I always thought Pahalgam was the happiest place in the world. It’s where my mom and I went a few years back — she called it mini-Switzerland. I remember the soft wind, the smell of pine trees, and the way the mountains looked like giants with white caps. She always said, “Shunain, remember this place. It reminds you that peace exists”.
But April 22, 2025, changed everything….
That day, Mom didn’t come home.
She’s a journalist — not the kind who sits in an office, but the kind who runs toward danger so others can know the truth. When the news came that terrorists had attacked tourists in Baisaran Valley, she grabbed her camera unit and press card. She called me after I came back from school and said, “I’ve left for Pahalgam. Be in touch with the Boss. I’ll be back soon.”
Boss is actually Mr. Manzar. He’s above 60, wears woollen sweaters and sits around the room heater even when it’s sunny, and is a foodie like me. He’s not my real grandfather, but he’s kind of everything when Mom’s not around. I call him “Boss” because that’s what everyone calls him, and I like the way it sounds.
That late afternoon, I sat with my cat, Angel, by the window in our small rented home, waiting.
Then along with Angel, I shifted to Boss’s place, which is just a few steps from mine. Hours passed. I kept hoping Mom would come back — it was too late already. I told Boss, but he just looked at his computer, though clearly worried for her, and said, “She’ll be fine. Your mother’s a brave one.”
But the news on TV was not fine. It was full of flashing red banners:
BREAKING: TERROR ATTACK IN PAHALGAM’S BAISARAN VALLEY. 26 DEAD, MANY INJURED.
They were families, like us. Kids who probably asked for candy on the pony rides. Couples holding hands. Just people who wanted to take photos and make memories. Boss turned the volume down, but I’d already seen enough. The worst part? There were no security forces when the shooting started. None. The attackers just came out of nowhere and opened fire. Like monsters from a storybook — except real.
Mom called late that night. She sounded tired — her voice cracked when she spoke. “Shunain,” she said, “I saw things today I’ll never forget. I’m so sorry I’m not home. But I have to stay here. People need to know what happened, and I have to report.”
I wanted to tell her I needed her too. But I didn’t.
Boss sat with me on the single bed. We watched the news on his computer. “You know, kid,” he said, “this land has seen pain before. But it has a strange habit of healing.”
I didn’t sleep much that night. I kept thinking of the little boy who might’ve been riding a horse when the gunshots started. I thought about someone calling out for their mom. And I kept waiting for another call from Mom.
The next morning, I saw her on TV. Hair messy, voice firm, and clothes a little dirty. She was standing near the army and police cordon, reporting live. She said the attackers were still being searched for. That police had finally sealed the area. That the wounded had been flown to Srinagar. And that this place — this mini-Switzerland had been stained with something no snowfall could cover.
She looked strong. But I could tell she had cried.
Since that day, everything feels different. Tourists stopped coming. Our neighbour, who runs a tea shop, said he might shut it down. There’s not only a loss to the economy, but lives were lost too. Since that day, people talk more about the Pahalgam incident than any other.
Everyone says they’re going to “tighten security” and “bring the attackers to justice.” But I’m just a kid. I don’t know what any of that really means. All I know is that innocent people died. And my mom had to tell the world about it while I stayed home, sometimes with her, and sometimes waiting when she’s out reporting — holding Boss’s hand.
Someday, I’ll go to Baisaran again. Maybe when the flowers grow back and the laughter returns. Maybe with Mom, maybe with Boss and our big gang — like Pinky Uncle, Jeela Uncle, Iqbal Uncle, and Shameem Mammu. I’ll take a photo — like we used to. To remind myself that even after darkness, light finds a way back.
-The writer is student of 7th class.
