The Letter from Kashmir
A story about hope
The professor standing infront of the blackboard with a piece of chalk scribbling something I can’t read, uttering words I can’t comprehend. I keep looking at him, trying to understand what he wants but I find myself traveling to a faraway place, somewhere in the mountains, some 3200 kilometers away, a place I call home. Everything covered with snow, from a fresh snowfall — the roads, the pavements, the trees, the shelters, the playgrounds.
I try to look out of my window but the sun shines so bright, the rays of the sun turn the snow into sparkling diamonds. The sun melts the snow, and the scene melts my heart. The cold breeze touches my face and I shiver, but the sun keeps me warm, and I inhale that air so pure, so soothing, so cold.
I hear a bell, the bell of a cycle, I open my eyes, I can see the postman on his cycle coming nearer to my house. I hurried and ran to the main gate, leaving the window open. We are not used to having letters, letters are no longer the means.
I open the gate and great the postman, he greats me. “Ye Najma cha ya ti rozan?” he asks. I answer, “No, she does not live here” in my head. I asked him if I could see the name. He gives me the letter, and rubs his hands, cursing the winter. The letter was not for Najma, it was for Najmu Sehar, and guess who that is? I shake my head and tell him that the letter is for me, I am “Najma”. I thanked him and offered him tea but he waved goodbye.
I had never received a letter, nobody had sent me one before. I walked towards my room and started looking for the name of the person who had written to me. My face lit up, cheeks redden, heart warmed. I rushed to my room, jumped in the bed. I could now sense a familiar fragrance coming from it. The fragrance filling the room, the presence of the letter warming the room. I hugged it, I rolled with it, smiling like an idiot. I trace the name, letter by letter, with my fingertips, with each letter increasing my heartbeat.
I carefully open the envelope, making sure not to tear it, for I was gonna keep it, cherish it, forever. I started taking the letter out. I heard my mother calling me Sekhar, Sekhar, yelling, I guess for keeping the window open. I try to look for her, but all I could hear now were laughters. The professor was taking attendance and had been calling my name for a while. I shook my head and said, “It is Sehar’’
About the Story
On 5 August 2019, the Parliament of India voted in favour of a resolution tabled by Home Minister Amit Shah to revoke the temporary special status, or autonomy, granted under Article 370 of the Indian Constitution to Jammu and Kashmir — a region administered by India as a state which consists of the larger part of Kashmir which has been the subject of dispute among India, Pakistan, and China since 1947.Among the Indian government actions accompanying the revocation was the cutting off of communication lines in the Kashmir Valley restored after 5 months.
Thousands of security forces were deployed to curb any uprising. Several leading Kashmiri politicians were taken into custody, including the former chief minister, Government officials described these restrictions as designed for preempting violence, and justified the revocation for enabling people of the state to access government programmes such as reservation, right to education and right to information.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
“Being far away from home for studies, I wrote this story to fill the voids that the longing to talk to my family had created. The day when the Article 370 of the Indian Constitution was revoked, all the communication lines were cut off, a total communication blackout — no cellular network, no fixed lines, no TV, nothing, and all the roads were barricaded and wired with concertina.
Several months had passed on, and there was no news from home, no way to get in touch with anyone.
Being unable to concentrate in the classroom, I scribbled down this story to help me stay optimistic, to help me stay hopeful — waiting for the letter to bring me glad tidings.”
