This summer, I saw a story unfold before my eyes that would be worthy of a Bollywood movie - you know the kind that show the pain and suffering of families split across borders.
I was on holiday, travelling from Kutan to Shardah in Azad Jammu & Kashmir with some family members. We stopped in Keran Resthouse for tea. It was one of those spots where India and Pakistan are separated by merely a river. I was really enjoying standing on the riverbank, taking photos and chitchatting with my cousins. We strolled up the riverbank, to a spot where the river curved slightly.
There, we saw three men sitting on a rock and looking at the houses at the riverbank across the river. A few minutes later, we saw some people on the Indian side, waving their hands. We assumed this was just a friendly gesture and did the same. We were actually excited to be waving to people from our neighbouring country. But this turned out to me more than just a friendly exchange between neighbours.
A man standing nearby told us that the three men sitting on the Pakistani side were actually relatives of the people waving from the other side. Amazed to hear this, I talked to one of the men on the rock. He told me that his family had migrated to the Pakistani side after the riots and civil war in Indian administered Kashmir at the end of the 1980s.
His name was Bakhtiyar Khan, and he lived at Muhajir Camp, Karka, in Pattika, Muzaffarabad. He and his family had travelled by road for about five hours just to sit at the riverbank and be able to see their family - their sisters and cousins.
Just two days ago, an aunt had died on the other side and they wanted to pray for her with their family. Before departing from Muzaffarabad, they had called their family on the Indian side, and told them they would be coming to Keran. Soon after they arrived, their family saw them from the house across the river, and came to the riverbank.
Imagine the situation - a family praying for a lost loved one, but separated from the rest of their clan by about a hundred meters of fast-flowing water crashing and foaming over rocks, so noisy that no human voice can reach the other side, making communication impossible. I had tears in my eyes, seeing them sitting on that rock for two hours and just staring at each other, sisters and brothers unable to meet or speak to each other.
Had there been a way for these two broken parts of a family to meet up on the border or a bridge - even under military supervision - their lives would be much more peaceful, and they would have been spared much pain and anguish.
Just six kilometres away there is a bridge where residents of both sides of Kashmir are allowed to meet under military supervision but this facility is only for those who migrated in and around 1948.
For those who migrated later, there are no options. The migrants of 1980s and 1990s have been suffering for more than 20 years and will continue to suffer. The Pakistani and Indian governments have fought or maintained hostile relations for over 60 years and thousands of people have paid the price. Some are still paying it.
I could have dramatised this story, but it is as true and important as it is in simple words. I didn't write it to make readers melancholic, but to be supportive of divided families, and to urge those with the power and capability to please do something for them, if not as Pakistanis or Indians then as being human beings