I Ahmed Wani:
The sun scorched Srinagar that Sunday, June 15, 2025, wrapping the city in a stifling heatwave that made every breath feel heavy. My kids, restless and pleading, couldn’t stand another minute cooped up. “Papa, let’s go to Dal Lake!” they begged, their voices a mix of excitement and desperation. The heat had turned our home into an oven, and with the family’s urging and a sense of adventure, we piled into the car at 5 p.m. Barely thirty minutes later, we stood by Dal’s shimmering edge, the water promising a fleeting escape from the relentless sun.
My younger son, always full of *atrangi* whims, pointed to a shikara swaying gently by the shore. “Papa, let’s ride!” he said, his eyes bright with childlike wonder. Before I knew it, we were gliding across the lake, the boatman’s oars slicing through the water with a soft, rhythmic splash. As a journalist, my curiosity—the keeda—stirred. I leaned toward the boatman, his face etched with the lines of a hard life, and asked, “How’s business these days?” His eyes, heavy with unspoken stories, met mine. “*Saab, teen din baad aaj kaam mila,*” he said, his voice low. “After the Pahalgam attack, people stopped coming. They forgot how to enjoy this place.” His words carried a quiet pain. “My blood pressure pills cost more than the 500 rupees you’re paying me,” he added, his gaze drifting to the water.
Guilt hit me like a punch. I’d haggled his fare down from 700 rupees, thinking I’d scored a small win. Now, his words stung, exposing the fragility of his existence. “I’m not asking for more, *saab*. I’ll take what fate gives me,” he said, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, reflecting the fading light on the lake. His pain lingered, a stark contrast to the government’s hollow claims of “all is well” in the Valley. As the shikara drifted, my mind spiraled back to Kashmir’s long, wounded history since 1989. Images flashed—empty streets, shuttered homes, lives shattered by violence. The boatman’s story wasn’t new; it echoed another, one tied to my roots in Achabal, my hometown.
We drove back to Achabal as dusk draped the Valley in soft shadows. In front of Achabal Garden, a deserted vendor’s stall caught my eye, stirring memories of Ghulam Sheikh, our neighbor from happier days. Ghulam was once the heartbeat of our village. His khokha, a small wooden stall, buzzed with laughter, the fizz of cold drinks, and the chatter of locals and tourists alike. Before hard times hit, he’d taken a second wife, a young, radiant girl from a remote village in Kokernag. Every morning, he’d stride to his stall in a crisp *kameez-pajama*, face cleanly shaved, a proud smile lighting his features. His fingers, quick and clever, could pop open a cold drink bottle with a flick, earning grins from customers who marveled at his skill. He was a man who had more than he needed, his life full of small joys.
But when terrorism’s shadow swept through in the early ’90s, Achabal’s gardens fell silent. Kashmiri Pandits fled, their homes left to ghosts. JKLF gunmen ruled the streets, rendering the J&K Police powerless. Political life ground to a halt, targeted by bullets and fear. Government workers, even the sweepers of Achabal Municipality, joined a civil disobedience movement that lasted over three months, leaving the market choked with filth and despair. Ghulam’s stall shuttered, his income gone. The man who once thrived was left with nothing. His new wife, unable to bear the hardship, left him alone. His young sons, adrift in their own struggles, offered no support. The streets, pulsing with cries of “*Hum Kya Chahte? Azadi!*” were too consumed by their own fervor to notice him. No one stopped to check on Ghulam, no one offered a kind word.
His clean-shaven face grew scruffy, his clothes tattered, his spirit broken. The weight of loss unraveled him, and he landed in Srinagar’s mental hospital, muttering “Maza”—the name of the cold drink brand he once served with pride. They say when he died, his fingers were still curled, as if opening one last bottle, frozen in the act that once defined him. Ghulam wasn’t killed by a bullet but by the idea of armed struggle, a notion that devoured lives like his. I’ve heard some blame the 1987 elections for sparking this fire, but I don’t buy it. The world has seen worse—Zimbabwe’s rigged polls in 2008, where violence left hundreds dead; Haiti’s chaotic 1987 vote, marred by voter suppression; or even Nigeria’s 2007 elections, riddled with fraud. Yet nowhere else did cheated leaders or voters flee to foreign lands like Pakistan for arms training, only to return and torture or kill their own people—brothers, neighbors—for daring to disagree. Kashmir stands alone, a place where differences in faith, politics, or social views became death sentences. Over 40,000 lives lost, countless displaced, and stories like Ghulam’s buried in the chaos.
The boatman’s voice broke my reverie. “Saab, we’re here,” he said, docking the shikara with a gentle thud. I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against crumpled notes. Without a word, I pressed 300 rupees more into his calloused hand. It wasn’t charity—it was a quiet stand against a system that failed them both, a vow to never let another Ghulam Sheikh fade into oblivion. As we stepped ashore, the lake’s ripples caught the last light of the day, shimmering like the tears I’d seen in the boatman’s eyes.
Walking away, I thought of the Valley’s wounds, still raw after decades. The boatman and Ghulam, though separated by time, shared the same pain—a life upended by forces beyond their control. The government’s claims of peace felt like a cruel joke against their stories. Dal Lake, once a symbol of Kashmir’s beauty, now carried the weight of their struggles, its waters whispering tales of loss. I thought of the children who’d never know Ghulam’s quick smile or the boatman’s quiet dignity, and my heart ached for a Kashmir that yearns to heal.
Back in Achabal, the empty stall stood as a silent monument to Ghulam’s fall. I could still see him, flicking open a bottle of Maza, his laughter mingling with the chatter of a bustling market. That world was gone, replaced by a quieter, sadder Valley. But in that extra 300 rupees, in the memory of Ghulam’s curled fingers, I found a spark of defiance. We can’t afford another Ghulam Sheikh, another life lost to a broken system or a misguided struggle. As the stars emerged over Achabal, I carried their stories—two men, crushed by time and turmoil, their lives a plea for a Kashmir that dares to dream of peace again.
