I have always believed that when people begin to celebrate small things, it means they are slowly returning to normal life. Celebrations do not arrive suddenly; they grow quietly when fear loosens its grip. In Kashmir, this idea of “normalcy” has always felt distant, almost unreal. For most of our lives, we have not had the freedom, or sometimes even the courage, to pause, relax, or celebrate without second thoughts. Even today, when we visit tourist places in Kashmir, we mostly see outsiders. Kashmiris have rarely had the time to enjoy their own land. We grew up learning how to survive, not how to rest. Leisure was never natural to us. Joy often felt borrowed, temporary, or unsafe.

That is why the winter celebrations at Srinagar’s Clock Tower felt different. They were not grand or dramatic, but they were real. On a cold winter evening, Lal Chowk was lit up, filled with people, music, and movement. For once, it did not feel like a place people passed through quickly. People stayed. They stood around. They watched. They smiled. In small ways, the city seemed to breathe. The Clock Tower has seen everything, violence, protests, curfews, silence, chaos. It has witnessed absurdities that should never have happened and losses that were never fully mourned. To see that same space host a Winter Jashan felt like a form of healing. Not complete healing, perhaps, but a beginning. When people gather peacefully in a place so heavy with memory, it means something inside the city is slowly repairing itself.
What stayed with me most was not the event itself, but the presence of ordinary people. Families, elders, children. No urgency. No fear. Just being there. It reminded me that healing does not always arrive through announcements or declarations. Sometimes it arrives quietly, through shared moments in familiar places.
Winter in Kashmir is inseparable from the pheran. It is not just clothing; it is comfort, warmth, and identity stitched together. Our winters are defined by it. You see it everywhere, homes, streets, markets. And now, even in cities like Delhi. I often notice Kashmiris as well as Non-Kashmiris wearing pherans there. To me, this feels deeply beautiful. It means our culture is travelling beyond our geography. It means people can begin to see us as more than the violence we have long been reduced to.
The pheran presented to Prime Minister Narendra Modi during this time carried layered meaning. On one level, it was a cultural gesture. On another, it was symbolic. The pheran represents Kashmiri life, climate, and survival. Offering it is a way of saying: this is who we are. This is what keeps us warm. This is how we live. Among Kashmiris, the moment was received with mixed emotions. Some saw hope in it. Others remained cautious. And that caution is understandable. Symbols alone cannot replace dignity, dialogue, or trust. But culture has its own language. Sometimes it speaks softly, where politics speaks loudly and fails.
The Winter Jashan at the Clock Tower was not a declaration that everything is fine. It was something more honest than that. It was a sign that people are trying to live again. That the city, wounded and tired, is slowly finding moments of light. Kashmir has never asked to be performed or displayed. It asks to be understood. And sometimes, understanding begins with small things, people gathering in winter, familiar streets filled with warmth, and a pheran reminding the world that we are far more than our pain.

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