In the heart of Hyderabad, the aroma of saffron, dry ginger, and freshly baked naans recently mingled with stories of loss, resilience, and hope. On November 29, 2025, two articles—one a searing meditation on memory and morality in Kashmir, the other a sensory journey through Kashmiri Pandit cuisine—offered a rare, intertwined glimpse into a community’s struggle to reclaim its place and palate in Indian society.
Peerzada Muneer, writing for Rising Kashmir, invoked the parable of the Good Samaritan to reflect on the forced migration of the Kashmiri Pandits, a tragedy that remains, as he puts it, "one of the most morally unexamined" wounds in the Valley’s long, troubled history. Drawing on the Gospel of Luke, Muneer writes of a man left for dead, ignored by those expected to help, only to be rescued by a Samaritan—someone regarded with suspicion and contempt by the mainstream. The story, he argues, is not merely about charity: "It is a confrontation. It does not ask us who is worthy of care. It asks us whether we ourselves can see the wounded as kin, and whether our compassion can transcend prejudice, fear, and institutional indifference."
The metaphor is uncomfortably apt. The Pandits, once woven into the cultural and social fabric of Kashmir, were driven out amid fear and threat. Their homes were abandoned, their temples desecrated, their lives scattered across India. But what deepened the wound, Muneer notes, was the silence—the neighbors who vanished, the institutions that stood by, and the friends who fell quiet. "The wound was not just inflicted by those who threatened, but by those who did not intervene," he writes, likening them to the priest and Levite who passed by the injured man. Their failure, he insists, was not of commission but of omission: "It is a failure to act when action was needed."
Yet, Muneer is careful not to paint the story in shades of pure indictment. He acknowledges that there were Samaritans, too—those who "extended help, who offered shelter, who tried to keep the memory alive." Still, their decency, he says, "cannot undo the depth of rupture." The question now, he contends, is not whether the Pandits suffered, but whether their return can ever be made just.
For many, the prospect of return has been reduced to an administrative or political matter—managed through policy announcements, segregated colonies, and security enclaves. Muneer warns against this, insisting that the return "must not be managed; it must be reconciled. It must not be symbolic; it must be structural. And above all, it must not be isolating." True homecoming, he argues, requires "reintegration—not only into physical spaces, but into social and emotional registers." This, he says, depends not just on policy, but on sensibility—a sensibility once abundant in Kashmir’s celebrated pluralism.
For centuries, Kashmiriyat—the Valley’s ethic of coexistence—was not a romantic ideal but a lived reality. Pandits and Muslims shared rituals, festivals, and even cosmologies. "This pluralism was not merely intellectual. It was lived. In the streets, in the language, in the festivals," Muneer recalls. But this ethic fractured in the late 20th century, and reclaiming it, he believes, is essential—not just for the Pandits, but for the Valley itself.
What, then, must be done? Muneer lays out a blueprint. First, dignity for the Pandits must be non-negotiable: "They must return not as supplicants, but as rightful citizens." This means recognition of their suffering and their agency. Second, justice must be material: homes rebuilt, shrines protected, properties restored, and children educated without bias. "These are not concessions; they are obligations." Third, reintegration must be social, requiring "difficult conversations in living rooms, in classrooms, in panchayats" to address fear, guilt, and hesitation. Finally, the Pandits’ story must be reclaimed as a shared loss—a wound to Kashmir’s soul, not just theirs. "Until that is acknowledged, healing will remain performative."
While the Valley grapples with questions of belonging and repair, another kind of reclamation is quietly underway—this time, in the kitchen. At Sheraton Hyderabad’s Koushur Saal: A Kashmiri Cuisine Saga, chef Rahul Wali—himself a Kashmiri Pandit—offered a culinary homecoming, one plate at a time. As reported by Tejal Sinha in The New Indian Express, Wali’s pop-up was more than a meal; it was "a voyage into a culinary culture that is often overshadowed, misunderstood, or simply unheard of in mainstream Indian dining."
Born into a family of restaurateurs, Wali describes hospitality as "almost genetic." His mission: to revive and educate diners about authentic Kashmiri Pandit cuisine, which he believes has been "suppressed" by Mughlai influences and the dominance of onion-garlic based cooking. "You can’t say, ‘Oh, I know this is how it is supposed to be’. Indian food is very different. People are losing their own roots as far as food is concerned," he says.
Wali’s menu is a deliberate act of unlearning. Chaman Qaliya—paneer cooked without onion or garlic—lets the cheese shine, with "no additional flavour except the spices hitting your nose." Dum Olav, slow-cooked potatoes, revives the nearly forgotten concept of "slow food." Saffron naans and lavash, baked with restraint, accompany rather than overshadow. Perhaps most striking is the Kashmiri Rajma, prepared live and using beans from Bhaderwah and Kishtwar—regions famed for their small, creamy grains. "The glycaemic index is very different. The creaminess comes naturally," Wali explains. The result is a dish that’s creamy and light, far from the fiery, onion-heavy versions most expect. That, he insists, is the point: "to let you taste Rajma itself, not what surrounds it."
For Wali, Kashmiri food is "therapeutic"—a word that resonates deeply given the community’s history. "Every regional food of India is therapeutic because we use locally grown ingredients and traditional techniques. These are not lost recipes. They are lost people," he says, lamenting the knowledge lost as younger generations drifted away. Even dessert—phirni, a subtle, creamy pudding—serves a purpose: to "settle those spices on your palate" after a meal, reflecting a culture that values balance and restraint.
Both articles, in their own way, return to a central question: What does it mean to come home? For the Kashmiri Pandits, homecoming is not just about reclaiming property or reviving recipes—it is about restoring trust, dignity, and shared memory. As Muneer writes, "The Pandits’ return is not about demography. It is about morality. It is about whether a society can find the courage to admit its lapses and the generosity to correct them." And as Wali’s pop-up reminds us, sometimes the path to belonging begins with a simple act: breaking bread, together, and tasting what was nearly lost.
In the quiet acts of memory, hospitality, and honest reckoning, the promise of Kashmiriyat—a place where difference can live without fear—may yet find its way back to the table and the heart.
