The painted wooden horse, bright red and cheerful, bobbed up and down on the grass. I debated whether to ride it, or to shoot the balloons instead. Pahalgam was so different from our dusty little town. The air was fresh and wild and smelling of pine and something else, something clean. Appa and Amma had promised me that tomorrow I’d take a gondola ride up the mountains. I was so excited I could hardly sleep last night.
CRACK!!!Suddenly a loud crack rang out in the still afternoon. It was not the sound of balloons popping. It was louder, more raw, and it caused the wooden horse to bounce. The joyful sounds of families enjoying their vacation around me faded into hushed confusion.
"What was that, Appa?" I asked, clutching his hand.
He gripped my hand tight, his face suddenly drawn with concern. "Just... firecrackers, maybe?"
But the loud sounds kept coming — not at all like firecrackers. They were followed by a sort of different sound — a deep, prolonged wail. People began fleeing, their faces twisted in panic. Amma huddled me against her, covering me with her body.
“Appa, I’m scared,” I whined, nestling my face in her sari.
He dragged us into a small shop, the owner desperately slamming down the metal shutters. He allowed us and a few other families to huddle inside with him. The noises outside became louder, more demanding. Then I heard shouting, and then, the terrifying thump-thump-thump of what Appa said were gunshots.
The shopkeeper, a kindly man with a worried face, kept repeating prayers underneath his breath. Children cried as parents did their best to calm them. I noticed a small girl, perhaps a year my junior, holding on to her mother, her eyes wide with terror. The time stretched, rich and weighted, like the smoky air that wafted in now through the cracks of the shutters. I jumped with each gunshot, all of me alive. I couldn’t figure out what was happening, why the lovely Pahalgam had become this horrific nightmare.
And finally, after forever, the whirling sound began to fade. The shopkeeper took an initial, careful look. "It... it feels like it’s over,” he said, his voice shaking.
He opened the shutters slowly. The scene outside was chaos. People were lying on the ground, some groaning, others motionless. Ambulances howled in the distance. Soldiers with guns hung around their shoulders walked the streets. The happy red horse was left behind, its painted eyes fixed on some unseen point.
Appa and Amma held me tighter than ever. We walked slowly through the rubble and dazed people. I saw a balloon, half-deflated, lying on the ground. It was a big, red heart. We didn't get our gondola ride. The next day we left Pahalgam, we were packed into a bus, silent and shaken. Back in our dusty town, the sun shone bright and hot. But even being home, I was not able to get the day out of my mind. I still hear the sharp cracking sounds in my dreams i still see the abandoned red horse. Pahalgam, a place I dreamed of, a place that promised mountains and magic, showed me something else altogether. The peace that I had relied on was clearly fragile and the fear of the unknown is ever-the-more strong. I grew certain after that day I would never be able to look at a red balloon, or a wooden horse, the same way again.
