HOW TO REMEMBER A KASHMIRI WINTER

It is fiercely nostalgic and unrealistically romantic. In reality, it required hard slog to brave frozen puddles, snow-laden roofs, hazy skies and sharp, cold winds

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AS WINTER approaches in England, the maple and beech turn a heady burgundy and amber. The leaves swirl to the tune of the nipping winds. Flashes of Kashmir hit me when this happens. Its blazing chinars and yellowing willows flood my head.

The chillai kalan invades Kashmir around December, leaves dissolve into the frosty ground and the autumn warmth leaches out. I am talking from memory, not having lived in Kashmir for 30 years. In the last 17 years of England, Kashmir comes back in so many ways. One of them is winter.

Winter in Kashmir opened up a new wardrobe. A treasure of corduroys, tweed coats, overcoats, woollen socks, caps, shawls and pherans was let loose in the house. Colourful felt namdas and gabbas were rolled out, shrinking the house to a snug, cosy place.

While the tent-like pheran warmed you up with a hot kangri tucked under your calves, you couldn’t carry the kangri everywhere. Having said that, an aunt was known for walking around the house with at least one kangri clasped between her knees.

A bukhari helped, when the kangri failed. Made of a tin drum, the