My Story

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By Farah Bashir In the course of the last ten years, that I have been away from home, I have met many people from various parts of the world. After I would introduce myself as a Kashmiri, either they have had something to share about Kashmir or they have wanted to hear about the life there. Most of them would either talk about their honeymoon in Kashmir and fondly recall the time spent there or some would reminisce about a vacation that they had taken years back in Pahalgam or Gulmarg; two popular tourist destinations. But a few months back,

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By Raheel Khursheed I was three when my parents enrolled me in the rickety, ramshackle Lyceum Public School. Just off the main Martand market in South Kashmir’s Anantnag district, the school was housed in an old mud and wood building by a small stream. The students would kick up clouds of dust when they ran up and down the wooden stairway of the two-storey building. Everything was the colour of mud walls. My earliest memory of a teacher, any teacher, is that of Kantroo Sir. A bespectacled, bald man in his late 50s, Kantroo Sir was the school principal. His

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                 By Saima Bhat Memories are sacred. How fortunate are those who have a sharp memory. The day was 14 July 1992. I was seven years old. I don’t remember the exact time but it was early morning.  Sun was about to rise and birds were chirping, welcoming the day. I was sad, as it was a school day. Still I was expecting my mother to wake me up and prepare me for school. In the bed, I was struggling to keep my eyes closed. I was trying my best to enjoy another five minutes of sleep. Suddenly, I heard