Syeda AB Jan
The air in the Kashmir Valley in late autumn doesn’t just grow cold; it hardens. It acquires a brittle, sharp quality, carrying the scent of woodsmoke, wet earth, and the faint, sweet decay of millions of fallen leaves. It is the time of year when the land holds its breath, waiting for the inevitable white silence of winter, but not before offering one last, spectacular, defiant spectacle of color. This is the season of Harud, and it is defined entirely by the Chinar.
The Chinar, or Booni in the local tongue, is not merely a tree; it is an institution, a witness to centuries of history, and the undisputed monarch of the Kashmiri landscape. Throughout summer, its vast, palmate leaves provide shade and life, a deep, restorative green that cools the banks of the Jhelum and shelters the Mughal gardens. But with the first breath of October, the mighty transformation begins.
The change sweeps through the valley like a slow-moving fire, turning the deep jade canopy first into rust, then into bronze, and finally, into a blazing spectrum of crimson and pure, burnished gold. It is this final, blinding hue—the gold—that signals the season’s peak and its end. And then, as if a great, silent curtain call has been announced, the leaves begin their magnificent descent.
The Golden Layer Before the Snow
The elderly shawl weaver, Ahmad, knew the autumn ritual better than the patterns etched into the Pashmina fibers he spun. For eight decades, he had lived in the shade of a colossal Chinar that stood sentinel over his small home in the old city of Srinagar. Every morning, he would shuffle out with his worn broom, not to sweep the leaves away, but merely to gather them into neat, temporary piles along the walls, preserving the walking path while ensuring the ground remained cloaked in its glorious, autumnal tapestry.
The ground was the canvas, and the Chinar was the brush. The layer of leaves wasn’t just a scattering; it was a dense, interlocking carpet, often inches thick, muffling the sounds of the world. Walking across it was an act of deliberate engagement. Each step produced a gratifying, dry crunch, a sound so distinct to the Kashmiri autumn that it became a metric of the season itself—a crackling counterpoint to the impending silence of the snow.
”Gold,” Ahmad would murmur, looking down at his feet, where the russet, saffron, and copper tones bled into each other. “The earth wears the wealth of the year before the poverty of winter arrives.”
The light was different now, too. The strong, high sun of summer was gone, replaced by a low-slung, watery orb that cast long, blue shadows in the early afternoon. Yet, when this light hit the ground, it didn’t just reflect; it multiplied. The fallen leaves—flat, broad, and slightly concave—caught the sun in their millions, spreading a diffused, warm, amber glow up onto the faces of those who passed, making even the sharp cold feel somewhat gentle.
This golden layer was not waste; it was preparation. It was the Earth’s soft, temporary mattress, a thick, insulating blanket laid down before the frozen grip of the Chilla-i-Kalan, the forty days of intense cold. The villagers knew this. Children would gather the dry leaves in wicker baskets for composting, or, more commonly, use them as bedding in cattle sheds, utilizing the Chinar’s brief splendor as practical insulation against the freezing temperatures to come.
The thickness of the Chinar carpet was a tactile experience. It was heavy and substantial, not flimsy like a layer of maple or oak leaves. In the quiet side streets, where the traffic was only footfalls and the occasional bicycle, the leaves lay undisturbed for days, piling up against the ancient stone walls and the lattice windows, or jali. The air beneath the canopy was warm and musky, a rich, fungal aroma distinct from the sharp, clean scent of the pine forests clinging to the slopes. When the dry leaves were gathered into those great, bulging wicker tokras (baskets), they were valued highly. They weren’t just for bedding; once dried further, they formed the most traditional and reliable fuel for the Hamams—the unique wooden baths beneath Kashmiri homes—and the base insulation for the ever-present kangri. This careful, cyclical harvest underscored the Kashmiri philosophy: nothing is wasted, especially not a gift from the mighty Booni. Each golden disc, having played its part in the spectacle, now served a vital, life-sustaining function, ensuring the survival and warmth of the families until the return of the sun. The sound of shuffling feet on this deep bedding became the Valley’s ubiquitous soundtrack, an audible countdown to the snow.
The Commerce of Calm
Harud brought with it a different kind of commerce, one less frenetic than the peak tourist season but steeped in preparation and tradition. The vibrant colors of the Chinar coincided perfectly with the Saffron harvest in Pampore, turning the vast fields on the outskirts of the city into a miraculous haze of lilac and gold. Farmers, bundled against the morning chill, would carefully pluck the delicate crocuses, the crimson threads of the stigma representing a parallel wealth being gathered from the soil. The intense labor of the harvest, timed meticulously against the valley’s changing mood, provided a sense of grounded purpose.
In Srinagar, life adapted quickly to the dwindling daylight hours. The Shikaras on Dal Lake, which had ferried countless tourists through the watery lanes all summer, now lay partially pulled up on the banks, ready for their winter rest. The boatmen, or Hanjis, were busy waterproofing their houseboats, ensuring the thick, carved wooden structure could withstand the heavy snow load. Their trade shifted from guiding visitors to transporting sacks of rice, timber, and the crucial winter supplies.
The markets, particularly around Lal Chowk and the old city, mirrored this shift. Gone were many of the lighter fabrics and colorful summer goods. Stalls were now piled high with thick, embroidered shawls, heavy woolen pherans (traditional Kashmiri cloaks), and, most importantly, the kangris. These portable fire-pots, meticulously woven in their baskets, were the heartbeat of every Kashmiri home and the symbol of winter survival. The transaction for a good kangri—checking the weave, haggling over the price of the willow basket and the quality of the clay pot within—was a serious, essential ritual of the autumn.
This period was one of essential, quiet activity, a communal gathering of resources and spirit. The golden light of the Chinar filtering through the marketplace seemed to bless these transactions, coating the heavy wools and the smoky willow with an ethereal, transient shine. Everyone knew the window for easy transport and outdoor work was closing, and the intense beauty of the golden landscape spurred them onward, an urgent, silent reminder of the necessity of preparedness.
The Melancholy and the Promise
There is a profound sense of melancholy woven into the Kashmiri autumn, an understanding that this fiery beauty is a farewell. It is the valley’s glorious sigh before it retreats into introspection. The boats on Dal Lake move slower, the chatter of the vendors in the markets is subdued, and the distant mountains, already dusted with the first premature snowfall, stand as solemn, silent sentinels of the change.
Ahmad found his solace in the rhythm of the loom, but his inspiration came from the window. The Chinar outside his home was now skeletal, its massive, grey branches etched sharply against the pale sky. The last few, stubborn leaves clung to the highest tips, fluttering like lonely flags awaiting the final command of the wind. When that command came, it was often sudden—a gust would sweep down from the Pir Panjal, and a cascade of the final burnished coins would rain down, completing the layer on the ground.
He remembered the tales his grandmother used to tell: that the golden carpet was woven by the spirits of the mountains, a gift of warmth to the poor soil before the snow sealed it tight. To walk upon it was to tread on fortune, reminding the people that even in decline, there was immense, transient value.
He watched a young couple, tourists perhaps, stopping every few steps to scoop up handfuls of the leaves, letting the brittle, dry flakes rain down over their heads like confetti. They were documenting the beauty; Ahmad was living the cycle. For him, the leaves weren’t just a photograph; they were the collective memory of the year, waiting to be pressed into the soil and transformed into the promise of the next spring.
The melancholy of Harud was not a feeling of sadness, but rather one of profound, philosophical acceptance. It was the feeling of a season perfectly spent, reaching its natural, inevitable conclusion. The air itself seemed to hum with this silent resignation. When the wind rustled through the branches, it didn’t roar; it whispered, a dry, papery sound quite unlike the full, fleshy rustle of summer. Even the shadows seemed deeper, holding a greater density and quietness. The great Chinar tree, now shedding its cloak, appeared venerable, stoic, and momentarily vulnerable. Its exposed architecture, the complex, massive branches twisting towards the sky, revealed the strength that had been hidden beneath the dense foliage all year. It was a display of inner fortitude, a lesson in how to weather the coming adversity.
The scattered sounds of the valley—the distant call to prayer, the soft slap of a shikara’s paddle on the lake, the metallic ring of a blacksmith’s hammer—all traveled differently across the chill, clear atmosphere. They sounded closer, yet more isolated, underscored by the constant, low-frequency pressure of the approaching winter.
The Final Hour of Gold
As the days shortened and the chill became constant, the golden layer on the ground began to change its character. Rain arrived, dampening the crispness, deepening the gold into a rich, dark sepia, and releasing a heavier, earthy perfume. The leaves began their slow, inevitable process of reintegration into the soil.
One evening, Ahmad sat by his kangri, the earthenware fire-pot nestled in a wicker basket, its smoky heat a welcome counter to the pervasive cold. The weather forecast had been grim: clear skies tonight, meaning the temperature would plummet, followed by heavy cloud cover and the high probability of the season’s first proper snow.
He stepped outside one last time before sealing his door for the night. The moon was sharp and white, casting an almost eerie sheen on the carpet of Chinar leaves. The gold was muted now, softer, but still radiant—a soft luminescence that seemed to come from within the earth itself. It had performed its function. It had dazzled, it had insulated, and it had filled the last empty spaces of the summer with a glorious, melancholic presence.
Ahmad stood for a long time, the cold seeping through his thick, woolen pheran, but his gaze held by the moonlit scene. He noticed the minute details that would soon vanish: the way a single remaining Chinar leaf, caught in the beam of the streetlamp, fluttered in a quick, final dance; the frosty glitter on the exposed grey bark of the tree; the perfect, unbroken symmetry of the leaf layer stretching away into the darkness.
He touched the smooth, solid trunk of the old Chinar. Soon, it would be encased in ice, a statue guarding the slumbering valley. The magnificent golden layer beneath it, which had briefly turned the world into a lavish courtyard, would be consumed by the darkness and cold, becoming a compressed, silent base.
He recalled an old Kashmiri poem, which spoke of the Booni as a lover shedding tears of gold for the departure of the sun. This night, he felt that poetry acutely. The leaves beneath his feet were the sun’s last echo, a memory preserved in color and texture. He imagined the snow descending—softly at first, then thickening—to envelope this entire golden scene, turning the world into a monochromatic etching. The sound of the dry crunching would cease entirely, replaced by the profound, muffled silence that belongs only to a snow-laden land.
Ahmad closed his eyes, hearing the silence of the waiting land. The golden carpet was gone, or rather, it was hidden, ready to be replaced by the pure, unblemished white of snow. It was a beautiful final offering, a golden farewell that promised that life, even in hibernation, was never truly extinguished, but merely resting, deeply, under a temporary, opulent shroud. The long winter had begun, but the memory of the Chinar’s gold would sustain the valley until the nutrients drawn from its decomposed gold would fuel the first, brilliant burst of green across the valley floor. The Chinar had given its all, leaving Kashmir cloaked in a temporary, opulent radiance that was both an ending and a guarantee of renewal.
