Gowher Bhat
It’s a cold morning in Srinagar, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and lingers. The frost clings to rooftops and tree branches, and the air feels heavy, almost reluctant to let the day begin. The city is still asleep, but the faint hum of life is starting to stir.
For many, the day begins before dawn. The alarm blinks, the floor is cold, and the weight of responsibilities—bills, work, family—presses down before the first sip of nun chai is even taken. The ritual of warming hands around a steaming cup, the saltiness of the tea spreading across the tongue, is a moment of quiet before the storm.
“It’s not something I think about,” says Ali, a 42-year-old shopkeeper. “But those few seconds with my tea, just feeling the warmth—it’s like the world stops for a moment. It’s not much, but it’s enough.”
Ali isn’t alone. Across the city, people are finding small pockets of stillness in their daily routines. At the market, men huddle by their stalls, rubbing their hands together for warmth. A boy carries a basket of kangri, the firepot’s heat barely reaching his fingers. The baker hands over a warm tchot wrapped in paper, and for a moment, the recipient stands there, savoring the fleeting warmth.
“It doesn’t last long,” says Sameer, a 35-year-old teacher. “But it’s a reminder to slow down, even when life feels like it’s rushing past.”
At home, the rhythm continues. The smell of harisa fills the air as wives stir the thick, rich dish over the fire. The radio murmurs in the background, the news unchanged from yesterday. The day moves forward, often in a blur of work and responsibilities. But even in the chaos, there are moments of pause—a weak sun breaking through the clouds, a deep breath taken outside, a quiet sit with a cup of tea.
“Mindfulness isn’t something I’ve ever really thought about,” says Fatima, a mother of two. “But when I sit with my tea, or when I step outside and just breathe for a moment, I feel it. It’s like the world slows down, just for a second.”
In the evening, the pressures of the day often resurface. Homework frustrates children, bills pile up, and the weight of tomorrow looms. But even here, in the midst of stress, there are opportunities to pause.
“I almost told my son to hurry up with his homework,” Ali admits. “But then I stopped. I sat down beside him and said, ‘Take your time.’ And something shifted. The room didn’t feel as heavy. It didn’t fix everything, but it made a difference.”
Dinner is simple, the TV murmuring in the background. Later, stepping outside, the air is colder, sharper. The stars are visible for once, scattered across the clear sky. Standing there, not thinking, not planning, just breathing, the weight of the day eases, even if just a little.
“Tomorrow will come,” says Sameer. “The bills won’t disappear, and the worries will still be there. But so will these moments—these small pauses. They don’t change the world, but they change how I carry it.”
In a world that never stops moving, these moments of stillness—whether it’s the warmth of a cup of tea, the quiet of a starry night, or a deep breath taken in the cold—are a reminder to slow down. They don’t solve everything, but they make the weight of life a little easier to bear.
