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On the way to Kashmir, we passed through the state of Punjab, where the terrain is less rugged and the landscape is dotted with sprouts of corn and wheat. As we made our way to a temple in Katas Raj, a place of great historical and religious significance to the Hindu minority that remains in the country, I saw a group of children gathered around a small cart, buying what looked like roasted ears of corn. They seemed like they were having a great time but my gaze fell on a little boy, seemingly the eldest of the group, who was standing on the periphery. His eyes never left the cart as the vendor scooped up roasted kernels and handed them out to the children. Clearly, he couldn’t afford to buy any. I know that feeling of wanting something desperately but knowing that I couldn’t afford it. I would watch Doraemon cartoons where Nobita and his friends would spend their afternoons at the local candy store, making the headphone-wearing robot buy them caramels and lollipops. I always felt jealous of them while we were the ones who were always reduced to just one ice cream a month and that too only if we behaved well and finished our dinner.<br><br>My eyes were still stuck on the little boy’s face when we stopped at a traffic light. I looked at my father and slumped my shoulders. “I feel sorry for this young boy,” I said. “Maybe he’s poor and can’t buy any corn. But he’s still here with his friends.” My father didn’t say anything, but I knew from his silence that he was comfortable putting the weight of the world on my shoulders, that he expected me to do something about it, that maybe he too felt sorry for the boy and felt powerless as I did. But, I don’t know, I’m not sure, if I was comforted by his silence.