Srinagar, May 28 -- I had only gone to fetch milk. A short walk to the next village, nothing dramatic. I pushed open the gate to come back, and there it was: noise, laughter, that unmistakable joy that hangs in the air when children land at their maternal home.

The courtyard was alive. Cricket balls flew, scooters zipped, kids yelled over each other, stirring up clouds of dust. Watching them, something shifted in me. I didn't plan on remembering anything that day, but suddenly, I was gone-back to my own childhood, to my own nanihaal.

I used to ache to go there. My brothers and I all did. We'd wait for our turn like it was a sacred gift. "One at a time," our parents would say. "Each of you will get your turn." And when mine finally came,...