The Last Haak of the Season

In the heart of Rajbagh, Srinagar, where concrete rises faster than crops, there is still one garden — organic, hand-tended, and quietly defiant. No chemicals. No shortcuts. Just soil, composted patience, the turning of seasons — and the steady care of one old man.

I manage it myself.

At eighty, my knees bend slower, but they still know the rhythm of the earth.

This morning, I stepped out — as I always do — and my eyes went straight to the bed of Rahman Dar Haak, the old winter variety.

It was never meant to last this long. It should have been cleared by spring.

But like me, it overstayed its season, holding on through April, May, even into July.

Its leaves had grown tougher, wrinkled with age — but still green, still breathing, still alive with purpose.

My wife, ever gentle but practical, said:

“Clear the bed. It’s time for Khanyari Haak — the summer kind, the young one.”

And she was right.

Khanyari Haak is tender, quick to rise, eager for heat — the way youth always is.

But I looked at the Rahman Dar, still standing there like an old man among the young, and I thought:

Even a withered leaf has something to give.

So I picked the last batch. Slowly. Carefully.

Each leaf a reminder that age doesn’t mean uselessness — it means presence.

It means patience. It means memory, carried in silence.

In my hands, the Haak felt firm — not weak.

In my eyes, it wasn’t past its time.

It had earned its place in the pressure cooker today.

As the steam began to rise from the kitchen, in short, soft sighs, I saw a reflection — not just of the leaves, but of my own life.

At eighty, I too am like the Rahman Dar Haak.

No longer soft. No longer quick to change. But still rooted.

Still carrying flavour, meaning, and memory.

And like this garden, I grow without shortcuts.

Just time.

Just care.

Just being here, still.

In a world rushing toward the next thing, there is dignity in staying grounded.

There is quiet wisdom in knowing that even in old age, we can still nourish — with our hands, our stories, and our slow, steady presence.

Young people may no longer know what Haak is.

Few know how to grow without sprays, sacks, or screens.

But maybe — just maybe — they’ll read this and see:

There is value in growing slow.

In aging with pride.

In respecting the season you’re in, instead of rushing to the next.

So let the young have their Khanyari — its time will come.

But today, I eat the last of the Rahman Dar —

and I honour it,

as I honour my years

M.A. Kawosa, IFS., Ph.D (India); Ph.D (Germany), Former Director Environment, J&K.