Oxen, Spring, And A Father's Silent Struggle In Kashmir

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational Photo

By 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. My father had no education, but he placed ours above everything. We never missed a class. He made sure of it, even when there wasn't enough to go around. He worked so we could dream.

Read Also From Tral to Saudi Arabia: How My Grandfather's Prayers Built My Life A Window in Kashmir Opened Her World

Blisters bloomed on his hands like the blossoms we barely noticed. Cracks split his soles, but not his resolve. His hair was often caked in dust and sweat. It was his version of a crown.

We didn't have outings or luxuries. Our joy came cheap. I fished with friends in irrigation canals, climbed trees for dove nests, hunted for mushrooms in wet woods. That was my childhood. It was enough.

But spring wasn't light for us. It came with the pressure of preparation.

Thirty-five days of ploughing before rice transplantation. The fields had to be made mushy and rich, ready for seedling saplings. My father, with oxen he treated like royalty, did it all. He had even named them. They were family too.

I watched him carry more than tools. He carried our lives. And somehow, he kept us warm through bitter winters and afloat through lean seasons. He never let us feel how hard it was. The weight he bore was invisible to others. But I saw it. And I've never forgotten.

Years passed. We studied, graduated, found jobs. All seven of us. That was his reward: not rest, but pride.

He never asked for thanks. Never talked about sacrifice. He just kept going.

Now he's old, over eighty. The fields are quieter. The ploughs hang in the shed. And when spring arrives, I see him watching it finally, not working through it. He listens to the birds. He lets the sun reach his skin. He smiles more.

But I carry something now. His unfinished season. A wish.

That he'd had more of the joy he gave us. That spring had meant more to him than thirty-five days of mud.

If I could, I'd take him back. One last walk through those fields. One last time to ride on his shoulder, to hear him hum a tune lost to time. To thank him, properly.

Come, Aba. Let's walk through Soun'th. Let the blossoms fall on us like blessings. Let the world see that this season, too, once belonged to you.

• Mushtaq Hurra is a teacher and columnist. He can be reached at [email protected] .

MENAFN14052025000215011059ID1109545954