Soul Garden

My copywriting job in Mumbai was a dream I had worked for throughout college life. Working with the best in the business, the days were those of physical exhaustion with a strong sense of job satisfaction. The nights, however, sent me into flashbacks of agony, of my beautifully painful past buried in time, amidst a land up north yearning for peace and security.

As my eyelids submitted to the endless city lights, rays of an eager sun seemed to creep over the horizon in marked anticipation of what that day had to offer. The Koels chorused to dawn where the moon hadn’t been happier to set. Elegant lavender and saffron plantations seemed to garland the thoughtfully cobbled paths that led to our warm wooden residence. My brother and I would racedown the cobbled pathways to be the first ones to taste Mom’s fragrant mutton curry. With the widest smile on the planet, my father would pluck the sweetest blood-red apples and pass them to us.

Maa used to love the saffron flowers that lit up our backyard. She would wear those beautiful petals in her hair that my father brought. On a chilly winter evening, when soulful kava mesmerized the air of a shivering Kashmir, dark men on horsebacks with rifles plundered all that we had. Grains bathed in the blood of my brother; my father was beaten up to death. Seeing these horrific events, I fled, never to return.

They say that dreams are god’s way of conversing with you. Only time would tell if that is true. I woke up with a startle, millions of droplets of sweat bathing my thin nightwear. The visuals at night were beautiful but transitioned to utter pain. The feeling of home is a constellation of instances where one is loved and cared for, where there is a sense of satisfaction of being helpful, embedded in a garden synonymous with one’s soul. Peace was on the common man’s mind, but a sagely Kashmir was not what a few wanted.

Mumbai mornings have an air of industriousness. Coffee brewing at a quaint corner of my office infused a surge of optimism, creating a general sense of productivity. Cross-border tensions were gaining centre stage in popular media. They needed people to cover the story on the ground.

Who better than a Kashmiri himself? And so, I was selected for the team.

The bus ride from Delhi to Srinagar triggered nostalgic moments on numerous occasions; they were sweet at times and bitter at others. The wolves hooted under the clouds that shone silver under the platinum moonlight. Finally, our team arrived. It seemed as though childhood had called me back.

I had faint memories of where my house must have been. Down the road, there was a beautiful school lined with coniferous trees. Apple trees surrounded my home like a fruit on a blood-red plant. When I knocked on the wood of my entrance door it sounded like the most seasoned cricket bat. I could still feel the centripetal force of my mother circling me around her out of elation. She was a school teacher, hence was quite famous amongst the town’s children. That day, it had been twenty-three years since I hadn’t had a clue about her.

Our reporting campaign was carried out quite aggressively, with us spreading throughout the affected areas in the valley. We went from door to door, interviewing civilians and other related parties. As our assignment neared completion, I was engrossed in finishing all my reports so that we could get to work when we returned to Mumbai.

However, a part of me wasn’t satisfied; a part of me wanted to stay back, and search for her, my mom. A part of me that made me the happiest yet gave me immense grief. One Srinagar evening, while treading the streets in deep thought, a certain cobbled by-lane lined with coniferous trees got me walking subconsciously faster. It lead me to where my school’s remains were. I did not have time to emote; hence I kept walking. I wished for the adjacent wrecked apple orchard to lead me home, but to my surprise, it was a modern, well-built school. I knew that this was where my house had been, but there was no sign of it.

Dejected, I turned around and started walking back. At that moment, I felt something magically weird. It was just like those dreams I used to have. I turned around to see a woman as beautiful as an angel, the wrinkles on her face making her even more radiant. Saffron petals dawned on her hair, and she had a cup of kava in her hand.

“Come baccha, have your kava, she said“.

Maybe she could not pick me up and circle me in happiness, but her soothing, caressing eye contact made up for all that we had lost. Over cups of kava and endless conversations, we collectively felt the presence of my father and brother. There it was, the missing piece to my puzzle, my little soul garden.

Written by Tejas Kulkarni for MTTN 

Edited by Khushi Sarwa for MTTN 

Featured Image by BHM Pics 

Images by Upma Arora and Masood Hussain