By Sheikh Ubaid Gul

Evenings in the 1990s in Kashmir carried a light that belonged neither to the sun nor the stars. It came from the laps of elders, the warmth of their voices, and the magic of stories spilling from memory.

Their laps were private worlds, portals into places where fairies greeted us, trees hummed songs, and birds spoke in riddles.

Words were keys, unlocking spaces more wondrous than any magic spell. They promised golden waters, impossible quests, and the slow unfolding of a universe that existed beyond our walls.

I remember a tale of princes turned to stone by hidden spells. Travellers, guided by a wandering mystic and a glowing ball, crossed the Valley of Idols with cotton in their ears, resisting bewitching voices that sought to stop them.

They carried vessels to capture golden water flowing from the roots of a singing tree. They poured it over the stone figures, and kingdoms remembered spring.

At the end, the storyteller spoke the same words:“They went there, we came here.”

For years, those words floated past me like wind through the branches. I never paused. I never realized their weight.

Time eventually teaches in whispers. Dreams are temporary gifts shaped by desire. When morning arrives, they vanish. Our minds accept their passing, even as we cling to the echoes. Life moves in rhythms, alternating sweetness and loss, teaching us that all journeys, imagined or lived, have a season.

Stories work the same way. They arrive, ignite the mind, colour the heart, and then step back.

“They went there” marks departure. The characters we walk with, the princes and fairies, the singing trees, return to the world from which they came. They were never ours to hold, only ours to accompany. They live in books, in memory, in the imagination, and their absence reminds us of time's law.

“And we came here” carries its own gravity. We return from the expanse of wonder to the solidity of reality. Elders placed us in that moment with intention. They knew the seduction of stories, the way they could spill over into life, stirring restlessness, and longing. They taught the boundary between imagination and the world we occupy. Their lesson was gentle, unavoidable, and essential.

I once spoke with a friend about a book she had read. She said,“You don't know how this attachment to a tale ruins later. It is better to be careful early.”

In her words, I heard the wisdom of centuries. Stories are powerful. They teach, console, and shape. Yet too close an attachment dissolves the boundary, leaving reality hollowed, restless, and unfinished.

Time in Kashmir has always felt like a swift river. Night's sleep softens its current. Dreams offer a brief refuge. Stories serve the same purpose. They lift us out of hours, and let us breathe and wander through rivers of desire, landscapes of sorrow, and moments of triumph.

Dreams hold our secret wishes. Stories hold our unspoken emotions. Both leave traces that stay, tender and fleeting, reminding us of beauty without holding it hostage.

I understand now that each tale returns to its own world as inevitably as rivers reach the sea. We walk beside them only for a while. Our hearts expand and contract with their presence. When the story ends, we are left with a soft ache, a trace of wonder, and the pull of reality.

One day, we will meet them again in thought, far from the demands of the day. We will hear the whispers of fairies, follow the shimmer of golden water, and feel the warmth of the storyteller's lap.

The world waits for us, steady and indifferent, insisting we return. The chain of life pulls us forward, toward tasks, people, and seasons of our own making.

“They went there, we came here.” The phrase is simple, but it carries the weight of lessons. It is a map of imagination and reality, a reminder that magic has its time, as does waking. It teaches patience, acceptance, and the rhythm of return.

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