Opinion | Harud: Autumn in Kashmir

The valley does not change abruptly, but rather slowly, like a person wearing an aged but magnificent cloak. The green turns into rust, gold, and fire. The Chinars are the true tellers of autumn stories. They don’t merely shed their leaves, they release them slowly, like sparks from a flickering fire. By the end of October, Srinagar roads are blanketed in red carpets nature never invites us to unroll. Strolling through Nishat or Naseem Bagh is like entering a painting that you know will not endure long.

Kupwara, far north, starts fading as though the hills are exhausted. Down in Anantnag, the orchards glow with apples so red they look unreal. Pampore, of course, is a different story altogether. The saffron fields bloom purple in the cold light of dawn. I’ve seen women bent over those tiny flowers, plucking them with careful fingers before the sun gets too high. Inside each flower are three thin red threads saffron. A delicate thing, yet more valuable than gold. Later, deep in January, that saffron will make its way into kahwa.

Harud is beauty, yes, but let any Kashmiri tell you, it is also about survival. Winter here is long, sometimes brutal. That’s why autumn is harvest time, drying time, storing time. Apples stacked in crates. Walnuts spread out on rooftops. Grapes hung up to dry into raisins. Apricots shining like small suns on mats. The pungent aroma of drying fruit and wood smoke blends with the cool evening air. If you came from here, you can identify Harud with your eyes shut,it has its own scent.

This season too has its own voice. The crunch of leaves below one’s feet. The snap of walnuts cracking open by elders in courtyards. The sound of children flicking great piles of Chinar leaves into the air. Even the silence has a different quality. It’s not the oppressive silence of snow, but a expectant silence, as if the entire valley was holding its breath until winter comes.

My favorite thing about this season is that it brings people together. Neighbors exchange baskets of fruit. Women sit side by side sorting walnuts. Men assist each other in orchards without prompting. There’s tea shared around, and occasionally slight arguments as well, but that’s the beauty of it. Autumn in Kashmir is not simply about acclimatizing the body to winter; it’s about acclimatizing the heart.

But if I tell the truth, there is also sorrow in Harud. Its beauty is cutting but fleeting. One night of frost and half the fruit on rooftops can be destroyed. A sudden storm, and the leaves of gold are gone in one pass. That’s why people rush, work more quickly, laugh harder, we all know this radiance will not endure. That combination of happiness and concern is what makes the season so sentimental.

At times I believe Harud is an image of us Kashmiris. Lovely yet delicate, always bracing ourselves for worse days, always making do with what is available to us. We are aware the snow will arrive, we are aware the silence will return, and yet we celebrate those couple of weeks of fire-hued leaves and radiant orchards as if they would never end.

When finally there is snow, the first of the season, and the valley glades into white, there is a hint of autumn’s labor visible. Families gather around the fire, opening walnuts, filling steaming mugs of kahwa spiced with saffron, swapping tales as the tempest howls outside. The dried fruits on roofs, the boxes of apples, the jars of raisins,all are little treasures that sustain us through winter. And though no one ever mentions it, at that time we all somehow thank Harud in our own hearts for providing us with enough to live.

To me, this is the most lovely time of year. Spring has its blooms, winter has its snow, summer its radiance. But autumn has truth. It teaches us that everything we hold dear will change, that beauty does not endure, that conclusions can also shine. And perhaps that is why, wherever life may lead me, whenever I hear the name Harud, I shall always recall these red leaves, these fields of purple saffron, these evenings of woodsmoke and laughter.

Kashmir autumn is not only seen. It is felt, carried, remembered. It is, in all ways, the season of the heart.

Author is a freelance columnist. He can be reached at mohammadKaiser211@gmail.com