Pomegranates and Papers

I always go there. I don’t know why I do that to myself again and again. Maybe I’m stupid. Or maybe I just can’t let go.

The land behind the stream... where Daada use to grow pomegranates. I remember he once said, “Zameen sun’ti hai. Tum ro bhi lo, woh chup reh’ke sab samajhti hai.”

I laughed then. I was 11. Thought he was being too poetic.

But now I go there... and she really feels like she listens. That patch of land, that tree... it felt like it knows what’s happening. It sees me and says nothing.

Yesterday, I had gone again. To just see it. Touch the bark. Feel the air. But there were men standing there. Not from the town.., not from the valley, not from amongst us... One of them asked me, “Yeh aapka zameen hai?”

I froze. My mouth opened, but words… they didn’t come.

I said, “Haan… tha.”

He looked bored. Told me to bring papers. Papers? What about all the Sundays I spent there, chasing butterflies? What about the bruises I got climbing the tree? What about Amma’s voice echoing through the fields calling me in for lunch?

They won’t show on papers.

I came home and cried while Amma was frying nadru. I didn’t even tell her anything. Just sat on the kitchen floor like some lost thing. She kept looking, but didn’t ask. She just said softly, “Kha le, Thanda ho jayega.”

It had gone cold. So did everything.

Sometimes I really wish I wasn’t born here. Somewhere easier. Somewhere your identity doesn’t depend on which card you carry, or what your surname is, or what your grandfather did.

But then, every time the sun sets behind those hills and that orange light touches the chinar in our front yard… I fell in love all over again.

I’m tired. Tired of screaming in silence. Tired of being scared of being too loud. Tired of getting judged for crying over land while the world laughs and moves on.

I wish I had strength. Sometimes I pretend I do. I post stories. Type long captions. Delete them. Write again. Rethink. Rewrite. Then shut the app. Because what’s the point.

And then... I write this.

Like now. On a note app. With tears dried halfway down my cheek.

Because in this valley... even grief has to be quiet.

Baiza Mushtaq, participant GKSC current batch