Kashmiris Don't Talk About Divorce. But Yawar Lives It Every Day.

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational Photo

By Syed Majid Gilani

Nahid wasn't always like this.

Yawar remembers the early days. How she'd laugh at his jokes, hold his hand when they crossed the street, text him sweet nothings even if he was just in the next room. She used to be warm, light-hearted, easy to be around. He thought they'd grow old together. That's how it usually begins, doesn't it?

“She changed slowly,” he says, his voice low, like he's afraid to disturb something.“Like winter coming in one quiet morning.”

It didn't happen overnight. But one day, she stopped sharing meals with him. Then she stopped smiling when he walked into the room. She started answering calls in the middle of their dinners, conversations stretching late into the night. He thought it would pass. It didn't.

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And then came the words that always signal the beginning of the end:“I need space.”

Yawar isn't perfect. But those who know him describe him as steady. A man who works hard, shows up, and doesn't look elsewhere. He bought Nahid a car when she asked. He paid for her classes. Took her on trips.“He never even raised his voice,” a neighbour once said.“All he wanted was for her to be happy.”

But happiness, it seems, meant something different to Nahid. Something noisier. Something shaped by YouTube vlogs and influencer captions. Her social media was a world Yawar never got to see. For years, she kept him blocked. He thought she wasn't online. She was. Just not with him.

“She said she didn't like social media,” Yawar says.“I believed her.”

One afternoon, a colleague showed him Nahid's Instagram. There she was-smiling, dressed up, posing with filters and quotes about“self-love” and“independence.” It didn't feel like her. Or maybe, he thinks now, it was her all along, and he had been in love with the version she left at home.

What tore him up most was not the photos or the captions. It was knowing she'd chosen to share her life with strangers and kept him in the dark.“I was never even in a single post,” he says.

Her parents never liked Yawar much.“They thought I wasn't modern enough,” he says, shrugging.“They said I was holding her back.”

It started small. Complaints about his family visiting too often, or how he didn't take her side enough. But soon, Nahid didn't want his parents around at all.“She said they made her uncomfortable.”

He tried to compromise. But the more he gave, the more she took. One day she said,“Either they go, or I do.” He hesitated. She packed her bags.

“She told the court I was controlling,” he says.“That I didn't let her go out, didn't let her dress how she wanted.” He looks at the floor when he says it.“I only ever asked her to remember we're a family. That was my mistake.”

It's been two years now. The cases are still ongoing. Maintenance petitions, custody hearings, protection orders. Yawar shows up, silent and tired. Nahid often arrives with heavy makeup and cold eyes. They don't speak.

She still accepts the money he sends. For the children. For her.“I never stopped sending it,” he says.“Even when she filed false cases. Even when she lied.”

Nahid now lives with her parents again. But things aren't easy.“Her sisters visit with their husbands,” a relative says.“She does the cooking, the serving. No one wants to be around her too long.” The rooms that once welcomed her now feel tight. Her siblings have moved on. Their lives full. Hers paused.

“She thought the world would cheer her on forever,” Yawar says.“But they just moved on. Social media attention doesn't pay rent.”

The children are caught in the wreckage. Their drawings now have two houses, not one. Their birthdays are divided. The little one once asked,“Why can't we all just sit together again?” No one had an answer.

Nahid wanted a life of her own. And she got it. But she also got silence. She scrolls through messages, posts carefully curated selfies, replies with hearts and smileys. But when her phone dies at night, she sleeps alone. Not just in her bed, but in her heart.

People often ask Yawar why he still cares. He doesn't have a clear answer. Maybe love doesn't vanish like that. Maybe it lingers in old photos, old recipes, the smell of her favourite shampoo on the pillow she left behind.

“She had everything,” he says, still stunned by the loss.“I would've given her anything. All I wanted was her.”

Sometimes, he wonders if she'll ever come back. He doesn't hope. But he wonders.

And Nahid? She posts new photos. Quotes about strength and surviving storms. And yet, those closest to her say she cries often, late at night, quietly, when no one is looking.

Because being right doesn't always mean being happy. And freedom, if chosen the wrong way, can taste a lot like loneliness.

• The author is a government employee and writes about human relations. He can be reached at [email protected]

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