An elderly man sat beside the window, holding the cup between his palms. Outside, mist covered the rooftops. The chinar trees stood bare, and the mountains had disappeared behind a curtain of grey. He gazed at the narrow lane below, as though waiting for someone. Perhaps a familiar face. Perhaps a forgotten voice. Or perhaps a winter that would never return.
There was a time when winter in old Kashmir arrived slowly, almost ceremoniously. Mornings carried the fragrance of wood smoke rising from mud-plastered houses. Water froze in earthen vessels. Frost painted delicate patterns on windowpanes. Outside, the world waited for the sun. Inside, life gathered around the kangri.
More than an earthen pot filled with glowing charcoal, the kangri was the heart of a Kashmiri winter. Tucked beneath the pheran, it travelled from room to room, warming hands and accompanying conversations. Grandmothers held it close while telling stories. Grandfathers carried its warmth into the bitter cold. It taught a simple lesson: comfort did not always require abundance. Sometimes, a handful of glowing embers was enough.
Winter had its own language then. Wooden doors creaked. Shovels scraped against fresh snow. Vegetable sellers called out through sleepy neighbourhoods. Somewhere, a mother summoned her children home, her voice travelling through narrow lanes like a familiar prayer.
And then came the snow.
Even a light snowfall transformed ordinary courtyards into magical kingdoms. Children rushed outside, built little snowmen and scattered footprints across the white ground. From frosted windows, elders watched with feigned concern and secret delight. For a few precious hours, childhood owned the world.
Yet winter also demanded patience. Snow buried roads. Electricity failed. Lanterns replaced lights, and radios became treasured companions. People adjusted their lives to the weather. Hardship was real, but so was togetherness. Darkness brought families closer. Long evenings made room for stories, laughter and conversations that had nowhere else to go.
As dusk settled, the samovar released the fragrance of kahwa. Warm girda and crisp lavasa passed from hand to hand. Walnuts cracked open. Neighbours arrived without invitations. One came to borrow something and stayed for hours. Another came simply to sit. Doors opened easily, and time seemed less expensive.
Elders spoke of old Srinagar, its wooden bridges, bustling bazaars and familiar lanes. Their stories were rarely grand. They remembered weddings, difficult journeys, stubborn snowfalls and ordinary people. Yet these small memories preserved the soul of a place. A land survives not only through its monuments, but through the stories its people carry.
Today, Kashmir wears a different winter. Heaters replace traditional rituals. Screens compete with conversations. Messages arrive instantly, yet visits become rare. Life is easier in many ways, and there is no reason to romanticise the hardships of the past.
Still, something quietly disappears when convenience replaces ritual. Neighbours remain close in distance but distant in habit. Families share the same roof, yet sometimes inhabit separate worlds. We have discovered new ways to keep ourselves warm, but have we preserved the art of staying together?
Perhaps nostalgia is not a desire to return to a harder life. It is the ache of realising that certain kinds of closeness grew around those hardships. We do not miss the darkness. We miss the people gathered around the lantern. We do not miss the bitter cold. We miss the warmth shared against it.
The elderly man finishes his noon chai. The cup is empty, but he continues to hold it. Outside, a young boy hurries past, his schoolbag bouncing against his back. The man smiles faintly. Perhaps he sees his own childhood in that hurried figure: snow-covered lanes, warm bread, whispered stories and a home where someone was always waiting.
The afternoon fades. Charcoal begins to glow somewhere in the house. The familiar scent of wood smoke rises into the evening air. For a moment, the years fall away. The old Kashmir returns—not to the streets, but to the heart.
Some winters end with the snow. Others never leave us.
(The author is a freelance Columnist and writes on various issues. He can be reached at [email protected])
