With a pristine layer of diamond-dotted snow, Kashmir valley takes on an enticingly elegant aura during winters. The snow paints the valley white to give it a milky and soft tone. The white winter wonderland where wizards with witchcraft seem to have brushed every surface to a whitish monotony, begets bewitching vibes to the hosts and the guests of the land. A dense canopy of bushes and trees, covered with a thick cover of puffy white snow, exhibits alluringly adept artistic expressions of some conjuring scribe which hypnotizes souls, mesmerize eyes, wobble human hearts, yet the jellied stuff contained in our craniums fail to interpret and decipher the script.
The brown branches and twigs wrapped in icy white rolls of the snow resemble verses written in an exotic code. The branches of trees laden with snow prostrate before the Lord of all lords in reciprocation of the white blessing. The sunrays penetrating through the upper stratum of the snow at the lofty mountain peaks, dazzle at the skies to sing divine hymns of Allah (SWT). Puddles of melted snow ensure the spring to bloom flowers of optimism and joy in coming days. Streams and rivers witness abundant flow of clear crystal Adam’s ale when treasures of the snow mother them selflessly.
If spring is the queen of seasons in Kashmir, then the winter is its crown. Kaleidoscopic colours embellish and adorn the spring season to give it exuberance and enticement; subsequently, white shade of the snow adds grace to the season of fun, frost and icicles. The snow is the attire which festoons and adores the winter to make it adorable like a bride. The flurry of snowflakes descending down the skies greet the mother earth with sapphires, diamonds, pearls, rubies, and emeralds of milky hue, to give it a bridal look. The white blanket embraces the mother earth for a considerable period to hatch it back to life after a drowsy dormancy. The snow secretly adds nectar of life to the dry and dead veins of the mother earth, and rejuvenates it silently. It resuscitates the napping mother to life.
The snow often vibrates my nostalgic chords to flash hundreds of memories upon the canvas of my reminiscences. Unlike today, thick snow-cover would surprisingly sadden my father for some vagaries the weather would acquaint him with. His preparations to combat the clutches of the snow would begin, when green trees were chewed by the blood dripping jaws of the late autumn. I as a child had not the ability to gauge the emotional trauma my father was going through, with the onset of the winter. But, the grimace and scowl on his face was a vivid proof of the grief that snow would acquaint him with. Was it scanty livelihood opportunities or something else, I am yet to figure it out. Yet I vividly remember how he would prepare paddy grass stacks to thatch the roof of our house, during late autumn days.
I would extend my all possible help to him to replace the rotten grass stacks with the fresh ones. Since the thatched roofs were more vulnerable to blazes, so, the concern and apprehension would often leave me insomniac for longer hours. Well, an indigenously made snow rake was almost the most important weapon to battle with the snow. My father used to change the long wooden handle of the rake every winter, because poplar handles would hardly last for a solitary year. Pushing thick snow cover from a thatched roof was no lesser than a Herculean job. Mounting a thatched roof, with a long-handled snow rake in one hand, was quite a heroic act, and would require a stout chest and strong hands. My father was then at the prime of his youth. But, still, the adventure would turn his hands numb and freeze his spine to chills. He would often sip hot salty tea to overcome the possible influence of the cold, after the adventure.
The snow would cage us contrary to our whims and innate inclination to spend time in playfields. I and my siblings would invent mischievous designs and strategies to keep the ball of amusement and pleasure derivation rolling. Fowling with a wicker basket to catch birds viz sparrows, would keep us busy and warm during the bone chilling days. We had a big wooden grainery in front of our house, and all the edibles including pulses, sun-dried vegetables, and surplus indigenous eggs were kept in it. It was no lesser than a treasure trove of our family. So, it was always under lock and key.
The open attic of the grainery was our hunting ground to catch birds. Since birds terribly struggle during winters for their prey, so the attic was their cherished place to visit for available grains. Paddy or rice grains were used as bait to entice the birds, and a strong thread was drawn to fling the basket upon the birds. Since we had not learnt the legitimate procedure of slaughtering a bird, so we would either set them free or cage them for a few days in our homemade hutch. Our granny would often admonish us for the alleged cruelty against our avian friends.
(Author is a Teacher and a Columnist. He can be reached at [email protected])
