Srinagar, Oct. 31 -- April arrived not as T.S. Eliot's "cruellest month," but as a benediction. In the valley of Kashmir, where seasons are not merely meteorological but emotional, April carried the scent of thawing silences and the promise of reconciliation. It was not a month of partings, but of unions. Not a time of endings, but of beginnings. Where Eliot saw lilacs breeding out of the dead land, I saw the slow blooming of something more fragile and precious-familial love, long buried under the rubble of resentment. The previous year had been marked by a painful rupture in our family. A distribution of property-meant to bring clarity and fairness-had instead become the crucible of conflict. My three brothers and I, once bound by shared...