I miss a Kashmir I never lived

I am only twenty. Too young, people say, to speak of loss.

But how can I not, when every evening of my childhood was filled with the voices of my grandparents and parents, telling me stories of a Kashmir that no longer exists?

I have never truly walked on pulhur, never worn khraaw in winter, never sat on a patij at a wedding that stretched into the early morning hours. And yet, I miss them — miss them like something I once held in my own hands.

Because I have lived them through the eyes of my elders.

The First Stories I Heard:

My Dadi used to tell me how, in her youth, the mornings began with the smell of fresh nun chai brewing on a clay stove, the steam curling like lazy clouds in the chill of dawn. The wooden latticed windows let in the pale light of the sun, and the copper utensils lined up in the kitchen glowed as if lit from within.

She spoke of the earthen floors, smoothed and shined by hand, cool underfoot, smelling faintly of wet clay after rain. In summer, they kept the house cool; in winter, they seemed to hold the warmth of the kangri’s fire like a secret.

“Concrete is strong,” she would say, “but earthen floor...it was alive. It breathed with you.”

I would close my eyes and imagine it — my own feet pressing into the earth inside a home, feeling rooted, held, and connected to the valley in a way no tile could give.

The Sound of Khraaw:

From Papa I heard about khraaw, the wooden clogs with leather straps. He said that in winter mornings, the sound of khraaw on the snow-crusted road was the music of the neighborhood — tok-tok-tok, as men headed to the masjid for Fajr, their breath steaming in the air, pherans wrapped tight around them.

The khraaw would leave a line of footprints, perfect and deliberate, as if the earth itself wanted to remember each step.

Now, that sound is gone. The snow still falls, but no khraaw marks it. The air is quieter, but not in the peaceful way — in the empty way.

Patij Evenings

From my Nani I learned about the patij — handwoven reed mats that covered the floor during weddings and gatherings. People sat shoulder to shoulder, knees touching, the warmth of human closeness making the cold bearable.

Women would sit in a circle, peeling almonds or shelling walnuts, while singing wanwun that carried blessings for the bride and groom. The air smelled of saffron rice, cardamom, and fresh snow melting on boots by the door.

There were no phones, no cameras, no loudspeakers — only voices, faces, and the slow passing of time.

Now, patij lie rolled up in storerooms, gathering dust. Weddings have rows of plastic chairs, people sitting apart, scrolling through reels while waiting for food. Even the wanwun is half-hearted, drowned in the blast of loudspeakers.

Kangri Winters

Dadu spoke of winters when the kangri was as essential as breath. Every person carried their own — a clay pot inside a wicker case, filled with glowing charcoal. The kangri wasn’t just for warmth; it was comfort, it was companionship. People would sit together, holding kangris in their laps, sharing gossip, jokes, and plans.

Children had playful kangri battles, trying to sneak their warm kangri under a cousin’s pheran to make them squeal. Elders would warn them not to burn themselves, but the laughter always won.

Today, the kangri still exists, but less as a daily companion and more as a token of tradition. Many prefer electric heaters, each person in their own room, warmed alone instead of together.

Rouf and Rouch

Mama often spoke of rouf, the traditional dance of Kashmiri women. She would describe the line of women, hands linked, swaying in perfect rhythm to songs of spring, love, and longing. The swish of pherans, the sparkle of tilla, the shy smiles — all were part of the dance’s magic.

Then there was rouch — the ritual lighting of oil lamps in the evening, their flames trembling gently in the cold air, a quiet offering of peace and gratitude.

Now, rouf is mostly performed on stages for tourists, and rouch is nearly forgotten. The rituals of joy and devotion that once lived in our daily lives are now events, not habits.

Evenings Without Screens

My Nanu’s favourite memories were of evenings spent without screens. After a day’s work, people gathered in each other’s homes. The brazier glowed with burning walnut shells, the air heavy with the smell of woodsmoke. Children played games like gindeh or panjhe gindh, and the elders told stories — of wise Sufis, mischievous animals, or the bravery of ancestors.

The only sound was the crackle of fire and the rise and fall of voices. The only light was from oil lamps or the moon through the window.

I have only known evenings where the TV is on, the phone is in hand, and everyone is in their own world. Sometimes I wonder — have we gained the world through our screens, but lost the world that was right next to us?

Clothes That Were Seasons

Mama told me how clothes once followed the valley’s rhythm. Winter pherans lined with wool, summer cottons light as air, and wedding pherans heavy with tilla embroidery, each stitch done by patient hands. A bride’s trousseau was a treasure chest of handmade work, not a shopping bag from a city mall.

Now, I see pherans mostly in Instagram posts or winter outings. Tilla is boutique-priced, worn by a few for show, not by many for pride. The connection between clothes and the hands that made them is breaking.

Language, the Unseen Loss

The deepest ache is for our language. I speak Kashmiri, but many my age don’t. Parents push Urdu and English for “better futures,” forgetting that Kashmiri is our root.

My Dadi says some words cannot be translated. Nyabat — a gentle grace of character. Phambas — the warmth of a home on a winter night. Dilbar — beloved, but in a way that feels like home.

When a word dies, it takes its feeling with it. And when enough words die, an entire way of feeling dies too.

Craft as Soul

From all my elders, I heard how the valley’s hands shaped beauty. The slow art of papier-mâché, the hand-knotted carpets carrying months of work, the copperware polished until you could see your face in it. These weren’t “products” — they were stories made solid.

Now, mass production has hollowed much of it. Some crafts survive only as souvenirs for tourists, stripped of the patience and care that gave them soul.

What I See, What I Fear

I see concrete where there was earth. Plastic where there was wood. Loudspeakers where there were voices. I see weddings that cost lakhs but lack intimacy. I see children who know how to make reels but not how to sing wanwun.

And the scariest part? Many don’t even notice.

A Loss I Inherited

I was born after much of this was already gone. But through the stories of my elders, I have inherited the grief of losing it.

It’s a strange pain — missing a place you have never lived, loving a world you know only through the eyes of those who came before you.

Sometimes I feel like I am holding the last threads of a tapestry that has already been torn.

Why I Write This

I am not against progress. I don’t want to live without hospitals, schools, or good roads. But I don’t want us to move so fast that we drop the things worth carrying.

If we let go of pulhur, khraaw, patij, wanwun, pherans, Kashmiri words, our crafts, our morals — then in fifty years, what will be left?

It won’t matter if we still live in Kashmir if Kashmir no longer lives in us.