Bandipora, Feb 11: The meeting was held in the small panchayat lawn, a place usually reserved for planning or resolving property disputes or other social issues. I stood at the front, my notebook open on a small wooden log. About thirty people had gathered, mostly out of curiosity or a sense of neighbourly obligation or in honour of a teacher. Uzma sat in the front row, her presence a silent support. I began not with a lecture, but with a story. I told them about the morning roti, about the twelve bags on a Tuesday, and the twenty-eight bags during the festival. I spoke about the 18,00 bags a year from a single house, and the millions that were currently suffocating Wullar Lake.

“I am not here to blame you or anyone” I said, my voice steady but filled with emotion. “I am here because I am one of you. I have been bringing this poison into my home every day, just like you. But I have stopped looking away. I have counted the cost, and it is a cost we cannot afford.” I showed them the notebook, passing it around so they could see the numbers and the sketches of the choked streams. I saw the expressions change as the book moved through the rows from boredom to surprise, and finally to a quiet, uncomfortable realization. “What can we do, I?” asked Ab Quyoom, the elder. “We are small people. The plastic is everywhere. It comes from the city, from the factories. How can our Mohalla change anything?” “We can change the flow” I replied. “It starts with a simple practice. I am asking every household in this Mohalla to do three things. First, carry your own cloth bag for the bakery and the grocery. Second, reuse the plastic you already have, don't throw it away after one use. Third, we must stop the diapers from reaching the fields.” A murmur of dissent went through the gathering. “Cloth bags are heavy” one woman said. “And the diapers? What else can we use? The old ways are too much work.” “The old ways were clean” I countered. “The new ways are killing our land. If the paddy fields die, what will we eat? If the lake dies, where will our water come from? I am not asking for a revolution overnight. I am asking for a commitment to one less bag a day. One less piece of poison. I proposed the 'Mohalla Initiative.' We would create a communal collection point for clean, reusable plastic. We would work with Gul Maam to encourage cloth bags or to reuse at least. And we would organize a weekly clean-up of the local stream to keep the waste from reaching the lake. The scepticism was thick in the air. Many of the younger men looked at their phones, distracted. But then, Gul Kak, the fishernman, stood up. “I have seen what he is talking about” Gul Kak said, his voice ringing through the lawn. “I see it in my nets every day. The lake is not what it was when we were children. It is grey and thick with trash. If we don't listen to him, there will be no fish left for my son to catch. I will bring my own bag starting tomorrow.” There was a long silence. Then, slowly, another hand went up. It was a young mother. “I will try the cloth diapers at home. It is more washing, but...I don't want my children playing in the filth I see on the road.” One by one, more hands joined them. It wasn't everyone, not even half the gathering, but it was a start. It was a spark. I felt a surge of hope. The 'simple practice' was no longer just mine; it was beginning to take root in the community. “We will meet again in a week” I said. “Count your bags. See the numbers for yourselves. Then we will talk about how to make the Mohalla a model for the rest of the valley.” As the meeting dispersed, Uzma came up to me. “You did it. You made them see it.” “I made some of them see it” I corrected. “But the habit is strong. Tomorrow morning, the bakery will still be open, and the plastic will still be there. This is a long war, Uzma. We have to win it one roti at a time.
I walked home under the starlight, feeling the weight of the responsibility I had taken on. I knew that the real challenge was not the meeting, but the days that followed. I had to lead by example. I had to be the man who never forgot his cloth bag, who never let a piece of plastic escape into the wind. I looked at the canal as I passed. It was still filled with trash, but in my mind, I could see it clear. I could see the water flowing freely, the plastic gone, the life returning. It was a vision worth fighting for, even if it took a lifetime of counting.
I successfully launch the Mohalla Initiative, gaining a small but committed group of followers. The struggle to maintain these new habits against the pressure of daily conveniences will soon begin.