S Ahmed
An indignant little child confronted Chillai Kalaan, the fierce forty-day winter of Kashmir:
“Why don’t you snow now the way you did in the past? Where are those long, thick icicles that used to hang from the thatched roofs of houses and cowsheds? My father says that in his childhood, you were truly like that. Why not anymore?”
Chillai Kalaan answered in a frail, coughing voice, barely above a whisper:
“I am an old man now, weak and drained of strength. Once I was magnificent—strong, beautiful, and yes, merciless. During my forty days, even the sun dared not show its face. He hid behind thick, dark clouds, terrified of my fierce temperament. He feared even my children, “Chill Bach” and “Chill Khurde. The whole valley would lie buried beneath deep, heavy snow. In the mornings, enormous icicles would dangle from rooftops, enchanting the children who snapped them off with small, eager hands, treasured them like treasures, and sometimes even nibbled at their icy sweetness.
The children loved me. To them, I was beautiful. I gifted them nearly three months of glorious vacation. But the grown-ups—parents, elders, shopkeepers, laborers—despised me. They blamed me for blocked roads, bitter colds, endless flu, and unrelenting hardship. Workers sat idle at home, unable to earn, and cursed my name, calling me cruel for cutting the valley off from the rest of the world.”
The old winter paused, as if remembering.
“When my time finally ended, radiant spring arrived. Schools reopened. Children skipped along sunny paths once more. The snow-draped mountains sparkled brilliantly in the clear light. Waterfalls sang from the hillsides. Birds filled the air with song, and the gentle, mellow call of the hoopoe drifted from graveyards carpeted with blooming daffodils.
Yet humans broke my heart. They could not bear even a few weeks of difficulty. They chose comfort, warmth, and ease over everything else—even during my reign. In their impatience, they ravaged the forests, paved over fertile fields, and replaced rich soil with iron, plastic, bricks, stone, and cement. They raised shops, malls, and glittering showrooms. They embraced luxury and discarded balance.
And now… now they sigh and tell nostalgic stories about the ‘good old days’ when I was still powerful.”
The child listened quietly, then asked in a small, trembling voice, tears glistening in his eyes:
“Is there any hope those days will ever return?”
Chilai Kalan answered softly, almost sadly:
“I fear not. The damage has gone too far.”
The child’s shoulders slumped in disappointment, but after a moment, he spoke again, almost to himself:
“But… we can still change things if we truly want to. We can tell people how to protect the environment, how to heal the climate, how to bring things back closer to how they once were.”
The ancient winter regarded the boy for a long moment before replying:
“As long as greed continues to rule human hearts, there is little hope for real change.”
The child lifted his gaze to the bright, cloudless sky and let out a deep, quiet sigh.
Note from the Editor: Chillai Kalan is the 40 days of Kashmir’s harshest winter (December 21 to January 29). This intense phase of winter is followed by shorter and milder cold spells called the Chillai Khurde (20 days) and Chillai Bachha (10 days). It is the time of extreme cold, heavy snowfall, frozen lakes, and blocked plumbing. Daily life is deeply impacted, and traditional heating methods like kangris (portable hot coal braziers) are in use. Kangris are Kashmir’s most unique invention.