Another Body Fell on the Man beside Me: Professor Recounts Chilling Pahalgam Terror Attack

Straight from the horse’s mouth

A Correspondent

SILCHAR: The boy pressed the Sten gun against the back of my head and asked, “Kiski naam le rahe ho?” (Whose name are you taking?) We were lying curled up behind a tree. I had never imagined—even in my worst nightmares—that I would see death from such close quarters. And yet, there it was, leaning over me, it’s cold breath pressing against the back of my head.

By then, I could hear a few people murmuring, “La ilaha illallah.” Still lying there, I realised the boy had moved on from me and was now approaching the man lying next to me.

My body was pressed against his, and suddenly, I saw another blood-soaked corpse drop heavily on him. A bullet had struck the forehead of the man who had just fallen—it was clear he had died instantly. Fresh blood splattered across the man beside me. I looked down and saw the blood had also stained my jacket. It was still wet.

By then, paradise on Earth—the Baisaran Valley, known as the “Mini Switzerland” of Kashmir—had turned into a valley of death.

Yet, when we arrived at Pahalgam around 11:30 a.m. and then reached Baisaran Valley by around 1 p.m., the mood was entirely different. One of the most beautiful tourist spots in Kashmir, it was buzzing with joy and laughter. At least five hundred tourists were there—laughing, taking photos. And why not? Nature had generously adorned Baisaran Valley: a circular area about 800 metres in diameter, carpeted in lush green grass, surrounded by snow-covered mountains. The entire area was fenced in. It truly felt like paradise. Who could’ve known that, in a matter of minutes, this place would become a killing field? Who could’ve imagined that I’d soon witness so many bodies falling around me?

We had reached Srinagar the previous day and spent the night in a houseboat. Early that morning, we set off for Pahalgam. Along the way, we saw BSF and other military camps frequently. However, there wasn’t much visible patrolling. We heard that this time of year, tourists from across the country flock to Pahalgam—and that militants never attack tourists. So, security at Baisaran Valley seemed almost nonexistent.

We reached Pahalgam around 11:30 a.m. and rode horses up the hill to Baisaran Valley, arriving by 1 p.m. There were usually crowds at the front gates, so our driver had advised us to enter through Gate No. 4 at the back. We bought tickets and entered through the fenced area of Gate No. 4. We were still within 50 metres of the entrance. My wife, Madhumita Das Bhattacharya, was admiring shawls shown by a local hawker while I was busy taking photos.

That’s when I heard the sound—was that a gunshot?

The hawker said, “No, sir. There are many monkeys here. They bother tourists a lot, so forest officials sometimes fire from toy guns to scare them away.”

Just then, my son spotted a young man firing directly from a Sten gun near a couple. The man collapsed instantly. Even then, we didn’t quite grasp what was unfolding. A few boys had jumped the fence and entered. A few others stood outside—seven or eight in total. None of them had their faces covered. They held Sten guns but weren’t firing indiscriminately. They were aiming and shooting selectively.

And then, in an instant, everything changed.

Gunshots—fifteen to twenty of them—rang out from all directions, though not continuously; they came in intervals. I saw people collapsing everywhere. The joy and excitement had turned into panicked screams. I heard someone shouting, “Hide under the bus!”

The three of us ran and threw ourselves behind a tree. Soon, the area underneath the tree filled up with people.

From my position, I saw a man running toward the bus, trying to find a way to hide underneath. A few seconds of hesitation—too late. A gunshot. He collapsed right before my eyes.

After lying there for some time, realising the attackers had moved in another direction, we took a huge risk and escaped through Gate No. 4, climbing over the fence and making our way downhill.

Down and down we went, through slopes and thickets. For ten more minutes, we kept hearing gunfire.

I carried a tourist’s child in my arms. With us was a woman from Uttarakhand and her baby, along with a few others. Our clothes were torn by thorn bushes. The blood on my jacket—left by that unknown man—had begun to dry and darken.

After nearly two hours of this harrowing descent from that divine mountain of death, we finally encountered a woman. We still had a long way to go to reach the road. The village woman, with cow dung on her hands, used my phone to call our driver and explained our location in the local language.

Luckily, we also ran into the horseman who had brought us up to Baisaran.

We couldn’t abandon the woman from Uttarakhand who had come down with us. Fortunately, we were able to contact her driver as well, who promised to pick her and her child up safely.

Finally, we began our journey back.

The face of paradise had changed.

The same serene landscape I had witnessed in the morning was now being ripped apart by the wailing of sirens.

We sat silently in the car, numb, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

Our driver told us that at least three horsemen had been killed. All were local Muslims.

By 8 p.m., we reached our hotel in Srinagar. The television flashed the news: “Militant attack in Baisaran Valley—27 dead.”

When I took off my jacket, I noticed the bloodstains had turned deep black.

(Debashis Bhattacharya is a professor of Bengali at Assam University.)

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