The First Aid Box That Held A Kashmiri Father's Heart

By Syed Majid Gilani

That evening, Hashmat climbed the narrow stairs to the attic, the wood creaking beneath his weight, carrying a small lantern. He was searching for old photographs, hoping to stumble upon fragments of memory tucked away in dusty corners.

His fingers brushed against something solid, a first aid box, slightly worn, its edges dulled with years. It seemed almost alive, waiting to be opened, waiting to speak.

The lid lifted with a faint squeak, and the smell of antiseptic rose, sharp and familiar. Inside, every item carried a story, a small piece of a life lived in devotion.

A polythene bag held his children's vaccination cards: polio, measles, meningitis, and boosters. Each mark was a testament to sleepless nights and careful planning.

Next to them were prescriptions for ordinary childhood illnesses: coughs, colds, and stomach cramps. None were grave, but each had stolen hours from his sleep, leaving him by their side until relief arrived.

Every folded paper, scribbled note, was a memory of attention given when no one else was watching.

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