SANJAY PANDITA
There are certain trees that grow upon the earth, and there are certain trees that grow within the human heart. The walnut tree that stood in the courtyard of our ancestral home in Murran, Pulwama, belonged to both. It drew its strength from the fertile soil of Kashmir, but it also drew life from the laughter, tears, prayers and dreams of the generations that lived beneath its generous shade. Even today, decades after we were compelled to leave our home, it continues to stand in my memory with a clarity that neither distance nor time has been able to diminish.
Whenever I think of my childhood, I do not first remember the walls of our house. I remember the walnut tree.
It welcomed every season with quiet grace. In spring its tender leaves unfolded like the first pages of a sacred manuscript. During summer it spread a cool canopy over the courtyard where children played, elders rested and neighbours gathered for endless conversations. Autumn transformed it into a symbol of abundance as walnuts dropped gently upon the earth, announcing another harvest. Winter wrapped it in snow until it resembled a silent sage absorbed in meditation. It seemed untouched by the anxieties that governed human life. It knew neither ambition nor hatred. It simply stood where destiny had planted it, faithfully performing its role in the rhythm of nature.
No one in our family knew who had planted the tree. My grandfather would often smile and say that it had been there even before he was born. Over the years it ceased to belong to any individual. It became the oldest member of our family, witnessing births, marriages, festivals and funerals with the same silent dignity. If the walls of our house preserved our voices, the walnut tree preserved our history.
Our mornings began beneath its branches. Before sunrise, sparrows, bulbuls and mynas filled the courtyard with music. The fragrance of damp earth mingled with the aroma of noon chai prepared by my mother, while my grandmother sat beneath the tree with her prayer beads, softly chanting verses she had inherited from generations before her. My grandfather welcomed neighbours there, discussing scriptures, village affairs and the changing seasons. Those conversations carried no urgency. Life moved gently, like the streams flowing through the valley, unhurried and content.
For us children, the walnut tree was our first playground and our first teacher. We climbed its branches without fear, believing they could never betray us. Its trunk became our fortress, its branches our kingdom, and its leaves our shelter from the summer sun. We learnt balance while climbing it, courage while reaching its highest limbs and patience while waiting for autumn to bring its fruit. We knew every curve in its bark and every hollow where birds built their nests. It was impossible to imagine our home without it.
Autumn was perhaps the most beautiful season of all. The first walnuts falling upon the courtyard announced the beginning of a family celebration. We rushed to gather them, competing with one another like eager treasure hunters. Our hands turned brown as we peeled away the green husks, while our mothers laughed at our excitement. Grandmother carefully spread the walnuts upon woven reed mats to dry beneath the mellow autumn sun. Their earthy fragrance filled the courtyard and lingered for weeks. Those walnuts nourished us throughout winter. They appeared on festive platters, welcomed honoured guests and became part of every celebration. In Kashmir, offering walnuts was more than hospitality; it was an expression of affection, trust and shared heritage.
Only much later did I realise that the walnut tree had quietly shaped our understanding of life. It taught us patience because it refused to hurry its seasons. It taught resilience because every winter it surrendered its leaves without surrendering hope. It taught generosity because it never chose who deserved its shade or its fruit. Above all, it taught us what it meant to belong. Its roots disappeared deep into the Kashmiri earth, inseparable from the soil that had nurtured our ancestors for centuries.
We believed, with the innocence of childhood, that such permanence could never be disturbed.
History proved us wrong.
The winter that entered our lives was unlike any winter we had known. Snow still covered the mountains, rivers still flowed through the valley and the walnut tree still awaited another spring. Nature continued its eternal cycle, indifferent to human conflict. Yet beneath that familiar beauty, fear had begun to spread. It entered homes quietly, settling into conversations, replacing laughter with silence and certainty with anxiety.
The village that had once lived like an extended family no longer felt the same. Familiar faces carried unfamiliar expressions. Nights grew longer, not because darkness had increased, but because sleep had abandoned many homes. Rumours travelled faster than the mountain winds. Every knock upon the door startled the heart. Every passing day carried a new uncertainty.
Then came the morning that altered the course of our lives forever.
We did not leave our home after careful planning. We left in haste, believing that our absence would last only a few days. We carried a few clothes, some documents, family photographs and the small idols from our prayer room. Everything else remained where it had always been. Books stayed upon their shelves. Utensils remained in the kitchen. Beds waited silently in their rooms.
The walnut tree remained in the courtyard.
Before leaving, I walked towards it alone. Its branches were bare, clothed in the quiet dignity of winter. Frost clung to its bark. I placed my hand upon its trunk as though bidding farewell to an old friend.
I did not know it was goodbye.
No one locks the door of his ancestral home believing that decades will pass before it opens again.
As our vehicle moved away, I turned back repeatedly until the house disappeared from sight. Above the roof I could still see the crown of the walnut tree rising against the pale Kashmiri sky.
It remained rooted.
We became uprooted.
That single image has never left me.
Exile is often described as the loss of one’s home. I have learnt that it is something far deeper. A house can be rebuilt. Land can sometimes be reclaimed. Documents can be replaced. But the intimate relationship between a people and their landscape cannot be recreated. It is woven slowly through generations of shared memories, rituals, language and affection.
We eventually settled far away from Kashmir. We found shelter, employment and schools for our children. Outwardly life resumed its rhythm. Yet inwardly something fundamental had changed. The summers were harsher, the winters unfamiliar, the trees different. They offered shade, but not recognition. Their leaves whispered in a language our childhood had never known.
The walnut tree never grew there.
Nor could it.
Like our culture, it belonged to a landscape shaped by snow, mountains and centuries of memory.
Exile transformed our parents into guardians of a civilisation. Customs that had once been lived naturally now required conscious preservation. Kashmiri was spoken at home so that children would not forget the language of their ancestors. Festivals were celebrated with whatever little was available. The songs of wanwun, the stories of Lal Ded, Nund Rishi, Habba Khatoon and the saints of Kashmir became bridges connecting one generation to another. Every ritual carried within it an unspoken prayer that identity should survive displacement.
The elderly bore exile with a grief beyond description. Their bodies lived in new surroundings, but their hearts never left the valley. They spoke endlessly of orchards, temples, streams and village paths. Among those memories the walnut tree appeared again and again.
“What became of our walnut tree?” someone would ask.
No one ever knew.
Silence answered every time.
That silence said more than words ever could.
As years turned into decades, our children grew into adulthood. They inherited our stories but not our experiences. They know Murran through photographs, conversations and inherited longing. They have heard countless descriptions of the walnut tree, yet they have never sat beneath its shade or gathered its fruit. To them it is part of family history. To us it is part of ourselves.
Sometimes they ask why we continue speaking about a place we left so long ago.
How does one explain that memory does not obey calendars?
That exile has no expiry date?
That a homeland continues to live wherever it is remembered with love?
When I close my eyes today, I still walk through the courtyard of our old house. I see my grandmother counting her prayer beads beneath the tree. I hear my mother’s laughter while sorting freshly gathered walnuts. I watch my father speaking with neighbours whose voices have long since faded into eternity. I see myself as a barefoot child climbing those familiar branches, convinced that life would always remain unchanged.
Then memory gently reminds me otherwise.
Perhaps the house has changed.
Perhaps strangers now occupy it.
Perhaps the courtyard no longer echoes with familiar voices.
Perhaps the walnut tree has grown older, its trunk rougher, its branches fewer.
Or perhaps it still stands with the same quiet patience that has always defined it.
I like to believe that it does.
Not because trees remember names, but because they remember seasons.
Every spring it must still unfold new leaves.
Every summer it must still offer shade.
Every autumn it must still scatter walnuts upon the earth.
Every winter it must still wait beneath the snow.
Waiting has become its destiny.
Waiting has become ours.
If destiny ever grants me the privilege of returning to my ancestral home, I know where my footsteps will lead first. Not to the doorway, not to the rooms that once sheltered us, but to the walnut tree. I shall place my hand upon its weathered trunk just as I did on the day we left. Neither of us will need words. Time will have aged us both. It will have carved deeper lines into its bark and deeper memories into my heart.
Silence will complete the conversation.
For some bonds exist beyond language.
The walnut tree taught me that roots are not merely hidden beneath the soil. They also live within memory, culture and faith. They survive in the stories parents tell their children, in the language spoken around the dining table, in festivals celebrated far from home and in the determination of a people to remain themselves despite the passage of time.
Many trees bear fruit.
Some provide timber.
A rare few preserve the soul of an entire civilisation.
The walnut tree of our house was one such tree.
Though history uprooted us from the land that had nurtured our ancestors, it could not uproot the values, memories and traditions that took root beneath its branches. The tree remains in Kashmir, while we remain scattered across distant places, yet an invisible bridge continues to connect us.
That bridge is memory.
That bridge is identity.
That bridge is hope.
And as long as the walnut tree continues to live in our hearts, the home we left behind will never truly be lost.
Sanjay Pandita is a poet, columnist & critical analyst , can be reached at sanjaypanditasp@gmail.com
