Kashmir Beneath The Plastic Bags

After Fajr, I stepped onto my wooden porch and breathed in the morning. A blue-grey mist rested on the houses, settling into their curves and corners. The scene carried an old beauty, shaped by time and habit, the sort of morning people speak of with pride. For a moment, the village seemed held together by light and prayer.

Then my eyes dropped.

In the gaps of stone walls, inside thorny bushes, and along the narrow gutter, scraps of colour waited to be seen. Wrappers lay folded and tired. Bits of plastic caught on thorns trembled with the air. The beauty still stood, but something had crept into it, something sharp and out of place.

An elderly neighbour walked past, returning from the bakery. His hair had faded to grey, and his steps carried the memory of decades spent on these lanes. In his hand hung a thin blue plastic bag. Inside, fresh rotis released steam, fogging the plastic from within. It was a sight repeated every morning in every home.

Bread carried home, hunger answered, and life moving forward.

For him, the bag meant ease, clean hands, and a simple solution. As he passed me, the bag swung lightly at his side. I watched it and felt a strange weight settle in my chest.

That thin blue skin began to look like a layer slowly spreading over the village.

The sun climbed higher and reached the square. I stepped down from the porch and started walking. My boots met gravel, but they also met something else.

Dry plastic cracked underfoot, mixed with dust and earth. The sound followed me with each step.

I walked toward the heart of the mohalla, keeping my eyes on the ground. Every few steps, something appeared. The torn corner of a chips packet. Long strands of a polythene bag. A bottle cap pressed into the soil. A used baby diaper left to swell and fade.

These objects had settled into the earth, as if the ground itself had learned to wear a plastic coat.

The bakery stood ahead, a low stone room warmed by the fire inside. Heat from the tandoor rolled into the street. Manzoor Sahib worked with skilled hands and sharp focus. He pulled rotis from the clay walls and slipped them straight into plastic bags.

One after another, the motion flowed without thought.

I joined the line. Money passed from hand to hand. Bread passed back wrapped in plastic. The exchange moved smoothly, like a habit polished over years.

“Salam,” the baker said, reaching for a bag.“Ten rotis today?”

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