All is not well with Kashmir. It is the highest militarised region of the world, has the highest battlefield in the world, was hit by a massive earthquake and has people falling to stray bullets each day.
Stray bullets I say because the common man on the road is falling prey to bullets he never wanted to see in his land. He sees the military and militants, as the same end of the same coin: men with guns. He thinks different than the people of India and Pakistan. The armed forces are not there for his protection, the militants are not there to liberate him from the unholy hand. Both of these 'gun boys' are there to make his life a living hell, a suffocating walk to his death. He thinks of his life as a mistaken creation by the Almighty. Mistaken because he is just a puppet whose strings are controlled by the big powers and policy makers of India and Pakistan.
The guns and the peace that rattles between India and Pakistan are the same for him. He sees and feels no difference between the two. A dove looks no more peaceful than a gun. He is tired and sick of all that his fate has in store.
He submitted to the first foreign invader, Akbar, who made thousands of Kashmiris construct a road so that Akbar could come to Kashmir.
He looks up. His eyes are empty. He puts his hands towards the heaven and no respite comes from the Almighty. He is not sad, because he feels that all that is happening is because of his sins. He waits for salvation just the way an injured deer does in front of an hungry tiger.
Will fate be generous with him. He does not know. What he does know is that Almighty is Most Gracious.