Autumn in Kashmir

Autumn — or Harud as we call it — is Kashmir’s most poetic season.
It’s the time when the valley wears its most graceful farewell before winter comes knocking. The air turns crisp, the sun feels gentler, and every Chinar leaf flirts with shades of gold, amber, and crimson — as if the trees themselves are on fire, but beautifully so.

Walk through the University of Kashmir campus or the Naseem Bagh gardens, and you’ll find yourself wading through a carpet of red leaves. They don’t crunch under your feet — they whisper. It’s a sound only autumn knows how to make.

There’s something deeply reflective about this season. Maybe it’s the fading daylight, or maybe it’s just Kashmir reminding us that beauty can exist even in endings.
You see farmers returning from the fields with the last of the apples, the smell of dried maize in courtyards, and children chasing the final warm rays of sun before kangris take over.

The markets too have their own autumn rhythm — heaps of walnuts, saffron threads from Pampore, and the first hints of winter pherans showing up in shops.

And then there’s the sky — oh, that sky. A painter’s palette of soft blue and haze, often smudged with migrating birds heading home. Some say it’s melancholic; I say it’s just peaceful.

No conversation about Kashmir’s autumn is complete without the Chinar — our silent storyteller.
Standing tall for centuries, these trees have seen kings come and go, seasons repeat, and generations grow under their shade.

If you’ve ever stood beneath one in October, you’ll know what I mean — it’s like standing under living fire, but the kind that warms the heart instead of burning it.

Fun fact: locals call the fallen Chinar leaves booni pattar, and they make for some of the most aesthetic (and slightly slippery) autumn walks you’ll ever take.

Personal Memory: One autumn, I decided to take a “serene” walk through Naseem Bagh with a cup of hot kahwa in hand. Halfway through, I stepped on a thick layer of fallen Chinar leaves… and down I went, kahwa spilling like a crimson waterfall onto the leaves. The old man sitting nearby just chuckled, and I realized two things: 1) this is autumn in Kashmir, and 2) graceful walks are overrated. 😄

It’s also the season of harissa mornings and noon chai evenings, of sunbathing on the verandah with a kangri hidden under your pheran.
Weddings slow down, schools buzz with exam tension, and families prepare for the long cold ahead. Yet, no one seems in a hurry. Autumn has that effect — it slows time just enough for you to notice life’s finer details.

When the last Chinar leaf falls and the mist starts hugging the mountains, you know Harud is ending. But it never really leaves — its memory stays in our photos, our poems, and our fireplaces.

Autumn in Kashmir isn’t just a season. It’s a short, beautiful pause before everything turns white again.