A Trace of What Was

A personal reflection on how Kashmir’s warmth faded over the years, and how returning to our old values may help us breathe again.

- Wahid Bashir

I often find myself thinking about the Kashmir I knew as a child.

I often find myself thinking about the Kashmir I knew as a child.

It feels close when I close my eyes, even though life has carried us far from it. People had less, but their hearts felt wide. Neighbours stepped into our homes without hesitation.

My mother would rush to make tea. The house felt alive with voices, laughter, and the comfort of being seen.

I miss those evenings. We sat together on floors warmed by carpets, sharing rice, stories, and the small joys of the day. No one was in a hurry. We looked at each other when we spoke. We listened fully. Gratitude lived inside us in a meaningful way. Even the poorest families would thank the Almighty for whatever they had. Life felt enough.

The Kashmir around me now feels more restless.

People worry about things they never spoke of before. Families feel scattered even when they live in the same house.

I hear of rising anxiety in surveys, though I also witness it in the tired eyes of shopkeepers, students, and friends.

My homeland holds a strange silence even in busy places. People walk with phones in their hands, searching for calm in a world that keeps reminding them to move faster. Doors stay

shut. Hearts stay guarded.

I feel it in myself too. The warmth I grew up with often feels like a memory floating somewhere behind the noise.