Ghulamma's Tonga Trick That Outwitted A Kashmiri Cop

In the 1950s and 60s, Srinagar moved at the pace of hooves striking tarmac. Its streets unfolded with a rare calm. Engines had not yet filled the air with rumble and smoke, and the city breathed in a crispness that seemed to belong to another age.

Streets remained free of traffic signals, zebra crossings, and the constant jangle of horns.

Even with few vehicles to steer, people observed the rules with a natural respect, an understanding that the law was part of the city's gentle pulse rather than a burden to bear.

Through these tranquil avenues rode Ghulamma, a driver whose wit had become the stuff of legend in Jamallatta.

He was as much a part of my family's life as the tonga itself, regularly ferrying my father from his clinic to the medical center.

The journeys were slow, filled with the flickering glow of lamps and the cadence of hoofbeats, and they became a stage where stories unfolded, laughter lingered, and a warm companionship stitched itself between doctor and driver.

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