For the past three weeks, the drums of war have been beating loudly between Iran, Israel and the USA. The news is a constant, grim hum in the background, a cycle of airstrikes, political ultimatums and casualty reports. From where I sit, in my small village nestled in the Lolab Valley of Kashmir, it feels like watching a distant storm on the horizon. And this one storm has already sent a chill wind into our homes.In the sleepless hours of the night, when the rain has been hammering on my tin roof for the last two weeks, I have been reading everything I can about this war on my phone. I have watched countless videos, each one more horrifying than the last – the flash of missiles in the night sky, the panicked shouting, the dust and rubble where homes once stood. And after all this reading and watching, a single, sobering thought has crystallised in my mind: wars will never stop. Not really. They will pause, they will change shape, they will find new names and new justifications, but this cycle of destruction will continue.Eid prayers in Srinagar, Jammu and Kashmir, March 21, 2026. Photo: S. Irfan/PTI.Here in my village, the war has made itself known in a much more immediate, tangible way. I live with my family in a quiet spot far from the main towns, surrounded by a lush valley. And for the past week, the biggest impact of this distant war has been on our LPG gas cylinders. You see, our country imports a lot of its oil and gas. And when a major conflict erupts in the oil rich regions of the world, the prices go up, the supply chains get disrupted and the panic begins.It starts in the cities, a ripple of worry, and by the time it reaches us here in the village, it’s a wave of absolute panic. Word spreads like wildfire. The LPG delivery truck, which usually comes every fortnight, hasn’t been seen. The fear is contagious. People who still had a week’s worth of gas left started rushing to book new cylinders, just in case. This, of course, made the shortage even worse. The simple, reliable rhythm of our lives is suddenly broken.And so, today, it became our turn. This morning, with a sigh, I realised our own gas regulator had that hollow, sputtering sound that means the end is near. The flame on the stove burned a weak, pathetic blue before dying out completely. We were out. The same thing happened at my friend Asif’s house just down the path. We stood in the rain, looking at each other, and we knew what we had to do. We would have to go to Sogam.Sogam is our town, the administrative center for the whole Lolab Valley. It is about five kilometers away from our village. On a normal, sunny day, it’s a pleasant walk or a short, bumpy ride. But it has been raining here for two weeks. Not a gentle drizzle, but a persistent, heavy downpour that has turned the roads into slippery tracks and made the paddy fields look like small, flooded lakes.We decided to take Asif’s car, a small vehicle that has seen better days. We loaded our empty red cylinders into the car, their metal bodies clanging against each other. The drive to Sogam was slow and careful. The thought of returning home empty handed was a heavy weight on my chest.When we reached Sogam, the scene outside the police station, which also serves as the LPG distribution point for time being, was one of quiet desperation. A long, ragged line of people snaked out from a walnut tree, huddled under a collection of umbrellas. Some were old men and women with shawls pulled tight over their heads, others were young boys, their clothes soaked through. They had all arrived long before us, their empty cylinders standing like silent metal soldiers in the rain. We took our place at the end of the line, placed our cylinders in the mud and joined the vigil.Also read: LPG Shortage: Firewood at Shimla Hotel, PG Owners Meet, States to Get 20% More Commercial LPG From TodayThe rain didn’t let up. After about an hour, another familiar face pulled up. It was my friend Faheem. He greeted me, a look of resigned frustration on his face, and pointed to where his own empty cylinder sat. He came to stand with us, adding his cylinder to our little cluster. Any news? he asked, his voice barely audible over the rain. Nothing, Asif replied, shaking his head. The truck hasn’t come. So the three of us stood there, friends united by a common, mundane crisis made monumental by a war happening thousands of miles away.We talked about Eid, which was upon us, and how we would manage. We talked about his job in Punjab, another state where the LPG crisis is the same. The hours crawled by. The line of people grew restless. Whispers turned into murmurs of discontent. Then, finally, the news we were dreading came. A man stepped out, his face grim, and announced that the delivery truck had not come. It was stuck somewhere, or there was no stock, the reasons were lost in the wind and rain. He told everyone to go home. A collective groan of disappointment and anger rose from the crowd, but what could anyone do? You can’t fight a shortage. You can’t argue with a truck that isn’t there.FILE: A LPG distribution truck. Photo: PTI.As we were picking up our heavy, useless cylinders to load back into the car, a new rumour started. Someone had heard that they were distributing cylinders in another village, on the other side of the valley. It was a long shot, a desperate whisper of hope. Without a word, we threw the cylinders back onto the seat and Asif gunned the engine. We drove through to the other village. When we finally reached, the scene was a cruel echo of our previous stop. The distribution point was deserted. We were too late. They had come, they had distributed whatever meagre stock they had and they had left.We had driven all the way, stood in the rain for hours, and had nothing to show for it. We were going back home, just as empty as when we had left.The drive back was quiet and sombre. I looked at my reflection in the rain streaked window and had to remind myself of something. This is just an LPG cylinder. Yes, it’s a hassle. Yes, it means cold meals or a lot more work. But it’s not a missile strike. It’s not the loss of a loved one. It’s not having your home turned to rubble. I shouldn’t take this much stress for a cylinder.I don’t like stress. It eats at you, makes the small things feel insurmountable. I have to keep things in perspective. For now, we have a plan. My mother, the resourceful woman she is, has already pulled out our electric induction cooktop. It’s working but with the frequent power cuts we get here, it’s unreliable. But it’s something. And if that fails, there is always the traditional way. We have a plot of land with a few acacia and apple trees and we have a stock of firewood, dried and stacked from the last pruning. We will cook on an open fire, like our grandparents did.The food will taste of smoke and it will take twice as long, but we will eat. We will manage. We always do.File photo of a chulha. Photo: Khushi GuptaEid was upon us. The festival that marks the end of Ramzan, a time of celebration, feasting and family. I look out at the relentless grey sky and hope, more than anything, that the weather clears. I wanted to see the sun on Eid morning. I wanted to wear my new clothes without shivering. And yes, I will buy an LPG cylinder after Eid. The panic will have subsided by then, or so I tell myself. The supply will be restored and life will return to its normal rhythm.The war in West Asia will still be raging, its thunder still rumbling in the distance, but for a moment, in the quiet of my village, with the smell of wood smoke in the air and the promise of Eid on the horizon, I hoped to find my peace. A fragile peace, built on firewood and hope, but it had to be enough.Eid didn’t feel the same as it did last year or in the years before. It felt more like the time when Covid-19 first hit. The constant rain also made it harder to enjoy anything.There is a war happening far away and it’s making everyone worried. People keep asking, What if the war doesn’t stop? What if it goes on for another three or four months? In the evenings, I hear these questions being discussed in small groups outside the shops.For now my village is calm. But still, people are talking and spreading rumours everywhere. Eid felt quiet and simple this year. Even the children seemed caught up in thoughts of the war. There were no firecrackers going off, just news of missiles and drones from a war far from here.Hanief Bin Aziz is pursuing a Masters in English Literature.