✒️:. Syed Majid Gilani
It was the winter of January 2018 when I planned a journey from Srinagar to Jammu, our winter capital, with my small family. The purpose was simple — to bask in the warmth of the sun for a few days and enjoy a change of air. My companions were my mother, my wife, and my two little children: my six-year-old son Arshad and my younger daughter Sarah. At that time, only these two were born, and they filled our lives with innocent laughter and joy.
I had never before driven such a long distance on the Srinagar–Jammu National Highway. Those were the days when the road stretched endlessly through mountains and gorges, unlike today when multiple tunnels have shortened and smoothed the way. Naturally, I was hesitant about taking the wheel. But my wife wished that we should go in our own car, believing it would be more comfortable and enjoyable. I agreed.
On the morning of our departure, around 7 a.m., we locked the doors of Gilan House at Lalbazar and set off in my modest Alto 800. The rooftop carrier was heavily loaded with luggage, all tied securely with ropes. Inside the car, we carried smaller bags and, most importantly, a big flask of steaming noon chai to warm us on the cold highway.
I had made sure the car was in perfect shape. A day earlier, I had changed the engine oil and checked every detail. Before taking the new Srinagar–Jammu highway, I stopped at the Sonwar petrol pump and filled the tank to the brim. With everything checked and prepared, we finally set forth on our long road to Jammu.
The children were bubbling with excitement. Their curiosity and cheer filled the car with liveliness. Crossing Lower Munda Check Post, I spotted a few of my colleagues from the department busy checking vehicles. A Sub-Inspector who recognised me came forward with snacks, smiling warmly at the sight of me travelling with my family. At the check post, I also showed my family the office where I had once worked, along with the small government quarter where I had briefly lived.
We crossed the mighty Jawahar Tunnel and upon entering Jammu Province, I showed them the spot at Banihal where the old Toll Post once stood and the quarter where I had earlier stayed for a short spell. There we bought fruits, snacks, juices, and water bottles. At Ramban, instead of halting at the routine stops, we chose a refreshing patch of roadside greenery. Stepping out, we stretched our legs and under the winter sky enjoyed crispy parathas with hot noon chai. That simple pause in the open air became one of those timeless family moments etched in memory.
The drive was full of little joys. The children laughed merrily as they threw biscuits and peanuts to monkeys on the roadside. The way the animals scrambled for treats made them burst into unstoppable giggles. Whenever we passed waterfalls, they insisted I stop. I parked by the roadside, and there, with the sound of gushing water behind them, my children posed gleefully for photographs, their innocent smiles brighter than the falling streams.
By the time we approached Nashri, the sun had climbed higher and we were moving at full pace. And then, all of a sudden, it happened. My son Arshad cried out in alarm, his small voice sharper than any warning bell:
“Papa, our rooftop has fallen! I heard the sound and perhaps saw it dropping.”
Startled, I immediately pressed the brakes and stepped out of the car. To my utter shock, I saw that the rooftop carrier, heavily loaded with all our belongings, had indeed fallen a few meters behind. Clothes, bags, and blankets were still tied to it, but the entire carrier had collapsed onto the road. The nut-bolts had loosened somewhere along the way, sending it crashing down.
For a moment my heart sank at the sight. But then relief overwhelmed me. Alhamdulillah, the carrier had not hit another vehicle nor drifted into the deep gorge running alongside the highway. That moment could so easily have turned into a disaster, but mercy protected us.
By chance, a group of Kashmiri truck drivers were having lunch on the roadside nearby. Seeing my plight, they immediately rushed to help. Leaving their food behind, they untied the ropes, lifted the heavy carrier back onto the roof, tightened the bolts properly, and adjusted the luggage. Some bags were placed inside the dicky, while the rest were tied back securely on top. Their timely help was an act of brotherhood I can never forget.
Yet above all, I can never forget the wit and alertness of my son Arshad. At just six years of age, it was his sharp eyes and timely words that saved us from losing all our belongings. His little cry became the shield of our journey.
With the luggage secured again, we drove ahead peacefully. At Udhampur, we paused for a light refreshment — paneer pakoras, cold drinks, and hot tea. By around 2.30 p.m., we finally entered Jammu, the city of temples, our winter capital. Hungry and tired, we first went to a famous Kashmiri dhaba for lunch, where we relished Roganjosh, Yakhni, and rice.
Later, we roamed freely, Alhamdulillah, enjoying the winter sunshine, crisscrossing the newly built flyovers and ring roads, and carefully steering our small Alto through the crowded bazaars of Jammu. The children, still bubbling with excitement, turned every little halt into a memory.
That journey remains unforgettable, not just for the sunshine of Jammu, nor for the laughter of monkeys and waterfalls, but for one defining moment on the highway — when my six-year-old son, with his innocent wit and timely voice, saved the day.
Some memories are so sweet that they remain etched in my heart forever. I feel the joy of them whenever I recall those days — memories that will remain a part of my life until my last breath.
Syed Majid Gilani is a government officer by profession and a storyteller by passion. He writes about family values, moral wisdom, pain, real-life memories, and emotions. He can be reached at syedmajid6676@gmail.com
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