Every Kashmiri kid grows up with two homes. One is where parents teach discipline. The other is where maternal grandparents (nana-nani) quietly undo all that hard work. That magical place is called matamaal.The moment those words were said, tomorrow we’re going to matamaal, summer officially started. School could still have one more day left, homework could still be unfinished, but in a child’s heart, the holidays had already begun.

Even the trip there felt like part of the fun. Bags were packed the night before. Mothers carried enough food to feed half the bus. Fathers checked the luggage three times. And kids checked only one thing, whether they’d get there before the cousins.Then came that familiar sight, a wooden gate, an old courtyard, a walnut tree standing there like a patient grandfather, and from the doorway, nani smiling like she had been waiting for this exact moment all year.There are five-star hotels all over the world, but none of them has ever welcomed guests the way a Kashmiri nani welcomes her grandchildren. She never asked, How was the journey? She asked the real question, Have you eaten?

The funny thing was, the answer never really mattered. Whether you had eaten five minutes ago or five hours ago, another meal was already on the way. Nani truly believed that every illness, every sadness, every argument, and every bad mood could be fixed with one more roti, another cup of noon chai, a spoonful of homemade butter, suttu, or makai-waet. Doctors prescribe medicines. Grandmothers prescribe second helpings (anything to eat).Before 1990, matamaal wasn’t just a place. It was its own little world, where time moved differently. Morning came with roosters instead of phone alarms. Breakfast wasn’t rushed because nobody had tuition classes or online meetings. Cousins would disappear into orchards after sunrise and come back only when someone shouted their names loud enough for the whole village to hear. Walnut trees weren’t just part of the........

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