In our valley, endurance often passes for strength. Sometimes, it is simply the way we forget to ask for help.

Winter does not begin here with a single snowfall. It seeps in quietly, like fatigue at the end of a long day. One morning the tap hesitates before running; another, the latch burns your fingers. Breath stays in the air like unfinished speech. At dawn, smoke rises from hamam chimneys and hangs above the lanes in low ribbons. Houses seem awake before the people inside them. By the time the calendar approaches the twenty-first of December, our bodies have already surrendered—half willingly, half by habit.

From far away, winter looks cinematic. Snow lays its hand on everything—roofs, roads, even worry. Chimneys breathe evenly, and the valley appears calm. But inside that calm, everything slows. Doors resist as mornings  stretch longer than they should. We wear the pheran indoors and outdoors; taking it off feels unnecessary, even insecure. The kangri sits beneath it, glowing against the chest, a mix of comfort and mild danger. Inside the body, blood thickens, vessels tighten, and the heart works harder without complaint. It has learned what we have learned—to keep going.

By the time people come to seek our consultation , winter has already taken residence inside them. Their hands are cold when they touch ours. Their faces carry a dull heaviness that rest no longer lifts. Blood pressure readings rise because of altered physiology, nonetheless , nobody looks surprised.

“Sorry to trouble you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Just the cold.”

Here, pain rarely arrives........

© Greater Kashmir