THE PERSIAN AND THE MAGIC OF KASHMIR

May 2025 BBC News pulled me back to a reckless night of passion at age14 in Kashmir

It was early May 2025,.
Pakistan and India were at war again. In the magical town of Kashmir - 26 Hindu tourists were killed .
Listening to the BBC news, detailing the massacre.
A flash-back of me at,,,,,,, 14 yrs old……dangerously wild with no self-control.

This story offers a glimpse into how I was shaped into the woman I am today.
At the time, the Thai Embassy and Ambassador’s residence was officially stationed in Karachi, but my father, was often working up north in Rawalpindi. He was supervising a Punjabi contractor commissioned, to build the Embassy in the newly planned national capital, Islamabad.
Situated over 1,400 kilometers north of Karachi, Islamabad was the brainchild of Military President Ayub Khan. The city was envisioned to be the administrative counterpart to Rawalpindi, which housed the Army Headquarters. While Islamabad symbolized the seat of government, Rawalpindi held strategic importance, watching over the border drawn by Lord Mountbatten, the last Viceroy of India.

My father, ever meticulous, even entertained the possibility of replicating the U.S. Embassy’s rumoured ten-mile underground passage—a secret route connecting its compound to the main road to Lahore, designed for emergency escape.

My mother, often drained and weary from what we later learned was Parkinson’s Disease, would retreat to rest whenever she could. I made sure she was cared for—tucked into our hotel suite, attended by a gentle-handed masseuse—before slipping away into my own unfolding story.

Kashmir, that fabled ‘Paradise on Earth,’ shimmered before me like a dream too vivid to ignore. And at the centre of it all, stood him—this tall, green-eyed son of the Persian Ambassador. He was six years older, worldly in ways that both thrilled and unnerved me. His presence stirred something primal, with an overwhelming desire.

I was headstrong, spoiled, and brimming with the reckless energy of youth—my hormones raging like Mount Vesuvius ready to blow. I mistook the fire inside for love.

It was not love. It was pure lust—raw, intoxicating, with no restraint, resulting in possible rape and the certainty of death.

That brief escape, that breathless pursuit of something forbidden, would later reveal itself as more than just a fleeting tryst. It was a turning point. I had flirted with the edge of darkness, lost myself in the recklessness that hunger overtook. Yet, the universe. protected me. for unknown. reason..

The Embassy chauffeur dismissed, the Persian took over the wheel. Thai flag flying, protecting us, indicating we were from another country. For India and Pakistan were at war over Kashmir. This enchanting city with intense euphoric charm that equaled the uncontrolled passion encompassing both of us.

The thrill and craving lasted until just before dawn. The view outside captured the tips of the Himalaya range. On the inside, peeking through ceiling-to-floor windows, the four-poster-bed covered in a colourful blanket with matching cushions did not.hide underneath the tangled frantic movements throughout the night.

The word of our escapade found its way to Rawalpindi.
Scared of the consequence, we returned physically unharmed, ready for the lashing of words, the admonishing with shame.
My father didn’t yell. There were no harsh words, no dramatic punishments. Just one quiet, cutting truth:

He spoke with a soft but stern voice:
“When a very expensive gift is given too easily, its value is lost forever—and no matter what you do, it can never be reclaimed.”

As punishment for all—Mother’s trembling illness, Persian pride, and Father’s cold disapproval—I bore my sentence in silence with shame and humiliation. We purposely didn’t fly back. Father insisted on driving the thirteen long hours to Karachi. Each mile thick with unspoken embarrassment.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t scold.

His silence was the reprimand—an austere performance of restraint, a mirror held steady, to reflect the reckless teenager I had become.
There was no fire, no fury—only a stillness more cutting than rage.
It was his way of teaching me the cost of desire.

How to wait. How to hold back. How to want,without losing oneself.

A lesson in longing, delivered with the poise of diplomacy and with the weight of legacy.



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