When the Mountains Wept: A Nation’s Grief in the Shadow of Pahalgam

April 22, 2025, started like any other day in Baisaren Valley. The air was cold, the pine trees swayed, and tourists zipped up their jackets. By noon, the valley was soaked in blood. Twenty-six people—software engineers, newlyweds, grandparents, strangers—were dead, shot by militants in army uniforms. For their families, the world shattered into pieces: a missed call, a WhatsApp message that read “I love you,” a news headline that felt like a nightmare.

The Attack: A Fracture in the Ordinary

The militants moved fast. They split men from women, asked for Islamic verses, and shot anyone who hesitated. A Christian man from Madhya Pradesh couldn’t recite the kalima. A Hindu officer from the Intelligence Bureau died beside him. Sudip Neupane, a Nepalese tourist, threw himself in front of his mother to shield her. Syed Adil Hussain Shah, a pony operator, tackled a militant to buy time for others. He never made it out. 

One survivor, a 12-year-old boy, hid under a pile of bodies. “I held my breath,” he said later. “I didn’t want to move, even when they stepped on me.” His mother’s body was beside him. He didn’t know if she was alive or dead.

The attack wasn’t just about killing—it was meant to divide people and show how easily our differences can be exploited, and how divided we still are, even in tragedy. For the victims’ families, the horror unfolded in fragments: a missed call, a frantic message, a news headline that refused to make sense. 

The Victims: Lives Beyond Headlines

In Kolkata, Bitan Adhikari’s 3-year-old son kept asking, “When will Papa come back from the mountains?” Bitan, a software engineer who once sold pickles at the local market to fund his sister’s education, had brought his wife and son to Kashmir for a vacation. Now, his son doesn’t understand why his dad’s phone never rings. “He keeps trying to call him,” Bitan’s brother said. “We tell him Papa’s busy, but how long can we lie?”

Sameer Guha’s daughter in Mumbai still sleeps with his bloodstained shawl. Sameer, 52, had planned this trip for months to celebrate his wife’s recovery from cancer. At work, his colleagues say he was the guy who always brought extra tea for the security guards. His desk is still untouched. “He had a mug with a cartoon of a sleepy cat,” his assistant said. “We can’t throw it out. It’s like he’s still here.” 

Lt. Vinay Narwal’s mother in Haryana texts him daily: “Vinay, your father’s lentils are getting cold.” Vinay and his wife had chosen Kashmir for their honeymoon because it looked like a “fairytale.” Now, his wife scrolls through their vacation photos, wondering how a place so beautiful could steal her future. “We had a playlist for our road trip,” she said. “I can’t listen to it anymore. It’s just… too loud.” 

These stories aren’t random. They’re reminders of how connected we all are, no matter where we’re from. A chartered accountant from Jaipur, Neeraj Udhwani, had come to Kashmir to celebrate his first anniversary with his wife, Aayushi. A retired banker from Kerala, N. Ramachandran, 65, had brought his grandchildren to see Dal Lake. In Gujarat, Sumit Parmar, 30, and his father, Yatish, 62, were on a pilgrimage to attend a spiritual discourse by Morari Bapu. Their bodies, wrapped in saffron robes, were flown back to Bhavnagar, where the family’s temple now holds a joint shrine for father and son. 

Each life lost was a world undone.

The Aftermath: Chaos, Fear, and Small Acts of Kindness

As news of the attack spread, airports in Srinagar and Jammu became scenes of chaos. Tourists, many of whom had survived by feigning death or hiding under bodies, scrambled to leave. Air India added extra flights, but the waitlists stretched for days. In Dehradun, a Kashmiri shopkeeper named Bashir Ahmed watched as his Hindu customers avoided his store. “They don’t say it,” he whispered, “but I see it in their eyes.” 

The attack also reignited old prejudices. In Uttar Pradesh, Kashmiri tenants received eviction notices. In Punjab, a group of students from Srinagar were barred from entering a hostel. Yet, amid the darkness, there were moments when people helped each other. Local pony handlers in Pahalgam, many of whom had lost relatives in past conflicts, carried injured tourists on their backs for hours to reach ambulances. In Mumbai, a group of strangers pooled money to fly Sameer Guha’s body back to Kolkata. 

For the families of the victims, grief was compounded by bureaucracy. Manish Ranjan’s wife, an IB officer’s widow, spent days navigating Delhi’s corridors to claim her husband’s remains. “They kept asking for proof he was on vacation,” she said. “As if a terrorist would care about leave papers.”

What Happened Next: How Grief Turned Into Politics 

The attack’s political fallout was swift. India suspended the Indus Waters Treaty, closed borders, and expelled Pakistani diplomats. Pakistan retaliated by shutting its airspace and suspending the Simla Agreement. Along the Line of Control, artillery shells lit up the night sky. Yet, for the families of the victims, these gestures felt hollow.

“Do they think my son’s death can be avenged by closing a border?” asked Mangalesh Mishra, father of Manish Ranjan. The retired headmaster now spends his days tending to his son’s rose garden in Jhalda, West Bengal, pruning blooms that will never be gifted to a living hand. 

The attack also reignited debates about security in Kashmir. Why had the Baisaran Valley, a known tourist hotspot, been unguarded? Why had the early opening of the valley not been communicated to security forces? Questions lingered, unanswered, as the government admitted to a “lapse” while announcing a bounty of ₹60 lakh for the attackers.

The Unseen Wounds: Children, Widows, and the Weight of Memory

In Odisha, Prashant Satpathy’s 9-year-old son hasn’t spoken since watching his father die. Doctors say it’s trauma. “He draws pictures of mountains,” his aunt said. “But he won’t show anyone what’s inside them.” 

In Maharashtra, Sanjay Lele’s son cradles his wounded hand, the scar a daily reminder of the father he’ll never see again. “He taught me to play cricket,” the boy said. “Now I can’t even hold a bat.”

Aishanya Dwivedi, 28, returned to Kanpur with her husband Shubham’s ashes. Her wedding ring is now a relic. “We were supposed to grow old together,” she said. “Now I’m just… unfinished.” She keeps his passport in her drawer. “I flip through it sometimes,” she said. “The stamps feel like proof he was real.”

Sudip Neupane’s sister, Sushma, developed tinnitus from the gunfire. “I hear the shots every time I close my eyes,” she said. She’s stopped sleeping. “I’d rather be tired than hear that again.”

The Pahalgam attack was not the first act of terror in Kashmir, nor will it be the last. But its brutality forced a reckoning. For the first time in years, the victims were not just “Kashmiris” or “security forces”; they were teachers, chartered accountants, newlyweds, and grandparents.  They were Hindu, Muslim, Christian, and Nepalese. They were India.

Yet, the response revealed fractures. In Rajasthan, Neeraj Udhwani’s widow faced online vitriol from trolls accusing her of “using her husband’s death for sympathy.” In Gujarat, Sumit Parmar’s cousin lamented, “They call it ‘national unity,’ but when it’s your family burning, the nation feels very far.” 

In Punjab, a group of Hindu and Muslim farmers jointly donated a tractor to Sumit’s family. “We don’t care about politics,” one said. “We care about people.” 

The Path Forward: Remembering the Faces Behind the Numbers 

In the weeks following the attack, makeshift memorials sprouted across the country. In  Bengaluru, colleagues of architect Somisetti Madhusudan Rao planted a neem tree outside IBM’s office. In Nepal, Sudip Neupane’s family donated his public health research to a  Kathmandu university. “He wanted to heal people,” his mother said. “Let his work continue.” 

But healing is slow. In Pahalgam, Syed Adil Hussain’s children ask their mother daily, “Why did  Papa have to die for helping strangers?” She has no answer.

The attack’s impact will come down to these questions: Can a nation learn to mourn collectively, without using grief for political fights? Can the dead become more than used as excuses for bigger conflicts? 

The Baisaran Valley is quiet now. Tourists are gone. The trees sway in the wind, but no one hears the stories of the 26 lives lost.

References 

1. Frontline (The Hindu). (2025). Kashmir Baisaran Massacre 2025: Crackdown,  Demolitions, and Aftermath. 

Collateral in conflict: The fallout after Pahalgam 

2. The Hindu. (2025). Pahalgam Terror Attack Victims Tribute [Infographic]. Pahalgam terror attack: A tribute to the victims 

3. Reuters. (2025). One Killed, Seven Injured in Militant Attack in India’s Kashmir; India  Today TV Says. 

At least 20 feared killed in militant attack on tourists in Indian Kashmir, security sources  say | Reuters 

4. National Center for Biotechnology Information (NCBI). (2013). PTSD Overview. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK207192/ 

5. The New York Times. (2023). How PTSD Reshapes the Brain’s Memories. Brain Study Suggests Traumatic Memories Are Processed as Present Experience - The  New York Times 

6. Al Jazeera. (2025). Kashmir Attack Live: India, Pakistan Trade Fire as Pahalgam Gunmen  Hunted 

Al Jazeera Kashmir attack live India pakistan trade fire as pahalgam gunmen hunter 7. The Economic Times. (2025). Pahalgam Attack: 28 Dead, Several Injured in Targeted  Firing; Survivors Recall Horrendous Act as Govt Mulls Action Plan. 

Pahalgam Attack: 28 dead, several injured in targeted firing; survivors recall horrendous  act as govt mulls action plan - The Economic Times 

8. Wikipedia. (2025). 2025 Pahalgam Attack. 

2025 Pahalgam attack - Wikipedia

Written By Insaaf Imthiyas

Edited By Maahira Begum

Designed By Ansar Sakeen and Amreen A

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