Srinagar, July 26 -- On a summer morning in Vailoo, South Kashmir, the valley blazes awake in gold and green. Apricot trees drip with fruit, their shadows sharp on sun-cracked walls. From tin rooftops, mynahs rise like flung sparks. The air smells of dust, leaves, and something older: stories the wind won't stop telling.

At school, I walk into my classroom, where students sit with their backs straight, books open, eyes expectant. I read to them from Yeats. The words carry slowly across the room: "When you are old and grey and full of sleep." They nod, half-understanding, waiting for explanation.

I wait with them, not rushing, letting the line breathe. Sometimes, the meaning of love arrives in the pauses.

I am a teacher. But I speak oft...