By Bashir Ahmad Dar

As a child, I often tried slipping my small, stout feet into my father's shoes. It was a game, an experiment, and a secret ritual I believed connected me to him.

Evenings in our home in Anantnag were filled with moments I could read like a clock. I would hide behind the wooden fence in our courtyard, peeking through the narrow gaps, waiting for the familiar sounds: the creak of the main gate, the tuk-tuk of his shoes on the dusty floor, and the faint scent of leather carrying traces of the day's labour.

Each sound signaled his return, the arrival of Baba, and with it, the world felt safe.

When he finally entered, I would move with care, almost like a cat, and slip my feet into those large, rough shoes. They carried dust, dreams, unspoken desires, and the evidence of toil.

I would wobble, stumble, and fall, rise again, and fall once more. Every fall seemed to teach me something: how heavy the path could be, and how steady one needed to be to walk through life with integrity.

Years later, I saw the same scene unfolding in my own courtyard.

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