Harud: More than a season
Autumn in Kashmir is never merely a season. It is a pulse, a breath, a slow unfolding of fire and silence, of endings and beginnings, of farewell and promise. The locals call it Harud, a word that seems to carry the sigh of the valley itself. When summer releases its lingering warmth, the first whisper of autumn slips in on the wind, bringing a delicate chill that makes every breath feel alive. The mornings, once heavy with humidity, now carry a thin mist that hovers over the Jhelum and its tributaries, softening the contours of the city and fields into a muted mosaic of gold, silver, and pale amber. There is a quiet reverence in this air, as if the valley itself is holding its breath in anticipation, aware that the season of change has arrived.
The sunlight takes on a different character in these days. No longer harsh or glaring, it slants through the Chinar avenues and orchards like liquid amber, illuminating every leaf and branch with a brilliance that is almost unbearable in its beauty. Walking beneath these canopies, the leaves rustle gently, falling in delicate showers that scatter across streets and lanes. The ground becomes a patchwork quilt of reds, golds, and rusts, each step producing a soft, satisfying crunch. It is in this subtle music, this mingling of light, shadow, and fragrance of earth and moss, that one feels the valley’s heartbeat most intimately.
Even the rivers seem changed. The Jhelum, flowing calmly past Dal and Nigeen lakes, reflects the fiery canopy above as if catching the valley’s soul in its mirror. Small currents lap against moss-covered stones with a gentleness that contrasts the torrent of summer, while the distant mountains stand vigil, their peaks dusted with the first hints of snow. There is an anticipation in the landscape, a sense that the world is both pausing and preparing. The forests, the plains, the lakes, and the mountains are all waiting, in a hush of expectancy, for the full arrival of Harud.
As the days lengthen toward the afternoon, a golden warmth permeates the streets and orchards. Farmers gather in the fields, inspecting the ripening apples, walnuts, and pomegranates. The saffron fields of Pampore glimmer with deep purple blossoms, each crimson stigma plucked with meticulous care, its value more precious than gold. The scent of earth, of damp leaves, of smoked wood from nearby hearths, fills the air. There is a quiet rhythm to these moments, a harmony that speaks of preparation and endurance, of life adjusting gracefully to change.
Walking through the old city, one notices the subtle signs of human life in tandem with nature. Children chase one another along narrow lanes strewn with leaves, laughing as their feet scatter the autumnal carpet. Women move deliberately with baskets of fruits, vegetables, and flowers, their movement synchronized with the pulse of the season. Courtyards glimmer with lanterns as evening falls, their soft light mingling with the fading sunlight. Somewhere nearby, a wedding is being prepared. The aroma of spices rises from the kitchen; the faint strains of music float over walls; the bride and groom, surrounded by family and ritual, are preparing to step into a new chapter of life. In the midst of falling leaves and fading light, life is beginning again even as the world sheds its summer skin.
The forests of Dachigam, Gulmarg, and Sonamarg are transformed in Harud. Every turn of a winding path reveals another palette of colors: the copper of birches, the scarlet flare of Chinars, the bronze of oaks, and the soft gold of poplars. Walking through these forests, one feels a profound sense of presence. Deer move cautiously through the undergrowth, their breaths visible in the crisp air. Hangul, the red deer, graze in open glades, almost spectral against the fiery backdrop. Bears roam, consuming every last apple and walnut before retreating into dens for hibernation. Foxes, normally shy and elusive, seem more visible in their russet coats, blending effortlessly with fallen leaves. Even the streams and smaller rivers seem to move slower, their fish conserving energy as if aware of the seasonal shift. Every creature, from the smallest insect to the largest predator, participates in this choreography of survival and preparation.
The mountains loom above it all, patient and silent. The Pir Panjal and Harmukh ranges, clothed in autumn gold, amber, and bronze, wait for the snow that will soon crown them in white. From the valley floor, these peaks seem eternal, yet each year they participate in the same cycle of waiting and renewal. Standing at the edge of a slope, watching forested ridges fade into the mist, one feels a mixture of awe and humility. The mountains do not rush; they teach patience. They teach observation. They teach the quiet endurance that Harud asks of every living being.
In the sky, movement is constant. Birds begin to gather and prepare for their migrations. Ducks, teals, pochards, geese, and swans arrive from Siberia and Central Asia, transforming wetlands such as Hokersar, Wular, Manasbal, and Narkara into bustling havens of life. Their calls echo over the reeds and shallow waters; their wings cut the air in perfect synchrony. These migrations, like the Bakerwal journeys, speak of survival, instinct, and rhythm. They remind one that movement is necessary, that departure and return are inseparable, and that all life, human or wild, is bound by cycles that are at once fragile and resilient.
From the high meadows across Pir Panjal, the Bakerwals descend steadily with their flocks of sheep, goats, and ponies. Dust swirls around their feet; children ride small ponies while elders walk with wooden staffs, guiding animals with voices, songs, and whistles. Each journey carries generations of labor, stories, and tradition, a rhythm as old as the land itself. The sounds of bells, the bleating of sheep, and the laughter of children blend into a melody of endurance and survival. Observing them is to witness the intimate connection between humans and nature, to understand that migration is not merely movement but a living ritual, a dialogue between land, animal, and human life that stretches across centuries.
Autumn is also the peak of harvest. Orchards and fields overflow with abundance: apples plump and red, walnuts dropping into soft grass, saffron threads plucked carefully from deep purple blooms. Harvest is both sustenance and devotion, a reflection of patience, endurance, and the intimate dialogue between humans and the land. Kneeling among these fields, gathering fruits or saffron, one is acutely aware of the past generations who labored in the same soil, under the same sun, and felt the same winds. Each act becomes a meditation, a ritual, and a celebration of life’s continuity.
Weddings flourish alongside the harvest. Courtyards glow with lanterns, kitchens hum with the rich aroma of wazwan, and laughter drifts like smoke across leaf-strewn alleys. Brides in crimson pherans step delicately into spaces alive with tradition, their hands painted with henna echoing the fiery hues of fallen Chinar leaves. Children chase one another among the piles of gold, red, and amber leaves, their mirth mingling with the rustle of trees and the scent of smoke and spices. Autumn in Kashmir is a season of juxtaposition: as nature sheds its garments, life presses forward, celebrating beginnings, affirming that endings are not sorrow but preparation.
As autumn deepens, the forests grow quieter, yet more alive in subtle ways. Trees stand in contemplative splendor, branches reaching into pale skies, leaves carpeting the ground in fiery brilliance. Deer graze cautiously, bears retreat, foxes hunt with deliberate precision, and the tiniest insects conserve energy for winter. Every element participates in the season’s rhythm, a testament to patience, preparation, and resilience. The mountains, still overseeing the valley, teach the same lesson: life continues in cycles, and observation and endurance are essential to understanding its rhythm.
Late autumn finds the Bakerwals nearing lower valleys, their pace slowed, their voices quieter, the rhythm of the journey more reflective. Children ride ponies with careful attention, absorbing lessons of patience, endurance, and reverence for the land. Elders guide flocks with knowledge accumulated over generations, every ridge and ravine familiar, every step deliberate. The migration, once vibrant and noisy, now carries a quiet, meditative tone, harmonizing with the valley’s mood as it prepares for the coming winter.
The skies over wetlands brim with migratory birds. Thousands of ducks, geese, teals, and swans wheel and call in orchestral chaos, landing gracefully on still waters. The wetlands shimmer under pale light, reflecting the sky and the forests, the mountains and the fleeting dance of leaves. Their movement reminds one of interconnectedness, the inevitability of departure and return, and the continuity of life that transcends individual lifespans.
Even as the harvest ends and weddings quiet, autumn leaves traces of joy, labor, and memory. Courtyards empty slowly, hearths dim, laughter lingers in alleys, and the scent of wazwan and wood smoke hangs in the air. The valley teaches that every beginning is mirrored by an ending, that celebration persists amid change, and that continuity exists in memory as well as action. Stories of mountain spirits, hidden springs, and forest guardians echo in misty evenings, reminding one that the valley is alive not only in body but in spirit, its soul written in narrative, song, and season.
The first snow begins to creep down the slopes, mingling with the last golden leaves. Streams mirror the muted light, mountains don white crowns, and forests pause in reflective hush. Harud, with its fire of leaves, migrations, celebrations, and reflections, leaves a permanent imprint. It teaches patience, resilience, humility, and awareness. Step by step, leaf by leaf, breath by breath, the valley unfolds its timeless rhythm. Every leaf, bird, Bakerwal, bride, flame, stream, and mountain participates in the ongoing poetry of life.
Autumn in Kashmir is a bridge: between fire and snow, between endings and beginnings, between silence and song. It is a meditation, a philosophy, a living poem. To walk in Harud is to witness impermanence, continuity, and renewal, to understand that every ending carries the seed of a beginning, and that beauty, resilience, and memory endure in every corner of existence. As the snow settles and the valley quiets, Harud remains within, a fire of memory, a rhythm of life, a reflection of eternity captured in a fleeting season.
