Akhbaar : The Newspaper

Over the sleepy villages along the Poonch border, dawn was beginning to stretch its limbs beyond the horizon. The hidden sun glowed in all its light behind the white snowy mountains. The goats were up by now, and with sure feet, they scoured the slopes for graze. A little boy rose from the stony floor of his hut, pushing off the heavy rug that had kept him safe all through the chilly night. Around him, it was still dark, and his father was snoring peacefully in the single room. A faint bulb flickered in the darkness, but it was enough to find him his bag and clothes tucked away near the table. The table was the only real piece of furniture in the room. Everything else was an undecipherable mess of cloth, fabric and stray wood.



His quick feet carried him on the brittle village road. The stream gurgled in the distance. The valley looked beautiful here. In the realm of Kashmir, everything was beautiful. With no time to admire, the little boy hurried on. If they only had money, his father would buy him a bicycle. That would help him save lots of time and effort. Of course, nobody would sell bicycles in this remote town. One would have to look for them in the shops in Srinagar or around Gulmarg. He had never been that far from home. The stream had now approached and he bravely stepped in. Here, the water was not deep, but cold all the same. It pierced him like a knife. Two rapid jumps and the most unwelcoming part of the journey had been covered.




When he arrived at the post office, the sky had taken a mild shade of purple. The durwaan was waiting with a large bundle of newspapers. “Take these”, he said to the little boy, “do you want some chai?”. The boy nodded.




The tea warmed him up and gave him a burst of new energy. He picked up the heavy bundle, placed it firmly on his shoulder and strolled away towards the row of houses.




Meanwhile, back in the hut, an ancient mobile phone began to ring an alarm. It did this each morning, with great diligence. The snoring was interrupted, and a dishevelled looking man sat up on the pile of rugs he was laying on. Sleep made him look quite different. He knew his son was up and away with his daily job. It was time for him to freshen up too. The first visitors of the day would be arriving at his stall for tea and biscuits. He gathered his stuff and took the same village road that his son had taken an hour ago, pushing his cart ahead of him. When he reached, the bazaar was coming to life.




As usual, the hustling and bustling grew. The bazaar was near the bus stop. Buses would arrive here from as far as Jammu. People travelled for all sorts of different reasons - some to meet family, some would return from work or on holiday. The man eyed the arriving buses, expecting somebody to hop off and ask for some fresh, hot tea. In a day, he would need to sell at least thirty cups to make a profit.




A school bell rang in the distance. Its faint sound informed parents throughout the village that their children were now busy with their daily routine. In the bazaar, the man noticed the bell and knew that his son had finished with his early morning distribution of newspapers. He would now be attending his classes. When these got over in the afternoon, he would travel all the way to the chowrasta and sell his remaining stock.




His father had instructed him - “When you sell your stock, betay, always keep one extra paper with you. Don’t sell it, but give it to me and I will read it.” And so he did. Every evening, after returning to the hut, he would wait for his son to show up with a copy of the newspaper. Often the boy would arrive, announcing the top headlines with an excitable voice - “The Chief Minister is visiting this area on Friday!” or “There is an election in Dilli”. And sometimes, he would arrive with fresh local news that was not in the paper - “The army has come to Qasbah! They are setting up a defence camp!”




The border was turbulent. Just across the shallow hills to the east, the Line of Control had been drawn many years ago. The army often travelled through the village in olive green trucks, headed for the hills. Large convoys of mean-looking soldiers would rush through. Everybody gave way to them! When the situation would be tense and warlike, the little boy knew he had to be careful. Nobody explained the war to him, but he was aware that he had to stay safe, and safety meant he would either be at home or in the post office. Only last year, there had been a message that everybody should stay inside. He had slept in the post office and had gone about with distributing papers the next morning. He knew his schedule.




That evening, the sirens went off again. Olive green trucks rushed through the main road with the headlights on. They passed the bazaar, where the father was busy pouring tea, and the little boy with his papers at the chowrasta, before speeding away towards the forward posts near the border. “Run! Run!”. The bazaar dispersed quickly, even in the dim light of the fading day.




That evening, the little boy did not return home. Throughout the night, the sound of gunfire echoed through the hills. It was a continuous rattle, and many could not sleep in stress. The father knew his son would be awake, lying anxiously in the post office. This was not a stray incident and it was certainly not happening for the first time. He wished the post office was closer to his house. It would solve so many of their problems.


Trucks rushed to and fro to the border, carrying men and supplies. In the distance, a helicopter rattled away towards the airbase. The shots were fired throughout the day. The bazaar lay empty, the school bell did not ring and the little boy did not distribute papers. Nobody sold tea, and no buses came this way. Once in a while, the silence was interrupted by the sound of gunfire. They did not know who was firing. They knew that they would have to stay in to be safe. They were too close to be out of harm, and yet too innocent to be hurt. The man, sitting on the floor of his hut and staring out of the small vent that served as the window, wished his son was here with the papers. Looking at the walls was a boring task, and he had nobody to talk to. At least, he could have read the papers. Now, he would have to wait until tomorrow or whenever it was safe.


In the evening, they heard a distant boom. A glow appeared over the hills. It was probably a mine or a bomb - they wouldn’t know the difference. Sirens rushed through the empty village roads. Things no more seemed routine. It had been two days. There must be some big incident, thought the man, as he retired for the night. Under his pile of rugs, he could not sleep a wink. His mind wandered off to his son, who he imagined, would be reading the paper in the post office. The durwaan knew the boy well, and would surely give him food and water. For once, he felt an emotion that he did not have the time to feel too often. He realised he missed the boy.


When the valley fell silent again, another dawn had arrived. Food was running low in the house. The little boy’s father, free from his stony shelter, started off for the bazaar. He hoped he could recover his losses from skipping work the previous day. Setting up shop in his usual place, he strolled over towards the bus stop to buy a paper. He would have to make an investment of two rupees. There was no choice though. He had missed reading his paper for two evenings straight and he decided that he must update himself over an early cup of tea.


“Koshur Akhbaar” announced the Urdu lettering on top. The firing had found its place in the headlines. He glanced through, reading bits and pieces of information. Then, he turned over the page and stared at the print in disbelief. A large image of his little son stared back at him from the page. The newspaper had mentioned the usual cause - “hit by shards”, and that he was “rushed to hospital by a military truck which found him lying beside his bundle of papers”.


The lonely cup of tea would soon run cold, but nobody was paying attention to that anymore.