The ashes of a living culture

There was a time when homes in Kashmir weren’t built only with bricks. They were stitched with voices, sealed with shared laughter, and warmed by the presence of many. A courtyard wasn’t just a space between walls—it was the heart of a home, beating in rhythm with the chatter of children, the gossip of women, and the wisdom of the old.That rhythm is faltering now.

I walk into homes where the air feels dense, not with smoke or snow, but with silence. Elders sit by the window, watching the world move on without them. Their eyes hold the weight of stories never told, of songs they no longer hum because no one is listening. Their backs are bent—not just from age, but from the slow collapse of relevance.

They are not lonely because they are old. They are lonely because we have stopped making time for them.

There was a time when every neighbor knew when the other’s family member fell sick. When bread was shared before it was counted. When you didn’t need to call before visiting. Now, neighbors live wall to wall, but heart to heart is another matter. Doors remain locked even when people are inside. Conversations have shrunk to notifications. And our elders—our roots—are fading quietly into the corners of houses that used to revolve around them.

I met a woman who whispered, “Once, I was the first person my children would come to. Now, I don’t know what worries them. They don’t speak. They’re always in their phones, or out, or tired.” Her voice cracked not with anger—but with something softer, sadder: longing.

We have grown so busy constructing our independence that we have forgotten how to belong.

There was a time when weddings were community events—days of shared cooking, of neighbors decorating the bride’s room, of rice brought in woven baskets, of songs sung off-key but full of soul. Now, celebrations are events—streamlined, silent, showy. The smell of home-cooked wazwan has been replaced with hotel buffets. The warmth of a hundred hands replaced with a single phone capturing filtered moments.

Even grief, once communal, is now quiet. Condolences arrive as texts. No one sits beside the bereaved through the long nights. No one stays after the third day. We mourn and move on—with practiced efficiency.

What happened to us?

This erosion isn’t sudden. It crept in, disguised as progress. We told ourselves we were evolving. That nuclear families meant freedom. That privacy was peace. But somewhere in this pursuit, we dropped the thread of togetherness.

Our elders have noticed it most.

They remember the time when people grieved together, not alone. When no child went hungry if a neighbor had food. When the old weren’t sent away or left behind—but sat at the center, passing down lullabies, advice, and silence filled with meaning.

Now, they sit not in reverence, but in resignation.

And yet—I believe the heart of our community isn’t dead. Only dormant. It still beats in a child who insists on feeding their grandmother. In a boy who walks an old neighbor to the mosque. In the woman who leaves a pot of rice at someone’s door without saying a word.

These are not grand gestures. But they are how healing begins.

Let us sit with our elders, not just during Eid or funerals. Let us bring them our attention, not just medicines. Let us ask them, “Tell me what it was like when you were young.” And then—listen. Just listen.Let us choose presence over performance.Because when homes grow silent, it is not the absence of sound we should fear.It is the absence of love, of memory, of meaning.

And we—we are the only ones who can bring it back.

Khursheed Dar is a teacher and author from Langate