Rising Heat and Rising Tensions - A Personal Reflection

By Santosh, Mysore

As the summer sun blazes over Mysore, turning our beloved city into a shimmering oven, I find myself grappling with a different kind of heat—one that’s been simmering in my home and heart. The mercury climbs past 35°C, making Chamundi Hill look like a mirage, but it’s the rising tide of communal tension, stoked by recent events and media frenzy, that’s left me sweating more than the weather. My name is Santosh, and with my wife, Shilpa, and our two boys, Vivek and Vikas, we’re navigating a storm of emotions that feels as oppressive as the Mysore summer.

A Brutal Spark in Kashmir

It started with the horrific terrorist attack in Pahalgam, Kashmir, on April 22, 2025. Twenty-six tourists, mostly Hindus, were killed in a brutal ambush by a group called Kashmir Resistance, linked to Pakistan-based militants. The attackers reportedly targeted men, sparing some who could recite Islamic verses and killing those who couldn’t. The news hit like a thunderclap, shaking our sense of safety. I condemned it instantly—terrorism is a cowardly act, devoid of humanity. As I told Shilpa over dinner, “No one with a shred of decency could justify this. It’s not about religion; it’s about power and chaos.”

But the aftermath has been a different kind of fire. The media, like the summer sun, has been relentless, casting a harsh light on India’s Muslim community. Some outlets have painted broad strokes, linking the actions of a few extremists to 200 million people. The result? A wave of hate speech, both online and in our neighborhoods, that’s as suffocating as the midday heat. I’ve heard it in Mysore’s markets, where whispers about “Muslims” echo like the hum of cicadas, and worse, I’ve heard it at home.

The Heat at Home

Shilpa, usually the calm anchor of our family, has been shaken by the news. She’s glued to the TV, where channels replay the attack with inflammatory commentary. Vivek, our 14-year-old, and Vikas, our 10-year-old, have picked up on it too. The other day, I overheard Vivek telling Vikas, “They should just kick all of them out of India.” My heart sank. These are my boys, raised to respect everyone, now parroting hate they’ve absorbed from the air around them. It’s like the summer heat—pervasive, creeping into every corner, making tempers flare.

I tried reasoning with Shilpa and her family—her parents, devout and vocal, have been especially hard to sway. “Terrorism has no religion,” I said, my voice rising despite myself. “Just because some cowards killed in Kashmir doesn’t mean our Muslim neighbors are to blame.” But the news, like a relentless heatwave, has baked their fears into something hard and unyielding. They point to the attack, to stories of Muslim vendors being harassed, as if it justifies the hate. My blood pressure spikes every time I try to argue for humanity, and I’m left feeling like I’m shouting into a furnace.

Parallels with Mysore’s Summer

Living in Mysore, we know summer’s brutality. By April, the Deccan Plateau turns into a skillet, with temperatures hitting 37°C and no breeze to speak of. We drape wet cloths over windows, sip nimbu pani, and pray for the monsoon. But this communal heat is worse—it doesn’t cool down at night. Just as the sun scorches our gardens, leaving the soil cracked and barren, the hate stoked by the Kashmir attack is drying up the goodwill between communities. I see it in the way people avoid Muslim-owned shops in Devaraja Market, their eyes narrowed like they’re squinting into the sun.

The terrorists, I realized, are like the summer’s worst days—they strike without mercy, leaving us parched and desperate. Their goal isn’t just to kill but to divide, to make us turn on each other. And we’re falling for it, just as we sometimes forget to water our plants in the heat, letting them wilt. The media’s role is like the hot wind that spreads a forest fire, carrying sparks of fear and anger far beyond Kashmir. I’m afraid this is what the terrorists wanted: to make minorities in India feel unsafe, to create a rift that echoes beyond our borders.

Finding Shade in the Storm

I’ve been trying to find shade, both from the Mysore sun and this emotional heatwave. With Shilpa, I’ve started small. Instead of arguing, I share stories—like how Kashmiri Muslims helped tourists escape the Pahalgam attack, risking their own lives. “That’s the India we love,” I told her, and I saw a flicker of doubt in her eyes. With Vivek and Vikas, I’m more direct. “Extremists come in all forms,” I said, pointing to right-wing attacks on journalists and scientists. “Hate doesn’t solve hate. We’re better than that.” I’m planting seeds, hoping they’ll take root like the neem trees that survive Mysore’s summers.

I’ve also limited our news intake. The TV’s off more often now, replaced by evenings at Kukkarahalli Lake, where the boys can run and Shilpa and I can talk without the media’s glare. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start—like finding a shady spot under a banyan tree. I’ve even reached out to our Muslim neighbor, Imran, inviting him for tea. His stories of feeling unwelcome in Mysore broke my heart, but they also strengthened my resolve to keep fighting for unity.

A Hope for Cooler Days

As I write this, the Mysore summer shows no sign of breaking, and neither does the communal tension. But just as we know the monsoon will come, bringing relief to our parched city, I believe we can find a way to cool these tensions. It starts at home, with Shilpa, Vivek, and Vikas, and ripples out to our community. Terrorism has no religion, and hate has no place in the India I want my boys to inherit. I’ll keep talking, keep listening, and keep believing in humanity, even when it feels like I’m walking barefoot on sunbaked stones.

If you’re reading this, I hope you’ll join me in seeking shade—not just from the summer heat, but from the divisiveness that threatens to burn us all. Let’s water the roots of compassion, together, and wait for cooler, kinder days. That night, I was really worried, and my blood pressure shot up, but I was kind enough to take a walk near my home, where an empty residential layout is being constructed.