Why This Kashmiri Girl Regularly Complains To A Saint About Her Family

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
KO file photo

By Fiza Masoodi

It was just after noon when I stepped into the shrine. The scent of rosewater and the faint rustle of prayer threads filled the air. People came and went with folded hands and hurried footsteps. She was sitting by the carved window, her dupatta slipping, eyes closed, lips moving soundlessly.

At first, I thought she was praying. But then I noticed: she was whispering, as if speaking to someone just out of sight.

That's how I met Naina.

We didn't speak right away. I sat near her and waited. A minute passed. Then another. She opened her eyes and glanced sideways.

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“Do you believe in saints?” she asked.

I said, sometimes.

She gave a dry laugh.“I come here to complain. Not to worship.”

And slowly, like someone turning the pages of a half-burned diary, she began to tell me her story.

What are you complaining about?

“My parents,” she said, without blinking.“I come here and I tell the saint everything. How they hurt me. How they failed me. How they made me a prisoner in my own home.”

She paused, tugged at the corner of her sleeve.

“I was born out of love. Can you believe that?” she asked.“They fought for each other. Broke ties. Ran away. Everyone said it was the greatest love story. And then I arrived. The story ended.”

What changed?

“They changed,” she said quietly.“After I was born, it was like I was a reminder of something they regretted. My mother was always angry. She took it out on me. Her voice, her hands, her silence-it was all punishment. My father... he just stopped looking at me. I was in the way. An interruption.”

She blinked slowly, like each memory required effort.

“Every morning began with a fight. Not with me, but around me. Plates would break. Doors would slam. I'd hide under the table or pretend to be asleep. But I heard everything. Children always do.”

Did you try to talk to them about it?

“Once. I was maybe eight. I asked my mother why she shouts so much. She said it's because I don't behave. I stopped asking after that.”

She shifted her weight and looked out the window for a long moment.

What was your childhood like?

“I missed most of it. I couldn't go to school regularly. My mother would stop me if there had been a fight the night before. She'd say I don't deserve to go out. Or she'd lock me in. I didn't have friends. There was no birthday, no Eid, nothing. I remember watching other kids from the window. I thought maybe if I prayed harder, I'd become someone else.”

Did things ever improve?

She shook her head.“They only got worse. When I turned fifteen, they started controlling everything I did. My clothes. My phone. My tone of voice. I was either too loud or too quiet. Too shy or too rude. They wrote rules every day and I broke them by existing.”

Her voice didn't shake. It was flat. Practiced.

“I started cutting class. Not to hang out, but just to breathe. To sit near the river or under a tree. To remind myself I'm still a person.”

And now?

“Now I'm twenty-three. My youth is gone. My studies are scattered. I never learned how to live in the world. But somehow, they think I owe them everything. My father took a loan last year and my mother says it's my duty to 'help the family.' They see me as a way to earn money now. They want me to take a call-center job, send them the salary. If I say no, they say I'm ungrateful.”

She looked at her palms.

“They don't ask if I'm okay. They don't even see me. Just my income.”

What do you want from life, Naina?

“I want peace. Not the kind you find after a storm. The kind where nothing needs fixing. I want to learn again. Maybe finish studies. Or write something. I think about writing a lot.”

She turned to me then, eyes softer.

“Mostly, I just want to feel like I was meant to be born. That I wasn't some mistake they made out of passion and paid for with anger.”

We sat in silence again. The wind outside rustled the trees. A thread of prayer fluttered on the saint's tomb.

What do you whisper to the saint?

She smiled faintly.“I tell him I'm trying. I tell him I want to forgive them, but I don't know how. I tell him I'm tired. And I ask him, if there's still time left, can he help me find a life that feels like mine.”

• The author is a Srinagar-based scribe. She's making her literary debut this summer.

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