{"version":"1.0","provider_name":"Drishtikone","provider_url":"https:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/drishtikone","author_name":"Desh Kapoor","author_url":"https:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/drishtikone\/author\/drishtikone\/","title":"The Bad ... and the good of Kashmir","type":"rich","width":600,"height":338,"html":"<blockquote class=\"wp-embedded-content\" data-secret=\"IKKUH49PpW\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/drishtikone\/2008\/07\/bad-and-good-kashmir\/\">The Bad &#8230; and the good of Kashmir<\/a><\/blockquote><iframe sandbox=\"allow-scripts\" security=\"restricted\" src=\"https:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/drishtikone\/2008\/07\/bad-and-good-kashmir\/embed\/#?secret=IKKUH49PpW\" width=\"600\" height=\"338\" title=\"&#8220;The Bad &#8230; and the good of Kashmir&#8221; &#8212; Drishtikone\" data-secret=\"IKKUH49PpW\" frameborder=\"0\" marginwidth=\"0\" marginheight=\"0\" scrolling=\"no\" class=\"wp-embedded-content\"><\/iframe><script type=\"text\/javascript\">\n\/* <![CDATA[ *\/\n\/*! This file is auto-generated *\/\n!function(d,l){\"use strict\";l.querySelector&&d.addEventListener&&\"undefined\"!=typeof URL&&(d.wp=d.wp||{},d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage||(d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage=function(e){var t=e.data;if((t||t.secret||t.message||t.value)&&!\/[^a-zA-Z0-9]\/.test(t.secret)){for(var s,r,n,a=l.querySelectorAll('iframe[data-secret=\"'+t.secret+'\"]'),o=l.querySelectorAll('blockquote[data-secret=\"'+t.secret+'\"]'),c=new RegExp(\"^https?:$\",\"i\"),i=0;i<o.length;i++)o[i].style.display=\"none\";for(i=0;i<a.length;i++)s=a[i],e.source===s.contentWindow&&(s.removeAttribute(\"style\"),\"height\"===t.message?(1e3<(r=parseInt(t.value,10))?r=1e3:~~r<200&&(r=200),s.height=r):\"link\"===t.message&&(r=new URL(s.getAttribute(\"src\")),n=new URL(t.value),c.test(n.protocol))&&n.host===r.host&&l.activeElement===s&&(d.top.location.href=t.value))}},d.addEventListener(\"message\",d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage,!1),l.addEventListener(\"DOMContentLoaded\",function(){for(var e,t,s=l.querySelectorAll(\"iframe.wp-embedded-content\"),r=0;r<s.length;r++)(t=(e=s[r]).getAttribute(\"data-secret\"))||(t=Math.random().toString(36).substring(2,12),e.src+=\"#?secret=\"+t,e.setAttribute(\"data-secret\",t)),e.contentWindow.postMessage({message:\"ready\",secret:t},\"*\")},!1)))}(window,document);\n\/* ]]> *\/\n<\/script>\n","description":"Kashmir is a strange place. It has seen unseen bloodshed. The Pandits were killed and thrown out of their houses and made refugees. It was a sad period for many. It showed the apathy of the rest of India and the shallow definition and scope of the Human Rights activists in India. Over the years, the Muslims suffered as well - sandwiched between Indian forces and the Pakistani machinery of ISI and Army. They had to also deal with the appeasement from the Indian Government but in the end at least they had the land to themselves although their lives were also torn apart. I came across a very sensitive article from Rahul Pandita - on his experiences in Kashmir growing up. One, in which he describes the time when Indira Gandhi died. Here is an excerpt: The time had come to act, I thought. As the family sat glued around the Bush radio set, I sneaked into the kitchen garden. In a polythene bag, I collected raw tomatoes. They were my hand grenades. Tying the bag around my waist, I waited for \"them.\"Hilal, our neighbour's son and few years older to me, appeared on the wall dividing our house. He and his brothers would often sit on that wall, asking us to give them some apples from the tree in our garden. \"Can you sing Jana Gana Mana\u2026?\" I shouted at him.He looked at me as if I had gone crazy. Then he spat at the flower bed beneath him, on our side. I don't know when my hand went to my waist and I began throwing a volley of tomatoes at him. One hit him in the eye and burst there. He was caught unawares. He let out a cry and fell backwards. Soon, we would see images of a young Rahul, who had lost his grandmother, his arms clutched around his father who wore dark glasses. In Delhi, meanwhile, a massacre had begun. Our old Sikh carpenter was devastated; his sister lived with her husband in a west Delhi colony. Later, we came to know that her husband was killed - a mob put a burning tyre, filled with petrol, around his neck like a garland. Three days after Indira Gandhi died, my mother's mother, who had turned senile in her old age, began to see visions of two men aiming at her with a gun. I had grown up hearing stories from her. There was a poster of Charlie Chaplin in my room, and, for many days after I had put it there, she would burn incense sticks in front of it, thinking Chaplin was Englishmen's God. On the fifth day, she passed away in her sleep. In another five years, I would have to leave Charlie Chaplin behind. In another five years, we would be queuing up to receive tomatoes in relief camps."}