Every winter, when the breath of Kashmir turns frosty and the mountains fold themselves into white silence, an ancient procession arrives. Not on foot, nor by caravan, but on wings stretched across continents. They come as pilgrims of the sky, as seekers of quietude, as bearers of forgotten hymns.

From Siberia, Central Asia, and the distant lands of frozen rivers, the saffron-winged ruddy shelduck drifts down upon the waters of Wular. The silver-crowned northern pintail carves mirrored ripples across Hokersar. The obsidian coot, dark as midnight, whispers against the reeds of Haigam. And the greylag goose, with its eyes lined by time itself, glides over Shalbugh as though it were gliding over a page of scripture. Each bird is not a visitor but a devotee, entering Kashmir as one enters a s

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