Autumn in Kashmir is indeed season apart. It descends down upon Kashmir like a poetry written in gold. The music of falling leaves, the whisper of wandering winds and the drift of gentle chill through the air carrying with it the scent of wood, smoke and love symbolises the arrival of this enticing season. It is the season that can bring a poet out of a plain heart. While the cry of flute laments the ache of separation from the origin, the melody of shepards and the song of their herd all weave together into a delicate symphony of love and longing.

‎Even the beautiful valley of Kashmir herself blushes like a shy bride under the gaze of twilight. She wears off her green garments and wraps herself in the fragrance of Chinar leaves and bakes cold beneath the fading sun. Crimson leaves, rusted by autumn’s breath, spread upon the earth like prayer mats for the weary heart as the valley kneels in devotion for the endurance of clumsy winter. The dry, lifeless, bubble weight twigs of trees float upon the surface of crystal clear receding waters of rivers and brooks , stirring the reflection of tall trees that stand still and wistful along their banks.
‎‎In such an hour the time skips a beat and silence feels alive. Then, the hearts beat differently here--- slow but deep. The autumn visitors, the winged guests of avian world, travel all the way from frozen lakes of Siberia, Central Asia and China only to learn the principles of annihilation . They silently witness the lovers exchanging words and promises that slowly dissolve into mist. The skies above come alive with the beating wings of these distant travellers. The first to hear the enchanting promises is Bar headed geese ( Ronz Hanz) followed by Coot (Henz) Teals (Pala Posh) and others.
‎Autumn in Kashmir is not merely a season--- to be seen and spent but a season to live and felt. It is felt in the warmth of a shawl shared passionately by two hearts and in the unspoken promise that lingers between the beauty and love. It is felt in the soft glow of Kangri burning beneath a Phern and in the oversized woollen sweater a mother slips onto her child’s shoulders with quiet affection.
‎Yesterday, as the evening settled in and the weather turned a little cold, winds blew past quickly, carrying a taste of rain in them. A few water droplets flew through the open window of my room and landed on my face. From a distance, I could faintly hear the sound of a Rouf song being sung by some village girls in my two lanes away neighborhood where a marriage ceremony was going on. The song was faint and inaudible to me . Words were lost in the distance and I was unable to make out the lyrics of the song, yet I liked something about the song--- its beautiful rhythm thoroughly mingled with the sound of Dafli.
No sooner had the music struck my eardrum than my mind’s eye travelled back to the past and came to rest in the unfenced, concretized, dust-laden, vast and spacious courtyard of my neighbour, where a group of girls in their late teens had gathered to sing in unison. It was evening in late autumn. Nearby, a few very young tender age girls played , their laughter mingling softly with the melody. In time, they too would learn and inherit this age-old tradition — of gathering to sing through the autumn evenings.
Until the elder girls’ voices would draw them in, the little ones busied themselves by sketching heart in the dust and piercing it with arrows. Another girl --of early teen age--joined them and added a few drops of blood falling from the heart. Beside it, she drew the figure of a girl, her lips curved downward — as if to mirror her inner pain.
It was a tradition in my village, Ahlan Gadole—a settlement forty kilometers from the Anantnag district headquarters in South Kashmir—that once the crops were reaped and the land stood barren, the girls would come together as evening fell. They would converge on a previously chosen place, always secluded from the main paths and the gaze of men. In that hushed space, their songs would weave into a single, rising melody. This separation was a ritual in itself, practiced out of a complex blend of reverence and apprehension. The tradition of gathering was most cherished, loved and performed almost like a religious duty. The teen age girls had inherited the tradition from their mothers and would have transferred the same to their next generation, had materialistic modernization not stepped in, in its ugliest version.
‎ I vividly remember how the magical, glamorous and stunning bevy of young unmarried ladies would sing their hearts out and voices soaring, as if lamenting their sad love tales. Their beautiful faces, rosy cheeks, red lips and long black hairs waving in air still haunt my memory. Their attractive hazel eyes still cage my heart. Their tender, radiant and magical smile could leave anyone speechless. Their enchanting beauty could easily satire desire. Their voices were soft as summer rain and songs sweet as the melody of cuckoo bird.
Even still, after the expiry of some two and a half decades, the old melody lingers in my ears:

‎“Gaste wesiye lal chumma dorey
‎Me chu Moray lalwun nar
‎Go ,my friend, my love stay far away‎
I have to nurture the fire of love everyday”
They would sing songs from diverse traditions — Rouf, Tchakkar, classical, modern, divine, and even mundane. The bevy was full of intelligent participants. When no elder man or woman was around, their songs would turn to themes of firaq and visal — separation and union. In such moments, they would sing the timeless verses of Habba Khatoon:
‎TuLi Nar Chum LaLiWun Mooray
‎KanSi Ma Raiwin Shooray Pan
‎(I cradle the blaze of scalding-red embers in my bosom. May the whispers of innocence never exhaust.)
or
Che Kamu Soni Maini Bram Deeth Nyunakho
‎Tchey Kyozi Gaeya Myaeni Daeyii
‎(Which rival has lured you away from me? Why are you cross with me?)

‎‎But the moment they saw someone approaching, they would swiftly switch to Yousuf Naama or Me’raaj Naama — a gesture of respect toward the elders and men.
In this way, the bevy would entertain themselves, bringing charm to the evenings and lending evenings their own hue and colour. For a brief while, they would forget their wounds, heartaches, trifles, and struggles .Thus, lightening their hearts in the gentle company of song and togetherness.
‎These congregations had social connotations too. Converging strengthened the social fabric of the society. This would reinforce the bond among the girls and create a sense of inclusion. Every girl was friend of every other girl. Yet, there was no flip side. Participation in the bevy was voluntary, and no one was ever pressurized to join. However, if a girl remained absent for a few days in succession, her whereabouts and well-being would inevitably become the talk of the bevy. She was sought after and visited. No parent ever objected their daughters to join the convergence. Girls were simple, wore simple, talk simple and shared simple. There were no side talks and no leg pulling. There was no room for breeding evil traits. In fact, the coming together would refine the girls to better. They would learn cooperation, sharing and caring. ‎
‎But with all those teen girls grown up into women, and rat race of pursuit for material gains, the tradition has died out. The , unfenced, vast open and spacious courtyards have become a thing of past and so has the tradition of evening congregation. In pursuit of material gains, we have lost a beautiful chapter of our culture and that is lamenting.

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