By Syed Majid Gilani

January light filtered weakly through the frost as we packed our Alto 800 for the journey to Jammu.

My wife suggested we drive ourselves, promising comfort I was not entirely sure we would find.

Four passengers, two children, and my mother made the car feel smaller than it was.

Arshad, six, bounced with excitement, asking about monkeys. Sarah followed, quieter, her wide eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Their laughter turned the cramped cabin into a warm space, a shield against the chill outside.

The Srinagar-Jammu highway is both beauty and test. Mountains lean over gorges, hairpin turns demand attention, and winter fog can steal visibility without warning.

I had never driven this stretch. The thought pressed on me, small and insistent. Sarah sensed it and asked if we would reach safely.

I held her hand and said,“Inshallah, beta, we will,” feeling both the weight and the fragility of that promise.

By seven, the car was loaded. The rooftop carrier sagged under blankets, clothes, and our small comforts, tied tightly with ropes I had checked twice. Inside, a flask of steaming noon chai offered warmth. I had inspected brakes, tires, and oil. Everything seemed ready, but the load above me whispered caution.

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