Autumn in Kashmir feels like a painting that moves. The air turns cool, the light softens, and the chinar leaves glow like gold. The scent of burning wood mixes with the wind. It is a season that touches the heart and slows time.

Years ago, autumn evenings in Kashmir carried another kind of beauty. In my village, Ahlan Gadole, about forty kilometres from Anantnag, the end of the harvest marked the beginning of evening gatherings. When the fields turned bare and the sky blushed orange, groups of young girls would come together in open courtyards to sing. The songs spoke of love, waiting, faith, and the passing of time. Their voices floated through the village, light and full of feeling.

Those evenings were moments of connection. The girls shared stories, laughter, and warmth. If one stopped coming, others would ask about her. Parents never worried. They knew these gatherings made their daughters stronger and closer. The songs carried lessons of care and companionship that life often forgets to teach.

The melodies were part of Kashmir's living tradition, passed from mothers to daughters. Each song held a piece of memory, of the land, the people, and the emotions that shaped village life. It was through these gatherings that the culture of song, story, and empathy survived.

Today, that tradition has almost disappeared. The open courtyards are gone, replaced by walls and narrow lanes. Families have moved indoors, and the phone has replaced the dafli. People meet less, speak less, and share less. The rhythm of community has faded into private lives.

Autumn still arrives with its familiar beauty, but the evenings feel different. The air is the same, but something is missing. The season that once sang now falls silent. What we have lost is a way of being together.

This change is a reflection of how life in Kashmir has shifted. We have built better houses, but we have smaller hearts. The new world has given us comfort but taken away connection. The courtyards that once echoed with song now echo with silence.

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