'Each Daughter Had A Tree': The Kashmir We're Losing

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
file photo of Babawayil village

By Peer Mohammad Amir Qureshi

I had only gone to fetch milk. A short walk to the next village, nothing dramatic. I pushed open the gate to come back, and there it was: noise, laughter, that unmistakable joy that hangs in the air when children land at their maternal home.

The courtyard was alive. Cricket balls flew, scooters zipped, kids yelled over each other, stirring up clouds of dust. Watching them, something shifted in me. I didn't plan on remembering anything that day, but suddenly, I was gone-back to my own childhood, to my own nanihaal.

I used to ache to go there. My brothers and I all did. We'd wait for our turn like it was a sacred gift.“One at a time,” our parents would say.“Each of you will get your turn.” And when mine finally came, the joy was electric.

It wasn't just about grandparents, though of course, they were everything. It was about the orchard too. Those grapes hidden like secrets beneath green leaves, and cherries, red and warm, dangling like jewels. It was about the smells and stories, the shade of old trees and the feel of mud floors under bare feet. Our house there wasn't fancy. It was made of mud and wood, but the love inside it was sturdy, like stone.

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There was a stream once, right at the entrance. It sparkled, clear and constant, fed by Branan Tal, a sacred spring the villagers revered. Now, that stream is dry-a silent wound across the land.

The village itself, Babawayil, sits silently in Ganderbal. From afar, it looks like any other: green hills, thick orchards, clusters of modest homes. But it holds a distinction most don't. It is dowry-free.

In a region where marriages often carry the weight of cash and gifts, Babawayil chose another path. Here, people marry without exchanging dowries. They believe love shouldn't come with a price tag. I didn't understand the weight of that as a child, but now, looking back, I see what a radical thing it was, and still is.

The gate to our home was wooden, with a sheet of tin that rattled softly in the wind. Goats bleated near the cowshed, a calf pressed against its mother. Towering walnut trees lined the path to the verandah. That space-open, airy, grounded in earth and sky-was where mornings started with tea and evenings closed with spellbound stories. One walnut tree stood grander than the rest. It leaned toward the ground, almost like it was bowing. Its nuts were smooth, golden inside. That tree knew every secret I had.

From the kitchen window, I'd watch the birds come. They feasted on our grapes-nightingales, sparrows, tiny, darting guests. It was a melody I never got tired of. Now, the branches are still. The birds are gone. People say it's because of phone towers, climate shifts, shrinking green space. Maybe it's all of that. All I know is, silence has replaced their song.

My grandfather, whom we called Baba, was the village imam. But more than that, he was a kind, deeply principled man. My grandmother used to grumble when the birds got to the fruit. Baba would just smile and say,“Let them be. They eat off their right too.” That one sentence taught me more about compassion than any sermon.

He had this small tradition with us. He'd bring coconut biscuits wrapped in dark brown paper. Maybe they cost two rupees back then. They weren't special, but to us, they were gold. Even now, I can taste them when I close my eyes.

My grandmother had her own ways of showing love. She kept a sandook-a big wooden chest. It smelled of old wood and time. She'd pull out chocolates or peanuts from it like magic tricks. That chest was a treasure, not for what was in it, but for how it made us feel.

And then there were the kites. Oh, the kites. I once begged my grandmother for one, and she walked me to her friend Hafeez Aapa's house. Her son handed me a kite, bright and feather-light. I carried it home like it was made of glass. When I flew it, the whole sky opened up. In those moments, I didn't care for food or sleep. I was a boy with a thread in hand and the wind on my side.

The village shop, Amm Soab's place, was another world. No shelves, no plastic. Just tin boxes with glass fronts, filled with biscuits. It smelled sweet, familiar. The shopkeeper would tease,“Ye Serchuk kar che aamut yoar?”-“When did this one from Serch arrive?” My cousin Rukhsana Didi would laugh. She always walked with me. Our grandmother had told her,“Stay with him. Don't let him wander-there are dogs.” And she listened. Always.

I went back and forth to that shop all day, spent every spare coin I had. My grandmother scolded me for it every time:“Why do you keep running to the shop again and again?” But I couldn't help it. That shop was happiness, packed in tin.

All three of my maternal uncles lived in that house then. They'd argue over who got to host me for dinner.“I brought meat,” one would say.“No, he's eating with us,” another would insist. They didn't just live under one roof-they lived with one heart. There was no bitterness, no jealousy. Just love, loud and generous.

They'd take me to the garden they called Daejj. Baba would be there, cutting grass, working the soil. He grew cherries, almonds. He had a tree for each daughter.“Pick from her tree,” he'd say.“Those are hers.” Even the land knew where it belonged.

In the evenings, my aunt would take me to fetch water. There was always a shortage, and everyone would line up at the spring. Her friends would smother me in kisses, which I hated. I'd wipe their saliva off with my sleeve, right in front of them. I wasn't shy.

When we walked back, people would stop us.“Isn't this Maej's son?” I'd giggle at how they said 'Moaj' as 'Maej.' I'd repeat it just to tease them.

After sunset, my grandmother wouldn't let me outside.“There are soldiers out.” Inside, the kitchen would fill with voices. My uncles, my grandparents, they'd sit and talk. No phones. Just stories, plans, debates, and jokes. I thought those evenings would never end.

But they did.

The kite is gone. The shop is quiet. The stream has dried. The walnut trees stand over a house that now holds more silence than sound. My uncles live behind different doors now. We all do. Not just in new homes, but in the way we live-separate, silent, guarded.

Sometimes, late at night, I wonder: did we grow up, or did we just grow apart?

Author is a Feature Writer from Ganderbal

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