By Javaid Jawad
Some memories never lose their fragrance; they linger quietly in the heart, waiting for a moment to bloom again. One such memory from my childhood takes me back to a crowded day at Gulshan Chowk, Bandipora.
Farooq Abdullah was expected to visit Bandipora to address a grand public gathering. The entire town seemed to have poured into the chowk, overflowing with excitement and hope. But as time stretched and the leader did not arrive, the restless murmurs grew louder. I stood among the crowd — a curious young boy — watching faces lit with anticipation, hearing chants rise and fade in the crisp air of Bandipora.
To calm the gathering, a man named Sharief-ud-Din Shariq was invited to speak. He began in Kashmiri, his voice rich and confident, and soon wove a spell of words around the life and legacy of Abdul Gani Lone. What began as a substitute speech turned into a captivating performance. His wit sparkled, his anecdotes drew laughter, and his warmth connected instantly with the people. The crowd that had grown impatient now hung on his every word. Even as a child, I could sense something extraordinary — the power of words to soothe, to unite, to awaken.
Years rolled by. Life took its own course. Then, last Sunday, I found myself listening to Mr. Shariq once again, this time at a book release function in Srinagar. The once-energetic orator now appeared frail and gentle, yet the familiar spark still danced in his eyes. He spoke briefly, but his anecdotes once again filled the hall with laughter and applause.
In that moment, time folded back on itself. I was once again the boy at Gulshan Chowk, watching this man hold an audience spellbound. The faces were different, the place had changed, but the magic of his voice — and the memory it carried — remained the same.
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