academic knowledge, but spiritual oneness and found solace in Kashmir’s peace.

Shankaracharya’s philosophy centers around Non-Dual Knowledge (Advaita Vedanta). According to this view, the individual soul (Atman) and the ultimate reality (Brahman) are one and the same. What we perceive as the material world, with its multiplicity and change is Maya, an illusion. The truth lies in the realization of the oneness of soul and supreme reality.

Nature of Reality & Perception: There are multiple ways to perceive reality. Some believe that as human beings, we can only interpret a fraction of it, as if reality is vast and layered, and we only ever grasp its surface. Others feel that we don’t perceive the world as it truly is, but as we are, that our understanding is filtered through our personal values, morals, and experiences.

And then there is the philosophy of Advaita Vedanta or Non-Dual Knowledge, which goes even deeper.

It teaches that reality is not external at all, it is internal, indivisible, and eternal. To see through this illusion and realize this fundamental oneness is to attain moksha, liberation from the endless cycle of birth and death (samsara).

In both Hinduism and Buddhism, liberation is key. Until the soul is free, it continues to reincarnate in different forms, trapped in the cycle of dukkha (suffering). Even Gautama Buddha, before his enlightenment, is said to have lived 550 past lives — as birds, beasts, and men — before attaining nirvana — the state of enlightenment.

Adi Shankaracharya wrote detailed commentaries on the Upanishads, Bhagavad Gita, and Brahma Sutras, texts rich in not just religious doctrine but in explorations of truth, justice, dharma, and the soul.

In a time when Buddhism and other schools were rising, Shankara helped revitalize Hinduism. He traveled from the Himalayas to Kanyakumari, spreading his teachings and building philosophical bridges. He emphasized devotion (bhakti) alongside knowledge (jnana), advocating a balanced path between heart and mind.

Kashmir Shaivism & Utpaladeva: The concept of Non-Dual Knowledge was also central to Utpaladeva’s Kashmir Shaivism, though with a key difference. While Advaita Vedanta sees the formless Brahman as the ultimate, Shaivism views Shiva as both the formless and the manifest, the supreme consciousness that pervades all.

In Shankaracharya’s Advaita, the self merges with the impersonal, unmanifest Brahman. In Utpaladeva’s Shaivism, the self realizes it is none other than Shiva — the self-aware consciousness behind all creation. Both are non-dual, but Shaivism personalizes the experience of unity.

Shankracharya and Shukracharya: Growing up in a Hindu family, I often heard stories from my mother, but never truly understood their depth. I couldn’t even distinguish between Shankaracharya Ji and Shukracharya Ji. Their names sounded similar — but their identities couldn’t be more different.

In Hinduism, mythology often depicts a long-standing cosmic battle between the gods and goddesses (Devas and Devis) and the demons (Asuras or Rakshasas). These figures symbolize more than just divine warfare — the Devas and Devis represent purity, order, and the preservation of harmony on Bhu Devi (Mother Earth), while the Asuras embody chaos and disruption.

Among the revered figures in Hindu philosophy, Adi Shankaracharya stands tall as an intellectual, scholar, and philosopher — a devout follower of the Vedas, Upanishads, and Brahma Sutras. His formulation of Advaita Vedanta or Non-Dual Knowledge has been a guiding light for Hindu thinkers across centuries.

On the other end of the mythological spectrum stands Shukracharya, also known as Asuracharya — the revered guru of the Asuras. Though traditionally positioned on the ‘darker’ side of the cosmic battle, Shukracharya’s contributions to Hindu thought are profound.

He authored the Shukraniti, a treatise on governance and morality, offering practical wisdom on maintaining societal order and ensuring the well-being of subjects, even among demons. He was also a devout worshipper of Lord Shiva.

What is particularly fascinating about Shukracharya is his belief in ‘Ekam’, a concept that resonates closely with Shankaracharya’s Advaita Vedanta. Ekam speaks of a formless, genderless, characterless, and shapeless supreme being that exists beyond the realm of reality, untouched by the three gunas (qualities) — sattva, rajas, and tamas. This unified, transcendent being is not divided by duality — much like the Brahman of Shankara’s philosophy.

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This shared metaphysical insight shows how both Shukracharya and Shankaracharya, though representing opposing mythological sides, converge philosophically on the idea of a singular, absolute truth that transcends all forms and categories.

Shukracharya’s belief in Ekam played a key role in maintaining unity and order among the Asuras. It gave them a common focal point, a belief in oneness, which strengthened their cohesion.

In contrast, the multiplicity of Devas and Devis often led to fragmentation among their followers, divided by sectarian allegiance to Shiva, Vishnu, Brahma, Indra, and others. This polytheism also introduced hierarchies and divisions, both among the deities and their worshippers, often breeding a sense of superiority or exclusivity.

Moreover, Shukracharya’s devotion to Lord Shiva is another bridge between the two. Shaivism itself, focused on the formless, all-encompassing consciousness of Shiva resonates deeply with Shankaracharya’s philosophy. This connection once again affirms how everything is interwoven — mythology, metaphysics, and philosophy all point toward unity.

According to Hindu cosmology, there are two fundamental ways of living and ruling:

1. A feminine mode, associated with creativity, chaos, fluidity, and freedom.
2. A masculine mode, characterized by structure, order, law, and truth.

Shukracharya’s leadership over the Asuras stands as a pioneering example of the masculine way of life — not in terms of gender, but in the principles of control, governance, and unification under a singular belief system. Despite the rebellious nature of the Asuras, he maintained discipline and hierarchy through his philosophy of Ekam, allowing for stability amidst chaos.

Isn’t it remarkable that the Jammu and Kashmir we so often associate predominantly with Islam actually holds within it a rich, multi-religious heritage — where Shaivism, Buddhism, Sufism, and Islamic mysticism have all flourished side by side? That is Jammu and Kashmir. That is my home. My homeland.

Part 4: When Politics Replaced Philosophy

Kashmir once believed the divine lived within.But politics teaches something else, that identity lives outside.
In names. In numbers. In majorities. In minorities.
And slowly, the language of philosophy was replaced by the language of fear.

India had never been a single voice. It was a chorus of languages, gods, customs, and memories held together not by sameness, but by coexistence.

For centuries, Hindus formed the majority of the subcontinent, while Muslims lived as a significant minority across its vast regions. Before the British, the Mughal Empire governed much of northern India, and Islam spread not through numbers alone, but through culture, art, and administration.

The British changed that.

Through their policy of divide and rule, communities that had once lived side by side were slowly taught to distrust each other. Lines were drawn where none had existed before. Religion, which had once been a way of life, became a political weapon.

As the struggle for independence gained momentum, many Hindu leaders, especially from the Indian National Congress, united to fight against British rule. But as the movement gained momentum, power began to concentrate and fear followed it.

Rise in Hindu political strength created fear among many Muslims. They worried that Hindus would dominate the new political landscape and that the vision of a secular India upheld by Congress was not genuine. Instead, they suspected a hidden plan to establish a Hindu-majority nation. This fear was fueled by the British policy of “divide and rule,” which had long kept communities separated and suspicious of one another.

At first, Muslim and Hindu leaders worked together in the fight for India’s freedom from British rule. But over time, Muslim leaders grew increasingly concerned. They feared that if India became independent and adopted democracy (where the majority wins), the Hindu majority would always dominate. This raised worries that Muslims might not be treated fairly in areas like government representation, education, employment, and other key sectors of national life.

Many Muslim leaders began to worry that independence would not mean equality. In a democracy, the majority rules. And in India, the majority was Hindu.
What would happen when the British left?
Would the promise of secularism survive the reality of numbers?

Keeping the interests of Muslims in mind, the All-India Muslim League was established in 1906 as a political group to represent Muslim voices in colonial India. In the beginning, the League tried to cooperate with the Indian National Congress, and there were efforts to work together for India’s freedom. However, over time, the Muslim League felt sidelined, as the Congress was a dominant political party largely supported by Hindus. The League believed that Muslim concerns were not being adequately addressed in the broader national movement.

These fears were not abstract. They were sharpened in 1937, during the Provincial Elections. The Congress won decisively, forming governments in 7 of 11 provinces. The All-India Muslim League, which claimed to represent Muslim political interests, performed poorly even in Muslim-majority areas.

The result was devastating.

When Congress formed provincial governments, it did so without including the Muslim League, even in regions where Muslims formed a large part of the population. To the League, this was not just exclusion — it was a warning. If this could happen under British supervision, what would happen in an independent India?

Trust collapsed.

Muhammad Ali Jinnah, once a firm believer in Hindu-Muslim unity, reached a painful conclusion: that political coexistence was no longer possible. Out of this disillusionment emerged the Two-Nation Theory, the belief that Hindus and Muslims were not merely two religious communities, but two distinct nations, with incompatible political and cultural futures.

The idea was simple, and tragic, only a separate homeland could protect Muslim identity, rights, and survival.

In 1940, the Muslim League formally adopted this vision in the Lahore Resolution, demanding independent states for Muslims in the north-west and east of British India. Partition no longer stood as a fear. It was now a demand.

The British, exhausted after World War II and eager to leave, accelerated the process. Leaders like Mahatma Gandhi and Maulana Abul Kalam Azad pleaded for unity, warning that division would tear the soul of the subcontinent apart. But the moment had passed.

Mistrust was now stronger than memory.

In August 1947, India was cut in two.

What followed was not independence, it was chaos.

Nearly 15 million people were forced to migrate. Hindus and Sikhs fled from the new Pakistan. Muslims fled from India. Trains arrived full of silence. Homes were abandoned. Families disappeared. Entire communities vanished overnight.

Partition was not just the division of land.
It was the division of hearts.

And in the midst of this fracture stood Kashmir.

At the time of India’s independence in 1947, Jammu and Kashmir was a princely state with a Muslim-majority population, ruled by a Hindu Dogra monarch, Maharaja Hari Singh. Unlike many other princely states that chose to join either India or Pakistan, Maharaja Hari Singh initially opted to remain independent.

However, this stance was short-lived. In October 1947, Pakistan-backed tribal militias invaded Kashmir, aiming to annex the region by force. Faced with a serious military threat and unable to defend his state alone, Maharaja Hari Singh sought India’s assistance.

In response, India agreed to help, but only after the Maharaja signed the Instrument of Accession.

The Instrument of Accession was a legal document used during the partition of British India in 1947. It provided a framework for the princely states to join either India or Pakistan. Under this agreement, the central government would have authority over only three key subjects:

1. Defence
2. External Affairs
3. Communications

On October 26, 1947, the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir officially acceded to India through this instrument. This decision came after Pakistani-backed tribal forces invaded the region. The very next day, Governor-General Lord Mountbatten formally accepted the accession on India’s behalf.

The accession came with a promise of autonomy, later enshrined as Article 370.

Part 5: When Home Became a Warning

After 1947, India and Pakistan were often described as twins separated at birth, carrying the same blood, the same memories, but raised on opposite sides of a border drawn in haste. What was never said aloud was that Kashmir became the toy caught between them, pulled apart by two hands that both claimed to love it.

Article 370 was meant to protect Kashmir’s uniqueness, its autonomy, its dignity, its voice. It was a promise that history would not repeat itself. But over time, the promise was hollowed out, layer by layer, until only the words remained.

Elections were manipulated. Governments were dismissed. Leaders were installed and removed not by the people, but by power. Slowly, quietly, democracy in Kashmir became performative in nature, present in name however, absent in spirit.

By the late 1980s, anger had found a new language: militancy.

Young men crossed borders, trained in camps, returned with weapons and a new idea, that freedom could be forced.

Pakistan saw opportunity.

Arms flowed in.

Ideology followed.

What began as political frustration was transformed into religious extremism. The valley filled with whispers and sweet lullabies, was then filled with slogans, and then fear.

The local goverment failed. Instead of standing between the people and the fire, it collapsed into silence out of fear and sometimes out of complicity. Law enforcement dissolved and institutions retreated.

The state, which was meant to protect, became absent when it was needed most.

It was then that Kashmir lost something it would never fully recover: its plural soul. The very thing that made Kashmir, ‘Kashmir’, was lost forever and ever.

In the narrow lanes of the old town
The homes smolder like unfinished funeral pyres
The shards from broken windows create wounds
That drip from the roofs built by our forefathers
Dimmed by dewdrops, aging ancient memories
Swallow the season like termites.
The mesmerizing beauty of Dal Lake
Lingers not too far away
But these broken homes are Kashmir too
Are they not?
Where a sobbing, wailing story
might just clasp your feet
Like an orphan child
No one wants to give refuge or justice.

By Sunayana Kachroo Bhide (Kashmiri Panditon Ke Ghar) translated by Kavita A. Chhibber

In early 1990, threats echoed through loudspeakers. The valley of Kashmir, once a mosaic of festivals, chants, and the gentle ringing of temple bells began to tremble under dark nights.

Names were called out from the papers, from the walls, from voices that could not be traced. Posters appeared overnight and slogans were scrawled in red ink.

They left keys in doors, trusting that no one would ever turn them again.
They left temples unlocked, their bells silenced, their fire altars cold.
They left books on shelves, ancient texts that had once been opened in devotion now gathering dust.
They left homes half-painted, hearths half-lit, life half-lived.

This was not migration. This was not an evacuation.

By the time the valley fell silent, over three hundred thousand Pandits were gone, leaving behind not just empty homes, but empty neighborhoods, empty streets, and a silence that echoed like a warning.

Camps replaced homes. Heat replaced snow. Waiting replaced belonging.

What was lost was not just land, but the very idea that home, once cherished, would always remain.

The wound did not end with departure. Militancy hardened its grip over Kashmir, and no one knows if there ever will be a time when Kashmir will be free from it. The army came in huge numbers, checkpoints rose like cold monoliths in towns and on highways, suspicion replaced the daily ordinary conversation, and trust vanished like mist in the morning sun.

All Kashmir became, is a place spoken about in newspapers, argued over in parliaments, fought over in the mountains, but rarely heard as a living, breathing human landscape.

What happened in 1990 is still debated. For some it is an exodus, for some it is a genocide. All I know is that words can not fully capture the scale of what was broken.

Kashmir no longer stands as just a disputed land anymore, it has become a disputed memory, a disputed grief, a disputed truth.

The wound was left open for decades. Generations of Pandits grew up in exile, speaking of streets they could not walk, temples they could not enter, memories that were theirs, but whose soil had been taken. Kashmir’s beauty remained, but for many, it was a land frozen in absence, haunted by fear, by silence, by the echo of lives left behind.

And through it all, one question lingered, unanswerable: how does people return to a home that has already been emptied of them?

P.S. This piece is a tribute to a teacher, a witness, a keeper of a vanished world. Mrs. Sarojni Pandita, who once let me walk through the home she had to leave, whose voice carried the snow and the mountains, the songs and the silence of Kashmir.

You shared your home, your life, and your silence with me, and I carry them forward in every word I write.

Your life-long student,

Savri Gupta