For Satyen Kashu, displacement from Kashmir was not a single moment of loss but a long, unfolding process—one that reshaped his childhood, sense of safety and, eventually, his purpose. Today, in his mid-forties, as a musician, writer, facilitator of a listening-based community work and training programme, Kashu’s life reflects a quiet resilience built not on anger, but on understanding and connection.
While he grew up in Kashmir in the 1980s, his life followed a disciplined rhythm. School, homework under his father’s supervision, limited television hours, and early bedtimes structured his days. Playtime, mostly with cousins who lived nearby, was brief but cherished. Those shared afternoons, Kashu recalls, later came to symbolise what displacement ultimately took away: community.
Even as a child, there were reminders of constraint. Families taught children not to confront, not to argue, and to “buy peace”. A childhood encounter with an angry mob left an early imprint of fear. “There was always a sense that we were not fully free,” he says.
In 1988, Kashu’s family moved to Pune following his father’s temporary government posting with Doordarshan. The plan was to return to Kashmir after two years. That return never happened.
As militancy intensified and the exodus unfolded in 1990, going back became impossible. “We knew how to leave,” Kashu reflects, “but not how to go back.” Cousins and extended family were displaced abruptly, scattering across the country and dissolving a tightly knit support system.
For Kashu, the deepest loss was not land or possessions, but safety and emotional openness. Constant fear, he says, restricts curiosity, creativity, and even the ability to feel. “When survival becomes primary, you don’t have time for emotions.” Over time, that suppression surfaced as anger and restlessness.
Equally painful was the erosion of community. While education helped many Kashmiri Pandits rebuild materially, it also made asking for help difficult. “That is a hidden loss,” he says.
The early years in Pune were demanding. Kashu had to learn Marathi, adapt to a new culture and meet heightened academic expectations. His parents, themselves traumatised, worked relentlessly to rebuild their lives, his father repaying loans for a house they could not live in, his mother restarting her career in an unfamiliar environment. “Migration transfers fear,” Kashu explains. Learning Marathi, however, helped him feel rooted, offering a bridge between loss and belonging.
One incident from 1991 remains etched in his memory. While escorting his ailing grandmother to Jammu, Kashu narrowly missed a bomb blast at the Jammu Tawi railway station. Delayed by just a few minutes, they survived but witnessed bodies, fire, and chaos.
“Nobody asked how I felt,” he recalls. “We didn’t talk about such things.” The silence, he says, compounded the trauma.
Conversations with friends such as Neel and time spent listening to folk musicians during his travels reinforced a belief that sincerity matters more than scale.
Healing came much later. In his mid-forties, following his father’s death, Kashu began writing poetry in Kashmiri, marking a creative return to his mother tongue. Music followed. Whistling, then the flute, then singing became ways to regulate breath and emotion. For years, his guitar was his only audience.
“Music doesn’t allow you to fake,” he says. “If it comes, it has to be real.”
When he finally began recording his songs, a young hip-hop artist interning at the studio quietly stayed back to help him. The gesture mattered not for its technical value, Kashu says, but for the trust it created.
These experiences eventually shaped Voice of Roots, a project centred on listening circles for displaced communities, students, and artists. The idea grew from his realisation that being heard can be transformative.
“We don’t need the whole world,” he says. “We need a few people who can listen.” The project has brought together Kashmiri Pandits, Tibetans, students, and volunteers, creating spaces where stories can be shared without judgement.
Displacement, Kashu believes, did not erase his identity; it made it flexible. He writes in Kashmiri, Hindi, English, and Marathi, collaborates across cultures, and supports projects beyond his own community.
Today, Kashu conducts listening workshops, supports mental-health initiatives, writes poetry and songs, and mentors young people. His books—Ek Kashmiri Ladke Ki Diary and its English counterpart—trace a journey from anger to sadness, without blame or bitterness.
“I don’t know if I will ever go back to Kashmir,” he says. “Safety is not a concept. It is something you live for a year to know.”