By: Dr Sanjay Parva ([email protected])
Spring in Kashmir was never just a season – it was an awakening. The valley would shake off its wintry slumber, and with it, life would return in a hundred little ways. The first buds of yemberzal (narcissus) would push through the softened earth, mustard fields would glow golden under the morning sun, and the air would be thick with the scent of almond blossoms. But more than anything, spring in Kashmir was known by its sounds – the gurgle of melting snow in the streams, the laughter of farmers returning to their fields, and, most beautifully, the rhythmic Rouf songs sung by young Kashmiri women as they danced into the season.
As the valley transformed with the warmth of Sonth (spring), so did its people. After months of cold confinement, the women of the village would gather in courtyards, on open terraces, or in blooming orchards. The moment was almost ceremonial – feet would begin to sway gently, arms would rise in graceful movements, and the first Rouf song of the season would fill the air.
The words, passed down for centuries, celebrated love, nature, and renewal:
“Rinda posh maal gindaan drayi lo lo!
Shub baash padshaah bazi lo lo!”
(“The flowers have bloomed, let’s play in joy!
May the king’s reign be blessed!”)
The dancers, adorned in brightly colored pherans with golden embroidery, moved in perfect harmony. Rouf was not merely a song – it was a ritual of joy, an offering to the coming days of abundance.
The first Rouf songs of the season weren’t just heard in homes – they echoed across fields, meadows, and village squares. As men plowed the softened earth, preparing for the new crop, their wives and daughters would sing from the edges of the fields, their voices rising above the scent of freshly tilled soil.
During Navreh (the Kashmiri New Year), Rouf became an even grander affair. Women gathered in groups, their hands clasped, their bodies moving in rhythmic unison, as they sang verses that welcomed prosperity, love, and good fortune:
“Yemberzal wathwan gul gatchaan,
Walo malne walo wan ye chonai baagan!”
(“The narcissus blooms along the pathways,
Come, O gardener, sing to your flowers!”)
These songs weren’t just music; they were a form of storytelling, where generations of women wove their emotions, hopes, and dreams into melodies.
Not all Rouf songs were about celebration – some carried melancholy, longing, and separation. Young brides, who had left their homes after marriage, would sing to the wind, hoping their voices reached the mountains where their childhood had been spent.
One of the most haunting Rouf songs captured the pain of distance:
“Kati chaanye dapyom pyov maline,
Ye dilas rogas wuchha petti wesi!”
(“Where have you gone, my beloved?
This heart aches just to see your shadow!”)
Even the very land seemed to respond to these songs – the Chinar trees whispered back, the Dal Lake mirrored the sorrow, and the distant mountains stood as silent witnesses to the emotions carried in every note.
One of the most magical sights of old Kashmir was Rouf sung under moonlight. On nights when the air was still and the fragrance of newly bloomed flowers filled the courtyards, women would gather under the stars. Their songs would weave through the silence, each voice merging into the next, until it felt as though the entire valley was singing.
“Sonth walo, bahaar walo,
Raat wathwan rozaan walo!”
(“Come, O spring, O blossoms,
Walk through our paths at night!”)
Some say that the night Rouf was so enchanting that even the birds stopped to listen, and the wind carried the songs to the farthest corners of the valley.
With time, Rouf began to fade. Life became hurried, modern, and disconnected from the rhythms of nature. The vast courtyards where women once danced now had television screens flickering inside, their songs replaced by electronic noise. Fields no longer echoed with traditional verses; instead, the sound of machines drowned out the melodies of the past.
Rouf, once an essential part of Kashmiri identity, has now been reduced to performances at cultural events, where it feels more like a staged tradition than a lived experience. The spontaneity, the raw joy, and the sisterhood of spring Rouf are all but lost.
But perhaps, in a forgotten village, a grandmother still teaches her granddaughter the first lines of a Rouf song. Maybe, in the quiet of an old orchard, someone still sings to the wind, hoping that the valley will remember.
And maybe, if you walk through Kashmir’s meadows in spring, you might still hear a faint melody carried in the breeze – a reminder that once, when Rouf songs blossomed in Kashmir’s springs, life itself danced to their rhythm.
An author, a communications strategist, was a debut contestant in 2024 Assembly elections
