KHURSHEED DAR.
It was the earliest breath of spring. The sun, modest and meek, hovered gently above the hills, and the snow, which had ruled the earth for so long, had begun at last to retreat. The land, weary of its long sleep, stirred beneath a coverlet now frayed and fading. I had lately returned from a visit to Lolab, a valley famed for its quiet beauty and its fragrant solitude.
I was journeying homeward in a modest Tavera, seated beside two elderly women whose raiment was worn but tidy, and whose faces bore the lines of a thousand unspoken memories. They might have been grandmothers, or perhaps merely kind-hearted neighbours, but they carried an air of grace that time had not managed to efface.
The world outside the window was awakening. Trees lifted their arms to the sky once more, children of the sun. The breeze smelled of wet earth and early blossoms. My thoughts were idle, given wholly to the view, until one of the ladies spoke in a tone not meant for the world, but which reached me nonetheless.
“Do you remember Gaffar Kak?” she inquired.
Her companion gave a slow nod. “He had but one son, did he not?”
“Aye,” replied the first, and then she lowered her gaze. “He sold his lands, all of them—each patch of earth that knew his name. He raised a grand house in Srinagar, and he did it all for that boy.”
“A doctor now, in England, is he not?” asked the second.
“He is. But he never returned.”
A silence fell, as deep as snow. Even the birds withheld their song.
“They lived like watchers in their own dwelling,” she continued. “That house was not a home, but a gatehouse to a dream that would not come true. Old Gaffar sat by the entrance each day. He did not speak. He did not smile. He simply waited.”
“For what?” whispered the other.
“For a knock that never came. A voice that never called out ‘Abba Jaan’. For the footsteps of a son who had forgotten the path. In the end, hope was all he possessed. It was his daily bread.”
I turned my eyes to the window, though I no longer saw the trees. Their pink blossoms blurred as though weeping.
“And at last,” the woman said, “the son returned, ten years too late. A wife upon his arm. A small child, confused by our tongue. He stepped across the threshold as though entering a lodging-house, and asked, ‘Where is Abba Jaan?’”
Her friend trembled. She held her hands together, perhaps in prayer.
“The mother answered, ‘He passed two months hence, my son.’ The young man desired to see his father’s grave. But the mother only shook her head. ‘You must wait till March. The labourers who buried him were non locals. Only they can show you where the grave lies.
Another blossom fell upon the window, silent as a tear.
In that moment, I thought of all the mothers and fathers who wait. Whose kitchens grow cold. Whose doors remain unlocked. Who warm bread that is never eaten. The hands that once tied our shoes, the voices that whispered our prayers—how swiftly we abandon them. We go to cities and to countries beyond the sea, trading kind hearts for calendars, affection for appointments.
And when we return, it is with polished shoes and foreign tongues. We ask, “What place is this?” But by then, it is too late. The chair is empty. The fire is ash. The grave is lost beneath the snow.
And even Heaven, I daresay, mourns this estrangement. God Himself must lower His gaze when such love is forgotten. For what is a house without remembrance? What use are tall gates and marble walls if they cannot contain devotion?
As our vehicle turned with the road, the trees swayed as though bidding farewell—not merely to winter, but to something far more dear. I bowed my head and said a little prayer—for Gaffar Kak, for his good wife, and for all parents who still wait at their gates, unseen and unheard.
And I wondered, when the snow shall fall on my grave—will any soul recall where I lie?
The author is a prominent columnist of Kashmir ,known for his insightful researches on Kashmiri culture ,society and Sufism
