Dear Ammi,
Tohe chhov haz var peath? How have you been? 

It has already been three weeks since I came here. How time whizzes past!
Doctors say I have made progress, that I should stay for a few more weeks. I don’t know where I will go after that. Wish I could come home to you, ammi.
My room here is fairly big. I have a fluffy white bed, pillows as soft as wool, a drawer to put my belongings in and a huge table by the window. Sometimes I sit at the table to just stare at the ice-capped mountains outside. They remind me of home.
I must say, these mountains are slightly different though. Peaks in Kashmir are closer to earth than to heaven. We look to them for comfort, when blood flows on the streets outside. In those times, the mountains remind us that we are all travellers in the vehicle of time. That they have witnessed the struggles of thousands before us and will see thousands more after us. Every time Kashmir writhes in pain, the snowy mountains embrace the valley as if to say this too shall pass. 

The summit outside my window is cold, dispassionate. After all, Switzerland was shielded from as dreadful an occurrence as World War II! The Alps don’t understand depravation or destruction. Sometimes, I envy these lands and its people. Do they have a copyright on peace and prosperity? But then I remind myself that they will never experience the compassion of mountains, like we do.

Glenn, the elderly gentleman from the organisation that is paying for my treatment, visits often. He always brings pen drives full of songs for me to listen to.
But, ammi, I am scared to shove the pen drive into my computer. Songs depress me. If the singer is good, I tear up knowing I will never be able to sing again. If the singer is bad, I tear up wondering how I used to be so much better.
Would it not have been better, ammi, if Allah had taken away my ability to hear when he took away my power of speech?

Once, while having tea, I gestured to Glenn that I didn’t want to sing again. He assured me I will feel differently when I get better. 

I remember when I returned from school in the evenings, threw my books on the floor cushion and sat down to listen to Punjabi songs on the radio. You never tired of scolding me. ‘Will you eat something or stuff yourself with those songs!’ you used to say.