The icy grip

Chillai Kalan—the mighty name in the Kashmiri lexicon. Just pronouncing it sends chills down the spine. A Persian term that has long found its way into Kashmiri culture and continues to spread fear among the locals. Lasting 40 days, its successors—Chillai Khurd and Chillai Bache—continue the harshness in the months that follow, extending the icy grip. Known for its severe weather, Chillai Kalan symbolizes survival and endurance. In Kashmir, where every season holds a different story, this season is remembered as one of resilience and a reminder of nature’s overwhelming dominance over life.

Chillai Kalan dips the mercury and plunges the temperature to freezing levels, transforming bustling streets into icy expanses. The snow blankets everything, concealing the pain and sorrow. Yet beneath the serene, snow-clad landscape lie untold stories of hardships that locals endure in these months, leaving behind indelible stains deep inside. I am in my thirties now. The first five years of my life were spent marveling at Kashmir’s beauty, but the next twenty-five were filled with questions about whether it was truly heaven or a realm of sorrow.

Foreigners praise the environment by calling each and every portion as heaven on earth, but to its people, it is a complex story. The harshness of Chillai Kalan gnaws at your very being, bringing aches and pains that settle in the chest, back, and legs. Every part of the body feels broken and every muscle strained and the exposed skin endures nothing but searing pain. Everything around appears beautiful but none enjoys their very existence of their own. People are forced to live in a world of thought not reality.

Hospitals, especially Barzullah’s Bone and Joint Hospital, remain on a high alert. The brittle cold makes even the smallest fall potentially disastrous. If anyone slips and falls in this season, the resulting pain will become an enduring part of their life. For the elderly, this season is especially cruel. It first steals the warmth of the body, then the warmth of the heart. They endure a profound sense of pain as if the world around them has faded away. And at times, the season takes an even harsher toll—it takes life itself.

Younger generations have become the present victims of this season, thanks to the cultural shift of imitating foreign habits. The new generation has distanced itself from traditional warmth—they barely recognize the pheran, a cloak, and kangir, a fire pot, opting for branded jackets and heating blowers. The pheran has long lost its credibility, dismissed as something that makes one look like a “bichour”(helpless). With each passing day in the winter, funerals increase. Unfortunately, Chillai Kalan and Chillai Khurd have to bear the blame.

The season takes a toll on the spirit. While people laugh and socialize, deep down, they are pierced by sorrow, the frost settling not just in homes but in hearts. This duality of external joy and internal grief is the hallmark of Chillai Kalan.

For many years, people believed the season had lost its ferocity. There was no darbar move, no kangri, no hamam—everything around seemed dry. The cracks were visible on the earth. Elders would speak of harsher winters when frost clung to rooftops for weeks, water froze in pots overnight, and snow covered the valley endlessly. But that was long ago, a memory fading away. Modern winters seemed like a mere shadow of the past, with little snow in March and the mercury seldom dipping below freezing. Over the years, climate change has altered the character of Chillai Kalan. Pollution, deforestation, and human actions may have tried to weaken its grip, yet it reasserts its might, often through unpredictable weather phenomena like ENSO (El Niño–Southern Oscillation).

But this year, Chillai Kalan returned with full force, dropping temperatures to -10°C and even -12°C in some areas. The cold became relentless, like a powerful force overtaking the land and its people. It felt like a battle, freezing life in its grip. The mornings and evenings resembled a cold war, where, much like the Russians, stood superior with their might. In this context, the rich seemed superior, able to afford hamams, heat radiators, and gas heaters, while others were left to endure the harshness of winter.

Although people have started building modern electric hamams, using gas heaters, ACs, and heavy blankets, there is an emotional coldness no fire can melt. The warmth of the kangri is missing. Dried vegetables are nowhere to be seen. The outside world remains bleak and silent, amplifying the chill of the season as if the very essence of winter has faded away.

As winter passes, the frost melts, the sun returns, and life resumes. But Chillai Kalan leaves its mark—not just on the landscape but on the soul. Those who lose their dear ones are left mourning when the season passes away. A void created that is hard to fulfill. It strips life bare, demanding strength, patience, and the ability to find warmth in a frozen world.

Chillai Kalan is not just a season; it is a story of survival, sorrow, and the quiet resilience of the human spirit.

Yasir Altaf Zargar is a banker, cybersecurity expert and specialist in Indian polity and constitutional issues. Currently working on rural self-employment at a local bank, he uses his expertise to empower rural communities.