It was the first March after Waleed’s marriage to Zarah, which had taken place in September 2010. Life had begun to shift—slowly, gently—and Waleed had started to see the world through a different lens. One morning, the newlyweds decided to take a short trip, just a simple drive toward Sonmarg. Waleed didn’t know that the road beyond Gagangeer usually remained closed until late April due to heavy snowfall. Today, that route stays open year-round thanks to the Z-Morh tunnel, but back then, they were simply excited and unaware.
So they set out happily in Waleed’s sparkling white Maruti 800. It was a small, humble car, but to Waleed, it was priceless. He had never been on long outings or real picnics before. His life had always been quiet, homebound, conservative, and limited. Ever since his school days, Kashmir’s unrest and the overprotective love of his family had kept him away from such experiences. He had never seen Pahalgam. He had visited Gulmarg just twice in his early years. Yes, he had travelled outside the Valley—to Jammu, Ludhiana, Amritsar, Delhi, and Ajmer—but those journeys were always for studies, family responsibilities, or obligations. Never for leisure. Never just for joy. But now, with Zarah by his side, everything felt different. He had begun to live differently, to feel something new—something warm, something free.
On the way to Sonmarg, Waleed and Zarah were laughing, sharing stories, singing softly, and living those small, beautiful moments that make life feel fresh and alive. As they passed a roadside shop, Waleed slowed down and pulled over. Inside, they picked up a chilled bottle of Maaza, a large packet of tangy American Lay’s chips, and a few strips of fruity chewing gum. Waleed also bought some freshly fried local snacks—still warm, wrapped in crinkled newspaper—the kind of nostalgic street-side food that always tastes better when shared. Zarah giggled as they stepped out, arms full like two kids on a fun day out. They sipped and munched as the car moved ahead, laughing at silly jokes, flipping through old songs, and feeding each other crisps without worrying about the mess. Zarah looked radiant, her eyes sparkling with excitement. And Waleed? His heart felt light and unburdened.
They reached Gagangeer around noon. The moment they stepped out, some locals informed them that the road ahead was closed. Sonmarg was still covered in snow. It wouldn’t open until late April. A few horsemen were offering short rides—not all the way to Sonmarg, but just a few kilometres ahead. Waleed had never sat on a horse before. Zarah, on the other hand, found the idea a bit unsettling. Waleed smiled gently and chose not to ride either. Her comfort and choice meant more than the ride.
As it turned out, Gagangeer itself looked no less than a wonderland that day. Everything was white. The place was buzzing with locals and tourists alike. The ground, the trees, the rooftops—all buried under five to six feet of thick snow. Waleed had never seen such a sight with his own eyes. He stood there, quietly overwhelmed, like a child who had stepped into a fairy tale. They noticed a Jammu and Kashmir Tourism café nearby—a charming little spot whose lawn had vanished beneath a thick velvet blanket of snow. Even hidden, it looked magical.
Hand in hand, Waleed and Zarah carefully walked over the soft snow, balancing each step. The sun was bright. The snow shimmered like crushed crystals. Everything around them sparkled—and so did their hearts. Inside the café, they ordered sweet tea and sat by the window, watching the snowy world outside. There was silence, but a kind of silence that spoke volumes. Waleed looked at Zarah and felt something shift within him—a calmness he had never known before.
For lunch, they had brought along a homemade tiffin: spicy fried chicken and soft phulka rotis, lovingly packed by Zarah that morning. They didn’t want to eat indoors. Waleed suggested they sit outside in the open, and Zarah readily agreed. Red plastic chairs and tables had been set up in the snow. As they tried to sit, one of the chair’s legs sank deep into the snow—then another—and the table tilted too. They burst out laughing. Zarah’s laughter echoed through the crisp air like music. Waleed laughed with her, feeling like a carefree college boy on his first date. With some effort, they adjusted the chairs and finally sat down—right there in the snow—to enjoy their simple meal. The fried chicken tasted even better in the chilly air. The rotis were still warm. They added in some leftover chips, sipped more Maaza, and even shared another chewing gum, grinning like children with secret sweets in their pockets.
After lunch, they took another gentle stroll over the snow. The world around them was painted white, but inside, their hearts were filled with colour. They hadn’t reached Sonmarg, but Waleed felt like he had arrived at something far more beautiful.
That day, he experienced what real companionship means—what it feels like when someone walks beside you, listens to your silence, and trusts you completely. He understood what freedom really is—not about going far, but about being close. By late afternoon, they began the drive back. Waleed wasn’t too used to driving on hill roads, but he was careful. Zarah looked at ease. She trusted him entirely—and that quiet trust gave him strength. Her faith was the confidence he carried around every curve of the winding road. Their car’s tape recorder played a mix of songs—some old favourites of Waleed’s, some fast new ones Zarah loved. The playlist was mismatched, like them. Different pasts, different backgrounds, different cultures, different preferences—but one shared journey.
To others, that day may have seemed simple—even ordinary. They didn’t even reach their destination. But for Waleed, that day was the destination—a day of snow, sunshine, laughter, and silent understanding. A day etched gently into memory, like a snowflake that never melts. Who could have known that such an innocent day would become part of a much bigger story? Who could have guessed what storms lay ahead, what memories would one day ache?
But for now, it remained untouched—a soft, white, quiet chapter.
A day of togetherness, forever frozen in time.
About the Author:
Syed Majid Gilani is a government officer by profession and a storyteller by passion. He writes about family values, moral wisdom, pain, real-life memories, and emotions. He can be reached at syedmajid6676@gmail.com.
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