Our Moon has blood clots

The year is 2007. I have borrowed this book ' The Kite Runner' by Afghani writer Khaled Hosseini from a small CD shop that also keeps books. Rs 20 for this one, double the usual amount because this one is new and in demand. I take the book and come back home. My parents are not at home and my sister and I have decided to order some Chinese for dinner. We watch a movie that we have never watched before and feast on the over-priced and greasy food. My sister goes to sleep and I walk into my room with the book. 

I am engrossed in the beautifully written chapters. I am imagining the Afghanistan Amir lives in. I picture children playing under the pomegranate trees. I can see Amir's cook buying them Kebab. I can see Amir getting cozy in his bed with a book. 

And then the family of two gets to know this house, this city, this country, no longer belongs to them. The city where his mother grew up and died is not safe for them. The house that had seen his joys and sufferings can be bombed any time now. So, they left. The pomegranate trees, the playground, the kebab shop, Amir's friends, none of these things matter now. This place is no longer their home. It is not safe. 

I finish the book quickly the next day and return it to the CD library owner, but then it never left me. I am not an avid reader and this is the first book to haunt me. I am sleeping and I dream. I dream that hundreds of Army men are marching on the roads that take me to my college, my favorite coffee shop, and the other places that matter to me. I see that the house next to me is bombed. That was Mrs. Guptas house, which she built with so much love. I can still taste the Kachori I ate at her grand housewarming party. She is inconsolable. She has nowhere to go. The house located at the end of the street is also bombed. Next could be ours. We pack our bags and leave. I am thinking what to take and what to leave. We can't afford to take loads of luggage. We don't know where are we going. I wake up with a strong jolt. Everything is okay. I am at home. My home. This was just a bad dream. 

This is the reoccurring dream. I sweat and cry in my sleep but then when I wake up, I always know it is just a bad dream. 

Sadly it is not so the case with Rahul Pandita, a journalist based out of Delhi who was one of the many Kashmiri Pandits who were forced to leave the valley in 1990. Our Moon has blood clots tells us the story of Kashmiri Pandit's exodus. Pandita was fourteen when his family of four had to leave the house that had 22 rooms to live in a small room in Jammu. 

 

The first few chapters unfold beautifully wherein he has written about his childhood days spent in Kashmir. There was trouble but then nobody would have thought that one day they would be leaving the place that had been their home for years. The pain and longing are evident. You would feel the pain. Then comes the second part in which he has written about the tribal invasion of 1947 from his uncle's point of view. Too much of history could put you off but then you anyways read it because you have read the first part which was so good. 

I think I need to read more about Kashmir issues but one thing I can say with the absolute conviction is that when so much filth going around on Social Media about the Kashmir and Kashmiri Pandit, it is advisable to read books by Kashmiris who had gone through it all. And this book should definitely be in your list.