Prisons were like villages, where each cell was like a house and had its own set of rules.

Humanity found commonalities of faith, religious beliefs and culture but the world around me was far away from it. It had slipped back to its most primitive times.

War had made its grip on the civilians, who were overwhelming, purely innocent and exposed to ritualised slaughters.

When there was sunshine followed by calm winds in the summer, the water of these rivers reflected many shiny ripples, and in the sunset, transformed into quiet, silver coloured watercourses.

People still were emotionally connected to the vale by seeing a value in their local cultural life. They were still seriously political and tried to find their identity by inheriting memories from the experiences of each other. For Kashmiris, the struggle to remember never ended.

I was after truth, no matter how painful it was to swallow.

The truth was simple but politicians made it complicated.

Such was my agony that I had also began to see faces of myself, and my family in others, near the noise and chatter of people waiting for departures and arrivals at railway stations and airports.

There was a bewilderment of emotions looming around me. It had been a mixture of sadness and happiness.

Wars were full of valour, coming of courage, fomenting of rage and the anticipation of victory. The soldiers were content with what they had spoiled, but it had made my mind run wild in the battles I had escaped. How could I ever obliterate such memories? Such things were hard to forget.