I can almost see it at the back of my mind. I’ve spent so much time watching everything that the image is painted into the soul of my eyes. The crevices of the mountains, the colours of the morning sun, and even the breeze that breaks the overwhelming heat occasionally. Perhaps I should paint it for the visuals, but I would never know where to start. Would I start with the overwhelming sturdy trees, from which the sky even cowers under their mystery? Or perhaps the mountains that are covered with thick forests that are scattered with colours of the homes that lay among them, the evidence of other life forms? Even the hardly tangible sky that softens against the edge of the million shades of green that are present, is a great place to start. But the paintings wouldn’t discover the specks of golden moments that can be captured. The details like the euphonious singing of the birds or the chattering of the grasses that held life so willfully that the sound still finds me on cold nights. No, perhaps not a painting could do it justice.
When I am there, I seek out the scene where I sit, eating away at the crisp apples that taste of ambrosia whilst taking in the heat as if it would never pour into me again. Some days, being hidden behind branches does not fill my thirst, I then seek out higher ground. Walking over the dusty trails towards the rock, where the view is impeccable, I climb the old walnut tree that lets me witness the mountains when I seek the comfort of greatness that coexists with the simplicity of life’s little pleasures. I sit outside most days in a sort of golden light that encompasses me in a tender warmth that feels as though it is surely no less than a trance. It has been the most becoming of all the places I have inhabited and that heaven of mine is also the hardest to reach: thousands of miles away is the place I call home and the other that I visit once every few years that embodies the “what ifs” of my life. To know that this was the land where my ancestors had settled and to come to the realisation that this was the very place that my parents had left so that we could find prosperity away from the limiting reaches of its borders is what leaves an everlasting impression on me.
As I sat bathed in sunlight, elated with the sounds of singing birds, I considered that this “what-if ” home of mine had once been my parents’ home that they left behind. The culmination of the life my parents had led in the crevices of this land only amounted to finding themselves overwhelmed in a land thousands of miles away that was not their own. Of where they were unfamiliar with the layout and the workings. Where summers weren’t blessed with the sweet mangoes and the trees that grew in their orchard. Where nights weren’t accompanied by the whispers of cicadas and the feeble croaking of the crickets that lingered amongst the tall grass. The life they had in Kashmir contrasted drastically with the thin mattress that lay on the rock-like floors, and the gas station jobs that were to feed themselves. Yet there was little room for pessimism. In the hopes of betterment for their children’s futures, away from the constantly struggling families back in Kashmir and the lack of security that left the people bare to struggling like not as many people to know here, they kept working to improve life for our family.
I know this about my parents because I witness it every few years when we retreat to that paradise for the summer. Every time I watch from the haven of my car when we drive down the rough streets and I witness the kids that beg for money outside, left without alternatives. I listen as I spend my nights hearing the gunshots and bombs whose sounds echo from the border where the other Kashmir fights for its independence still. My parents left the glimpse of paradise because under that beauty lay the horrid reality of existing in a land that would limit their children to fulfil their dreams, not guaranteeing any illusion of safety. It is something I understand and relearn every time I leave the bubble of privilege I reside in and witness the what-if of my life, of what could have been mine but what my parents made sure they did better for me. Kashmir is a reminder to me, something that helps me understand how my parents could be brave enough to choose a better life for our family and lucky enough to attain it.
