The Painful Price of Green Almonds

Back in my childhood, when I was around five or six years old, we had an almond tree. Perhaps it was in its first or second fruit-bearing season. That dead tree, which would eventually crumble to ashes over the next three or four years, dissolving into the soil of our kitchen garden, left a lasting imprint on my life.

Unlike most, I’ve always felt detached from my relatives. My approach to relatives has always been more professional than affectionate. Relationships should be about emotional support, not cold logic. Even the little dramas, the needless sulks, and the making up that follows add colour to the bonds we share. But for me, those bonds were tainted early on.

That almond tree shattered my trust. It showed me the darker side of kinship. Whenever someone speaks of relatives, especially cousins, the image of that almond tree and the face of my cousin, with his ferociousness, comes up on the canvas of my memories and haunts me.

It was early summer, and spring always arrived late in my far-off village in Kulgam, lagging behind Pampore’s saffron fields by a good fifteen to twenty days. Our almond tree had just a handful of delicious, green, shell-less almonds. Anyone who’s tasted them —kids, adults, and the elderly alike— knows just how heavenly they are!

Anyway, some unknown fan of those green almonds decided to steal a few, leaving a delicate twig broken. I was clueless about the theft, but my cousin, who was inspecting the tree, found out.

He is around my father’s age (may Allah preserve my father and him as well), 30-35 years my senior. Before you judge him, know that we share an inherited anger that’s out of our control, and he’s the prime example of it.

So, when I saw him near the tree, I hurried toward him, either to hug him or to ask for an almond — I can’t recall which. But what I do remember is the heartbreak that followed. And I feel sorry for that little version of myself, stuttering with love, unaware of what he was about to face.

My cousin stood there, one arm supporting an axe or a Kashmiri hoe, the other gripping the broken twig. As I approached, and called out to him with love, he turned to me and levelled a stern gaze at me.

He asked sharply, “Why did you pick the almonds?”
I trembled, barely audible. “No, I didn’t.”
“You did,” he said, pointing at the broken twig.
“But I can’t reach up there,” I argued, the twig out of my grasp, twice my height above the ground.
“It was you,” he insisted, unyielding.

Until that moment, I had never realised how powerless the truth could be. I was shocked, having never encountered such disbelief before.

Then, in a moment that still chills me, he raised the tool —an axe or a hoe— and swung it at me. He missed, Alhamdulillah. But the fear surged through me. I quickly ran away! He chased me for a few steps, and I know he could have caught me if he wanted to.

I can’t say why he stopped. But, this incident stayed with me. Although I still greet and chat with him, the memory of that day never fades. It was the first time I realised how gross, cruel, and harsh someone close could be.

Since then, I’ve faced countless slaps from teachers for skipping classes, playground scuffles with friends, stern parental talks to build me up and hurtful words from classmates. But nothing has affected me as much as that moment by the almond tree. It broke my belief in close bonds and made me sceptical of building new friendships.