It was a calm winter morning in Quetta, which was covered in a soft blanket of snow. The mighty Chiltan Mountains stood tall in the distance, their peaks glowing under the golden light of the rising sun.

The narrow streets were quieter than usual, with only a few vendors setting up their stalls; it was still early so there were hardly any people in the streets. Smoke rose from roadside tea stalls, mixing with the crisp, cold air, filling it with the rich aroma of tea and freshly baked naan.

Nineteen-year-old Yasir sat on the charpai in the courtyard, wrapped in his father’s thick Balochi shawl. His mother sat beside him, following her daily practice of stitching colourful patterns onto a Balochi dress after breakfast, while the traditional coal stove between them crackled, spreading warmth in the cold morning.

“Ammi,” Yasir said after a moment, his voice deep, “I got a call yesterday.”

She stopped stitching and looked at him. “What call, beta?”

“The university in Lahore. They accepted me for a degree in English Literature. I have to leave in two days to confirm my admissions.”

Ammi’s hands rested on her lap as she took a deep breath. “So, it’s time,” she said, her voice soft.

“Yes, Ammi,” Yasir said. “You know how much I love books. This is my chance to study, to write, to bring the stories of Quetta to the world. And besides GC University, where I got admission, is well-known for its English degree.”

She nodded slowly. “I am happy for you, beta. But it will be difficult. You have never lived away from home before. And how could we imagine a life without you.?

“I know, Ammi,” he said. “I will miss everything — our home, the cold winds of Quetta, the smell of the food you cook, and even Abbu’s poetry in the evenings.”

Just then, his father, entered the house, brushing the snow off his pakol (traditional cap). He sat down beside Yasir and looked at him thoughtfully. “Education is important, my son,” he said. “But never forget your roots, the place you belong.”

“I promise, Abbu,” Yasir said.

That night, his mother made his favourite dish — Butt-o-Mash (a rice dish).

His younger sister, Jasmine, handed him a small Balochi cap, “So you don’t forget Quetta,” she said with a small smile.

The next morning, the streets were covered in fresh snow as Yasir was ready to leave. Yasir’s best friend, came to accompany him to the bus stop.

“Don’t become a serious professor and forget us,” he teased.

Yasir laughed. “My first book will be about this street.”

Yasir hugged his family one last time before leaving for the bus stop.

His mother wiped her tears, and Abbu placed a firm hand on Yasir’s shoulder. “Make us proud, my son,” he said.

Yasir stepped onto the bus, looking back at his city, the snow-covered mountains, the small streets, and the familiar faces — they were a part of him. He wasn’t just leaving; he was carrying Quetta with him.

Published in Dawn, Young World, March 15th, 2025