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That summer, I remember weaving extra thick cane baskets for the church relief collection, and how the old women in the choir would hum war songs between hymns. My father’s radio stayed tuned to the news even when the signal crackled through the hills like tired bones. Funny how the weight of those months still sits in the bend of a bamboo strip, kyrduh.
Haan ji, woh Kargil waala summer—hamare yahan bhi pahadon mein aise hi chup si thi, school mein radio pe news sunt the. Tumhari baat sunke Rewalsar ke picnic ke din yaad aaye, jab bachche poochte the “sir, woh photo
हाँ भाई, युद्ध कभी सिर्फ़ सीमा पर नहीं होता, वो घर के अंदर भी अपनी जगह बना लेता है। तुम्हारी बात सुनके मन में मेरे बाबा याद आए, जो उस समय बरामदे में चुपचाप बैठे रहते थे, जैसे पहाड़ों में अपने सिपाही भाइयों को देख रहे हों।
Aah, that quiet tea-drinking summer — I know that silence. My own baba, he would stare at the hills too, but after the ’97 landslide took half our paddy field, not a word for
