HE CAME BACK TO ME, BUT FOR HOW LONG?

HE CAME BACK TO ME, BUT FOR HOW LONG?

They say the road to Anantnag takes thirty minutes, and we were still on the road of Qazigund, waiting for their signal, holding little Rehan in our arms. That morning, it stretched into a lifetime. The air inside the car was heavy, almost wet, with the smell of sweat and disinfectant from the oxygen case.


Rehan’s head rested against my arm, his breath shallow, lips dry. I shifted slightly so the seatbelt wouldn’t dig into his side, but he didn’t stir. He hadn’t opened his eyes in the last ten minutes. Ahead of us, the road was a wall of olive green. Soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, rifles slung low, their faces hidden behind dark glasses. The sun bounced off their boots, making it hard to look straight at them.


Beside me, Mammi, our house help who had been with us since before Rehan was born, kept murmuring something under her breath, maybe a prayer, maybe just my name repeated like a thread keeping her together. Her hands trembled as she reached for the bottle of water, but she didn’t drink. Through the open window, we could hear the voice of Rehan’s father Ali, firm at first. “Please, my son is sick. He needs the hospital. Just let us pass.” The soldier he spoke to didn’t blink. “Road closed. Pilgrimage today.” His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was flat, the kind that leaves no space for hope to grow.


Rehan’s body was warm against mine. Too warm. I pressed the back of my hand to his forehead. The fever hadn’t broken. I thought of the doctor’s words from the night before: His oxygen is dropping. Get him to Anantang without delay. Minutes passed like years. I kept glancing at the hospital bag on the floor, the oxygen mask coiled inside. I reached for it, and in that small motion, something shifted.


I knew that sound. The click of the oxygen case. My hands had opened it so many times these past months, it felt like part of me. I was in the front seat now, watching the soldier’s mouth move but not hearing the words anymore. All I could hear was the clock in my head: one minute, two minutes, three… each one stealing something from my son.


Ali tried again. “Sir, please. He’s only nine.” The soldier’s jaw tightened. “Wait. Orders are orders.” Behind us, the line of cars grew longer, engines rumbling, pilgrims in white scarves and backpacks leaning out of windows to see what was happening. No one stepped forward to speak for us. No one asked why a sick child had to wait so strangers could pass in comfort.


When the barrier finally moved, it was with a lazy wave of the hand, like brushing away dust. No one said sorry. We drove fast. I kept my eyes on Rehan’s chest, counting each rise and fall. In the hospital, they rushed him to the oxygen room. The doctor didn’t ask why we were late. Maybe he already knew.


Rehan is alive. But the road that day left something behind in me, something heavier than fear. Weeks later, when the fever was gone and his smile had returned, we drove that road again. The barricade was gone. The soldiers were gone. Only the dust remained, curling in the air like smoke from an unseen fire. Rehan looked out the window and asked, “Ammi, why did we stop here last time?”


I stared at the empty space where the soldiers had stood, their rifles catching the sun, their shadows long on the road. I thought of the minutes stolen from him, from me, from us. Minutes measured not in time but in breath. How can I tell my child that his life was once weighed against the comfort of strangers? Luckily, He came back to me that day, But for how long.

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