Peerzada Masarat Shah
It has been three long, aching years since I last stood beneath a Kashmiri sky thick with falling snow, watching flakes drift down like quiet prayers onto the valley. Three winters spent away because of my husband’s job in Delhi—three seasons traded for the city’s restless cold that never quite settles into the profound hush only Kashmir can bring. The loss feels profound. It isn’t merely weather I’ve missed; it’s an entire rhythm of soul, culture, and comfort that belongs to home.
They say—and the words live in every Kashmiri heart—“If there is paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this.” Amir Khusrau’s famous verse still rings true. When snow finally falls, it feels like heaven itself has descended, wrapping mountains, chinar trees, orchards, and rooftops in a blanket of pure, serene white. Kashmir in winter is never just scenery; it is an emotion that settles deep inside you.
Last week, on January 23, the valley received its first significant snowfall of the season after weeks of anxious dry spells that had worried farmers about irrigation and hoteliers about tourism. The storm turned Srinagar, Gulmarg, Pahalgam, and the higher reaches into a glittering winter wonderland. Residents woke to snow-laden roofs, silent shimmering roads, and children already running out with gleeful shouts. For many it was relief: the snow promised water for the coming spring planting and brought back the familiar magic that had been absent too long.
But beauty here is rarely without cost. The same heavy, wet snow, driven by strong winds, brought down trees across power lines, snapped electric poles, and left large parts of the valley in darkness. Flights were cancelled at Srinagar airport, highways from Baramulla to Sonamarg became impassable, and in Sonamarg itself a major avalanche reminded everyone how quickly winter can turn fierce. Power officials worked through the storm to restore supply. By evening they had managed to bring back nearly 70 percent of electricity—roughly 1,100 megawatts out of the total demand of 1,650 MW—but the remaining restoration was slower, complicated by dangerous conditions and high-voltage hazards. Another spell of snow is forecast for later this week, and the valley is once again bracing itself.
Still, even as rooftops groan and wires lie broken, Kashmiri winter carries its own warmth in memory and ritual. From hundreds of miles away I find myself longing for namkeen chai—the salty pink tea made with green tea, baking soda, milk, and cardamom, poured steaming from a samovar and sipped beside the gentle heat of a kangri tucked inside a pheran. I miss Rogan Josh, that slow-cooked lamb curry fragrant with fennel, ginger, and Kashmiri red chilli, its colour as deep as the emotion behind it. I miss the quiet comfort of Aloo Haakh and Wangan Haakh—potatoes and greens, or eggplant, simmered simply yet perfectly with asafoetida and green chilli. And most of all I miss Harisa on freezing mornings: that rich, overnight-cooked porridge of mutton, wheat, and spices that arrives like a warm embrace.
There is something special about winter food in Kashmir. The cold outside makes every flavour inside more intense, more necessary, more full of meaning. These dishes are not just meals; they are stories—of grandmothers stirring pots at dawn, of families gathered around the fire, of laughter echoing against the sound of wind outside. They are tradition served on a plate, memory tasted with every bite.
Snow in Kashmir is many things at once. For farmers it is hope stored in glaciers and rivers. For children it is joy—snowmen, snowball fights, red cheeks, and wet mittens. For poets and dreamers it is inspiration, lines of longing written by lamplight. And for those of us living away, it is a bittersweet ache, a homesickness that sharpens with every photograph of fresh powder on the news.
I close my eyes and imagine it: the soft crunch underfoot, the clean scent of pine and woodsmoke in the air, the warmth of namkeen chai cradled in my palms, the aroma of spices drifting from the kitchen. I see Kashmir glowing beneath its crown of snow, quiet, patient, and impossibly beautiful.
Kashmir, you are more than a place. You are feeling, flavour, memory, and prayer. Snow may bend roofs and break lines, but it cannot touch your spirit. Winters may be harsh, yet your magic endures—resilient, timeless, and waiting.
Someday soon, inshallah, I will come home—to your snowfall, your food, your warmth, and the love that has never left.
