Encountering Sheepdog in the mist....

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 slopes together. Narrow footpaths ferociously pass over ridges and through silent woods, and to my young mind they seemed endless. I would walk across those mountain passes without the slightest fear of falling. I discovered early in my life that my bones are audacious, yet fragile. 

One winter morning remains etched in my memory more vividly than any other. The valley was wrapped in a thick blanket of fog, softening every outline and muffling every sound. A boy named Zubair came to take me to see Ali’s shepherd’s sheepdog. The dog was well known throughout the area—a powerful guardian always kept on heavy chains because of its fierce temperament.

We crossed the mist-covered paths for what felt like a long time before we reached the house. Then, from somewhere beyond the fog, came the dog's deep, thunderous bark. The sound rolled through the silent mountains, echoing across the valleys and dissolving into the winter mist. The dog itself was magnificent, strong, healthy, and intimidating—but it was not its appearance that has remained with me. It is his voice that created waves in the mist. Even today, as I write these lines, the barking of a distant dog is enough to take me back to that mist-covered morning in Machama.

In Kashmir, dogs have always been more than animals. They have been silent sentinels of the night, witnesses to our history, and reluctant participants in our collective memory. Their barking has often announced the arrival of unseen figures moving through the darkness. On cold winter nights, when the streets were emptied and silence settled over the villages, the sudden chorus of barking would travel from one neighbourhood to another, telling us that someone or something was approaching. It was a language that every Kashmiri instinctively understood.

During medieval times, one might have listened for the distant gallop of horses to know that soldiers were passing through a town. In Kashmir, it was the dogs that performed that duty. Their sharp cries pierced the stillness of the night, echoing across snow-covered fields and vast meadows. Often, before dawn, as the first call to prayer rose gently from the village mosque, the barking would slowly subside, yielding to the calm cadence of the adhan. It was as though the valley itself was changing its voice from vigilance to worship.

By morning, the same dogs that had guarded the darkness would wander quietly through the lanes, feeding on scraps and left-out pulp outside village homes. Their fierceness belonged to the night; daylight restored their ordinary existence.

Whenever I think of Ali Shepherd’s dog, I realise that he was more than the first dog I ever encountered. He became the beginning of a lifelong association between memory and sound. His bark merged, over the years, with the countless barks that accompanied frozen nights, silent winters, anxious waiting, and peaceful dawns. What frightened me as a child gradually became part of the rhythm of Kashmiri life.

Even now, whenever I recollect that morning, it brings a feeling of serenity and tranquillity. The fog, the mountains, the cold air, the long walk, and the distant barking have put an indelible mark on my idea of childhood. Those were the days when life was unfolding infinite possibilities of being and becoming. The days when freedom was as natural as a whirling feather of a bird, and the mountains seemed to promise that the world was vast, beautiful, and endlessly welcoming you into a warm hug. 

Looking back, I realise that the first voice that truly introduced me to those valleys was not human at all. It was the bark of Ali Shepherd's dog, echoing through the winter mist – a sound that has never really left me.