April arrived not as T.S. Eliot’s “cruellest month,” but as a benediction. In the valley of Kashmir, where seasons are not merely meteorological but emotional, April carried the scent of thawing silences and the promise of reconciliation. It was not a month of partings, but of unions. Not a time of endings, but of beginnings. Where Eliot saw lilacs breeding out of the dead land, I saw the slow blooming of something more fragile and precious—familial love, long buried under the rubble of resentment.

The previous year had been marked by a painful rupture in our family. A distribution of property—meant to bring clarity and fairness—had instead become the crucible of conflict. My three brothers and I, once bound by shared childhoods and the unspoken grammar of kinship, found ourselves entangled in a web of accusations, misunderstandings, and wounded pride. The division was not just of land and walls, but of hearts. We built new homes, yes—but we also built new distances.
In the aftermath, we stopped visiting one another. The warmth of shared meals and laughter was replaced by the cold silence of estrangement. Our mother, the quiet axis around which our world once turned, chose to remain with me. Perhaps because I was unmarried and still tethered to the home of our childhood. Or perhaps because I was her youngest, the last flicker of her maternal flame. She never said. But I saw the sorrow in her eyes—the sorrow of a mother who had given birth to unity and now watched it crumbling into pieces but divinity had something amazing to unravel.
Then came April.
My eldest brother suffered a stroke. He was admitted to SMHS Hospital in Srinagar. My mother, ever the embodiment of compassion, insisted we visit him. I hesitated. The wound between us was still raw. The silence had grown roots. I declined because we both had crossed limits while behaving with each other or he had crossed limits while behaving with mom.
That Monday morning, as I stepped out for school, the universe intervened.
Just outside my home, I found myself surrounded by a pack of stray dogs. The encounter was sudden, chaotic, and strangely symbolic. I had once read that when dogs chase you, it is a sign to introspect—to confront what lies unresolved within. But there was no time for metaphysical musings. I fought back. In the scuffle, my left hand was bitten by a yellow dog. The pain was sharp, the wound deep, but the message—divine.
I returned home, bloodied and shaken. My mother, alarmed, urged me again to visit my brother. This time, I acquiesced. The bite, I felt, was not mere misfortune—it was a sign, a summons to mend what had been broken.
At the hospital, I saw him—frail, vulnerable, and no longer the figure of pride and defiance I remembered. Something shifted. The walls we had built over two years began to crumble. Words were exchanged, not of blame, but of concern. I offered financial support for his treatment, not out of obligation, but out of a rekindled sense of fraternity. The gesture was costly, but the reward—immeasurable.
Our reconciliation was not dramatic. It was quiet, organic, and deeply human. The stress that had weighed upon our mother lifted. Her face, once lined with worry, now glowed with joy. The home, once echoing with silence, began to hum again with the sounds of familial warmth.
Since that day, we have resumed visiting each other—unhesitatingly, unceremoniously, and with a newfound appreciation for the fragility of life and the strength of kinship. The dog bite, once a source of pain, became a symbol of grace. It reminded me that divine signs do not always arrive in the form of miracles—they sometimes come as wounds that heal more than flesh.
April, then, was not cruel. It was prophetic. As Shelley wrote, “If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?” In our case, Spring arrived not with flowers alone, but with forgiveness.
In Kashmir, where seasons often mirror the emotional landscapes of its people, this April stood apart. It was not merely a change in weather—it was a change in hearts. The bloom outside mirrored the bloom within. And as I reflect on that yellow dog, the hospital corridors, and my mother’s smile, I realize that some blessings arrive disguised as trials. Some reconciliations begin with a bite.
Let this be a reminder to all who carry the burden of unresolved conflict: sometimes, the universe intervenes not to punish, but to prompt. Sometimes, pain is the price of peace. And sometimes, April is not the cruellest month—it is the kindest.

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