My father rarely speaks with such heaviness in his voice, but that evening, as we sat together, he began recounting a story from his childhood. A story filled with wonder, innocence, and a quiet sorrow for what has been lost. What he shared was not merely a memory of a place, but a heartfelt lament for a fading heritage. This is the tale he told me about Sherbagh and the “queen fish” of his boyhood.

There was a time, my son, when childhood in Anantnag meant running barefoot toward the clear waters of Sherbagh. Our laughter rang beneath the chinars, and innocence flowed as freely as the springs themselves. For those of us who grew up in this old town, no day felt complete without several dips in that cherished spring. It was never just water; it was magic. It was belonging. It was life at its purest.

Each spring in Sherbagh held a story of its own. The glistening fish were not merely creatures of water; they were heroes of our childhood tales. We believed with absolute conviction in a grand “queen fish” that ruled the main spring. With eager eyes, we searched for that enchanted fish whispered to wear a golden ring in its gills. Those stories may seem innocent to you now, but they were sacred strands woven into our growing years. What beautiful faith we carried. What untouched innocence.

Those waters refreshed more than our bodies; they soothed our spirits. Even today, when I think of those afternoons filled with splashes and secret legends, my mind feels lighter and my heart calmer. Sherbagh was never just a place to swim; it was an ecological........

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