Many times, when I look back, I envy my childhood. It was not just dancing snowflakes and snowmen during sombre winter days that in symphony sang merry songs for us. Our hearts were not filled with joy only by defiling the virgin snow for curing the chilblains that filled our hearts with mirth. But, all seasons had for us their songs of joy. Our spring and summer companions; the swallows, hoopoes, thrushes, woodpeckers and parakeets had songs for us. Even the shrill voices of the children parroting Arabic alphabets coming out of the latticed waabchokh of the place I dreaded most; the ‘otanjis- chatahal’ sounded as melodious as a highland stream at midnight. In the words of Stevenson, there was something bright in all! Flowers in summer! And fires in fall!”
The fall had its own songs in store for us. It was not just bonfires in the evenings that excited us or the billows of smoke from just burnt leaves lending a supernatural aura to the golden firmament. I remember the joy that all my friends got during autumns in rolling on dried grass of the sprawling lawns of the martyrs graveyard or the grand mosque. We rolled and rolled on the dried grass and out of thrill cried full throat at each other. There was also excitement in dusting dried straws from our heads and clothes; many times ending in a slanging match and calling each other’s names.
The autumn , with about a dozen of massive chinar trees in the grand mosque, used to be at the best. Elderly women would empty small pouches of their pherans containing grains of rice near ants on the grass. Watching the rows of red and black ants; without knowing they were classified as ‘workers’ and ‘soldiers’ carrying the grains of the rice to their subterranean homes and colonies was a loveable sight. It was inspiring to see three or four of them transporting a dead grasshopper or an aphid to their homes. Elders enjoying the autumn sun on the mosque lawns often told us to learn a lesson from ants, how they ceaselessly build their stores for wintry days. They would narrate stories about ants and Prophet Suleiman (Solomon). Those days the lawns of Jamia Masjid or other hospice in our part of the city with learned elders around were as good as open Islamic Universities.
Our elders had perhaps learned a lesson from these small insects for gearing up for harsh winters during autumns only. Those days no one, not even the political upstarts and neo-rich depended upon imports coming from outside the Valley through the newly constructed Banihal Tunnel on the Jammu-Srinagar highway. Least concerned closure and compared it to a gagar-waaj (Rat Burrow). Nostalgic about, the round they ear open Jhelum Valley Road, that connected Kashmir to Central Asia and the world beyond, Ladishah (troubadours) and other folk singer sang were full of sarcasm and satire for the tunnel, which had been named after the first Prime Minister of India.
I have very vivid impressions about men and women engaging like ants for storing of essentials much ahead of the onset of winters. Almost every home laboured to be self-sufficient in meeting day-to-day requirements during winters. Like in all other homes in our neighbourhood my grandmother, mother and aunt would also start preparations for winters by buying large quantities of turnips, tomatoes, spinach and other vegetables for drying them under the autumn sun. I remember, sometimes fisher-women visiting our home with basketful small variety fish know in local parlance as ‘Gorun and Ramagorun’s- and offeringit at throwaway prices for being parched for winter months. The deal included cleaning and washing of these fish also- I remember these would then often be spread on a sheet of cloth and left to dry in sun on the roof of our house. Storing for winters was in itself a grand winter phenomenon. Notwithstanding, no fresh vegetable coming to market from outside, I do not remember people complaining about shortages during harsh winters.
Z.G.Muhammad is a noted writer and columnist
