I was never asked to memorize slokas. Never forced to fold my hands before a deity. My identity as a Hindu was as quiet as the incense stick my grandmother lit during Durga Puja. It was in the smell of sandalwood, the rhythm of morning bells, the stories of gods who never preached hate but always fought for justice. I grew up in a home where temples were visited out of devotion, not compulsion; where religion was a gentle undercurrent, never a wave crashing down on others. My faith didn’t teach me hate – it taught me how to let others believe, or not believe, in peace.

As a child, my identity was mine. Being Hindu was not my primary identity. I was a student, a curious little boy, a cricketer in the lane, a friend to many -and never a bearer of a religious badge.

Today, as I see the Pahalgam massacre, my soul feels ripped. Not just because people were killed, but because of why they were killed. Because of who they were. They didn’t die in an earthquake. They were not lost in a flood. They were killed. Deliberately. Methodically. Mercilessly and all in the name of which religion they belong to. And in that one moment, everything I grew up believing – about peace, about faith, about shared humanity – began to tremble. This is not just a tragedy. It is a warning.

Pilgrims. Innocents. Tourists. Ordinary souls. Slaughtered. Terrorism has no religion, we often say. And it’s true. But terrorists often do claim a religion. They hijack verses, warp prayers into war cries, and twist divine names into tools of fear. There is an old saying – when you pick up the sword in the name of religion, it’s no longer religion you serve, but terrorism, barbarism. Terrorism, in its current avatar, often claims to fight for a divine cause. It claims to defend a God. But what God ever asked for blood? What scripture truly glorifies the killing of tourists or pilgrims? Which prophet ever smiled at the idea of mass murder? The attackers in Pahalgam didn’t strike at the army. They didn’t fight a regime. They didn’t protest policy. They killed unarmed civilians.

Kashmir – the heaven on earth is now a valley stained by fear. Terrorism thrives not because of religion, but because of the distortion of it. What happened in Pahalgam is not Islam. It’s the absence of Islam – the absence of peace, the absence of compassion, the absence of submission to the Divine will that values every human life..

And I ask – what has humanity boiled down to? What have we allowed our world to become when identity – just that word – is enough to sentence someone to death?

The killers don’t just aim to take lives. They aim to fracture societies. To inject mistrust. They want us to question each other’s faiths, to grow suspicious of our neighbors, to dilute our compassion with cynicism. But perhaps the most dangerous thing they kill is innocence – the idea that we can belong to different faiths and still share the same streets, the same dreams.

This is not Islam. Just as killing of Sikhs in 1984 wasn’t Sikhism. Just as burning churches isn’t Christianity. Just as lynching in the name of cows isn’t Hinduism. This is not religion. This is the absence of it.

True religion – any religion – is a scaffold for our soul. It doesn’t tell us whom to hate; it tells us how to love better. It teaches humility, not hegemony. Surrender, not supremacy.

But maybe the root of the problem is that we have forgotten our roots. In a world of noise, we have lost the ability to listen – to each other, and to our own conscience. We have lost our own ground in the name of too much secularism. We have forgotten our past, tradition, might, power, culture. We have forgotten that even God fought war to save humanity. Children today are growing up not with slokas, but slogans. Not with stories of gods who protect, but with tales of people who kill in God’s name. And somewhere, if we don’t intervene – not with politics, but with empathy – this will not remain a Pahalgam story. It will be everywhere.

So, were we wrong? To grow up in homes that taught us to not obsess over identity? To believe in humanity more than hierarchy?

No. We weren’t wrong. We were blessed. And now, it’s our responsibility to pass that blessing on.

Even when rivers run red, let’s hold on to the clear waters of compassion. Even when temples, mosques, and churches become targets, let’s remember they were all meant to be sanctuaries, not battlegrounds.

What Now? What do we do in the aftermath of such a massacre? We mourn. We rage. We pray. But we must also reflect.

What kind of generation are we becoming, where identity determines whether you live or die? What kind of world are we passing on to our children, where God’s name is used to justify hate?

If we don’t want more Pahalgam, we need not only more conversations at the dinner table but also we need to act strongly. We need more schools to teach kindness along with knowledge of our heritage, culture, might. We need more leaders with courage to stand up for the cause, stand up with bravery and nullify these elements who in the name of god and religion spreads fear. We need more citizens who stand up not just when their own are attacked, but whenever anyone is. Because humanity is not a club. It’s a cause.

And To Those Who Kill in the Name of God and religion…If you are reading this – and you live in wrong belief that you serve God by spilling blood – know this:

You are not fighting for God. You are fighting for your own hate, cloaked in divine robes. You are not brave. You are cowardly. You are not chosen. You are lost. No paradise awaits you. No reward waits for those who burn the bridges between human hearts. The God you claim to serve – no matter by what name – is not with you. He stands with the crying mother. With the terrified child. With the bloodstained brother or with the men carrying the coffins of victims who just wanted a glimpse of beauty and divinity.

Let Pahalgam be a reminder – not of what divides us, but of what we must rebuild.

Because Humanity is not just as a word, but as a way of life.