She was born into a Hindu-Brahmin-Saasan family in the early 1930s, on the Pakistan-administered side of Kashmir, not far from what is described as the Line of Control (LoC). The communal frenzy and folly that was August 1947 in the Punjab was replicated in Kashmir by October 1947. My nani’s life changed forever.

Misplaced from her fleeing family, destitution was quickly evident, dishonour imminent and death almost certain. What had started out as a rescue mission by my nana, or maternal grandfather, led to her having to convert from the faith of her forefathers, marry a stranger in a strange environment, bear children, rear grandchildren, even great-grandchildren, and engage in almost 61 years of constant extemporisation to combat the persistent estrangement she endured. Her background was literally a closed chapter, sealed and suppressed. Not so unlike the border that has unnaturally divided Kashmir. 

My nani had probably accepted her predicament as fate as soon as she entered my nana’s house way back in October 1947. I however have increasingly felt otherwise. I’ve always considered this to be part of a perverse political drama. Lack of imagination by the rulers accompanied denial of creative expression for the ruled. Improvising a constructive alternative has been my self-imposed mission for the past four years.

I first heard her story in 1988 while I was visiting my grandparents in Mirpur, in Pakistan-administered Kashmir. News had filtered through the 70 kilometres or so of mountainous terrain that her mother had passed away. We listened to a cassette recording that narrated her kid brother’s forlorn attempt at getting a Pakistani visa a few years earlier.

 A year later, after my GCSEs, I took a year off to explore my "origins". I visited my nani’s family in Rajouri, in Indian-administered Kashmir, in December 1989. Three days was all I got with them – my father had accompanied me to India and, being a staunch and orthodox Muslim, he couldn’t stomach the prospect of spending too much time with non-Muslims. The emotions of my nani’s siblings and their offspring etched a permanent impression in my mind. I promised them that I would reunite them with their sister. 

Travelling from India to Pakistan and relaying my adventure to all and sundry had a mildly sensational effect on the local population. Forty-two years of jingoism was momentarily set aside and human emotion was purposefully reflected on. This cut little ice with my nana, though. He remained rigid and paranoid about the idea of my nani visiting her siblings, fearing she may never return.

The 1990s raced past, conflict in the region easily overshadowing all else. Nevertheless, I made an attempt in 1993 when I tried to insist on my nani accompanying me to India. Eventually, after a month of unsuccessful insistence, I crossed the Wagah-Attari border by myself. Lonesome figure that I was, instead of venturing north to visit her family, I decided to ride out my sorrow and angst by proceeding south to Bombay and Goa. The mere idea of meeting them without nani was unbearable.

Life carried on but the emotional baggage increased. Nani’s kid brother’s death in February 2004 proved to be the final shock that I was willing to passively endure. It wasn’t until March 2005 that we were informed of this tragedy. A subsequent emotional exchange between my nana and me secured his long sought-for consent to my nani visiting her family.

In April 2005 I went to Pakistan again. The three of us applied for an Indian visa in Islamabad together, acting on advice I was given by an Indian visa officer in London once he got over his disbelief that I could be related to both a Muslim and a Hindu family. We waited in vain. The Indian high commission told us they were waiting for a no objection certificate for my visa application from the high commission in London. The delay in getting an Indian visa prompted my nana to revert to his original stance – not allowing my nani to travel to India. In effect, the Indian government had inadvertently done him a favour, as he wasn’t overly keen on the visit in the first place.

In October 2005, in the wake of the deadly earthquake that struck Kashmir, I applied for a cross-LoC permit, under the impression that people would be allowed to travel in a matter of weeks if not days. Finally, in February 2008 my cross-LoC permit came through. I visited my nani’s family in Mendhar, in the Poonch district of Indian-administered Kashmir. There was mutual elation. I witnessed the fourth death anniversary of my nani’s younger brother, Sita Ram Sharma. He and his parents had lived in constant anxiety about their sister and daughter respectively. They all died before their fears could be put to rest. Anyway, meeting my nani’s remaining two siblings after 19 years evoked a mutual revival of hope. I explained my nana’s intransigence and they eventually managed to convince him to apply for a cross-LoC permit so that he and my nani could visit them. My nani’s heart condition had become such that travelling via Wagah-Attari or Lahore-Delhi would be almost impossible.

In March 2008 I returned to the Pakistan-administered part of Kashmir and promptly made applications for cross-LoC permits for my nani and nana and for myself. It took many months of haggling with the local authorities and the ISI to get them to send the forms across the LoC and this did not happen until October. We were given to understand that the authorities on the Indian side cleared our applications in March this year. However, their counterparts on the Pakistani side maintain (in June 2009) that they have not received our applications.

 Although I received email confirmation from the sorting centre in Srinagar, Muzaffarabad was bent on a ‘dispatch date’ in order to locate the files. My nani in Pakistan-administered Kashmir and her two siblings on the Indian-administered side are ailing and 63 years of separation will not, I fear, withstand the test of time for much longer. This thought has been etched in my mind for the past several years. Not a day passes without it continuing to haunt me.

Before 2005, my nana was the main obstacle between my nani and her family. Now it’s the relationship between India and Pakistan. My nani is now 79 years old. Please help me reunite her with her family, separated for over 60 years by a distance of not much more than 60 kilometres.