Back in 2007, when I was nearly 8 or 9 years old child, my uncle ran a small grocery shop by the roadside in a village called Nadihal, situated around 7 km north from the Baramulla Town. The shop used to be among four or five modest shops standing shoulder to shoulder in our village catering the daily minimalistic needs of the people in the Village. My uncle was young then, handsome in that quiet, unassuming way youth often carries.

In the late December or early January as i remember, the period of school winter vacations in Kashmir, my days often started with opening books and writing pages in front of my Abu (Father), who taught me every subject and every book and he was really good at teaching but i feared him the most, the most strict teacher I ever had. While putting all my childish efforts in learning and understanding the book topics, the slipping and sliding piles of accumulated snow over the roof stops when fell on the ground often ignited in me the curious distraction to get some glimpses of heavily falling snow from the wet dripping windows of the room but fearing my father i seldom turned my desires into action. Still calming my nerves and dreaming of going out soon to enjoy this natures true marvel, i used to keep writing those English letters on my notebook.
After somehow finishing my daily schoolwork, by afternoon, I was given the chance as a reward to deliver a kettle of hot steaming nun chai (salt tea) and some fresh bread to my uncle’s shop, probably few hundred meters away from my house and I eagerly waited for that opportunity to come and i loved those walks—the streets blanketed in snow, few car trails in the snow making a walkable path, the silence broken only by the soft whisper of snowflakes still falling heavily from the sky. Briskly carrying the items under my pheran. Each step felt like a conversation with winter itself, producing the cracking sounds while walking on the hardened snow.
By the time I used to arrive at his shop around 3:30 in the afternoon and his kangri (earthen pot) laden sleepy posture suddenly used to turn into joy and the aroma of evaporating steam of nun chai revitalized his energy. On the shopping counter, an old radio played songs from the 1960s and 70s, sada bahaar nagme, melodies worn smooth by time, the classical lyrics,”tere bina zindagi se koyi Shikwa toh nahi” gently through the cold air. My uncle would sit there, listening intently, warming himself with a kangri tucked beneath his pheran, sipping the nun chai as snow gathered quietly around the
shopfront.
I listened to those old Bollywood songs with quiet curiosity, fascinatingly gazing at the lively snowfall, drifting down like feathers shaken loose from battling birds while, while I waited calmly for my uncle to finish his Nun chai so I could gather the kettle and other items and make my way back home. Innocent and unaware, i would have never thought that these very moments, memories were taking shape—memories that time would preserve as some of the most cherished and golden nostalgia of my life. It was not just about songs, but the abundant magical snowfalls that Kashmir ever used to witness.
I always received something in return from his shop, given freely and without asking. I still remember the zeera biscuits shaped like tiny teddy bears, packed together in a large packet, and the Britannia fruit cakes studded with colorful tutti-frutti. Even now, the aroma of those treats lingers in my memory. I would take small bites from my hand, tucked safely inside my pheran, savoring them slowly in the winter cold.
The winters carried a distinctive charm, with white snow spread everywhere, defining the season and capturing the true essence of Kashmir. Confined indoors, all the housemates would gather in a single room, finding warmth in togetherness. It was there, amid shared silence and soft laughter, that folk stories were narrated and conversations unfolded—simple exchanges that became the purest stimulus for imagination.
The scene felt timeless—music, snowfall, warmth, and stillness woven together in perfect harmony. Even now, when I close my eyes, that moment returns to me as something breathtaking, as if winter itself had paused to watch.

Email:------------------ aaqibbiocoder111@gmail.com