There was nothing in common between me and Salman Khan, nor between my father and Salim Khan. Yet, strangely enough, there was a parallel storyline—one of loyalty. Just like Shera stood by Salman, my father had his own unwavering aide: Ram Singh. Although Ram Singh wasn't officially on my father's payroll, his loyalty was unmatched. My cousin Burhan, with his playful twist on names, fondly called him Laam Shingh.

One vivid memory from my childhood takes me back to a bus journey. I was traveling with my cousin, our aunt, and a well-known Kashmiri artist, nicknamed Zoon, who happened to be on the same bus. In an outburst of innocent mischief, we called out, “Zoni, Ohud kati chui?” — meaning “Zoni, where is your Ohud?” The question, cryptic and embarrassing in tone, left both parties red-faced.
Another unforgettable moment happened in Jammu. One of my father’s subordinates, Girdarilal, was walking down the road. My cousin and I were leaning from the veranda on the first floor, when, driven by mischief, we shouted out: “Girdarilal nangai chai taal!” — loosely meaning “Girdarilal, you’re completely exposed today!” His reaction was instant—furious, red-faced, and full of rage.
Another unforgettable adventure took place in the courtyard of our ancestral home, which was our mini playground. One day, in the middle of our play, we found a matchbox and decided to light some dry wood stacked on the adjacent wall shared with our neighbor. What started as curiosity quickly spiraled out of control. The flames leapt high before we could even think of asking for help. We tried frantically to put it out, but the fire had its own plans.
That small ground was our universe. We imagined ourselves as cricket stars—usually Sachin Tendulkar—and played with such intensity that no windowpane of the four surrounding houses was spared, except, miraculously, the ones in our own home. When cricket wasn’t enough, we’d ride a big bicycle that belonged to our uncle. Armed with his name (and his pocket money), we’d rent video cassettes from the nearby shop, pretending to be little kings of our world.
And then there was the morning ritual. Before heading to work, our uncle would hand us a small pot and ask us to fetch fresh curd from the local shop. We always obeyed—sort of. On the way back, we made it a rule to taste it first, helping ourselves to a fair 20% share before it reached the breakfast table. Strangely enough, our uncle never questioned the quantity—or maybe he simply knew.
But perhaps our boldest (and most ill-advised) moment came the day we decided to fix the electricity. With no power in the house and no patience to wait, we opened the transformer ourselves to investigate. Sparks flew—literally. Both of us tried poking around, convinced we could solve the mystery. And just as the scheduled power returned, the transformer let out a grand farewell… and completely burnt out. That day, the entire house plunged into darkness—but we lit up the family history with yet another unforgettable tale.
And then comes the family legend—one that still draws laughter at gatherings. During our aunt’s wedding, around twenty four pieces of pastry were lovingly arranged in a traditional locked 'ganjeen' to be served to the guests. But when the moment of serving arrived, there was only one pastry left—and that too with a bite taken out of it. Whether it was curiosity, hunger, or just the irresistible pull of sweetness, no one knows. But the tale lives on, immortal in family lore, a reminder of how weddings may be remembered more for the missing pastries than the formalities.

Email:--------------------------sajad_08phd12@nitsri.ac.in