Poonch:
Poonach, baffled in a valley and embraced by the hills, we were caught in a crossfire of hatred. The hills here do not just wake up – they loose. And in Pakistan -occupied Kashmir (POK), there is terrorist rains from those heights. Strategic advantage is not just military – it is psychological. Every explosion feels that it is echoing with three walls of a net. The sky shines not with stars but with fire. The air does not carry the air – it carries the fear of the next round.
For two nights, Poonach is not asleep.
I pass through the streets where people whisper memories of loud compared to their voices. Japneet’s tears talk about childhood. His father Amrik Singh, an ex -serviceman, a ragi in the gurudwara, now only a memory – was blown to the place known for peace.
His voice breaks, “My father wanted me to be a doctor … but what now?”
What do I say to him?
My daughter is also in class 11. I see his eyes in the pain of chanting. I take my mike, but my throat tightens. What do I report – grief, or the crime of survival?
Syndicate Chowk is rescued. Shutters are perforated like paper. The doors wear ugly fingers of Pakistani shells. In the story of Balbir, the bullets tore through their elder brother like rain drops on tin. They poured water on it, do not know that he had already become a name for a gravity.
Sri Guru Singh Sabha was echoing with Shabad once in the gurudwara, Harmonium and then Bals Weight-Silent Instruments.
Now they mourn their ragi-amark Singh. The hole in the AC unit tells its story. The first Bhairo temple was targeted, and then, without break, shell came here.
In another lane, Gurmeet Kaur showed me shrapnel, sharp and unexpected. This erupted his house, his peace, his sleep. His blanket is undivided, as if a nightmare ran away from mid-sight. His gas stove is tilted, the testimony for food is left incomplete, suspended day.
Mohammad Hafiz takes me to his burnt store room-where 17 people shared happiness once, now they share shock. His words are heavy: “He did not leave the temple, nor the mosque, nor gurudwara … It is not about religion-it is about destroying India.”
And yet, his neighbors, Niranjan Singh, were first to escape, asking, “Are you alright?”
This is the India that we still breathe in Poonach. Flying is the last thing between metal and broken heart-humanity.
As Operation Sindoor comes out in Loc, Pakistan’s mortars respond – not with courage but with cowardice. This has been seen by Poonach, the worst shelling since independence. 1965 or 1971 also did not bring such fire. Roads are closed, shops are left, houses are emptied.
People are running away. With tears in children and eyes in weapons, they carry whatever rides they can.
Khalil Ahmed, while holding his son, said, “We are going to our father -in -law … Allah can protect India.”
And I take this notebook and this camera, but there is also a lump in my neck. Because no matter what the script is, real stories are engraved in loss. Poonach bleeds, yet breathe. The bombs fall, but hopefully there is still flicker.
Even when the border burns, the people here burn the lamp of flexibility. And I, a reporter, witness stands, not only for war, but also for will to live.
