by Quflah Ajaz
A reflective personal essay exploring Kashmir’s winter beauty, memory, resilience, culture, and longing, weaving landscape, heritage, and emotion into an enduring bond with homeland.
On that wintry morning, I woke with a spark in my head, why not write about my own experiences and let it evolve into the love I harbour for my Kashmir? The thought took me outdoors, and the chilled, fragrant air of Dal Lake awaited me. The frozen lake of Chillai Kalaan (the forty days of harsh winter) sparkled in the warm rays of the winter sun with its own unique quiet charm and mystique, which no summer could ever offer.
Despite hearing whispers of difficulties and challenges of the season all around me, I could not feel halting. On my way, I saw a magpie fluttering on the icy path, its feathers glinting in the light like sparks of diamonds. It has been heard and repeated many times before: summer is the time of celebration and vivacity in Kashmir. But I feel my Kashmir in its winters, alive with its own vibrancy, its own soul, and its own stories.
Kashmir has a special place within me that no other place has. Its valleys, lakes, mountains, and orchards together form a complete poetic concept. I long to see the meadows of Pahalgam dotted with flowers, the mountains of Gulmarg topped with snow, the saffron plots of Pampore shining in gentle sunlight, and the age-old streets of Srinagar, steeped in history. Its bazaars (markets) speak tales of patience, skill, and the essence of its inhabitants, expressed through handwoven Pashmina shawls, papier-mâché works, and wooden sculptures.
However, my Kashmir has known many experiences and many wounds. Yet it never loses its charm and essence. The valleys remain unbroken, the rivers keep running, and the people keep rising. The strength of Kashmir is something that inspires me every time. It is the reason I remain on the move.
I recall sitting with my grandparents, listening to their tales of old games, adventures, and the lush, poetic language of Kashmiri. Their words were laced with the spirit of the valley, the lessons mixed with humour, patience, and love. Every memory and every experience I have had is but a single strand woven into the rich fabric that forms the tapestry of Kashmir.
In Kashmir, there exists another kind of magic during the winter months. There is harissa bubbling away in clay pots, and the warmth of tea poured from the samavar. The melodies of Isband Soz fill the air. The scent of wazwan, aab gosht, yakhni, and rogan josh pervades every household. The sounds, the smells, and the flavours of Kashmir enrich every moment of my existence. And simultaneously, there exist tales of sorrow that run quiet and deep. I choose to sidestep those tales today. I want to hold and hug my beloved Kashmir and toast it as one does a good friend, a teacher, or an unfolding poem. Perhaps in another lifetime, we students would not have had to leave Kashmir, to say farewell to its Lukh (people), Lutuf (delight), and Awaaz (voice). Perhaps we might have grown there, amidst the very mountains, waterways, and traditions we love and desire.
Students flock to other countries in pursuit of dreams, but there is no land like the one bound by longing and love for a homeland. What is a homeland? It is the tune of Kashmir; it is memory; it is life flowing through every valley, every path, and every snow-laden mountain peak.
Every time I ride my wooden shikara on Dal Lake, witness the setting sun, or hear the giggles of children amid the meadows, I feel a deep connection. The smell of kahwa being prepared in clay cups, the hues of Chinar leaves adorning the streets, the ancient festivals, rituals, and crafts, all form a chorus within my heart. Even though darkness has descended upon this land, I choose to see the spirit, strength, and beauty within.
I would love to meander everywhere, absorbing each morsel, the apple orchards of Sopore, the tranquil waters of Wular Lake, the gardens of Shalimar and Nishat, each place revealing its tale, unfolding stories that soak into my soul. The music, dance, food, customs, and art are rich gifts of a civilisation so distinct that I long to see its traditions treasured in the future as well.
Kashmir is not a location; it is poetry in motion, an enchanted tune that marches through valleys, floats along rivers, and settles on mountain peaks. Its beauty lives in bazaars (markets), in handicrafts, in gestures, and in the traditions its people maintain.
Kashmir is a home of infinite forgiveness, infinite beauty, and infinite strength. My heart carries Kashmir wherever I go, its laughter, its colours, its stories. I will carry it in every essay I write, in every photograph I take, and in every word I speak. It will remain with me for life.
(The author is a Class 11 student at Kothi Bagh Girls Higher Secondary School, Srinagar, Kashmir, whose writing is shaped by memory, place and personal experience. Ideas are personal.)
