From the moment we had set foot in Kashmir I had instinctively known I was home. I felt a strange familiarity with the people and place. Even when I was not in Kashmir, I could spot a Kashmiri in a crowd of thousands. And this had nothing to do with features or language, it was a primal code, passed from generation to generation, embedded deep within my genes.
We reached a house with a large wrought iron gate. My father pushed it open and went inside. I followed him. Inside the gate was a compound, presumably for car parking, but it was empty at the moment. There were two men inside. The older one was in front. He must have been in his late seventies. He wore a light grey Khan dress, his white hair was closely cropped and his beard was predominantly white with a few shades of black thrown in. My father looked at him and said,
"Abdur Rehman, do you remember who I am?"
The old man who was watering the plants put the pipe down, wiped his hands off a towel and said, "I don't. But if you come a little closer I will."
It was at this moment that I heard a joyous cry. "Kaka ji!!" the man in the background shouted. It was my father's childhood name. That cry was so human, so full of longing and happiness that it's still ringing in my ears. On hearing his son's cry, Abdur Rehman realized who my father was. He stepped forward and locked him in an embrace. Fat, pearl like tears rolled down his cheeks as he recited chants of thankfulness in Kashmiri. I was transfixed by the scene in front of me. Abdur Rehman, still hugging my father, asked him about the well being of my grandfather. They had been great friends who had embarked on their domestic journey together. They had bought land, built homes and married their sons. So, Abdur Rehman was distraught when my father told him that Grandpa had passed away a few years back. His eyes fell on me and he said, "Is that Billu?”" I stepped forward and said, "Yes." Abdur Rehman locked me in a vice like embrace and continued crying. He smelled of milk and cheese, of hard labour and dignity.
"He has grown up so much. He used to be this tiny when he was here. The whole day he used to play with Mushtaq and Faiyaz.”" He said looking at me and brushing my shoulders with his hands. Faiyaz came up to me. A young man in his early thirties, he was wearing a white Kurta pyjama and had a long black beard like a Maulvi. On top of his head rested a green skull cap and on his face was the most serene and peaceful of expressions. He asked me if I remembered him. Embarrassed, I shook my head and said, "I am sorry, I don't. I was too small then."
"Of course. Of course. How are Bolji and Bitoo ji?”" Faiyaz enquired about the well-being of my uncles.