Srinagar, Sept. 8 -- I always remember you beyond seasons, beyond calendars and clocks, but my words for you flow like a river only in September. They arrive with the scent of ripening paddy, with the rustle of leaves that fall like memories from the trees. September is no longer a month-it is a condition, a state of being, a metaphysical climate in which my soul dwells. I am so stuck in September that my whole life has become its echo. The harvest comes, the granary fills, the fields glisten with golden yield, yet everything feels hollow. I reap more than I did the year you died, 2013, but the granary lacks your gaze, and so it remains empty. You were the blessing that gave meaning to the yield. Without you, abundance is just accumulatio...