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........

© Dawn Young Magazine