The grocery store at the heart of the Mohalla was a bustling hub of activity. Gulzar Ahmad, locally known as Gul Maam, the shopkeeper, was a man who prided himself on knowing every family's needs. He was quick with a smile and even quicker with a plastic bag. To him, the thin, crinkling film was the ultimate tool of his trade, it was cheap, it was clean, and it made his customers happy.
I entered the shop; my notebook tucked under my arm. I watched as a woman bought a single pack of salt. Without a word, Gul Maam reached under the counter, snapped open a small yellow bag, and dropped the salt inside. The transaction took three seconds. The bag would be used for three minutes. It would last for three centuries.
“Gul Maam, may I speak with you?” I asked when the shop cleared. Gul Maam grinned, leaning over the counter. “Always time for you, dear son. What do you need? More eggs? I have a fresh batch, very large.” “I want to talk about the bags, Gul Maam” I said, placing my notebook on the counter. “I have been counting. In my house alone, we take nearly five of these every day. That is eighteen hundred a year. From your shop, you must give out thousands every week.
Gul Maam 's smile faltered slightly. “It is what the people want, dear son. They come in with nothing in their hands. They want to carry their things home easily. If I don't give them a bag, they go to the next shop or the shop in the next village. It is the way of the world now.”
“But look at the cost, Gul Maam” I said, opening my notebook to the diagrams of the lake and the paddy fields. “The bags don't go away. They are clogging the canals. They are killing the fish in our Wullar. They are breaking down into poison in our soil. You are a man of this village. You see the filth in the ditches.”
Gul Maam sighed, a sound of genuine conflict. “I see it, son. I am not blind. But I am a businessman. A plastic bag costs me almost nothing. A paper bag is five times the price and breaks if the vegetables are damp. A cloth bag? No one wants to pay for those. Convenience is king here. People are busy. They want speed. They want to get their roti and get home to their families.”
“Speed is killing us” I said, my voice low and intense. “We are trading our future for five minutes of ease. What if we started a movement? What if the Mohalla agreed to bring their own bags? You could stop buying the plastic from the town market, and the money you save could go into something else.”
“lt won't work” Gul Maam said, shaking his head. “The people are lazy. They will complain. They will say I am being stingy. You are a student, my son. You think in theories. I think about customers. If I stop the bags today, I will lose my business tomorrow.” I felt a wave of frustration. This was the wall he had feared – the wall of economic pragmatism. To Gul Maam, the environmental disaster was a distant problem, while the loss of a customer was an
immediate crisis. The logic of the market was at odds with the logic of the earth.
I looked around the shop. It was a cathedral of plastic. Everything was wrapped, sealed, or contained in synthetic material. The convenience was undeniable, but so was the cost. I saw a young boy, Javid, come in and buy a single piece of candy. Gul Maam gave him a tiny plastic bag for it. “Even for a single sweet, Gul Maam?” I asked. Gul Maam looked at the bag in the boy's hand and then back at me. For a moment, a flicker of shame crossed his face. “It is now a habit. I don't even think about it anymore. My hand just reaches for them.”
“That is exactly the problem” I said. “I am sorry, but it is a mindless habit. And we have to start thinking again. We have to wake up before the whole valley is a landfill. I am not asking you to go bankrupt. I am asking you to help me change this small habit.”
I proposed a small step, a 'No-Bag Day' once a week. Or perhaps a small discount for those who brought their own containers. Gul Maam looked thoughtful, but the fear of losing his edge in the competitive market was still visible in his eyes. “I will think about it” Gul Maam said finally. “But don't expect miracles, son. People like their rotis warm and their hands empty.”
I left the shop, the sound of the plastic bags rustling behind me like a mocking whisper. I realized that logic and data were not enough. I had to touch something deeper. I had to make the people feel the loss of their land as a personal tragedy, not just a scientific fact.
The upcoming festival was approaching, a time of massive consumption and even more massive waste. I knew that during the festival, the plastic count would triple. If I was going to make a stand, it had to be now. I had to show the village what a ‘Festival of Waste’' really looked like. As I walked home, I saw a plastic bag caught in a bramble bush, its thin skin torn and flapping in the wind. It looked like a white flag, but I wasn’t ready to surrender. I was just beginning to realize that the merchant of convenience was not our enemy, the enemy was the silence that allowed the habit to continue.
I confront the local shopkeeper about the excessive use of plastic bags but meet the wall of economic convenience. The upcoming festival will soon provide a dramatic stage for the escalating waste crisis.

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