#Butterflies

Barking dogs seldom bite  The memories of my childhood are clear, with few images like mist in the winter that hides green patches and vast meadows in smoke. The people kindled fire for Kangri (a fire-spot for winter warmth) made from the fallen autumn leaves of chinar and poplar and from the trimmed branches of apple and willow trees. The valley breathes in smoke and mist, creating an effusion through which the barking of dogs explodes. They search for food and voice their subtle message in the valley of silence.   One of the most vivid memories of my childhood takes me back to the remote mountain village of Machama, nearly 9 kilometres above Tral. My father was a schoolteacher there, and we lived in a modest rented house owned by one of his friends. I was only four or five years old, yet I remember these scenes and settings passionately. The upper reaches of Tral are covered in dense forests. The roots of the great trees grip the earth firmly, holding the mountain slop...

As in the previous blog, Safar-A Journey of Life, I apprehended that my left knee was not keeping well. I did MRI and found a chronic ACL tear and a grade II meniscus. It needed surgery and, shockingly, a prescription of six weeks' rest. I am discharged from the hospital, and now I have started the rehabilitation process. It was a leg twist that turned into suffering. Movement is crucial for growth, and I am seized in freedom. I am quite aware of this circumstance. I have been injured in my life. The story ebbs and flows. It contains both pain and humour, setback and resurgence.   The sunset in my village carries a promise of life, making everything picturesque, as Milton says beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. My eyes were never tired of creating sense and scene out of everything in my village, and here the heart beats loudest in the world’s quietest places. Time grows playing with mud and mustard. Snow falls in the gentle quietness of winter nights, and roofs never felt th...

donoñ jahān terī mohabbat meñ haar ke vo jā rahā hai koī shab-e-ġham guzār ke One fine evening, when the gym was closed, I went for a walk along the roadside near my rented accommodation in Thannamandi . The path runs along a mountain slope, with a stream flowing on one side and houses perched at higher altitudes, their inhabitants watching the water pass endlessly below them. One strange thing I noticed during these walks was the wind that travels with the stream. As you walk beside it, the cold breeze rushes straight at your face—making you believe the water is melted snow flowing down from the Pir Panjal glaciers . The past three months have been an immense struggle. I twisted my leg during a cricket match, and recovery has been slow and cautious. Exercise has helped, healing has begun, but I remain conscious of my knee—I know I cannot run freely yet. That evening, I sat on a riverside foundation. Lights from distant houses reflected softly on the water, and only a rare car passed...

  T hanamandi, in district Rajouri, is more than just a place—it’s where I’ve permeated a few more curtains of life, where hardship meets hope, and where growth and challenges coexist in the most unexpected ways. Located in the Rajouri district of Jammu and Kashmir, Thannamandi is a vibrant, close-knit community deeply ingrained in the region's cultural and spiritual fabric. Here, every house, every individual’s story, and every struggle are known to all, creating a unique sense of belonging amid challenges. It is a place that may seem abundant at first glance but is deeply woven into the cultural Muslim fabric. I have made friends all along the Pir Panjal range across all cultures and religions, in colleges, with shopkeepers, and with gym-goers. I discovered my own self with these people and associated myself with their culture and eating habits. I travelled with them, laughed at their humour, entertained them with gossip, and had late-night chats and...

Na hareef-e-jaan (Rival of life), na shareek-e-gham (companion of sorrow), Shab-e-intezar koi to ho. Kis se bazm-e-shauq mein laye hum, Dil-e-bekarar koi to ho. FARAAZ  Writing for and about you is a crystal feeling of mingling droplets into the ocean. I desire to meet you at a place where all the water, places, and philosophies meet. I dream of connecting with you at a place where the sun kisses the horizon. I wish to surrender to you, where a brook leaves a mountain! I wish to wander with you, where the water bursts a rock and cascades down the hill. I dream of a reunion where pine meets the sky, or at a place where a fleeting glimpse of a traveler catches a running deer. The meeting of souls in these locales may be real or imagined, yet in my vivid imagination, every image is distinct, and every scene is bright. I observe every star that twinkles and the moon pinned in the sky. I recall the leaves' melody and the branches' ballet, the earth inhaling the heartfelt scents of...

                                                                             Nazar Ul Islam Wani As day gives way to night, a vast blanket of darkness envelops all creation, sprinkling my intellect with scattered gloom. Darkness transcends the mere absence of light; it represents a metaphorical obscurity that silences our metaphysical inquiries. It signifies a weariness of questioning and a resignation to fate. For example, when we abandon the notion of change, perceive our lives as void, and resign ourselves to a life defined by randomness. Thus, embracing and venerating the colossal concept of oblivion which is a characteristic of non-humans, yet humans too can vanish into absurdity indefinitely.   From dusk till dawn, we ponder over life's many mysteries, unraveling some and contemplat...