When life was cinema

I was born on a summer day in Srinagar, in August 1979. It was the day when the air in the city carried both heat and festivity, especially because it was also the month of Ramazan.

The hospital stood close to Dal Lake, and they say the view from the second floor made the place feel more like a retreat than a medical facility.

My family lived nearby, within walking distance. I like to think that when I opened my eyes, I may have seen a hint of that lake shimmer through the window.

My father was in administration. He was the man who believed in rules, and was respected by those who feared wasting time. My mother worked in the Education Department. Both of them took their work seriously. My father especially seemed carved out of purpose.

He was someone who didn’t raise his voice often, but when he did, the walls listened. Yet when it came to his children, something softened.

I grew up between two homes: the ancestral one and the government quarters. The ancestral house leaned into the Jhelum River on one side and looked across to the noisy, fragrant lanes of Nawa Bazar on the other.

The market was a world unto itself. It had its own rhythm, and its own set of stars. Men like Ali Puj, Hassan Gor, and Nab Sabin ran shops that drew customers as politicians draw crowds. Their shops weren’t just storefronts. They were gathering spots, stories-in-progress. Locals called them pend, and those early memories are tangled with the smells of fried bread, the sound of gossip, and the slow stretch of a lazy afternoon.

We were a big family. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins all lived together. One of my uncles, always full of life, worked at the State Secretariat. He rode a bike that should’ve retired years ago. Still, it took us to Mughal Gardens, Shalimar, Dachigam, and sometimes just to nowhere in particular. We rode for the sake of motion.

I went to New Era Public School with my younger cousin. It stood in a well-off part of the city, and even though the fee structure — ₹250 for tuition, ₹100 for the bus — was reasonable back then, it meant something to our parents. They made sure to keep up with our progress, often showing up without warning.

My father would bring his friends along, and we’d find out later they’d spoken to our teachers. His method of parenting leaned toward silent scrutiny rather than open praise.

He was the first teacher I ever had. He loved literature deeply: Shakespeare, Dickens, Wordsworth. He had studied English literature in college and treated it not like a subject, but like a way of seeing.

We didn’t just read newspaper editorials, we talked about them, questioned them, and were asked to explain them in our own words. He dictated passages, and while my brother absorbed them like a sponge, I drifted. My attention was drawn toward open fields, sports, and stories that didn’t always come with structured endings.

Still, he never gave up. He took me to watch an English film at Regal Cinema. The story didn’t make sense to me right away, so he whispered the plot as we watched.
During intermission, we sat on cane chairs, sipping coffee and sharing popcorn with his colleagues. For a boy used to being scolded for unfinished homework, that outing felt like a truce.

Our weekends were claimed by games: cricket, carrom, badminton. The boys from different mohallas would gather near Zero Bridge. We’d walk there, teasing each other, forming a line of noisy schoolbags and laughter. Some days we lingered too long and missed our bus. Those walks home felt eternal and adventurous.
As uncles began their own families, our joint household scattered. We moved into new government quarters near my father’s office. High-rise buildings, a larger playground, and elevators that creaked like old doors. We missed our old neighbours and the market life, but the new place had its own rhythm.

People from different castes and religions lived side by side, exchanging food during Eid and Diwali. Ram Singh, my father’s subordinate, lived below us. He helped with shopping, carried messages, and even convinced the local butcher to give us the better meat cuts. Mutton sold at ₹45 per kilogram then. It was a price we still remember more fondly than the meat itself.
My health was fragile. I visited hospitals more than parks. I once saw Dr. Ali Mohammad Jan, the renowned physician of Lal Chowk. His reputation preceded him, yet his manner was calm. He didn’t rush. He looked into my eyes, felt my pulse, asked questions like he was learning a story. He scribbled a prescription: Sodafed, Vi Magna, a vitamin shot. Then he said, “You’re fine. No need to come again.”
That sentence stayed with me longer than the medicines did.

Winters took me to Jammu, where I stayed with my uncle’s family. Sometimes I flew there alone. My uncle, who worked in the Secretariat, arranged my travel.

One time, I visited the Chief Minister’s office for help with a ticket. A uniformed man walked me to Satwari Airport. I remember the nearby shrine, the trees leaning toward the tarmac, and the nervous pride of flying solo at age nine.

When my father neared retirement, we built a house in Bathindi. Legal issues over land dragged on for years. A court ruling finally gave us the green signal. A contractor from Bengal came with his men. They worked through frost and heat, and finally, we had a home we could call our own.

Back in school, I liked math. Teachers liked me too. Though I often missed classes, mainly because I depended on my elder brother to take me, once I was there, I followed rules. The principal, known for her stern manner, took a liking to me. There were bullies, as there always are, but my brother’s friends made sure I was never hurt twice.

In eighth grade, I surprised everyone. I topped the exams. The class toppers looked stunned. Some whispered behind my back. Our English teacher, the principal’s daughter, once asked us to write a long letter, four or five pages. I asked my brother to help, and we wrote one that even surprised me. She sent it to her father and later nominated me for a school award. That changed something.

I realized I wasn’t drifting. I was discovering.

Now when I pass by the market lanes or hear the hum of Zero Bridge buses, those memories don’t feel far away. They are stitched into the way I speak, the words I choose, and how I understand the world.

My childhood, like Srinagar itself, was full of contradictions: warmth layered with worry, tradition bumping against change.

Yet it all made sense then. And somehow, it still does.

Dr. Sajad Hussain Deen
sajad_08phd12@nitsri.ac.in