You’ve come to Kashmir in the winter. You’ve heard it is heaven on earth, with its magnificent snow-capped mountains and surroundings covered in white. Needless to say, it is a beautiful sight, capable of fascinating you with its immaculate elegance. This is the Kashmir that you see externally, but there’s more to it than meets the eye. Let me take you on a journey to appreciate its intrinsic beauty, which lies within the homes of its inhabitants. So come along with me to my home, as I show you the beauty of Kashmir through the eyes of an innocent ten-year-old child.
As you wake up in the morning, cocooned in thick layers of blankets, you are unwilling to get out of bed. It is freezing outside; you protest. But the elders of the house are waiting for you to have breakfast. This quickly gets you up from the bed, with the realization of the collectiveness that this household has. Freshened up and clad in a pheran (a loose traditional upper garment, which extends to the knees), you make your way to the kitchen. As you take your seat on the floor, there’s a distinct sensation of warmth emanating from beneath. Upon closer observation, you discover the source of this comforting warmth—concealed beneath the carpet and the floor is a hamam (an underneath bed of burning wood that heats the room). You observe that there is no electricity, and you are handed a kangri (an earthen pot filled with burning coal) to warm yourself. You put the kangri underneath your pheran, appreciating the additional warmth that it provides. The dasterkhan (wide tablecloth) is spread on the floor, and every member of the household sits on its edges. The rich aroma of harissa (a thick mutton paste garnished with burnt onions) and noonchai (salt pink tea) reaches you as these delicacies are placed on the dastarkhan along with gaev tschout (flatbread made with maida and ghee). Lively conversations spanning the affairs of relatives and neighbors fill the room before turning to the children. Luckily, the children have nothing to worry about since school reopens only after three months. They have a lot of winter work to do, indeed, but that remains insignificant as of now. In this moment, you only revel in the sense of togetherness you feel while you are seated in this household. Known for their hospitality, the elders ensure that you savor a meal to your heart’s content. After all, it is a shame to have someone in the house who leaves the dastarkhan without eating properly. Once everyone finishes breakfast, you sit together to watch TV. It is a simple time, and there is consensus as to what one should watch. You sit and watch Doraemon and Shinchan at length. The long TV sessions are interrupted by the mother while she rebukes her children and advises them to study. You see the children doing what their mother says. A display of the cherished value of obedience that they have inherited.
You join the children, who, after finishing their work, move outside into the snow-covered garden. The brightness of the reflected white light almost hurts your eyes. You blink and then look again. The white cover shields your surroundings. The children gather snow from the garden, rolling it into small balls. You collect snow with them, which they proceed to playfully throw at each other, tempting you to join their fun activities. You lay down in the snow, slowly moving your arms and legs to create an impression in the snow—Baraf ki pari (snow fairy), as the children call it. After a few distractions, you join the children in making the snowman. It is a laborious task, but you trust yourself and the process. You work collectively, and after an hour of toiling labor, there stands in front of you a big snowman with eyes made of coal and a nose made of carrots. On its neck lies a woolen muffler and a body adorned with three buttons that the mother gave the children. You stand there, feeling proud of the snowman you built together.
Returning inside, you change your clothes, which have now become damp due to the melted snow. You warm yourself up with the kangri. The lingering scent of orange peels hangs in the room. You have warm roganjosh (mutton curry) and haakh (collard greens) for dinner. There is still no electricity in the house. It does visit sometimes but is always in a hurry to leave. Reflecting on the day, you realize that it was a simple day filled with joy. You close your eyes and drift to sleep, the warmth of the day carrying you within its embrace.