By: Peer Mohammad Amir Qureshi
I had gone to fetch milk from the nearby village. As I pushed open the gate, nothing seemed out of the ordinary—yet something about the air felt alive. The courtyard was bursting with energy: children shouted mid-game, chasing cricket balls with dust rising at their heels. A few zipped past on scooters, the hum of engines tangled with carefree laughter. It looked like they had just arrived at their maternal home—the kind of joy only that place can bring.
Watching them, something inside me stirred. Their wild happiness tugged at the edges of memory, and before I knew it, I was drifting—pulled back to a time when I too was that young, that free, that full of noise and dreams. Nostalgia rose slowly, like evening mist, turning the brittle pages of my past to the golden chapters of childhood.
As a child, I remember that sweet greed I used to carry—the longing to visit my maternal home. I wasn’t alone in it. My brothers, too, were consumed by the same hunger, that quiet rivalry of who would go first. Our parents, wise to our restlessness, would gently declare, “One at a time—you’ll each get your turn.”
When my turn came, joy bloomed in my chest like spring. Visiting my nanihaal wasn’t just about cousins and the warm embrace of grandparents. It was about the orchard too—those dangling cherries, ripe and red like tiny lanterns, and the grapes, cool and sweet, hiding beneath their green veils. It was a place where love grew on trees and laughter echoed through the vines.
I believe the houses back then may have been kuccha—raw, earthy, unpolished—but the hearts within them were pucca, solid and unwavering in warmth. In that village, there stood only one house that seemed to watch over everything—a humble, two-storeyed structure that held generations in its walls.
At its entrance once flowed a stream—clear as glass, singing gently over smooth stones. It drew its lifeblood from a sacred spring the locals fondly called Branan Tal. That stream was more than water; it was the breath of the land, the mirror of childhood. Alas, it has withered into silence now, a dry scar where life once murmured.
Cradled in the gentle arms of District Ganderbal lies Babawayil, my beloved maternal village—a place where nature breathes in verses and humanity walks with its head held high. Beyond its lush orchards and whispering woods, Babawayil harbors a quiet pride that sets it apart: it is a dowry-free village, a rare blossom in the thorny garden of societal norms. In a world where marriages are often weighed in gold and stained by custom, this village dares to dream differently. Here, love is not auctioned, and dignity is not for sale. The people live with a disarming simplicity, their hearts clean as mountain springs, upholding an age-old promise of equality and grace. Babawayil does not boast—but it speaks volumes. It is not just a village; it is a gentle rebellion, a moral compass pointing toward what society could be—if only it remembered its soul.
As you stepped closer to the house, a weathered wooden gate greeted you—rectangular in shape, clad with a tin sheet that rattled softly in the wind. Just to the right stood a slightly elevated cowshed, where goats bleated lazily and a cow nuzzled her calf in the straw. And running parallel to it, like guardians of memory,stood towering walnut trees. Their shade led the way to a wide, open verandah—a place where mornings began with the aroma of tea and evenings settled into stories whispered under the sky.
To the right side of that old house, nature had built its own sanctuary—a grapevine that wound like poetry across wooden frames, cherry trees that blushed with fruit each summer, and a majestic walnut tree, so grand that its arms stretched down to kiss the earth. That walnut tree bore the finest nuts one could imagine—smooth-shelled, rich, and golden within. It stood like an ancient guardian of the yard, whispering secrets with every breeze.
From the kitchen window, one could look out and see those cherry trees nodding in the sunlight, the grapevines heavy with their clustered jewels. In the summer months, the place would come alive with the flutter of wings—nightingales, sparrows, and countless other birds would descend like a soft, feathered orchestra, feasting on the grapes and singing the days away. But now… the branches are quiet. The birds are gone. Their songs have faded into memory. Ornithologists blame the silent exodus on the invisible hands of modern life—radiation from network towers, the slow choking of habitats, the shifting moods of the climate. Whatever the reason, the joy once found in the chorus of those birds has ebbed away, leaving behind a stillness too heavy for such a once-lively place.
I remember my grandfather, Mohd. Shah—whom we all lovingly called Baba (may Almighty Allah elevate his ranks in Jannah). He was not just the imam of mosque but a man who lived and breathed in the service of humanity and faith. His presence was calm, like a stream in prayer, and his words carried the weight of wisdom softened by kindness.
Whenever birds flocked to the grapevines or pecked at the cherries, my grandmother would sigh in frustration, saying, “They’ve ruined all the fruit.” But Baba, with a gentle smile and eyes that had seen more than time could tell, would say, “Let them be… don’t chase them away. They eat off their right too.” There was a lesson in that—a quiet sermon of compassion, not from the pulpit, but from the everyday moments he lived with grace.
Baba had a small, endearing habit. He would bring us coconut biscuits—probably for just two rupees then—wrapped in crinkled dark brown paper. They weren’t from any famous bakery, but to us, they were treasure. Sweet, crumbly, and warm with the scent of childhood. Even now, I can almost taste them if I close my eyes long enough. That simple biscuit holds more memory than most grand meals ever could.My grandmother had her own way of spoiling me—tender, subtle, and full of love. From a large wooden cabinet, known to us as the sandook—something every home proudly had back then, like today’s lockers or wardrobes—she would pull out tiny treasures. Wrapped chocolates, roasted peanuts, and the kind of love only a grandparent can offer, hidden behind a creaking lid and the scent of old wood.
At my nanihaal, kite flying was more than just pastime—it was tradition, a festival in the sky. I would often plead with my grandmother, tugging at her dupatta, insisting, “I want to fly one too!” And I still remember the day she finally gave in and took me to her friend—Hafeez Aapa. Her son, with a quiet smile, handed me a vibrant kite, its paper wings ready to kiss the wind. I brought it home like a crown jewel. My little hands cradled it as if it were made of gold. I was on cloud nine, my feet barely touching the ground. That kite wasn’t just a toy—it was a dream strung between two wooden sticks, held tight by thread and hope. That day, the sky became mine.
I used to be so wildly happy in those days that food would lose all meaning. Who had time for meals when the skies were calling, when kites tugged at their strings like restless birds, and cousins ran beside me in laughter? My heart beat only for those afternoons of endless play, tangled threads, and colourful kites soaring like dreams across the rooftops.
Hour after hour, I would dash to the village shop to buy chocolates, candy, and whatever little joy two rupees could afford. A narrow wooden staircase led to it—I still remember the way my feet would hurry up and down those creaking steps, as if time itself waited at the top. I was never alone. Most of the time, I was shadowed lovingly by my cousin, Rukhsana Didi—a few years older, wiser in ways I wasn’t. Our grandmother had given her strict orders, “Be with him. Don’t let him go alone—the streets have packs of dogs.” And she listened. Wherever I ran, she followed, half protector, half playmate.
The shopkeeper would look up as we arrived, and with a familiar smile, he’d call out in his warm, teasing tone: “Ye Serchuk kar che aamut yoar?”—“When did this one from Serch has arrived?” And Rukhsana Didi would answer, with the patience of someone who had answered it. a hundred times.
That shop—Amm Soab’s little world—was more than a place. It was a scent, a feeling. The air inside was laced with the pleasant aroma of biscuits and sweets. There were no shiny counters, no plastic wrappers—only tin boxes, their glass fronts revealing neatly stacked biscuits, protected from staleness and time. Amm Soab would gently open them, and we would pick our favourites, sharing every bite like sacred treasures.
I’d go there again and again, unable to resist the pull of that tiny wonderland. And each time I returned, my grandmother would scold me in her firm, familiar voice:
“Che kyaZi chukh gasan ti gasan dukanas paeth?”
“Why do you keep running to the shop again and again?
My all three maternal uncles used to live in that two-storey house and I have had invitations from all of them. They used to argue with each other: “No, today he will be having dinner at our house,” another uncle would resist, “No, I have brought meat, chicken and all that, he will be having dinner with us…” They used to live with love and merriment as there was no place for envy, jealousy, or disputes.
My maternal uncles and my maternal aunt used to bring me to the garden which they called Daejj. Baba used to be there cutting grass or ploughing the fields in preparation for sowing maize and all that. There used to be cherry trees and a few almond trees as well. I used to feel so much joy plucking cherries. My grandfather (Baba) used to ask me to pluck from a specific tree, saying those cherries were brought by someone else. He was so generous and a man of principles. He used to have a tree of cherries for every daughter and would tell me to pluck only from her tree. Some people used to throng to that garden to visit Baba for spiritual guidance as well. And I used to see him recite and whiff at people there.
My aunt used to bring me to visit her friends or to get water, as there used to be a scarcity of it. In the evening, everyone used to bring her pot to get water from the spring. Her friends used to kiss my cheeks, and as their saliva touched my face, I used to feel so annoyed and bad and would rub it with my sleeves right in front of them. As we used to go home with my maternal aunt, unknown relatives used to hug me, kiss me, and ask in their accent, “Maej kyaZi chay ni aamich?” Whenever I passed them, I used to laugh that they called Moaj as Maej and tease them.
When the sun used to sink and set, my grandmother wouldn’t allow me to stay outside, frightening me with excuses like “apear chay military”—“Don’t go outside, there are soldiers,” etc. When it was time for my dinner, Two more of my maternal uncles would often join Baba and my grandmother in the kitchen, and they would talk on a plethora of topics. Stories used to be told about jins, and there used to be those conventional gatherings. My maternal uncles used to give time to each other and to their parents too, and some sort of plans used to be discussed as well—not like today, where everyone is engrossed in mobile phones. There used to be a magic in those conventional gatherings.
But time, with its silent cruelty, does not knock before it steals.
The sandook is closed now—its wooden scent lost beneath layers of dust and forgetfulness. The kite has long fallen from the sky, its string snapped, its colours faded. The laughter that once echoed through those walnut trees now whispers like a ghost in my memory. Amm Soab’s shop no longer smells of biscuits—it smells of absence. The birds no longer come, and neither do we.
My nanihaal, once a living heartbeat, now lies still—its orchard a museum of lost joy, its verandah a quiet witness to a time that slipped through our fingers like the crumbs of those two-rupee biscuits. My uncles sit in different houses now, behind different doors. We all do. Not just in brick and mortar—but behind walls we built in our hearts.And sometimes, in the stillness of night, I wonder:
Did we grow up—or did we just grow apart?
What I would give to run down those creaking stairs once more, to chase a kite across the sky, to be called “the one from Serch” again.
But the shop is shut, the stream is dry, and the boy is no longer there.
Only the memory remains—fragile as a biscuit, crumbling at the touch.
The author is a columnist and feature writer based in Ganderbal. He can be reached on X’ @peermohdamir
