As a ten-year-old,
I would often peep through our window,
and see her sitting under the neem tree.
Was it my imagination or was she talking
to the tiny sparrow hopping near her feet?
Did the sparrow understand Kashmiri?

 
It understood the language of love, I guess.
In those times of yore, when love reigned,
and the world was not a mess.

 
“Tweet tweet”, greeted the sparrow.
“Varay chakh?” [Are you fine?] Asked my granny.
“Meow Meow,” purred our pet cat, Kitty.  
Her eyes always lit up on seeing Kitty,
and she burst into a Kashmiri nursery rhyme: 

“Bisht bisht braaryo, bisht bisht braaryo.”
[Oh, come on cat]
And soon, very soon, she would be all agog ,
recalling the cats in their attic back home.
 
Smells from her homeland would reach her,
as she sat in her chair, looking at the roses
that dad so tenderly nurtured.
Time and again, he looked affectionately
in her direction.
And smiled.
 
Sighing, she would close her eyes;
her mind’s eye glimpsing tightly bunched cowslips,
and daffodils flaunting their fragile cups. 
Pale pink, pristine peonies preening and posing.
Ah, the passionate purity of elegant, lovely lilies!

She would see a shikara in the Jhelum
sailing – sailing – sailing,
with two silhouettes sitting with entwined fingers.
She would smile a shy smile and yank herself free
of those slivers of nostalgia and call out to Dad.

 
He knew what she wanted and would rush in
to come out with Mom, a mug of Kehwa in her hands.
The sight of that mug would cheer her up,
and she would again drown in a sea of nostalgia,
with the first sip.