By Asma Majid
AS I opened my eyes to realize what had just happened, the street was in shambles. The car we were in had been crumpled by the accident and I couldn’t feel my limbs – only a sharp, unpleasant sensation tingling through wherever the blood flows. In my death throes, I was twitching and convulsing beyond endurance. A permanent cessation of all my vitals had begun. I waited with my heart racing and pounding, not knowing what would betide.
The world seemed split in two – one half-shrouded in a muffled, ghostly stillness, the other smeared in crimson chaos. I was numb, my mind torpid – a state where I could hardly realize that there were two of my friends sharing the space of the wreck under the pool of blood. My eyelids were stuck, my pupils refused to budge and see around.
Earlier that day, the school was full of whim and vigour. The authorities had arranged a special celebration on the occasion of Children’s Day – a sort of bal mela (children’s fair), and so all the children had arrived bright-eyed and bushy tailed to enjoy themselves in full swing. Vibrant stalls dotted the playground and the entire school campus was chock-a-block with laughing faces revelling in their innocence.
But for us – me and my friends, innocence was a bygone thing! We didn’t care for candy floss or ring toss. No, our world was bigger, faster, and louder. Our minds were already on the race!
The idea that speed was a sign of liberation was not unique to us. Numerous young people have wasted their lives chasing the same delusion throughout the valley.
Across Kashmir, overspeeding has become a growing menace, particularly among young drivers. A grim picture of catastrophe on the region’s roadways is painted by the rising number of traffic accidents in Jammu and Kashmir in 2024. As of October, 4,990 accidents have destroyed several lives, leaving 6,820 people injured and 703 dead. An eerie reminder of the delicate balance between progress and danger is the 394 accidents that claimed 43 premature lives, even in the busy urban centre of Srinagar.
The Thars were our pride. Three beasts, black and gleaming, lined up outside the school gates as if on parade. Parents cast disapproving glances, teachers muttered about rules, but no one dared to stop us.
“My Thar can smoke yours any day,” my friend had boasted, adjusting his aviator sunglasses.
“You wish!” another friend retorted, tossing his car keys with a cocky grin.
And me? I merely smiled, the quiet arrogance of someone who always wins. “We shall see.”
“Let’s race after this then” my friend had challenged, his voice dripping with confidence.
I laughed. “You’ll eat my dust.”
The plan was simple: finish the fair, hit the highway, and settle once and for all whose car reigned supreme.
The camaraderie of us friends bonded over one thing—our hunger for speed. We weren’t just friends; we were a cohort of rebels, living for the thrill of rebellion and revelled in our refusal to conform. Our parents’ wealth had given us power, but their indifference had given us freedom.
My friend had once boasted about his father pulling strings to “un-blacklist” his Thar. “Money talks,” he had said smugly.
We laughed then, invincible in our cocoon of privilege. How could we know that the same cars that we were so proud of would seal our fates? Our youthful exuberance made us dispel every warning and every incident happening around us pertaining to the allure of speed ending in tragedy.
On 5th November, four teenagers in Tengpora, on the outskirts of Srinagar met a dreadful accident, their high-speed race in an XUV concluding in tragedy. Witnesses described their car colliding with a divider at over 100 kilometers per hour.
And now, as I lay here in the mangled carcass of my Mahindra Thar, tethered to the wreckage by pain and regret, the world around me began to dissolve. Shadows crept into the edges of my vision, and suddenly, like a film projected on the back of my eyelids, my life began to play itself out in jagged, disjointed flashes. I tried to close my eyes, to escape the storm of memories, but they refused to stop. They pulled me under, forcing me to relive everything that I had taken for granted, each moment a dagger of realization piercing through the numbness.
My earliest memories are not of people or places but of things. The smooth weight of toys that were always replaced with better versions before their charm faded, the cold gleam of gadgets that promised distraction but no connection with those who bestowed me with them, the rustle of clothes ironed to perfection – a facade of order masking the chaos within.
My parents were the kind who mistook provision for parenting. They clothed me in abundance, sent me to a school whose elevated buildings and marble corridors echoed with promises of greatness and thus back home, filled my hands with every object of desire. To the world, my parents were paragons of responsibility, shining examples of how to raise a child in the lap of fortune.
I was barely six when I first threw a temper tantrum in the middle of the supermarket. It was when I had seen the biggest, most expensive remote-controlled car on the shelf of the appealing toy section and my mother had refused to buy that for me. I screamed, cried, kicked, and flailed while people around stared out at me. I sobbed uncontrollably and sought the toy from my father with tearful determination.
“Baba, I want that!”
With father, it was always easier. And thus, a moment later, without a pause or inquiry as to why I wanted it or what I would learn from it, I was holding the precious toy in my pink little palms.
My parents didn’t just buy me the car, they also taught me a lesson that day: yell loud enough, and the world will yield!
Looking back, I wonder—what if they had just let me cry and handle the deprivation on my own?
By the time I was ten, rules were more like polite suggestions in my house. Eat dinner? Sure, only if the fast food had left some space for it, because the idea of having the entire family gathered at the dinner table was never espoused. Finish homework? Yes, only if I wasn’t playing video games because the day had anyway been a tiring one for their scion. My parents, though kind in their own way, were always busy – too busy to notice the boy they were raising. Perhaps they too subscribed to the notion that children grow on their own, hardly realising that growth is physiological but development through the process requires careful watching and accretion of morals and values that do not spring out of nowhere.
Growing up this way had instilled in me a sense of liberty. I had always thought I was free – free to do whatever I want!
But now, with little time on my hands, I realize the truth of my freedom. I realize that my parents’ leniency was actually far from it; it was sheer neglect in the garb of love. They did love me, just like we love our limbs, and sometimes kiss them when they get scratched. Perhaps, they loved me more than I could ever imagine. But their love was misplaced. They bestowed their love in ways that smothered my growth instead of nurturing it.
And so, as a child, I had everything except limits. My father would mostly be away, owing to a business that swallowed his time. My mother, though physically present, was consumed by her own pre-occupations. She would endearingly call me ‘hero’ and I started believing I was one, that only to be ‘me’ was itself an achievement. So the catena of tantrums that had their origin in the supermarket continued with the end never in sight. Indubitably, they were met with compliance. When I asked for things, the answer was always “yes.”
On every exhibition of disobedience or indiscipline, my mother would offhandedly say, “Boys will be boys.”
That phrase became my armor. It laid the foundation of my unruly life, built on rampant indulgence and an unchecked arrogance which became more prominent in my personality as I grew into a reckless teenager, a trait which my grandmother equated with being ‘Rind-i’ (someone who enjoys life).
Whenever I was around her, she would softy chant in her age-tinged voice;
Rind-i poshi maal gindney draayi lolo
And,
Katyu chukh cze nundbane
And whenever I grumbled about these endless refrains she would lovingly say that it was all for me and that I was her ‘nund boon’(the apple of her eyes/ her beautiful one).
Hailing from a family like this, how could I possibly be admitted to an ordinary school? The school I attended took pride in producing achievers. They boasted of alumni who had gone on to lead companies, win awards, and change the world. But do achievements only boil down to making money? Because no one ever talked about the moral failures that sometimes came with such achievements.
The school was only a stage, and we were mere performers, taught to chase grades, awards, and accolades but never taught to question why! We were prepared to aspire for a life of affluence – a hollow, robotic and mechanical life, one which aimed at an opulent lifestyle sans inner fulfillment.
When I think of my teachers, I recall them delivering academic lectures, else their backs bent over desks while grading papers. But in all cases, I hear their voices droning about success but never about significance. No doubt we were polished and poised but at the same time, we were rendered delusional and utterly unmoored.
Our Moral Science classes were only meant for yet another subject to pass. We were hardly taught to think deeply about right and wrong and about the kind of people we were becoming. As such, when my friend cheated on his tests, we laughed it off and when he lied to the teacher, we admired his cleverness. Success was what mattered, not how we achieved it.
And just lately, our school even hosted a debate on morality, because what better way to promote critical thinking and articulate expression than a roomful of teenagers throwing around big words that they googled the night before and crammed with pre-planned gestures and actions, passionately arguing, as if the fate of ethics itself was at stake. Hardly connecting with the words that they uttered, the zestful lot, in reality, secretly hoped for extra credit or a shiny participation certificate to adorn their social-media handles. Surely, the moral fabric of society was refashioned that day!
Parents, including mine, believe that a prestigious school is the cornerstone of a virtuous upbringing. Yet these institutions, with their sprawling campuses and glittering accolades, are but factories of ambition, churning out young men and women who can conquer the world, yet are rendered bereft of the moral vision essential to traverse it.
Many elite schools in Jammu and Kashmir fail to address critical aspects of character development. A 2023 report from the National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT) found that while India’s elite schools produce high-achieving students, the curriculum often neglects crucial life skills, including responsibility, empathy, and the consequences of one’s actions.
But connecting the dots in a half-dead state, I can see my parents and school caught in the quagmire of a snobbish society, slavishly admiring social superiors and condescending towards others. There were merely marionettes lolling their heads back and forth as and when the society pulled their strings. And we, the younger generation, had become their reflections. We mimed their behaviour and were on the go to outdo them. Society also loved us because we had begun mirroring its follies and foibles. We were transforming into individuals that were bright and shiny but hollow. It cheered us when we succeeded, looked away when we faltered and shrugged when we fell. It told my parents they were doing well because I was dressed well, educated well, and entertained well. It told my school it was succeeding because its students went on to hold prestigious positions irrespective of their moral vacuity.
The societal glorification of wealth and privilege has also fueled reckless behaviour among Kashmiri youth. Reports reveal that in 2023, over 20% of road accidents in Jammu and Kashmir involved vehicles driven by teenagers, many of which were high-end models purchased by affluent parents. Activists argue that such indulgence, without responsibility, perpetuates a culture of impunity, endangering both drivers and the communities that they belong to.
As I lie here, contemplating my life in its final moments, the irony isn’t lost on me. My parents thought that they were giving me the world, but in giving so, what they withheld was greater and far more important.
They gave me the means to chase my desires, but not the wisdom to know which ones were worth pursuing. They filled my life with abundance but left my character impoverished. If only they had said “no” more often—no to indulgence, no to reckless freedom, noto the friends who led me astray. Society lied to them, but they followed its falsehoods without question and raised me accordingly.
If only they had taught me that love is not to be equated with material gains. Love is not a car, a house, or a school. It is about teaching the value of boundaries, having a candid conversation, imparting a lesson about the rights and wrongs of life. What I blindly enjoyed wasn’t real freedom, for freedom without accountability is perilous. Real freedom comes with discipline and with understanding the weight of one’s actions.
Yes, they did give me everything, but they didn’t give me what I needed the most—a sense of right and wrong, a respect for limits, and the courage to choose wisely.
But as my breath slows down, my hopes rise high. Perhaps my parents will change. Perhaps they will raise my siblings differently, teaching them the lessons I was never taught. Perhaps my story will reach others, sparing them the same fate. Or perhaps the world will move on a few days after biting their tongues in cathartic agony over my tragedy, until the next child pays the price of indulgence mistaken for love. But perhaps, in the shadows of my misfortune, some sagacious will emerge with the light of deeper understanding. Period!
Each year, over 700 young lives are lost on the roads of Jammu and Kashmir, owing to recklessness, overspeeding, and a culture that glorifies material freedom without accountability. The streets continue to echo with unanswered questions and unlearned lessons, while parents mourn, society blames, and the cycle continues.
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