Gunshots, chill & a silent valley: How this MP family relives its Pahalgam horror every day

Indore: A year later, life has far from moved on for the family of Sushil Nathaniel, 58, who had set out on holiday with his wife and son on that April morning. His wife Jennifer, now 55, is still stuck in a dark corner, reliving those horrific memories every day when she lay still — beside her husband's body, in the freezing cold of Baisaran valley — and waited. The valley comes back to her — in fragments, in flashes, in moments that break into ordinary days. In his final moments, Sushil had pushed Jennifer behind a tree, trying to shield her. Their son Austen was brought to safety separately by local pony riders. The family could only confirm each other's survival hours later. "There was whisper of wind rustling through trees, echo of gunfire still ringing in my ears, and an unbearable cold. I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was my husband — slumped against a tree, motionless. Blood had soaked through his hair and was trailing down his shoulder. A worm was crawling across his skin. I wanted to scream, run to him, hold him — but I couldn't move. The cold had numbed my limbs and frozen my voice…" she had said after their return from the valley last year. A year on, at their home in Indore, the changes are both visible and quietly devastating. Jennifer has become increasingly dependent. "She is very child-like now. Her decision-making has reduced and she forgets things. We make sure someone is always with her," said Austen, now 28. His sister Akansha, who has been battling her own challenges, has taken a transfer to Indore for three years to be with her family. The tragedy has made the family go into withdrawal mode from certain social spaces. "When we visit relatives, they keep saying if he (Sushil) had been there, things would have been different. So, we stopped going to such places," Austen said. "We have become more fearful, more insecure," he added. The weight of the household has shifted entirely onto Austen. "A father's role is the biggest for a son. I used to share personal things with him. Now, I have to handle everything because my mother is not in a position to manage it all," he said. The responsibility has taken a toll on his academic plans. He had been preparing to pursue an MBA in sports management in the United Kingdom. "That dream is gone. Now, my focus is my family," he said. Support came from unexpected quarters — neighbours, friends and people across communities. "We are lucky. People from different religions stood by us during this time," said Austen. But institutional support proved far more elusive. After his father's death, Austen said he was promised a job on compassionate grounds, only to be denied because his mother held a govt job. "We were told it cannot be given," he said. Political assurances followed the attack but produced little. "There were promises, but nothing happened. We never went around asking. Our father never taught us that," he said. While Maharashtra govt announced a compensation of Rs 50 lakh for each victim of the terror attack for six families from the state, Madhya Pradesh govt made no such announcement. Some members of Austen's community offered to raise the matter with the govt, but the family did not pursue it. "We just want to take care of our mother," he said. What keeps Austen going, in part, is the memory of who his father was. Sushil Nathaniel, he recalls, was someone who connected with people easily and without reservation. "He would talk to anyone. Even during our Kashmir trip, he spoke to the Muslim driver about local life, about mosques, about apples. It never felt like he was speaking to a stranger. He asked him if we could visit the famous mosques," Austen said. And in the chaos of the attack itself, his father was among the last to leave, helping others escape through a gap in a net barrier before he was shot. "He was among the last to leave and helped others escape," said Austen. "You can never forget it. It feels like something has been taken away. My biggest support system is gone," he said. For Jennifer, the last image does not fade. A tree. The cold. And that moment when everything changed.