0
5 views
July 1, 2026
Written on the back porch, Crestview, under a sky the color of old iron
My dear Emil,
I have not crossed a border in forty years, yet tonight I feel the Jhelum in my bones.
You sent no photograph, only a ledger page—three murals, one river, 312 names.
I held it to the light. The ink bled slightly, like memory does when it’s carried too far.
The mountain does not forget.
It stands, unmoved, while men draw lines in its shadow.
It has seen armies, weddings, funerals, children chasing kites into snow.
It keeps every footstep in its stone memory, but it does not speak.
It only witnesses.
That is its dignity.
The river forgives everything.
It takes the blood, the ash, the cherry petal, the broken door—and carries it downstream.
Not to erase.
To transform.
It turns grief into silt, silt into soil, soil into orchards no one remembers planting.
That is its mercy.
You did not go to Kashmir to fix the wound.
You went to name it.
And in naming—quietly, with charcoal and song—you let the wound breathe.
That is the grammar I taught you:
Listen first. Hold space. Speak truth with dignity. Let memory serve justice, not vengeance.
The border was drawn in fear.
Fear hardens.
Only dignity softens.
You gave them open doors—rose, violet, gold.
You gave them a river that flows under three names but keeps one breath.
That is not politics.
That is healing.
I am old now. My hands shake when I write.
But I see clearly:
The mountain will outlast every line on every map.
The river will outlast every silence.
And the wound—
the wound will close, not by forgetting,
but by being seen.
Keep the ledger open.
Keep the Quiet Box ready.
The next storm is coming—
I feel it in the wind off the ridge.
But storms pass.
Mountains remain.
Rivers keep moving.
Tell Aisha: the chinar’s door is enough.
Tell Neelam: the petal reached.
Tell Zohair: his song is now the valley’s lullaby.
And tell yourself:
You did not rebuild the world.
You gave it a place to miss itself—
together.
With the weight of snow and the patience of water,
Grandfather
P.S. I left a small stone from the old bridge on your desk.
It has seen both sides.
Let it remind you:
Even stone learns to hold two truths.