When Radios Trembled And Kashmir Waited For Sixes

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer) By Er Umair Ul Umar

I grew up at a time when an India Pakistan cricket series marked the start of waiting.

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The days felt longer, evenings slowed down on their own, and hearts started beating faster well before the first ball was bowled.

Cricket in Kashmir never stayed limited to a screen or a ground. It entered life as a feeling, moving through classrooms, mosques, lanes, and living rooms.

We did not gather to watch it. We lived inside it.

The days before the match mattered as much as the match itself.

Newspapers were held with care. Player names were learned by heart, almost like verses. School corridors buzzed with talk that followed us home by evening.

Teachers joined in too, even when they pretended otherwise. Their voices stayed firm, but their eyes gave them away.

During these matches, the distance between adults and children faded. Everyone listened, and everyone hoped.

Our mathematics teacher made this clear.

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He was known for discipline and few words. His class felt serious on regular days. Match days brought a change.

A Zeenat radio in a black leather cover appeared on his desk, placed gently, like it belonged there.

Algebra went on as usual, but the commentary flowed alongside it. His fingers moved to adjust the volume. We worked on equations while counting runs.

At any moment, a senior teacher could walk in. And at any moment, a wicket could fall. That tension kept the room alive.

Many of us carried small radios hidden inside school bags. Between classes, we rushed to corners and held them close.

The commentator's voice cracked, paused, then rose again. Words turned into pictures. Grounds we had never seen came alive in our minds.

Teachers knew more than they showed. Some afternoons ended early with a simple sentence: Go home and follow the match.

Cricket earned that kindness.

One Friday stays close to memory. One batsman reached his hundred in forty balls. Radios followed us to the courtyard outside Jamia Masjid. Boys gathered silently, and commentary floated in the air while the sermon continued.

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Respect remained, and excitement stayed present. Faith and cricket shared the same space with ease.

Another day belonged to another batter and one of his fearless innings. Concern spread later when he felt weak. His name moved through homes like that of someone close.

The next day, school felt like a newsroom. Every over returned through fresh telling. Commentary lines were repeated word for word. Arguments rose, laughter followed, friendships grew stronger.

Evenings had their own charm and character. Electricity came in short visits. Black and white televisions waited patiently. Truck batteries arrived instead, heavy and loud. Wires were fixed with care.

When the screen flickered to life, the entire mohalla gathered.

Tea, kehwa, and smiles moved around. Wins and losses felt shared. It felt less like two teams playing and more like all of us holding on to time.

Cricket today shines in sharp detail, as screens glow bright. Everything shows clearly, but something close feels distant.

The radios rest silent now. Memory stays warm. Somewhere deep inside, a child still listens, radio pressed close, eyes shut, asking the sky for sixes.

• The author teaches at GGHSS Yaripora. He writes on memory, education, and everyday life in Kashmir.

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