Window to the World

In a sleepy Kashmiri village, a young girl discovers the weight of silence, and the fire of hope.

- Sabreena Bhat

That morning, the sky above Shopian was pale and hushed.

Snow clung to roof-tops and pear trees, blan-keted the narrow path leading to the old wooden gate. Crows had not yet started their chorus. In the room above the kitchen, she pulled the curtain back with fingers still warm from sleep and let in the whiteness.

Outside, children were already at play. One boy in a saffron cap slid down a slope, arms spread wide, while two girls scooped snow to mold a kangri that fell apart before it took shape. Smoke curled up from the neighbour’s kitchen. A cluster of elders stood around a crackling fire, the men's noses red from the cold, their breath mixing with the smoke in the air.

She watched it all in silence. Her breath fogged the glass. She didn't smile, not quite. But something in her eyes softened. Something un-guarded, a little wild.

Then her mother’s voice rang out from the stairwell. "Why are you at the window?" "Draw the cur-tains." "What's there to see?"

She stepped back. The warmth vanished.