The Friend I Found One Christmas in Kashmir – Kashmir Observer

By Syed Nissar H Gilani

December 25 is celebrated across the world, but for me the day has always felt personal.

When it arrives, I do not think of public holidays or distant traditions. My mind travels back to Kashmir, to winters that were placid and poetic, and to moments of warmth that came from people rather than occasions.

One memory takes me back to 1976, when I was posted in Dooru Shahbad.

That morning, snow had covered everything. It fell so heavily that the world seemed to disappear beneath it.

Roads vanished, rooftops bent, and the mountains nearby lost their sharp edges. They softened into wide white shapes, their peaks blending into the sky.

The silence felt complete, as if the valley itself had decided to pause.

I remember stepping outside with a sense of excitement that surprised me.

I pushed my feet into the fresh snow and felt the cold rush through me. The air bit my face, sharp and clean. It was uncomfortable, but joyful.

Inside the house, a bowl of homemade harisa steamed on the table. I shared that meal with my grandmother and the children.

We talked, laughed, and stayed close while the world outside remained frozen.

That morning stayed with me, not because it was Christmas, but because it showed how winter in Kashmir could still feel kind.

Ten years later, in 1986, Christmas returned to my life in a different way.

I was serving as an administrator in Bandipore then. One of my closest colleagues at the time was Mr Joseph, an inspector with the 122 Battalion of the CRPF.

He was a Christian from Kerala, posted far from home. I knew the day would be difficult for him, away from his family and everything familiar.

I decided to host a Christmas dinner at my official residence. It was not meant to be grand or symbolic. I simply wanted him to feel less alone.

We arranged a campfire in the snow-covered lawn. The flames flickered against the white ground as a Christmas song played on a tape recorder.

As we sat there, I noticed tears in Joseph’s eyes. He missed his family deeply.

The distance from Kerala felt especially heavy that evening.

Others were there too. My son Tahir sat nearby, along with Major Bakashi and colleagues who had slowly become part of our everyday lives in Bandipore.

When dinner arrived, the mood changed. We served a full wazwan, generous and comforting. The smell of spices and warm meat filled the cold air. Joseph smiled as he ate and went back for an extra bowl of yakhni.

Surrounded by people who cared, he seemed lighter. His sadness did not disappear, but it softened.

That evening remains one of my most powerful memories, because it showed how sharing food and time can create belonging.

Our friendship did not end with that winter. Joseph and I stayed in touch long after 1986, and even after both of us retired.

The distance between Kashmir and Kerala never weakened our bond. We spoke often about current affairs, about our children and how they were doing, and about family life.

We shared old memories and made plans. We invited each other again and again, speaking of visits to Kerala and of Joseph returning to Kashmir, even when time made those plans harder to fulfil.

Two years ago, Joseph passed away at his home in Thiruvalla, Kerala. I could not travel to be there. I attended his funeral through a video call, watching from far away as my dear friend was laid to rest. It felt strange and painful.

Our friendship had begun in a time of handwritten letters and long, silent winters. It ended through a screen.

Still, the bond felt real until the very end.

After retirement, life carried me away from Kashmir more often than I expected. By coincidence, I now find myself outside the state, and sometimes outside the country, during December.

Without planning for it, I become part of Christmas celebrations wherever I am. I see lights, hear carols, and watch families gather in places far from home.

In those moments, my thoughts return to Bandipore. I remember the campfire glowing in the snow, the warmth of wazwan, and a friend finding comfort among people who became family.

Christmas, I have learned, does not belong to one faith or one place. It belongs to anyone who values friendship, hospitality, and shared humanity.

The Christian community in Kashmir has always been small, but the spirit of the season was never absent.

Those were good days. Nights filled with the crackle of fire, the scent of yakhni, and the serenity of a Kashmiri winter.

As another December passes, I carry these memories with me. They remind me that harmony often lives in simple moments, and that friendships formed in the cold can warm a lifetime.