Tags:
Journalism of Courage
Hostile is the word. The road to Surankote in Poonch was deceptively welcoming when we started from Jammu with the dense fog smoothing out the rough edges. But no sooner did we cross Akhnoor than it lay bare its inhospitable tracts shorn of macadam.
The eight-hour drive to Surankote was agonising alright, what with the Indica moaning without a pause and the driver griping away. I really didn8217;t think we would make it. But the valiant car soldiered on, inspired perhaps by the men in olive and their giant vehicles that lumbered past.
The warmth continued to cushion our way back. At Surankote, the shopkeepers thanked us for just being there. The Gambhir Gali, which had seemed so forbidding, turned welcoming when the turbaned havaldar at the post offered us tea and advice. 8216;8216;Don8217;t worry, you can drive all night once you cross Rajouri, jo hona hai hoyega,8217;8217; he waved away our fears of blasts and ambushes.
The dhaba-owner at Sundarbani was aghast when we sought the bill. 8216;8216;But you are my guests,8217;8217; he protested before offering us a roof for the night. 8216;8216;Why risk a mishap,8217;8217; he argued.
We wrenched ourselves away and drove on, to find Akhnoor8217;s Jhelum Bridge closed. 8216;8216;Only emergencies allowed,8217;8217; said the soldiers. So we melted them with one 8212; an early morning flight 8212; and got back on the bumpy road.
Today, a week on, all I can remember is the warmth. That lovely feeling which makes Surankote a road worth taking.
