One evening, as I hurried through the house juggling unfinished tasks and unanswered notifications, my grandmother looked up and asked gently, “Kya hua ? Why are you always in such a hurry?”

I brushed the question aside. She smiled  not dismissively, but knowingly.

“When you return,” she said, “I will tell you about our time. About the Kashmir we knew. You children are always rushing… life was not always like this.”

What followed was not merely a story, but a portrait of a Kashmir that lived differently – slower, simpler, and deeply connected.

There was a time when joint families were the foundation of society. Twenty to twenty-five members lived together under one roof. The head of the family held authority, but the household functioned with discipline and mutual respect. Responsibilities were clearly defined, and disputes were rare. Every individual had a role; every role had dignity.

Mornings began before sunrise. Waking late was unthinkable, and everyone’s presence was expected. The day opened with a simple breakfast: a steaming cup of noon chai accompanied by homemade sattu and fresh chapatis layered with butter and ghee prepared at home.

Even before breakfast, men tended to the livestock, while women scattered grain for hens and ducks. Some milked cows; others collected eggs. After breakfast, women would grind paddy in large wooden mortars using heavy stone pestles to prepare rice for the day. Vegetable gardens flourished beside homes, producing seasonal vegetables free from pesticides or chemical fertilisers.

Water was drawn from nearby freshwater streams that flowed crystal clear through villages. These streams were central to daily life, people washed, bathed, and even drank directly from them. They were gathering spaces as much as sources of sustenance. Each morning, villagers assembled by the water, exchanging news and updates. Often, the only connection to the outside world was a single radio owned by one household, and its news would travel by word of mouth.

Community life was marked by hospitality. On the thirteenth day of each month, respected families hosted tea gatherings for villagers. Instead of the usual namak chai, guests were served fragrant, sweet kehwa brewed with seven spices a gesture that blended warmth with tradition.

Most men worked in agricultural fields, while only a small number held government positions. Women managed homes, prepared meals, and sustained domestic economies. Rice and vegetables formed the staple diet, with chicken or duck occasionally prepared; meat was reserved for special occasions. Fruits and vegetables were rarely purchased, as most families cultivated their own produce.

Sharing was instinctive. Milk was not sold commercially. Any surplus was distributed among neighbours. If a household lacked vegetables or other essentials, others provided without hesitation. Social cohesion was not a concept  it was a lived reality.

Evenings unfolded gently. Returning from the fields, men were welcomed with another warm cup of noon chai and sattu. Women spun wool on charkhas or churned milk to produce butter and ghee. Children gathered around grandparents to listen to folktales passed down through generations. The entire village often felt like one extended family, with doors open and visits frequent.

Autumn marked the harvest season. Rice, wheat, and flour were carefully stored. Fodder was stocked for cattle, coal prepared for (kangris), and cow dung dried for use as cooking fuel in traditional mud stoves. Preparation for winter was systematic and communal.

When winter arrived, agricultural activity paused. Snowfall was frequent and heavy. Roofs made of hay, rather than tin, bore layers of frozen snow that formed long icicles along their edges. People wore handcrafted wooden slippers with leather straps to navigate icy paths.

The head of the family ensured that each member received new warm clothing for the season. Winter was not associated with isolation, but with togetherness. Storytelling evenings were common, where a narrator would recount folktales to attentive listeners. Occasionally, groups of singers visited villages, performing with traditional instruments in the largest house, turning cold nights into shared cultural celebrations.

Life, as my grandmother described it, was modest yet fulfilling. There was little competition and no visible urgency. Wealth was measured not in possessions, but in relationships. People found contentment in routine, community, and shared responsibility.

As she concluded, the contrast between her Kashmir and mine became evident. Ours is a time of speed, connectivity, and convenience. Yet in gaining efficiency, perhaps something quieter was left behind the patience of shared mornings, the simplicity of collective living, and the peace that comes from belonging.

Her memories were not merely recollections of the past. They were reminders of a way of life rooted in balance, dignity, and community.

Saniyari Magray, participant GKSC Bootcamp.

© Greater Kashmir