Srinagar, July 4 -- In the long summer of Kashmir, the air stands still. The chinars barely stir. Somewhere, a pigeon beats its wings against the heat. The streets, worn and narrow, fill with the slow sound of footsteps.

There is a thump, a breath, a chant, and then the words rise again:Labbaik Ya Hussain.

When Muharram comes to Kashmir, it does not come like a season. It comes like a memory stepping back into the world.

In Srinagar, the roads darken under processions that move with the rhythm of grief. Men dressed in black walk with bare feet on warm earth. Their hands rise, fall, strike their chests, as if the body itself must remember what the heart cannot hold.

The sound echoes against wooden windows and stone doorsteps. It carrie...