In just a few hours Imran will be hanged.  Yet in whatever remaining time he had left he spent it along the prison window basking in the gentle breeze of the late summer. From his view he could appreciate how the outside world continued as if nothing had happened or changed. The summer tourists were still abundant, and he watched them with wonder as they toured the town below. One particular family had caught his eye. They appeared to be British tourists boarding a Victorian Houseboat on the waters of the Dal in the visible distance. One member was a middle-aged gentleman with a brown mustache and beard. He was dressed in a dark suit and black hat and accompanied by a young lady wearing a white evening summer dress.  She was holding hands with a young girl of about age seven. It seemed to be a quaint yet close knit family, and even from where he was Imran could feel their aura of excitement as they were visiting what to them was a foreign land.  Imran also spent his time gazing at the locals of the town carrying on their daily business. It was the regularity of their routine which caught his attention. There were groups of vendors selling all sorts of items such as recently woven Pashmina shawls or various art and handicrafts.  They spent the day greeting potential buyers, wooing them with fabulous bargains and displaying their items as masterpieces. Yet as the sun began to set, the vendors quickly adapted, carefully folding the shawls that were not sold for the day into boxes and then loading these boxes onto a horse-carrying wagon. Meanwhile, there were still a scattered few young children running and playing carefree along the side streets, where stray dogs scavenged the ground for any left over food from the day. All of this was the regular routine of the world outside and a memory of a life long gone.

The hustle and bustle of the early afternoon had calmed down, yet Imran stayed as close as he could to the window until the last breeze settled.  He then directed his eyes toward the setting sun along the distant Himalayan Mountains. As the sunshine gradually faded, the sparkles that had illuminated the snow-capped majestic peaks began to subside. He waited until the sun was now completely set and darkness permeated the sky. Imran left his perch along the windowsill and made his way to his unmade yet sturdy cot, taking each step with considerable effort and pain.  He then propped his head onto what was left of a small feather pillow and draped a long white shawl close to him. The temperature in the room cooled as he stretched out his legs and made himself comfortable.  He pulled out his copy of the Qu'ran and recited his favorite verses that were part of his daily ritual. These were verses that even now gave him hope and comfort for a better life to come. Soon afterwards he placed the Qu'ran alongside him and then closed his eyes. 

Minutes later he heard a sound. It was the familiar clucking sound he was so accustomed to hearing.  He opened his eyes and noticed that a metal tray with a piece of bread and a glass of water was placed in his cell. His stomach was aching for food, yet he neither had the appetite nor the energy to wake up and eat.  It would just be moments before they would wake him up and take him away.  He closed his eyes again and soon he was fast asleep. Within moments he was dreaming as images flashed in his mind from years passed and present: his mother and father holding him as a baby, frigid winter months in the Valley when he held as close as possible to the fire, his studies in college and medical school, the late night rallies and meetings, the protests against the Indian army, the loud slogans he used to shout such as Mera Kashmir and  Azaadi.  As his sleep deepened he begin to dream himself being cast into the deep and frigid winter in the Valley amidst a heavy shower of snow under a cloudy sky.  There was white all around him with complete silence and not a person or being in sight. It was peaceful.