A Night in Sopore (Based on a true event)

It was 9 at night when I had to go out to drop a relative home. Sopore lay in darkness, the kind that felt alive, silent, wet, and heavy with rain. The streets were empty except for the occasional glint of military patrols. Every step, every sound, seemed amplified in the thick night.

I jumped into my car and began to reverse when a sudden, crunching noise made my blood run cold. Something had gone under the tyre. At first, I ignored it, hoping it was nothing. But the sound grew, insistent, crawling into the edges of my nerves. I stepped out. The rain hit me like icy needles. One tyre was punctured.

I searched for a workshop. Everything was closed. The night pressed on me like a living thing, urging me to stay, but I could not. The streets carried stories of fear, gunmen, disappearances, terror that had gripped Kashmir for weeks. One wrong move, one slip, and everything could end.

After safely dropping my relative, I realized I had no choice. I pulled over near a cellular tower under a weak, lonely street lamp. My stomach sank. The towers were targets. The risk was immediate. Military vehicles passed by, their headlights slicing through the dark. For a moment, I froze. Then I got out.

The rain had turned relentless. I could feel it dripping into every inch of me. My hands trembled slightly as I jacked up the car. Thoughts raced. What if the tower gets attacked? What if gunfire erupts? Will I survive? Tales of people disappearing in the night haunted me. But I forced myself to focus.

Twenty minutes later, the tyre was changed. Every muscle ached, drenched, and cold. The night had not won. I had survived it, done what I thought impossible. Alone, in the dark, surrounded by danger, I had faced it and won.

Sliding back into the car, I drove home. The rain still fell. The darkness still loomed. But I had made it through the night.