(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational photo

On May 10, I was sitting in the college library, holding my exam notes, trying to study for my paper. My hands were trembling. I had already called home three times that morning, checked my phone seven or eight more. Each time, I feared a message would confirm my worst thoughts. Something had gone terribly wrong at the border.

I'm from the frontier town of Kashmir, where fear moves faster than news. I study at Ramjas College in Delhi, nearly a thousand kilometers away from home. Usually, this distance gives me room to focus on books, on building a future. But due to the recent border escalation, the distance suddenly became unbearable.

At first, things seemed normal. My two roommates-one from Poonch, the other from Uri-were also busy with classes and work. We live in a city where no one really pauses to notice conflict unless it disrupts the metro schedule. Violence back home had become so common, we almost believed we were immune to its weight.

But our parents knew better. During our routine calls, they began hinting that things were getting tense. They didn't want to alarm us, but you can tell when fear creeps into a parent's voice.

When the news confirmed that the operation had succeeded but tensions were still high, our anxiety deepened. Our exams were days away, but how could we focus? My mind was elsewhere. My heart was back home.

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That day in the library, I sat with my friends Jasmine and Lawanya. They noticed I couldn't focus. Jasmine tried to calm me.“Things will get better,” she said gently, trying to distract me with small talk. It helped, a little. But only a little.

My roommate Mehran, from Dawaran in Uri, told me his family had shifted temporarily to Sopore. Temporarily, but what does that even mean when the threat feels endless? Another friend, Shahid from Poonch, said his family had also moved. They couldn't eat or sleep properly. Neither could I.

Even my friend Shah Rukh from Rajasthan, far from Kashmir, worried about his uncle's family near Jaisalmer. The fear didn't care about borders.

There were others who didn't get it. They talked about war casually, sharing bold opinions from behind screens in safe, air-conditioned rooms. For them, conflict was just a trending topic. They hadn't seen families flee with only the clothes on their backs. They didn't know what it meant to hear gunfire in the night or live with the constant fear of losing a loved one.

We breathed easier when the ceasefire was announced. I could hear the relief in my mother's voice when I called. No words, just the sound of calm.

I'm not saying others should stop their lives during moments like this. But maybe, sometimes, just listen. Ask. Try to understand what it's like to carry both a pen and a fear you can't name.

Sincerely,

Nasir Roshan Khan

University of Delhi.

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