A foggy morning filled with the melodic chirping of birds ushers in a new day, casting away the remnants of a stormy night.
By Umar Hayat Hussain
It was a pleasantly cold morning with a modest fog when I woke up from my sleep. The chirping of birds on the tree branches dispelled all the gloomy webs of the previous night, which had been yoked with thunderstorm and heavy rainfall. Soon, the luminous stars and bright moon emerged, passing light through the bare branches of the tree, casting eerie shadows. The birds were continually in motion, fluttering from branch to branch, reminiscent of their return from Kolahoi Glacier during the summer of last year.
The serenity of the cool breeze coming through the nearby window of the hut room gently buffeted our faces, casting away the ghosts of slumber. When I peered out of the window, the wetness from the previous night’s rain was contending to resurrect the lifeless golden grass. Crystalline droplets of life dripped from the pine leaves, making the place appear as if it belonged to heaven, splintered to enthrall human eyes and souls.
Nearby, the sound of gushing water from brooks and crystal-clear streams rushing from the steep terrains refreshed my soul. Shepherds briskly moved their herds along the hilly terrain, guiding them to grazing areas. Their mud-thatched houses, thriving with straw, added curiosity to explore the inner view of these indigenous domiciles. Women, attired in colorful but not so clean dresses, were busy making rice chapattis on muddy furnaces.
Towering mountains shadowed everything we did, appearing as if deployed to guard this place against unnatural catastrophes. The crisp sound of beetles echoed from the woods, providing catharsis to the soul. Leaves resting on the hilly terrain danced to the music made by the gentle breeze.
On the way, a Sufi Saint’s mausoleum appeared out of nowhere. Its solitude was enlivened by locals praying and knotting threads for the well-being of their families. Farmers, far away, were engaged with their harvested crops, gathering piles of stock together. They looked excited, singing traditional Kashmiri songs and listening to a radio transistor nearby. Others sipped Kashmiri tea from a Samovar. Women gathered the stocked piles together, collecting strewn rice with brooms.
Elderly folks sat together on traditional wagu (mats), wearing long cloaks (traditional pherans) and carrying fire pots (Kangris) under their garments. Their wrinkled faces radiated a jovial glow as they enjoyed the lovely weather, discussing day-to-day matters. Some smoked hookah under the bright, colorful day.
The entire length and breadth of the fields were carpeted by grasshopper insects. The fertile muddy land was fissured, yet a pleasant aroma filled the air from an unknown source, perhaps from nearby flowers.
As the sun slowly got dwarfed by the proceeding twilight, which was destined to be consumed by utter darkness, strength was being sponged out of me. Though my soul was as fresh as dawn, my flesh and bones demanded respite. Having mercy on my physical self, I sat under the lovelorn chinar tree. The rustling of lifeless chinar leaves hijacked my soul into a state of trance where there was nothing but me. While taking pleasure in this supreme ecstasy, my ears were filled with Divine words:
“Jis Khaak Ke Zameer mein ho Aatish-e-Chinar, mumkin nahin ke sard ho woh khaak-e-argumund” (The sacred soil in whose conscience lies the fire of the Chinar tree, that celestial heavenly soil can never grow cold).
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this Magazine. The author can be reached at [email protected]
Blurb
Towering mountains shadowed everything we did, appearing as if deployed to guard this place against unnatural catastrophes. The crisp sound of beetles echoed from the woods, providing catharsis to the soul. Leaves resting on the hilly terrain danced to the music made by the gentle breeze.
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