In Bagatpora, Handwara, lived Zinda Lal Pandita, born on 4 April 1931 to Prakash Ram Pandita. At the age of 59, he was a father and husband, entrusted with the care of his home in a troubled time, seeking safety amid growing unrest.

On 6 October 1990, the world he relied on was ripped away. Militants of the JKLF found him one evening, kidnapped him from his own residence, and led him to a nearby orchard, an isolated place once known for its beauty, now turned into the setting of brutality. There, Zinda Lal was strangled with steel wire, his life extinguished in a cruel, intimate act. The killers left no room for mercy, their actions as cold and calculated as the steel that ended his breath.

He left behind a wife of fifty and a son of thirty, two people whose lives were irreversibly marked by the violence of that night. No longer would he walk beside them at festivals or offer guidance in times of trouble. His absence became not just a personal loss but a symbol of a community’s unraveling.

His assassination occurred during a wave of targeted killings designed to terrorize the Kashmiri Pandit community, laying the groundwork for an ongoing exodus. While the annexed record of his death is brief, it stands as unyielding testimony to the cruelty visited upon him and others like him.

The orchards of Handwara, once calm at dusk, witnessed yet another life stolen in cold blood. His wife’s world was left empty; his son grew into what the night had forced them to be—those who carry trauma, uncertainty, and the haunting question of why the evening transformed into an omen.

Remembering Zinda Lal Pandita is not just a matter of recording a death. It is reclaiming a human life erased by terror, placing him back into a narrative that affirms dignity, family, and a life lived, not just lost.