There was a time when winter did not arrive quietly in our village. It announced itself with laughter, songs, anxious waiting, and eyes fixed on the sky. Our childhood winters were not measured by dates or forecasts but by hope. We waited for snowfall the way children wait for a festival, with impatience and wonder woven together.

We spoke of snow endlessly. When will it snow? Will it be today? Will it cover the rooftops by morning? These questions floated through our conversations long before the first snowflake touched the earth. And when it finally did, winter transformed from a season into a celebration.
Snowfall, for us, was not merely weather. It was an emotion. We danced under falling snow, spinning with open arms as if the sky itself had begun to bless us. The air carried songs passed down through generations. I still hear our voices echoing on the rooftop of our old kacchaa makaan, singing with innocent excitement:

SHEENO PET’OV PE’TOV, MAAMO YE’TOV YE’TOV…
SHEEN PEWAN RA’ZOV RA’ZOV, TCHE KAEM KOR GA’ZOV NAAV…

Those songs were not rehearsed, they rose naturally from joy. At the top floor of our house, siblings and cousins gathered, wearing Pherans, holding glowing Kangris close to our chests. From there, we watched the aerial view of snowflakes drifting down gently, covering everything in silence and purity. The grassy rooftops of every house slowly disappeared under thick white layers, turning the entire village into a dreamscape.
We did not confine our happiness to our own yard. When snow fell, the whole village became our playground. We roamed from one courtyard to another, running freely, often barefoot or without socks. Cold feet did not frighten us, numbness was a small price for happiness. Mothers scolded us endlessly for returning home with wet Pherans and trousers, snow clinging stubbornly to the fabric. Yet even their anger softened when they saw the glow of joy on our faces.
The houses themselves looked alive during those days. Snow rested on rooftops in feet, giving every home a majestic and charismatic presence. Smoke rose gently from chimneys, blending with the falling snow, creating scenes that felt almost unreal. Village winters had a rhythm of their own, slow yet deeply alive.
One of my most cherished memories is of my maternal grandfather. He was an expert in clearing snow from grassy rooftops. With a wooden tool crafted for that very purpose, he skillfully drew out heavy layers of snow, preventing damage to the roofs. Across the village, men climbed onto their rooftops, working together, laughing, calling out to one another. It was hard work, yet it never felt burdensome. It was community in action, tradition unfolding naturally. Some villagers wore Pulhoed, shoes made of grass, especially designed to prevent slipping on snow. These simple inventions spoke volumes about the wisdom of village life, where survival and simplicity walked hand in hand. Inside homes, family members busied themselves weaving grassy mats, turning long winter hours into moments of bonding and creativity. I watched all this with wide eyes, carrying faint yet powerful memories from the age of five to ten, memories that time has never managed to erase.
Mornings after heavy snowfall were adventures in themselves. Walking through untouched snow was an art. We carved narrow paths, testing where to step so that we could come and go without sinking too deep. Snowball fights were the ultimate joy, a desire that lived in our hearts throughout the year. During school days, even the discipline of classrooms could not suppress our excitement. I remember recess periods turning into battlefields of laughter. We formed teams, planned attacks, and hurled snowballs with unstoppable enthusiasm. Once, during an English class, a teacher asked students to memorize certain questions. One student failed to do so. As the class monitor, I was instructed to bring snow. I handed over a handful, which the respected teacher placed gently on the student’s neck as punishment. Within minutes, the student fainted. That moment startled us all. Snow, which had always been our companion, revealed another face. Even today, that incident remains etched in memory as a reminder of snow’s quiet power.
Yet despite its cold severity, snow gave our childhood energy, resilience, and unforgettable beauty. It kept us active, curious, and connected to nature. It taught us patience while waiting, courage while playing, and unity while working together. Looking back now, those winters feel richer than many comforts of modern life. There were fewer resources, fewer distractions, but abundance of joy. Life felt lighter, hearts fuller. Snow shaped not just our landscape but our character.
I love my valley deeply, for Almighty Allah has gifted it with snow. When winter descends, the valley glimmers, resembling a fragment of heaven on earth. Even as times change and snowfall patterns shift, the memories remain untouched, preserved like footprints frozen in time. Those snow covered memories of childhood are not merely recollections. They are treasures. They remind us who we were, how we lived, and how profoundly beautiful simple village life once was. And perhaps, in remembering them, we keep a part of that innocence alive within us forever.

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