The Spring My Father Carried

For one man, spring was never a season of rest, but a time of toil that shaped a family's future. A son recalls the sacrifices behind the blossoms.

- Mushtaq Hurra

Each spring in Kashmir, the earth wakes up slowly.

Mustard fields glow gold, cuckoos start calling, and the almond trees bloom pink against the retreating snow. The air turns fragrant. Birds return. The world begins again. And I remember my father.

For him, Soun'th, our word for spring, wasn't a time for picnics or poetry. It meant work. It meant feeding the oxen, fixing ploughs, softening soil for rice that wouldn't grow on its own. While others celebrated the thaw, he was already knee-deep in the fields, sleeves rolled, back bent, breaking the ground with silent determination.

He never complained. Not once.

I was the eldest of seven.