Kashmir Through Her Lens, Philly Through Mine
I still remember the first snowfall I saw in Philadelphia. We were walking together, my mother and family, slowly on the icy road, trying not to slip, when something felt strangely familiar. Not from my own memory, but from hers, something I had never really heard before.
The strange part is, growing up, my mother and I rarely spoke about Kashmir.
Her Story
As a Kashmiri migrant, my mother and her family left their home during the exodus, not by choice. Around that same time, her life changed completely. She got married, moved into a new and unfamiliar life, and soon after, I was born. Everything happened so close together that there was hardly any space to pause and look back.
Things were not simple after that. There were responsibilities, adjustments, and many personal challenges. Somewhere in all of this, Kashmir became something that was not spoken about much, maybe because it was too painful, or maybe because life did not give her the space to return to it.
And yet, even in silence, it stayed.
My Story
Now, years later, I find myself walking the streets of Philadelphia as a postdoctoral researcher, an immigrant by choice. Here with my husband and our twin four-year-olds, learning to navigate a new life. But in quiet moments, I recognise something familiar: the strange ache of leaving a place behind.
The Conversations
It was only here, in Philadelphia, that something began to change.
Small things started bringing Kashmir back into our conversations: snowfall, cold mornings, old houses, narrow stairs and her family. Slowly, through these everyday moments, my mother began to share bits and pieces of how winters felt in Kashmir, how the streets looked, how life moved there.
In spring, when tulips, daffodils, and cherry blossoms line the streets, she notices them quietly and says they remind her of the orchards she once knew in Srinagar. In autumn, when leaves fall in golden layers, she speaks of the chinar trees from her childhood.
Even in ordinary moments, walking on icy sidewalks, climbing stairs, or moving through old houses without elevators, I see Kashmir through her eyes, shaped by memory and longing.
Homes
Our homes, though far apart, share a quiet similarity. Quilts stored away in the attic and brought out when needed, the rhythm of daily chores shared with siblings, the way food connects us to something deeper. She speaks of vegetables from her childhood, tchochal and obuj and I find echoes of those same flavours here, in different forms. Even something as simple as dandelion (hund) greens carries a memory she once lived.
These small connections make an unfamiliar place feel closer, even if it can never fully replace what was left behind.
The Difference Between Us
And yet, there is a difference between us that I carry with me.
My mother left her home because she had to. I left mine by choice, for opportunity, for growth. But sometimes, that choice does not make it easier. In quiet moments, I feel a version of her longing, something that has travelled across time and reached me in ways I did not expect.
I don’t know if I will ever return to India in the same way she cannot return to Kashmir, except in memory.
What Carries Forward
Over time, I have started to understand that home is not just a place. It lives in small things: in the way seasons change, in the way food tastes, in the way stories are told or left untold.
Walking through Philadelphia, I see fragments of her past reflected in the present: the stairs, the markets, the gardens, the changing weather. She carries both pain and strength, loss and continuity. The resilience of Kashmiri people who had to leave their homes, rebuild, and still carry forward their identity quietly is something I am only beginning to understand.
And walking beside her, I begin to understand my own journey more clearly.
Now, when it snows, I don’t just see winter in a new city. I see something that existed before me, something that travelled quietly through her life and found its way into mine.
Somewhere between her past and my present, we are still learning what it means to belong, to a place, to a memory, and to the spaces in between.
Moksha Laxmi
Moksha Laxmi, PhD, is a postdoctoral researcher at the Scheie Eye Institute, University of Pennsylvania, where she studies the genetic basis of glaucoma and eye disorders. Originally from India, she now juggles life in the lab with the joyful chaos of raising twin toddlers. When she’s not decoding genes or negotiating nap times, she enjoys cooking up creative recipes and creating decorative arts.
16 Comments
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Sukhman
Heart touching writing.
Felt every single line of it. Lots of love… -
Ritobrita Chakraborty
Heartwarming and nostalgic. Very beautifully written.
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SOUMYAKANTA MISHRA
What a moving piece—thank you for sharing these layered memories of Kashmir through your mother’s lens and Philly through yours. Reading it, I felt an ache I know all too well, and my heart goes out especially to her, carrying that silent weight of forced exile.
Your mother’s story hits hardest: leaving everything behind in the chaos of the exodus, rebuilding amid marriage and motherhood, with no space to mourn. The chinar trees, orchards, snowy streets—they live in her now only through Philly’s echoes, fragile threads of what was stolen. And you, bridging her pain with your chosen move, yet feeling its shadow. Aunty, me or You all of us are just uprooted trees, roots severed but branches reaching for light of our hometown.
I feel it too. After 33 years in New Delhi—my childhood home, school, college, those vibrant playgrounds and lush parks like Lodhi Garden and all those nearby my house—I uprooted to Bhubaneswar five years ago. The longing hits in waves: friends’ laughter, my old sarkari quarter smell and vibes of that society, the chaotic energy I called home. BBSR is steady, but it lacks Delhi’s soul-stirring joy. I yearn to return, just to breathe those good feelings again even of the air is not breathable anymore. Sometimes (more often) after an evening nap i woke up breathing heavily and that impinging pain of not being there in Delhi and enjoying the evening with my friends. Yet your mother’s uprooting feels deeper, irreversible—like mine, but amplified by loss and survival, which nobody can’t return her or pacify that longing.
We carry these homes in fragments: a snowfall, a leaf, a flavor. Empathy for her (and you) swells in me—we’re all replanting, hoping to bloom. Wishing you both moments of full belonging and fingers crossed 🤞🏻 for everyone of us. -
Arun Yadav
This was beautifully written. The way you connected memory, migration, identity and belonging across generations is deeply moving.
“Kashmir through her lens, Philly through mine” is such a powerful expression of how home continues to live within us even across distance and silence. Wishing you strength, warmth and peace on both your journeys. 🤍 -
Kanuj
Really good!
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Aparna Kaul
Thank you for this article. Living in the UK feels the same way, and means nostalgia for my parents, sending them pictures of daffodils, pansies tulips, maple and navsheen that reminds them of back home. I recently visited Kashmir in spring time and now can see why my garden flowers and home here in UK made of old bricks and wood looks so much like home to them.
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Nitin Bhat
Beautifully captures emotions and cherished memories
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Revathy N
So much of life in ur heartfelt words…i liked it 💐💐
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Mithra karthikeyan
Amazing and emotional lines that I can connect with my mom as well. Happy Mother’s Day.
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Jhanvi Bhat
Aap bahot accha likhte ho❤️ beautiful 😍
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Jayachandran Nair .C .V.
Touching .. deep into the souls🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽
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Suchita Jhingan
👍💕Beautifully written.
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Sunetra Sase
This is penned so well! Congratulations! You will be great Science communicator
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Mithalesh Singh
Nostalgic and beautifully heartfelt! The most striking aspect of your piece is the way you weave together the emotional experiences of leaving home one by choice and the other shaped by circumstances. As a researcher, your ability to connect two contrasting yet deeply human emotions is truly amazing . Your story reminds us that home is not simply a place, but a feeling that stays with us forever. That sense of home quietly returns whenever we step into unfamiliar experiences or new phases of life. Your story strongly echoes the words of Zakir Khan: “Leaving home leaves a scar on the heart that remains forever, and its echo continues to reverberate within us.”
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Rashi Aga
how beautifully articulated
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Emotional piece, She has lived a tragedy which we all just read in newspapers.