The wheels of the plane touched the tarmac of the make-shift airport at Awantipora. There were army barracks lined up on both sides of the runway as I peeped through the window. Plane stopped finally to my relief. It was a long ardous flight back home filled with drama and utter chaos.
The bus drove us from Awantipora to Srinagar-a beautifull serene drive of 25 kms. There was visible quietness on the roads. Over 100 young Kashmiri youth had been killed in the wake of unrest from last 3 months. People were squatted up on shops. A old man with wrinkles as old as my imagination could take me, was throwing up smoke from his hukka. Women were carrying manure on baskets, early autumn air being muse to the beautifull robes they were wearing. Children running through the tiny lanes of some quaint village. Men wearing Phirans discussing hot pot-boiled failed politics, as I could guess, outsides mosques was a comman sight. The chill of autumn air was visible. For a moment it looked like a fairy land, this torn land of mine.
The disjointed bus drove through the two lane highway. Poplar trees lined up on both sides. There aroma filling up my senses with calmness that is hard to explain. As some wise man has said , somethings in life dont need explainations. The purpled huge himalayan mountains were standing tall as ever. I could see snow over the peaks. I took a deep breathe and in a moment my whole life ran across me in memories of light and shade making me poignant about so many things.
How all far we may go, but our destiny lies here I told myself, as we left country roads.
The bus drove us from Awantipora to Srinagar-a beautifull serene drive of 25 kms. There was visible quietness on the roads. Over 100 young Kashmiri youth had been killed in the wake of unrest from last 3 months. People were squatted up on shops. A old man with wrinkles as old as my imagination could take me, was throwing up smoke from his hukka. Women were carrying manure on baskets, early autumn air being muse to the beautifull robes they were wearing. Children running through the tiny lanes of some quaint village. Men wearing Phirans discussing hot pot-boiled failed politics, as I could guess, outsides mosques was a comman sight. The chill of autumn air was visible. For a moment it looked like a fairy land, this torn land of mine.
The disjointed bus drove through the two lane highway. Poplar trees lined up on both sides. There aroma filling up my senses with calmness that is hard to explain. As some wise man has said , somethings in life dont need explainations. The purpled huge himalayan mountains were standing tall as ever. I could see snow over the peaks. I took a deep breathe and in a moment my whole life ran across me in memories of light and shade making me poignant about so many things.
How all far we may go, but our destiny lies here I told myself, as we left country roads.
