The Kashmiri Grandmother Who Held Us Together

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational Photo

By Peerzada Mohsin Shafi

It happened four days before Eid ul Azha. The house was already carrying the scent of preparations, laughter here and there, the usual hopeful mess that comes before a festival. And then came the phone call.

My grandmother had passed away.

Even now, it feels strange to say it. She was the kind of person you thought would always be there. Sitting in her spot, calm, wrapped in a soft shawl, watching the world with eyes that had seen much more than they ever let on.

I grew up under the same roof as her. A joint family means shared meals, shared rooms, and sometimes, shared toothbrushes if you're unlucky. But it also means you get to live inside the warm circle of someone like her for years. My cousins and I were always around her, always orbiting that still, steady presence. She was never loud, never rushed. But when she spoke, we listened. Because when she spoke, it meant something.

Read Also Srinagar Resident Held For Posing As SSP CIK Kashmiris Don't Talk About Divorce. But Yawar Lives It Every Day.

She didn't believe in long lectures. She believed in small things. Like the way she'd make lunch during our school breaks: a chutney that tingled your tongue, hot rice mixed with mustard oil, served just right. I can still taste it if I close my eyes. Her food never tried to impress, but it always made you feel taken care of. It wasn't about spice or richness. It was about knowing what you needed and giving it with love.

The courtyard of our house used to echo with our shrieks after school. We'd tear around the place like wild things. Then she'd appear at the doorway with mock seriousness and say,“Yette maa tulev dumm!” Don't make so much noise.

We'd go quiet for all of two minutes. But she never scolded us, not really. If we fought, she'd step in and settle it with one sentence, sometimes with just a glance. She had that rare skill: bringing calm without force. It was as if peace followed her around.

My grandmother wasn't educated in the formal sense, but there was wisdom in her that no textbook could teach. She could read people. She knew when someone was lying, when someone was hurting, when someone needed to be left alone. She didn't meddle, but she watched. And if you asked her what to do, her answer was usually simple and true. She didn't talk much about the world, but she seemed to understand it better than most of us.

As time moved forward and our lives scattered into different homes, she remained the center. We'd keep coming back. For her food, yes, but also for the way sitting beside her made everything slow down. You'd walk in with a hundred things on your mind, and after a cup of tea near her, you'd leave lighter. She didn't ask many questions. She just listened.

That bundle of joy had no jealousy in her. None of that comparing or complaining you often hear in old age. If a neighbour's child got a job or topped a class, she'd smile and pray for them. Always. Her prayers were constant: soft, whispered, heartfelt. She'd often say,“May Allah make my grandchildren successful in this world and the next.” You could hear how real that hope was in her voice.

In her later years, her health began to slip. But she never let pain steal her grace. She fasted, she prayed, even when her body resisted. She once told my uncle she needed new glasses. Not to watch TV or read newspapers, but to read the Quran more clearly. That was the kind of devotion she had.

She looked forward to the hereafter. She spoke of it not with fear, but with longing.“When will I meet my Allah?” she would say, her eyes faraway.

I never knew how strong she was until I saw her fall silent in sickness and still radiate peace. She didn't leave us with regrets or unresolved words. She had said all she needed to, in a lifetime of care and prayer and kindness.

Her life wasn't loud. It was steady, like the pulse of a clock in a silent room. You only notice how much it held the space together once it stops.

This Eid, the house filled again, but her chair stayed empty. A pair of slippers near the bed that no one dares move. Her voice lingers in the walls, in the smells of food, in the pauses of our conversations. She is gone, yes. But she has not left.

There are people who change the world with their fame or power. And then there are people like her, who change the world inside a home. Who raise generations, hold families together, pray for us when we don't even know we need it. She lived for others, without asking for anything in return.

I miss her more than I can say. But I am also grateful beyond words that I got to be her grandson. That I got to live with her, learn from her, eat her food, hear her prayers, feel her hands on my head.

May Allah grant her the highest place in Jannah. She deserves that, and so much more.

• – The author is a research scholar and columnist from Anantnag.

MENAFN10062025000215011059ID1109657912