Poonch:
Poonch, cradled in a valley and embraced by hills, us caught in the crossfire of hate. The hills here don’t just rise – they loom. And from those heights in Pakistan-Occupied Kashmir (PoK) terror rains down. The strategic advantage isn’t just military – it’s psychological. Every blast feels like it’s echoing off three walls of a trap. The sky glows not with stars but with fire. The air doesn’t carry breeze – it carries the fear of the next round.
For two nights, Poonch hasn’t slept.
I walk through streets where people whisper memories louder than their voices. Japneet’s tears speak of a childhood bombed out. Her father Amrik Singh, a former soldier, a ragi at the gurdwara, now just a memory – blown away in a place they visited for peace.
Her voice breaks, “My father wanted me to become a doctor… but what now?”
What do I say to her?
My daughter too is in Class 11. I see her eyes in Japneet’s pain. I carry my mic, but my throat tightens. What do I report – grief, or the guilt of surviving?
Syndicate Chowk is riddled. Shutters are perforated like paper. Doors wear the ugly fingerprints of Pakistani shells. In Balbir’s story, bullets tore through his elder brother like raindrops on tin. They poured water on him, not knowing he had already become a name for a gravestone.
At Shri Guru Singh Sabha Gurdwara, harmoniums and tablas wait-silent instruments once echoing with shabad.
Now they mourn their ragi-Amrik Singh. The hole in the AC unit tells its own story. First the Bhairo temple was targeted, and then, without pause, the shell came here.
In another lane, Gurmeet Kaur shows me shrapnel-heavy, sharp, and unapologetic. It cracked her home, her peace, her sleep. Her blanket lies undisturbed, like someone ran from a nightmare mid-dream. Her gas stove is tilted, testimony to meals left unfinished, days suspended.
Mohammad Hafiz takes me into his burnt store room-where 17 people once shared joy, now they share trauma. His words are heavy: “They didn’t spare the temple, nor the mosque, nor the Gurudwara… this isn’t about religion-it’s about destroying India.”
And yet, his neighbour, Niranjan Singh, was the first to run over, asking, “Are you okay?”
This is the India we still breathe in Poonch. Amid flying metal and broken hearts-humanity is the last thing standing.
As Operation Sindoor unfolds across the LoC, Pakistan’s mortars answer – not with courage but with cowardice. This is the worst shelling Poonch has seen since independence. Not even 1965 or 1971 brought such fire. Streets are locked, shops abandoned, homes evacuated.
People are fleeing. With children in arms and tears in eyes, they take whatever ride they can find.
Khalil Ahmed, clutching his son, whispers, “We are going to my father-in-law’s place… May Allah protect Hindustan.”
And I carry this notebook and this camera, but also a lump in my throat. Because no matter what the script, the real stories are carved in loss. Poonch bleeds, yet breathes. Bombs fall, but hope still flickers.
Even as the border burns, people here light the lamp of resilience. And I, a reporter, stand witness-not just to war, but to the will to live.
