Meadow Light

Beyond Chowari Jot,
where the deodars climbed toward the sky
and the Pir Panjals carried snow like memory,
we walked through meadows so wide
they made silence feel endless.

The afternoon unfolded slowly —
your hand in mine,
wildflowers gathered carelessly between us,
sunlight moving over the grass
like water over stone.

We stopped only to sit near the ridge,
sharing paper cups of coffee
while the mountains opened in every direction,
vast and impossibly clear.

No photographs will remember it correctly.
Not the wind through the cedar shadows,
not your laughter disappearing into the valleys,
not the softness of your mouth beneath that enormous sky.

Some places do not feel real while you are there.
Chamba did.
And for one weekend,
the world became nothing more
than light on the meadows
and your fingers woven quietly into mine.