As my plane descended on the runway at Srinagar, my memory took me back to 35 years ago when I had gone to cover Kashmir as a cub reporter. Kashmir then was burning. Many people speculated that days were not far when Kashmir would not be part of the country. I took a taxi to go to Centaur hotel. When I realised that I was one of the two guests staying in that hotel, I was petrified and very next day I decided to leave and stay in Ahdoos near Lal Chowk, which was not fully occupied but had enough travellers, mostly journalists, to give me comfort.

I walked through the narrow streets of Srinagar and could see only BSF pickets at every 500 meters and an armed jawan at every hundred meters. Srinagar then was literally a ghost town. Defiance and rebelliousness were etched prominently on their faces. Yet, not once was I abused or threatened. After spending a week there, I returned to write a story for Saptahik Hindustan: “Lamhon ne khata ki, sadiyon ne saza paayi” (centuries of punishment for moments of sin)

Last week, when I arrived at the hotel with my wife, I was pleasantly surprised by the vibrancy of the city. In Srinagar, the roads were bustling with people. Tourists like me were greeted with traffic jams and slow-moving vehicles. While security measures were present, they were neither overt nor intrusive.

This was in stark contrast to my visit in 1990-91, when buses and taxis were stopped every kilometre or two for thorough security checks. Kashmiris were subjected to full-body frisking, often with two or three jawans pointing guns at travellers. This time, however, I could walk freely, and taxis moved across the city with minimal security interruptions. The atmosphere was cheerful, people seemed happy, tourists were savouring every moment of their stay, and markets were thriving. Shops, restaurants, and cafes were packed, and tourists were everywhere. Srinagar felt like a joyous town.

I also covered the Kashmir assembly elections in 1996, during Narasimha Rao’s tenure as prime minister. At that time, the political process in Kashmir had resumed after nearly a decade, but the tension in the air was palpable. Conversations were hushed, and the city felt dangerous. We were advised to return to our hotels before sunset and avoid unnecessary risks.

This time, no such warnings were issued. We had the freedom to dine out late at night without fear. Yet, my journalistic instincts told me that the calmness in the air might be deceptive. Kashmir seemed almost too normal and peaceful to believe, though I had no reason to doubt what I was witnessing.

The next day, when we visited the Tulip Garden, it was almost impossible to walk without bumping into other tourists. People of all ages-young and old, men and women, boys and girls-were capturing memories with the vibrant tulips. Young couples and newlyweds were revelling in the moment, their spirits undeterred even by the rain. A friend of mine, who has travelled to some of the world’s finest destinations, remarked that he had never witnessed so much happiness in one place.

Along Dal Lake, vehicles crawled at a snail’s pace, turning what should have been a short journey into a half-hour ordeal. On Sunday, we visited Pahalgam, where the warm weather welcomed us. The meadows were brimming with tourists, many eager to hire ponies to explore the picturesque upper areas. At Betab Valley-named after the film Betab, which was shot there-young Kashmiri boys played cricket. Visitors posed with sheep adorned in quirky decorations, including sunglasses, while women competed to be photographed in traditional Kashmiri attire. Local photographers were thriving, their business booming. Kashmir was on full display, showcasing its heavenly beauty.

I could never have imagined that within 48 hours, the same place would transform into a graveyard. Devils seemed to descend from hell, unleashing terror and killing innocent men after identifying their religion. The thought that it could have been us was terrifying.

I had visited Kashmir many times during its worst phases, yet apart from the initial hours of my first visit, I was never scared or concerned about my safety. I never felt threatened or intimidated. Kashmir always welcomed me. Tourists were rarely targeted, barring a few isolated incidents. It was beyond my comprehension that terrorism in Kashmir could take such an ugly turn, claiming the lives of innocent tourists.

According to a Reuters report, tourist footfall in the Kashmir Valley reached its highest in 2024, with over 3 million visitors. The numbers have been steadily rising since 2022. The tourism industry was enjoying its best season in 2025, with projections suggesting that footfall would surpass the 2024 figures.

A journalist is always a journalist. Even though I wasn’t there on a professional assignment, my conversations with people from all walks of life-and even with friends in the security establishment-revealed a peace that felt both intriguing and, at times, unsettling. It was difficult for me to believe that the valley could be so happy and peaceful.

This question became even more compelling in the context of the abrogation of Article 370 and the transformation of the state into a union territory. After a six-year gap, Kashmir has an elected government, with over 60% voter turnout. Yet, a question kept coming: if Kashmir appeared so normal, what would happen Pakistan-sponsored terrorism?

There was an answer when an old Kashmiri friend shared his perspective: “This calmness is artificial. Kashmir is a ticking bomb. It’s true that local Kashmiris are not happy, but they have to survive, and tourism is their lifeline. Tourism gives them the money to live a better life in a high-pressure situation.” His words resonated deeply with me. Kashmir has been living in an abnormal state since 1987, when terrorism first took root following the assembly elections.

During my stay, I could sense that Kashmiris are exhausted from living in turmoil. No one knows when a bullet might claim their life or that of their loved ones. A new generation has grown up under constant tension, never having experienced peacetime. They don’t know what it means to live outside a war zone. For them, a knock on the door in the dead of night is routine. It’s normal to witness loved ones being dragged away by security personnel or falling victim to a terrorist’s bullet.

Caught in this relentless cycle, they understand that Azadi is not a possibility; breathing freely under the Indian Constitution is their only option. Terrorists, with their bullets in Pahalgam, attempted to rob them of that choice. Not surprisingly, the entire valley is simmering with anger. The bullets fired in Pahalgam could mark a significant turning point in Kashmir’s history. Those responsible will undoubtedly regret their cowardice.

In the end, Sheikh Abdullah’s words echo in my ears: “India is our homeland; and it shall always remain so.” Sheikh Abdullah reflects in his autobiography, Flames of Chinar: “We had learnt from experience that the real reason for conflict was not religion but a clash of interests between different groups.” Abdullah spoke in the context of freedom movement, and the partition of the country. Yet, even after 75 years, Kashmir must not forget those words.

(The author is co-founder of SatyaHindi and author of ‘Reclaiming Bharat’ and ‘Hindu Rashtra’)

Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author