“The newspaper? Are you for real, Ashira? Why are you even reading this? They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

The headline is a blur, text darting across the page like millions of scurrying ants. I take a deep breath, squeeze my eyes shut, and then open them again, forcing myself to focus.

… a wave of political unrest… shockwaves to the nation… what began as localized demonstrations in the Rajasthan region has now snowballed….

My heart rate picks up. The radical party, the terrorists that are trying to seize power, the ones Ima reassured me were far away in the north of the country… is it them? What does this mean for my family?

I skim further, frantic. Government’s response in the north, Jammu, Kashmir, no, no, no. I want to hear about the capital, the major cities, about what’s happening near my home. My parents. My siblings. My baby sister.

The president has expressed concern… citizens stockpiling food in case of civil war… nation stands divided….

And then the final, heart-stopping paragraph:

The party leadership, emboldened by the swelling ranks of their followers, has made it clear that they will stop at nothing to achieve their objectives… The nation braces itself for the consequences of a radical party intent on reshaping the political landscape, regardless of the violent storm it may unleash.

My hands are clammy. Cold. I’m sitting here on a park bench in the winter night; of course I’m cold. But I’m also hot, and my heart is thumping, faster, stronger, like a ticking time bomb about to explode. But I  spoke to Ima today, and my sisters. They didn’t say a word. Why am I taking this so much more seriously than anyone else?

Am I misunderstanding it?