A childhood of sacrifices, a lifetime of service, and a retirement of forgotten promises
Growing up as the daughter of a Jammu and Kashmir State Road Transport Corporation (JKSRTC) employee was nothing like the life of most children around me. To most of my classmates, childhood was innocent and carefree by all they could wish for, but mine was riddled with financial crises and silent sacrifices. People at school knew my father to be one of the many government employees. But the truth went deeper than that. Little do they know, I have gone many days without asking for new books and I would say there have been countless moments I have held back my desires as I know my father is already carrying many loads.
The roughest patches were when the salaries simply stopped. It was not merely a protest. The 100-day strike by JKSRTC employees was about survival. My father, despite his exhaustion, always tried to shield us from the weight of his worries. But we saw it in the way he avoided eye contact at the dinner table, the way he sat in silence for hours, and the way his shoulders drooped a little more each day. It was the days when childhood innocence faded into an understanding no child should have: an understanding that life isn’t fair, especially to those who give it their all.
Like my father, JKSRTC drivers were the backbone of their society, but the sacrifices remained unacknowledged. Floods, earthquakes, and curfews put them on the frontline while the rest of us remained safe indoors. During floods, earthquakes, and curfews, they were sent upfront while the rest of us stayed safely indoors. When Article 370 was abrogated, while others took care to safeguard their homes, my father was out there, serving because duty always came before his own life. He missed weddings, festivals, and other important events. Those were moments that will never come again. But he never complained. He just kept working, kept driving, kept sacrificing. And then came the day when he had to retire.
A day we thought would lead him to peace but instead left him alone in agony. He returned home with disappointment in his eyes, his silence louder than any words. We all had tears in our eyes, but we made sure to hide them from each other so as not to break the fragile strength we were holding on to. He kissed his truck, his faithful partner in this life, before taking leave from it. A truck that had been more than a mere machine-it had been his second home, his battleground, his identity. Walking away from it was like leaving behind a part of him. All for what? After decades of relentless service, all he got was a small gratuity, much less than what employees in other departments received. The hope of a pension was crushed when the court dismissed their case, leaving them with nothing. Years of sacrifice amounted to an empty future. The department that once demanded everything from him now offered nothing in return.
Now, he spends his days in disapproval and restlessness, unable to adjust to a life without purpose. The very system that trained him for a lifetime of hard work never prepared him for stillness. He sits, he thinks, and he wonders: was it all worth it? Was his dedication worth the neglect he now faces? As his child, I know it was. His sacrifices shaped us, his resilience made us strong. But the world may never see it, and that is the greatest injustice of all.
The author is someone who has witnessed the sacrifices of a JKSRTC employee up close. Having travelled the rough roads of life alongside him, she understands the weight of unspoken struggles and unsung dedication. This piece is a tribute to all those who give their all, only to be forgotten.
Written by “someone who knows the road too well”