When Blood Turns to Bargain

Abdul Rehman was a man of simplicity and integrity—born in a scenic village of rural Anantnag, cradled by walnut orchards and snow-fed streams of river Lidder. Like many young men of his time, he left his village in search of a better future and settled in Srinagar. Through relentless hard work and sheer perseverance, he managed to build a house of his own in the city. But even amid the busy life of Srinagar, his heart remained attached to the mud walls and wooden beams of his ancestral home. His greatest wish was to return to his village post-retirement—to breathe his last amidst the same soil that once nourished him. His deep emotional connection with the village was reinforced by the ancestral land his forefathers had left behind.

While his aged parents were alive, they took care of that property. Abdul Rehman regularly sent money for repairs, fencing, and harvesting, even though he himself rarely benefited from the yields. He was not only a responsible son but also a benevolent brother. His younger brother, Mohammed Maqbool, was unemployed and struggling to make ends meet. Abdul Rehman invested his hard-earned money to set up a small shop for him in the village. His elder brother, Ali Mohammed, also leaned on him for support. He did everything in his power to uplift his family—even securing a payment-seat admission for Basharat, Ali Mohammed’s son, in a reputed college outside the state. Abdul Rehman accompanied him during his admission process, bought him clothes, arranged for accommodation, and even sent him pocket money every month without fail. When their younger sister was to be married, Abdul Rehman bore the entire cost. From the dowry items to the wedding arrangements, he ensured that her marriage was celebrated with grace and dignity. He never kept count, never expected returns—believing that family stood above all. However, as fate would have it, time began to unveil the darkest corners of human greed.

Before her death, Abdul Rehman’s mother, with trembling hands and tearful eyes, told her sons, “Rehman is far, but his heart beats for this land. You are not just his brothers—you are custodians of his legacy. Protect his land until he returns.” But that sacred promise dissolved in the face of avarice. In the heart of their ancestral land stood a towering walnut tree, planted decades ago by Abdul Rehman’s grandfather. It was more than just a tree—it was a symbol of inheritance. His mother, a woman of simplicity and fairness, would always say, This tree belongs to Abdul Rehman. She would always save a share of the walnuts for Abdul Rehman, no matter how far he was. Even in her last years, despite her frailty, she never forgot to send him fresh walnuts from the tree—a silent reminder that he still had roots in the village, that someone still cared. But after her death, things changed.

Even in the most sacred moment of mourning—the passing of his mother—Abdul Rehman found himself side-lined, treated as an uninvited guest in his own home. As relatives, neighbours, and well-wishers poured in to offer condolences, their attention gravitated solely toward his elder brother, Ali Mohammad. People spoke to Ali Mohammad, comforted him, and acknowledged his grief, as if their mother had belonged exclusively to him. No one turned to Abdul Rehman, no one asked how he was holding up. It was as if he were invisible, a mere bystander at an event where he should have been at the centre, grieving alongside his brother. The house that once echoed with his childhood memories now felt like unfamiliar territory. He stood there, an outsider in his own family, a guest in his own mother’s final farewell.

The weight of years of alienation settled heavily on his shoulders. He had already lost his mother, but in that moment, he realized he had lost his family long ago. The cruellest pain was not just the death of a parent—it was the death of belonging. His mother’s passing did not just mark an end to her life, but also to the last thread that connected him to his roots. Standing in that crowd, yet utterly alone, Abdul Rehman felt a truth colder than grief—sometimes, blood ties exist only in name.

One autumn, when Abdul Rehman visited the village, his heart sank—the walnut tree was gone. The sturdy trunk that had once shaded his childhood was now a hollow space. His brothers, without informing him, had cut it down and sold the wood. When he asked why, Ali Mohammad shrugged, “The tree was old; it was of no use anymore.” But Abdul Rehman knew the truth. It was never just about wood or walnuts. It was about erasing his claim, his identity, his connection to the land.

A neighbour who owned a small plot adjoining Abdul Rehman’s land wanted to sell it due to a terminal illness. Naturally, he first approached Abdul Rehman. But his brothers, seeing a chance to expand their own landholdings, cunningly bought it in their own names—without informing him. When Abdul Rehman questioned them later, they gave vague excuses, claimed they did it for him, but never transferred the land in his name. They then started a vicious campaign to pressurise him into selling his share. They spread rumours in the village that Abdul Rehman had abandoned the land, fabricated fake representations in revenue records, and even approached local goons to create disturbances whenever he visited the property.

One day, he tried to put up a boundary fence around his portion of land. A scuffle broke out. Basharat—the very boy whom Abdul Rehman had mentored and funded—slapped him and shouted abuses in front of villagers. No one intervened. A few looked on with pity, but many just turned their backs. Some weeks later, Abdul Rehman’s wife and only daughter visited the village to continue the fencing work. What they endured was horrifying—they were physically assaulted, abused, and humiliated by Basharat and his uncles.

The daughter, a postgraduate student, cried bitterly and said, “We thought this village was our identity; but it has only given us scars.” The trauma left a deep wound in Abdul Rehman’s soul. But the agony didn’t stop there. One winter, a part of the old ancestral house collapsed due to snow. Abdul Rehman sent money to rebuild it, but instead of repairing it, his brothers used the money for personal use. When he questioned them, they insulted him, saying, “Why do you care now? You have your own home in the city.” On one of his visits, he noticed that his name had been removed from a joint property record in collusion with local revenue officials. He tried to file a complaint, but the village sarpanch, influenced by his brothers, refused to support him.

During a family function, he was deliberately not invited, and when someone asked about him, Ali Mohammad casually remarked, “He has forgotten us. He belongs to the city now.” Once, a fellow villager came to the city for medical treatment. Abdul Rehman offered them shelter and assistance for days. When he later requested the same man to testify about the land dispute, he refused—fearing the wrath of his brothers. One evening, as Abdul Rehman sat on his veranda sipping tea, reminiscing about his childhood days in the village, he received an unexpected visit from his younger brother, Mohammad Maqbool. Accompanying him was his brother-in-law, a man Abdul Rehman had met only a few times. After a few pleasantries, Maqbool hesitated before coming to the point. “Baya,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “since you’ve settled in the city now, it might be best if you consider selling your share of the ancestral graveyard

. My brother-in-law here is interested, and it would make things easier for everyone.” Abdul Rehman put his cup down, his hands suddenly feeling cold. The suggestion was like a dagger to his heart. The graveyard was not just a piece of land—it was sacred ground where his parents, grandparents, and forefathers rested in eternal peace. It was a place of prayers, of memories, of unbreakable bonds. Selling it would mean severing the last tie he had to his ancestral land. He looked at Maqbool in disbelief. “You want me to sell my share of the graveyard? The same land where our parents are buried?” His voice was calm but carried the weight of deep hurt.

Maqbool sighed, exchanging glances with his brother-in-law. “Baya, you don’t live there anymore. It’s just land for you now. And besides, it would be better if it stays with someone from the family rather than an outsider.” Abdul Rehman shook his head. “Family?” He let out a dry chuckle. “I thought family meant respect, meant standing by each other.

But time and again, I see that family only means convenience to some.” Maqbool opened his mouth as if to argue, but the intensity in Abdul Rehman’s eyes made him stop. “The graveyard is not mine to sell,” Abdul Rehman continued, his voice firmer now. “It belongs to those who rest there, and I will not be the one to disturb their peace.” A tense silence filled the air. Maqbool and his brother-in-law exchanged awkward glances before standing up to leave. “Think about it,” Maqbool muttered before walking out. As Abdul Rehman watched them disappear into the evening mist, he felt an overwhelming sorrow settle over him.

The land of his ancestors, once protected by love and duty, had now been reduced to a mere transaction. He closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer for his parents, hoping that even in death, they would not have to witness the erosion of the very values they had lived by. In time, Abdul Rehman stopped talking about the village altogether. The dream that once gave him hope now only brought pain. Instead of returning to his roots, he planted a walnut tree in his small city garden, a silent tribute to the soil he could never reclaim. He found peace not in land or legacy, but in memories—and in the realization that sometimes, what we give others can never be repaid, not in kind, not in loyalty, and certainly not in blood relations.

(Names in this story are not real)

Dr Showkat Rashid Wani, Senior Coordinator, Centre for Distance Education, University of Kashmir