I first went to Kashmir in 2014, when I was eight years old. Back then, I didn’t know much about the world beyond what was immediately visible to me. Politics, conflict, and media narratives were words that meant nothing to me. I was simply a child on vacation. I remember being amazed—the snow, the mountains, how different everything looked from home. But amazement came easily to me at that age. Everything was new and exciting. Kashmir didn’t stand out as something extraordinary then; it was just another beautiful place I had visited.
I saw snow for the first time on that trip, which should have been magical, but all I remember is how unbearably cold I felt. I couldn’t fully enjoy it because I was too busy trying to keep myself warm. At eight years old, comfort matters more than meaning. I liked Kashmir, but it didn’t leave a permanent mark on me.
Fast forward eleven years. I now spend most of my time in the southern part of India, where the weather is hot and humid. Winters are something I’ve completely lost touch with, to the point where I can’t tolerate them anymore. So when winter vacations came around this year, I had no intention of traveling. My plan was simple and perfect: stay indoors, drink hot chocolate, read books, and hibernate.
Then my dad told me we were going to Kashmir.
My first instinct was panic. I immediately checked the temperature on my phone, and my heart sank when I saw -10°C staring back at me. I couldn’t understand why anyone would willingly choose such cold. I packed reluctantly, mentally preparing myself to freeze for days.
What I wasn’t prepared for was how much Kashmir and I had changed. Despite the cold, there’s warmth everywhere—in the people, the food, the way strangers speak to you like they’ve known you longer than they have.
This time, I saw the place with awareness. With context. With the ability to feel deeply and reflect. And somewhere between the snow-covered mountains, frozen lakes, and quiet mornings, something shifted. My SIM card didn’t work for most of the trip due to security restrictions, and instead of feeling irritated, I felt relieved. There was no constant scrolling, no notifications, no need to document every moment. It forced me to be present in a way I hadn’t been in years.
It wasn’t just the landscape, though, that alone is enough to leave you speechless. It was the people. I had never felt so genuinely welcomed anywhere before. Strangers spoke to us with warmth and familiarity, as if we belonged there. And in talking to them, listening to their stories, I began to understand how differently Kashmir is portrayed by the media versus how it actually exists.
The Kashmir I experienced was not the one constantly reduced to headlines and propaganda. It wasn’t just a “sensitive region” or a political talking point. It was a home. A livelihood. A place where tourism isn’t a luxury but a necessity for survival. Watching how easily narratives erase the humanity of an entire population was unsettling, especially when reality stood in such stark contrast.
By the time I left, I realized that I hadn’t just revisited Kashmir—I had rediscovered it.
I’m back home now, but a part of my soul is still there—resting in those snow-covered valleys, flowing with the clean rivers, living in the kindness of the people who welcomed me without hesitation. Kashmir is no longer just a destination from my childhood memories. It’s a feeling I carry with me now.
I hope that more people in India learn to look beyond the headlines and experience Kashmir for what it truly is. Not a narrative shaped by fear or politics, but a place defined by its people, its resilience, and its unmatched beauty. When people say, “Jannat kahin hai to yahin hai,” for Kashmir, it isn’t an exaggeration—it’s a truth you only understand once you’ve been there and seen it for yourself.