By Syed Majid Gilani
It was the first March after Waleed’s marriage to Zarah, a union that had taken place in September 2010. Life had begun to change—slowly, gently—and Waleed had started to see the world through a different lens.
One morning, the newlyweds decided to take a short trip—a simple drive towards Sonmarg.
Waleed did not 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.
They set out happily in Waleed’s sparkling white Maruti 800. It was a small, humble car, but to him, it was priceless.
Waleed 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 only 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 laughed, shared stories, sang softly, and lived those small, beautiful moments that make life feel fresh and alive. At a roadside shop, Waleed slowed down and pulled over.
They bought a chilled bottle of Maaza, a large packet of tangy chips, and a few strips of fruity chewing gum. Waleed also picked up some freshly fried local snacks, still warm and wrapped in crinkled newspaper—the kind of food that always tastes better when shared.
Zarah giggled as they stepped out, arms full, like two children on a carefree outing.
They sipped and munched as the car moved ahead—laughing at silly jokes, flipping through old songs, 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, locals informed them that the road ahead was closed. Sonmarg was still buried under snow and would not open until late April. A few horsemen offered rides—not all the way, but a few kilometres ahead.
Waleed had never ridden a horse before.
Zarah, however, felt uneasy at the thought.
Waleed smiled and chose not to ride. Her comfort mattered more than the experience.
As it turned out, Gagangeer itself was no less than a wonderland that day.
Everything was white.
The ground, the trees, the rooftops—all buried under five to six feet of snow. Waleed had never seen such a sight. He stood there quietly, overwhelmed, like a child who had stepped into a fairy tale.
Nearby stood a modest J&K Tourism café, its lawn hidden beneath a thick, velvety blanket of snow. Even concealed, it looked magical.
Hand in hand, they walked carefully over the soft snow, balancing each step. The sun shone brightly. The snow shimmered like crushed crystals.
Everything sparkled—and so did their hearts.
Inside the café, they ordered tea and sat by the window, watching the silent white world outside. It was a silence that spoke.
Waleed looked at Zarah and felt something shift within him—a calmness he had never known before.
For lunch, they opened a homemade tiffin—spicy fried chicken and soft phulka rotis, lovingly packed by Zarah that morning. They chose to sit outside, in the open.
Red plastic chairs and tables had been placed in the snow.
As they tried to sit, one chair leg sank deep into the snow, then another. The table tilted.
They burst into laughter.
Zarah’s laughter rang through the crisp air like music.
Waleed laughed with her, feeling like a carefree young man on his first date. After adjusting the chairs with some effort, they finally sat down and shared their simple meal.
The fried chicken tasted better in the cold air.
The rotis were still warm.
They added leftover chips, sipped more Maaza, and shared another piece of chewing gum—grinning like children with secret treats.
After lunch, they took a slow walk over the snow.
The world around them was white, but inside, their hearts were full of colour.
They had not reached Sonmarg—but Waleed felt he had arrived somewhere far more meaningful.
That day, he understood companionship.
What it means when someone walks beside you, listens to your silence, and trusts you completely.
He understood freedom—not as distance travelled, but as closeness felt.
By late afternoon, they began their journey back. Waleed, not very experienced with hill driving, remained cautious. Zarah looked at ease. She trusted him completely.
Her quiet faith became his confidence.
Their car stereo played a mix of songs—some old favourites of Waleed, some lively tunes Zarah loved. The playlist was mismatched, just like them.
Different pasts.
Different backgrounds.
Different tastes.
But one shared journey.
To others, it may have seemed like an ordinary day. They hadn’t even reached their destination.
But for Waleed, that day was the destination.
A day of snow, sunshine, laughter, and silent understanding.
A day etched into memory—like a snowflake that never melts.
Who could have known that such an innocent day would become part of a much larger 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.
Syed Majid Gilani is a government officer by profession and a storyteller by passion.
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