In Kashmir where the yearhas four clear seasons, my motherspoke of her childhood

in the plains of Lucknow, andof that season in itself,the monsoon, when Krishna's

flute is heard on the shoreson the Jamuna.

messages pass between lovers.Heer and Ranjha and othersof legends, their love forbidden

burned incense all night,waiting for answers. My motherhummed Heer's lament

but never told me if shealso burned sticksof jasmine that, dying,

kept raising soft necksof ash. I imaginedeach neck leaning

on the humid air. She onlysaid: The monsoons never crossthe mountains into Kashmir.

— Aga Shahid Ali