By Mushtaq Hurra

Ruptured walnut husks lie scattered underfoot. The cicadas croak in long, musky waves. Their sound, sweet but insistent, tells me that Harud, our autumn, has arrived again.

It comes softly at first, wrapping the valley in amber light, gilding the chinar and willow leaves, but underneath, life begins to strain.

The green of Kashmir trembles. Leaves, once buoyant and alive, carry faint marks of yellow, hints of decay as if bitten by a silent serpent.

Every gust of wind spreads the pale touch further. Branches that once held up the sky now sag, their colours draining into the soil.

Autumn does not announce death like winter. It enters in disguise, beautiful and cruel, strangling the pulse of life under crimson and gold.

Kashmiri birds seem to sense it. Flocks of pigeons gather in the empty paddy fields. Crows wheel overhead in mourning circles. Even the songbirds fall silent, leaving only the cicadas' insistent cries.

The fragrance of Harud hangs heavy, a sweet musky scent that masks the truth: the season is a slow eraser of life.

Each falling leaf is a golden tear, mourning trees that will stand stripped and skeletal before the cold comes.

Harud's colours are fleeting. They tempt the eye, but every hue carries warning. Parrots grow mute, thrushes vanish from the meadows, and eagles retreat from their high perches.

The Hangul cries in Dachigam, and the kukil struggles for its song among forbidden fields.

Fruits wither in orchards, nests collapse, and the green pulse of the valley fades under smoky skies.

Even the cicadas' croaks, once sweet, now feel harsh and grating, echoing the valley's unease.

The autumn is merciless in Kashmir. It leaves no corner untouched. Chinar branches blaze briefly in sunlight before the leaves fall. Walnut groves, apple orchards, and willow-lined streams bear witness to slow decay.

Harud teaches a lesson older than the rivers: life blooms beautifully, and yet it is always slipping toward its end.

Every leaf that falls, branch that bends, reminds us that joy and loss travel together.

Still, the valley holds its spell.

Harud's beauty is undeniable. It asks us to notice the fragility of life, walk carefully among the trees, breathe deeply and remember that every beginning carries its own ending.

The season is harsh, but it is also honest. It lays bare the passage of time in the valley we love, in the woods and streams we call home.

Even as I watch the clouds of Harud hover over us, I hope for their passing. Winter will come. But for now, we move through the gold and amber, aware that each fallen leaf is a story of life, colour, and fleeting time.

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