Ismatullah Jami hates tears, emotions and Kashmir's extensive hospitality. He calls them Satan's inventions. Today, as he clung hesitantly onto the state's unkempt green and white bus, his face is deadpan and voice shallow. His younger brother Afaq runs his fingers to adjust the streak of grey hair that block his eye-line but avoids contact. Seat fastened, Jami hides his face in a spotless white handkerchief to escape embarrassment. Tears have defeated his steely resolve even as he tries vainly to make amends.

His left hand clutching firmly the walking stick, he uses the right to roll the soaked white cloth back into the pocket of his nicely creased navy blue shirt, tucked carefully inside the grey pant.

Jami loves to dress up and look dignified and won't mind spending hours in the washroom, ensuring every lock of hair sits on the right place or the 'phoren' deodorant is applied properly. He visits fashionable places and is fond of cars as they often find mention in his long discussions, fuelled by cups of tea. Good living comes naturally to him. Hills and the vast green stretches fascinate him and beckon him to journey.

But the 70-year old realizes that this journey is different and difficult too. The drive would draw a furrow through the heart of his beloved brother and doting sisters.

The bus - one full bus-load of tears and emotions - finally roars. The "heartless" policeman examines the whistle one last time. He gathers his breath, blows it once, twice, then signals crazily to the driver to be off.

Jami is pale and frozen. Eyes red and moist, he remains motionless until his sisters yell and wave at him and he, too, realises that the one month of reunion granted to this Kashmiri by India and Pakistan is over.

One month has slipped very fast for him and his relatives and friends who shower petals and affection, following him wherever he goes. Undulating meadows of Gulmarg, Sonamarg, or the roaring waters of Pahalgam and Verinag keep him fixed but the wazwan remains a worry.

Like today's trip that he does not want to undertake.

The driver honks a final time and gradually gathers speed, takes a bend to the right on a road that leads to picturesque Uri, Muzaffarabad, Rawalpindi, Islamabad and finally to his home in Lahore.

The bus now zips on the newly done macadamized road catching Jami off guard to the anguished cries of his relatives. Unlike other animated passengers, Jami sits back quietly, then raises his hand in acknowledgement. Seconds later, he becomes a dot and the bus - one huge load of emotions - a match-box.

More Jamis will come and go across the emotionless Line of Control in coming months. They will meet after long separations and separate again after brief meetings. Jamis are the small people of the two big nations. And they are trying very hard to move the archrivals with tears and emotions.