By Peer Mohammad Amir Qureshi
Ah, the spring—nature’s grand resurrection, a symphony of rebirth that awakens the slumbering earth from its wintry tomb. The trees, once skeletal and barren, now don emerald cloaks, their branches heavy with the promise of life. Buds, like shy maidens, unfurl into a riot of colors, painting the world in hues so vivid they seem to defy the very essence of winter’s monochrome. The air, thick with the perfume of blossoms, hums with the melodies of winged wanderers—exotic birds adorned in plumage so resplendent, they seem to have flown straight out of a painter’s dream. Kashmir, in its springtime splendor, transforms into a paradise, a living canvas where every stroke of nature’s brush whispers tales of renewal.
Yet, amidst this spectacle of life, my heart remains unmoved, a solitary island in an ocean of vibrancy. The once-mesmerizing dance of the flowers, the hypnotic chorus of the birds, the verdant embrace of the meadows—all seem to have lost their enchantment. It is as though the world has turned its volume down, and I am left standing in a silent theater, watching a play that no longer stirs my soul. The words of Allama Iqbal echo in the caverns of my mind, poignant and piercing:
“Duniya Ki Mehfilon Se Ukta Gaya Hoon Ya Rab..
Kya lutuf Anjuman ka, jab Dil Hi bhuj gaya ho…”
( The world’s gatherings weary me, O Lord—what beauty remains in the garden when the heart itself has turned to ash?)
This spring, though as glorious as those of yesteryears, feels distant, almost alien. The colors are there, the songs are there, the life is there—but the magic is gone. It is a cruel irony, to stand amidst abundance and feel barren, to witness rebirth and yet feel so irrevocably hollow. The spring of my memories, once a source of unbridled joy, now serves only as a mirror, reflecting the shadows that have crept into my heart. And so, I wander through this paradise, a ghost among the living, yearning for a time when the world’s beauty was enough to set my soul alight.
Once, the spring was a sanctuary, a gentle embrace that whispered serenity to my restless heart. It was a season of renewal, not just for the earth, but for my very soul. The golden waves of mustard fields, stretching endlessly under the sun’s tender gaze, used to fill me with an inexplicable joy, a childlike wonder that made the world feel infinite and kind. But now, those same fields lie before me, their brilliance dulled by the weight of a heart that no longer knows how to marvel. Life, with its unrelenting demands and ceaseless noise, has stolen the magic from my eyes, leaving behind a mind adrift in chaos and a soul yearning for a peace it can no longer find.
The arrival of spring was once heralded by thunderstorms—nature’s fierce overture—followed by the soft, rhythmic patter of rain. It was a ritual, a signal that the earth was ready to awaken. And with it came the hunt for the elusive morels which are prized mushrooms commonly called as “Kangich” with their intricate, honeycombed crowns. To find them was to uncover a treasure, a gift from the earth itself. The orchards, too, played their part in this symphony of rebirth. The peach and plum trees, adorned in blossoms so delicate and vibrant, rivaled the famed cherry blossoms of distant lands. Their petals, like whispers of pink and white, painted the air with a beauty so elega it felt almost sacred.
But now, even the kangich eludes me, not just in the orchards but in the corridors of my memory. The peach blossoms, though as breathtaking as ever, no longer stir the same awe. The thunderstorm’s roar feels less like a promise and more like a reminder—a reminder of how much time has changed, how much I have changed. The spring, once a balm for my weary spirit, now feels like a stranger, its beauty a mirror reflecting all that I have lost.
Oh, the spring of childhood—a time when the world was not just seen but felt, when every blade of grass, every budding flower, and every hidden treasure beneath the earth held the promise of adventure. The hunt for kangich, the prized morels, was not just a pastime; it was a ritual, a rite of passage that bound us children together in a shared quest for nature’s hidden gems.
We would gather, a lively band of explorers, our voices buzzing with excitement like bees swarming to a blossoming garden. The air was thick with chatter, each child eager to share the latest intelligence on which orchard was rumored to be teeming with morels. “The garden near the stream has the most!” one would declare, while another would insist, “No, no, the one by the old walnut tree is the best!” And off we would flock, a merry troop of treasure hunters, our eyes scanning the earth for the telltale honeycombed crowns by yelling “Joori’e Jooe’r Nati Nien Oer”
Some of us, armed with ancient wisdom passed down through generations, would dab Kohl or kajal on our eyes, believing it to be a magical potion that sharpened our vision and granted us the power to spot morels where others saw only dirt and leaves. It was a charming superstition, one that added a touch of mystery to our already enchanted pursuit.
There was a place, hidden away from the prying eyes of the other children, where the earth seemed to conspire in my favour. It was there, in that secluded spot, that I would find the most magnificent morels—giant, majestic, and unlike any the other children had ever seen.
I remember the day I brought home my first giant morel, its honeycombed surface glistening like a jewel. My sister’s eyes sparkled with wonder as she exclaimed, “Baaya, che kati loubuth yi?” (Brother, where did you find this?) Her voice was filled with awe, and in that moment, I felt like a hero, a conqueror of nature’s secrets. But I was careful, oh so careful, to reveal only the barest hint of my discovery. “It’s a secret,” I whispered, entrusting her with the knowledge of my hidden haven, for she was the only one I truly trusted.
Those days, though long gone, remain etched in my memory like the intricate patterns of a morel’s surface. And though the spring no longer holds the same magic for me, though the kangich and the mustard fields and the peach blossoms have lost their once-unfailing charm, I carry those memories like a treasure, a reminder of a time when the world was simpler, and the heart was lighter.
Alas, the gardens of yesteryears—those enchanted realms where the earth whispered its secrets and the air hummed with the laughter of children—are no more. The orchards, once teeming with life and mystery, have been swallowed by the relentless march of progress. Where peach trees once bloomed in a riot of pink and white, where the earth yielded its hidden treasures of morels ,now stand rows of concrete and steel, their cold, unyielding surfaces a stark contrast to the soft, fertile soil of memory.
The children, too, have changed. Gone are the days when they would gather, their eyes alight with curiosity, their hands eager to sift through the earth in search of nature’s bounty. Now, their heads are bowed, their gazes fixed on the glowing screens of mobile devices, their world confined to the virtual allure of social media. The Morels with their honeycombed crowns, are but a forgotten relic of a bygone era, unknown to a generation that has never known the thrill of the hunt or the joy of discovery.
It is a poignant irony, is it not? The very technology that connects us to the world has severed our connection to the earth. The gardens that once nurtured our imaginations and fed our spirits have been replaced by pixels and algorithms, their magic lost in the relentless tide of modernity. The Kangich,those humble mushrooms that once symbolized the arrival of spring, now lie buried not just beneath the soil, but beneath the weight of a world that has moved on.
And yet, as I stand amidst the remnants of what once was, I cannot help but feel a pang of sorrow—not just for the lost gardens, but for the children who will never know the simple joys they held. They will never feel the thrill of uncovering a giant morel, never hear the rustle of leaves as they race through the orchards, never taste the sweetness of a peach plucked straight from the tree. Their world, though vast in its digital expanse, feels somehow smaller, devoid of the wonder that once made spring a season of magic.
But perhaps, in the quiet corners of memory, the gardens still live. Perhaps, in the stories we tell and the memories we cherish, the Morels (kangich )still grow, waiting to be found by those who remember. And though the world may change, though the gardens may fade, the spirit of those days—the laughter, the camaraderie, the unbridled joy of discovery—will always remain, a testament to a time when the earth was alive, and so were we.
Ah, the evergreen plants—those stubborn little warriors that thrived in the shadows, hidden beneath the prickly embrace of bushes. They were more than just plants; they were treasures, symbols of our determination and our fleeting yet fierce love for nature. The hunt for them was no less adventurous than the search for Morels.It required patience, grit, and a willingness to brave the thorny barricades that guarded them. We would crawl under the bushes, our hands scratched and our clothes snagged, all for the sake of uprooting those precious greens and carrying them home like trophies.
Once home, we would plant them in our lawns or kitchen gardens with great ceremony, as if we were laying the foundation of a grand botanical empire. We watered them diligently, our eyes sparkling with pride as we imagined them growing into lush, towering plants. For a few days, they were the center of our universe. We would check on them morning and night, marveling at their resilience and dreaming of the day they would transform our humble gardens into verdant paradises.
But childhood, as it often does, had other plans. School, with its endless assignments and rigid routines, would soon reclaim our attention. The plants, once the objects of our undying devotion, were gradually forgotten. The watering cans gathered dust, and the dreams of lush gardens faded into the background. By the time we remembered our green companions, they had often withered, their leaves dry and brittle, their once-promising vitality reduced to a memory.
It was a cycle of passion and neglect, a reflection of the whimsical nature of childhood. We were fervent in our pursuits but easily distracted, our hearts as fleeting as the seasons. Yet, in those brief moments of care and attention, we learned something profound—about nurturing, about responsibility, and about the delicate balance of life.
Looking back, I can’t help but smile at the irony. We worked so hard to collect those plants, braving thorns and dirt, only to abandon them when life got busy. But perhaps that’s the beauty of childhood—it’s not about perfection or permanence, but about the joy of the moment, the thrill of the chase, and the lessons learned along the way.
Those evergreen plants may have withered, but the memories of our efforts remain evergreen, etched in the soil of our hearts. And though we may have forgotten to water them, the seeds of those experiences have grown into something far more enduring—a love for nature, a sense of wonder, and a nostalgia for the days when even the smallest of adventures felt like the greatest of triumphs.
Oh, the summers of yesteryears—when the sun hung lazily in the sky, and the world seemed to move at the pace of a gentle breeze. Among the many joys of those golden days, fishing was a cherished ritual, a pastime that bound me, my brother, and my cousin in a shared adventure. The streams, then, were not the murky, lifeless drains they have become today. No, they were crystalline veins of liquid glass, their waters so clear you could see the pebbles shimmering beneath the surface, each one a tiny jewel catching the sunlight.
We would set out with nothing more than a stick, a knife, and our boundless enthusiasm. Tying the knife to the stick, we fashioned our makeshift spears, ready to hunt for the silvery flashes of fish darting through the water. The process was as much about patience as it was about precision. And then, there was the magic of refraction—the way the water bent the light, making the fish appear just out of reach, a trick of nature that both frustrated and fascinated us. It was a lesson in physics disguised as play, though we were too young to realize it then.
The spring season, in particular, held a special allure. The elders would say that the fish tasted better in spring than in any other season. I never quite understood the logic behind this claim—was it the freshness of the water, the abundance of food, or some mystical quality of the season itself? Whatever the reason, it added an air of reverence to our springtime fishing expeditions, as though we were partaking in a tradition as old as the hills themselves.
But now, those streams are but a shadow of what they once were. The crystal-clear waters have turned murky, choked with dirt, drainage, diapers, and polythene—a grim testament to the toll of progress and neglect. The fish, if any remain, are hidden beneath layers of filth, their once-gleaming scales dulled by the pollution. The refraction of light, once a source of wonder, is now a distant memory, obscured by the grime of a world that has forgotten the beauty of simplicity.
Yet, in my mind’s eye, the streams still run clear. I can still see the fish darting through the water, their movements swift and graceful. I can still feel the thrill of the hunt, the camaraderie of my brother and cousin, and the quiet satisfaction of a day spent in harmony with nature. Those summers may be gone, but they live on in the stories we tell and the memories we hold dear.
And as for the mystery of the springtime fish—perhaps some secrets are meant to remain unsolved, their magic preserved in the realm of memory. For in the end, it is not the logic that matters, but the joy, the wonder, and the connection to a time when the world was simpler, and the streams ran clear.
Yes, everything has changed. The streams that once sang with the laughter of children and the shimmer of fish now lie silent, their waters choked with the debris of our carelessness. What was once a crystal-clear ribbon of life has become a stagnant drain, a grim mirror reflecting the neglect of our surroundings—and perhaps, the neglect of our own hearts.
The children of today will never know the simple joy of fishing in those streams. They will never feel the thrill of spotting a fish darting through the water, never marvel at the way light bends and dances beneath the surface. The streams, now filled with dirt, plastic, and waste, have lost their magic. And with it, we have lost a piece of ourselves—a connection to nature, to tradition, to the innocence of a time when the world felt pure and full of wonder.
It Is not just the streams that have changed; it is us. As we have dirtied our surroundings, so too have we dirtied our hearts. The things that once allured us—the sight of a fish breaking the surface, the sound of water trickling over stones, the smell of earth and greenery—no longer stir our souls. We have become desensitized, our senses dulled by the noise and clutter of modern life. The world moves faster now, and we with it, but at what cost?
The loss of those streams is more than an environmental tragedy; it is a metaphor for what we have sacrificed in the name of progress. We have traded the simplicity of nature for the complexity of convenience, the purity of clear waters for the pollution of our own making. And in doing so, we have distanced ourselves from the very essence of what it means to be alive—to feel, to wonder, to connect.
But perhaps there is still hope. Perhaps, in remembering those streams and the joy they brought, we can find the motivation to reclaim what we have lost. To clean not just our surroundings, but our hearts as well. To teach the next generation the value of nature, not as a resource to be exploited, but as a gift to be cherished.
The streams of my childhood may be gone, but their memory remains—a reminder of a time when the world was simpler, and our hearts were lighter. And though we cannot turn back time, we can choose to move forward with greater care, with greater respect for the earth and for ourselves. For in the end, the cleanliness of our surroundings is a reflection of the cleanliness of our hearts. And only when both are pure can we truly find peace.
- The author is a Ganderbal-based columnist and X’s @peermohdamir
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