When A Kashmir Village Took Back Power

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer) I had my hand halfway to the plate when the mosque loudspeaker started crackling.

The announcement cut through the house just as lunch sat steaming on the floor. The room held that heavy feeling of a winter afternoon that everyone here knows so well.

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Snow days stretch time in a silent way, making meals slower, the world softer, and it is easy to lose track of the day.

So hearing that voice made the day feel different, like a sudden emergency had come to interrupt a lazy winter routine.

The mosque message came fast and uneasy, saying that the electricity line had broken under the snowfall from Friday.

Three days had already passed without power, and now the villagers were being asked to go out and fix it themselves.

Everyone listening understood immediately what this meant without anyone spelling it out.

I stepped outside soon after, and the cold hit my face, mixed with the smell of snow and wet earth. White patches were still clung stubbornly to the rooftops and fences, as if they had no plans to leave.

Along the narrow road, neighbours were walking in the same direction, wrapped in worn pherans, boots soaked through with slush.

Their faces reflected the tired look that comes after living through winters like this for years.

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Even though we were all walking toward the same problem, there was a sense of familiarity, like this was something we had done many times before.

When we gathered around the pole where the wire hung loose, people talked all at once.

One man pointed upward and discussed who would climb first, while another looked up at the wires, measuring the risk. And then a few people laughed, a little nervous and relieved.

That small sound made the task feel a little smaller, a little less frightening, as words in Kashmiri flew back and forth and courage spread from one person to another.

This work did not belong to us, at least on paper, because climbing poles and handling live wires is supposed to be done by trained staff, by official teams. But over the years, villagers here had learned another way of getting through winter, passing tools from house to house, trusting the hands of people used to hard work.

Every snowfall added another story like this to our lives.

Bonahama is described as a forward-looking village in official files, a place with development and progress. But life here tells a very different story through flickering bulbs and long hours spent waiting.

Standing there in the cold, watching people decide who would climb next, that label of progress felt far away, because here progress is often what happens when people hold each other up when the system does not show up.

Near the edge of the group stood a man who barely spoke. His hands were deep inside his pheran, and he was moving slowly. When someone asked if the electricity would come back that day, he replied in a low, strained voice that sounded like a question more than an answer. The worry in it had nothing to do with comfort.

His mother was at home critically ill, on an oxygen ventilator, and every hour without power tightened the pressure on the family.

He spoke of electricity as the difference between life and darkness. His words came from long nights spent listening to breath and waiting for light.

Others shared their worries nearby.

A shopkeeper spoke about medicines that could spoil without electricity, a student mentioned exams that were getting closer by the day, and another man talked about days spent feeling unclean and worn out.

Electricity here touches every part of life, from health and work to the smallest daily routines.

As the afternoon went on, people took turns climbing, holding ladders, passing tools, guiding hands from below, and the repair slowly came together, built on years of care and trust that everyone knew from living this way.

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