By Gowher Bhat
Long before the first light reached the hills of south Kashmir, Nazia Khan was already awake.
In Kokernag, a picturesque village known for its springs, apple orchards, and green fields, mornings arrived slowly. A thin mist often rested over the landscape, covering the paths between homes and fields. The first sounds of the day came from ordinary things—the kettle beginning to boil, wooden doors opening, and cattle moving in the courtyard.
Inside her home, Nazia moved quietly.
At twenty-two, she had grown accustomed to mornings that began before the rest of the village stirred.
She prepared breakfast, swept the floor, and placed her parents’ medicines beside a glass of water. Before leaving the house, she entered her father’s room.
“Baba, your tea.”
Her father opened his eyes and looked at her.
“You woke up early again?”
Nazia smiled.
“The vegetables have to reach the market.”
His eyes moved towards the baskets near the door.
“You work too much.”
She adjusted the blanket around him.
“There is still a lot to do.”
For a moment, he looked at her without speaking.
The daughter he remembered holding as a child now carried baskets, managed the household, and worried about things he wished she did not have to worry about.
“You should also think about yourself,” he said softly.
Nazia smiled.
“I do, Baba.”
She did not explain further.
Outside, the morning air was cold. The smell of damp earth filled the courtyard. Nazia fed the cattle, collected fresh milk, and walked towards the family farm.
Her hands moved through the plants she knew so well, gathering spinach, beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, and other vegetables that would soon be arranged on her small market stall.
Drops of water still rested on some leaves.
The baskets grew heavier.
But she carried them anyway.
By sunrise, she was walking towards the local market.
The road passed through the fields and orchards of Kokernag. To visitors, the village was a place of beauty and calm. To Nazia, it was the landscape of her everyday life—the fields she worked, the road she walked, and the place where her dreams slowly took shape.
At the market, she arranged her vegetables carefully. Her stall was modest. There were no bright banners or advertisements. The freshness of the produce and the trust of regular customers were enough.
“Your vegetables always look fresh,” an elderly customer said.
Nazia smiled while weighing them. “They were in the field this morning.”
The woman noticed a book beneath the table. “Are you studying?”
Nazia looked down at her Sociology textbook.“Yes.”
“How do you find time?”
Nazia paused. “Whenever I can.”
The woman looked at her quietly.
It was a simple answer. But it revealed the rhythm of her days.
By afternoon, the market began to empty.
The voices around her slowly faded. Shopkeepers started gathering their things, and the movement of customers became less frequent. Nazia covered the remaining vegetables, counted the day’s earnings, and placed the money carefully inside her bag. She already knew where most of it would go, her parents’ medicines, the household expenses, her brother’s education…small needs that rarely waited.
She lifted the empty baskets and began walking home. The road back was familiar, but it did not lead to rest. Behind the house, the fields were waiting. Nazia stepped onto the land and looked over the crops. She watered the plants, removed weeds, and checked the vegetables that would be ready in the coming days.
The work was tiring, but the soil felt familiar beneath her feet. It asked for patience, not explanations. Near the edge of the field stood a few young apple saplings. She often stopped there. They were still small, their branches thin and delicate, yet she treated them with the same care she gave everything else.
A neighbour had once looked at them and said, “These trees will take years before they give anything.”
Nazia had smiled. “That is why they need care now.”
She knew an orchard could not be built in a season. It required waiting, learning, and accepting that some things could not be rushed. Her dream of expanding the family orchard was not about a different life. It was about a more secure one. A future where her parents could worry less and where the land could support the family for years to come.
Whenever she found time, Nazia spoke with experienced farmers and learned about cultivation methods, soil care, and improving productivity. Her questions were practical.
How could the soil become healthier? Which trees would grow better? What mistakes should be avoided?
She listened carefully, knowing that every lesson could become useful someday. By the time Nazia returned home, evening had settled over Kokernag. The last light of the day rested on the orchards, and the fields that had kept her busy for hours slowly became quiet.
Her younger brother was sitting with his books open.
“You are late today,” he said.
Nazia placed the basket on the table. “The fields were not finished with me.”
He smiled, but then noticed the tiredness on her face. “Api, do you ever get tired?”
Nazia sat beside him. “Yes.”
“Then why don’t you rest?”
She opened his notebook and looked at his homework. “Because you have to study.”
He looked at her for a moment. “But why is my studying your responsibility?”
Nazia remained silent for a few seconds. Outside, the evening wind moved through the trees. “Because I know what education can do,” she said.
Her brother lowered his eyes. “One day, I will earn and take care of you.”
Nazia smiled. “First, complete your studies. That will be enough.”
He nodded and returned to his books. For him, it was a promise for the future. For Nazia, it was a reason to keep going.
Later that evening, her mother called her. “Nazia.” She sat beside her. “You spend your whole day working,” her mother said. “You should think about yourself too.”
Nazia held her mother’s hand. “I do.”
Her mother looked at her gently. “When?”
Nazia looked around the room—the medicines beside her father’s bed, her brother’s books on the table, the walls that held years of memories. “When I see both of you comfortable,” she said. “When Baba does not have to struggle. When my brother finishes his education.”
Her mother remained quiet.
She wanted her daughter to have a life with fewer responsibilities. But she also knew that love sometimes chooses a difficult path. After dinner, when the house became silent, Nazia opened her books. The lamp on her study table was small. Outside, Kokernag had already gone to sleep.
During the day, those hands carried baskets, milk containers, and farming tools. Now they turned the pages of a sociology textbook. Some nights she studied for hours. Some nights exhaustion arrived before the final page.
There were moments when sleep felt heavier than the books in front of her. Moments when she wondered how long she could continue carrying so many things at once. But the next morning always arrived. And with it came another beginning.
Her Master’s degree in Sociology remained one of the things she refused to leave behind. Education was not an escape from her family. It was part of the future she wanted to create. When Nazia spoke about the years ahead, she rarely spoke about her own comforts. She spoke about her parents. She hoped that one day she could take them to Delhi for specialised medical treatment.
“They spent their lives taking care of us,” she said. “I want them to receive good care too.”
She also spoke about the young apple trees growing quietly at the edge of the field. She knew there were no guarantees. A harvest could fail. A plan could take longer. A dream could demand more patience than expected. But farming had taught her something important. Growth often happens quietly like a seed beneath the soil or a new leaf on a branch.
A tree becomes stronger season after season.
Perhaps the people who visited her small market stall would never know her entire story. They would see a young woman selling vegetables. They would not see the mornings before sunrise, the medicines arranged beside her parents’ bed, or the books waiting for her after a long day. They would not see the worries she carried silently. But Nazia knew that every part of her life belonged to the same journey.
As evening settled over Kokernag, Nazia walked home along the familiar road. The orchards stood quietly beneath the fading light. The fields that had demanded her attention throughout the day were finally resting. Inside the house, the familiar sounds continued — a cup being placed on the table, a door closing softly or pages rustling. They were small moments that rarely appear in stories, yet they quietly shaped lives.
Soon, another morning would arrive.
The kitchen light would come on before sunrise. The cattle would need attention. The baskets would need filling. The road to the market would wait. And Nazia would walk it again — not because her days were easy, not because she had found every answer but because the people and the place she loved had become part of who she was.
In Kokernag, where apple trees take years to bear fruit, Nazia had learned the quiet lesson that the land teaches everyone who works with it: some things worth growing couldnot be rushed. They needed time, care and patience.
The young apple saplings in her field were still waiting for their first harvest. So was the future she was trying to build.
As the first light touched the hills again, another morning began.
Gowher Bhat is a columnist, freelance journalist, beta reader, book reviewer, avid reader, and educator from Kashmir, and a published author of both fiction and nonfiction. He serves as a senior columnist for several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley.
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