A Kashmiri Father's Love Survives Courts, Custody, And Time

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational photo

By Syed Majid Gilani

It was the night before Father's Day. Outside, the world was winding down. Shops had wrapped their last gift boxes, children had finished scribbling“I love you” in crayon, families were planning Sunday breakfasts.

I sat in my room, as I always do, staring at nothing. I don't expect cards or cake anymore. My children live far away. Not by choice. Not by distance. But by the invisible wall that courts and custody can't explain to a father's heart.

Their names are Arshad, Sarah, and Murshad. They live in my prayers now. Every morning I whisper them before I rise. Every night I say them before I sleep.

I haven't heard their voices in years, but I know them by heart. I carry them the way old men carry memories. Close to the chest, tucked between silence and breath.

Read Also The Silent Geometry of a Father's Love in Kashmir Why So Many Young Kashmiris Are Leaving and Not Looking Back

That night, something stirred. I must've dozed off after I offered my prayers. But the moment wasn't empty. I heard the door creak. Not loudly. Just enough to jolt me awake. Except I wasn't in my bed anymore. I was back in a time when love lived in my house.

Arshad was the first to walk in. He looked taller. His shoulders broader. But his eyes, they hadn't changed. Still soft. Still searching.

“Papa,” he said, and my heart dropped.

He sat beside me, holding my hand like it was something fragile.“I miss our walks. Remember how you woke me before Fajr, how we used to race the cold down Shalimar Road? You taught me to skip stones on Dal Lake. You let me steal bites from your corn cob when we sat by the boulevard. I still see you at Hazratbal, lifting me so I could kiss the sacred wall. I remember it all, Papa.”

I didn't speak. I couldn't. I just touched his face and let that moment sit quietly between us.

Then Sarah came in. My moon-faced girl. Her eyes were red from crying, but her voice, when it came, was soft as ever.“You called me your princess. You used to wait at the school gate. Remember those little pens and chocolates you'd bring? You said you'd teach me to drive when I turned eighteen. I haven't forgotten, Papa.”

She leaned on my shoulder and I kissed her head. I could still smell the baby shampoo she used to hate. I didn't ask questions. I just listened.

Murshad was last. My baby boy. He didn't say much. Just ran to me like he always did. Full speed, arms wide, no hesitation. He clung to me, buried his face in my chest and sobbed,“Why don't we live with you, Papa? I miss your stories. The ones about the Prophet and his companions. I miss sleeping next to you.”

I broke then. Fully. No father is built to hear that question.

I held all three of them, tighter than any dream has a right to allow. I told them I think of them every day. That I still have their toys, their drawings, their birthday cards. I told them I'm still fighting. That nothing in the world has made me give up. Not time. Not silence. Not court orders. Not grief.

“Be good,” I told them.“Be truthful. Be kind. Choose good friends. Walk with faith. Never forget who you are, and where you come from.”

Sarah squeezed my hand.“We haven't, Papa. We think of you every day. We know you still fight for us.”

We sat like that for what felt like forever. Laughing through tears. Remembering the small things. The way light flickered during power cuts. The made-up bedtime stories. The way my lap felt like a world they didn't want to outgrow.

And then, as dreams do, this one dimmed. Slowly, they faded. First the faces. Then the voices. All that remained was a whisper:“We love you, Papa.”

I woke with a pillow soaked in tears. The room was quiet again. But something had shifted.

Outside, morning had broken. The world was preparing Father's Day breakfast. Toasts were being buttered, shirts ironed, gifts unwrapped.

I sat by the window and whispered a prayer.“Ya Allah, keep them safe. Guide their hearts. Let them remember their Papa, and come home when the time is right.”

To every father out there who spends Father's Day in silence-waiting for a knock that doesn't come, checking old photos, replaying baby laughter in your head-I see you.

Your love hasn't gone unnoticed. It moves through time and walls. It lives in your prayers. It lives in theirs too. Even if you don't hear it.

Arshad, when your hand first found mine, I became a father. Sarah, your curiosity lit my soul. Murshad, your smile was my peace. If all I get this year is a dream, I'll take it.

Because in that dream, for one night, we were a family again.

And that's all a father really wants.

• Syed Majid Gilani is a government officer by profession and a writer by longing. He shares stories of family, faith, and the silences in between. He can be reached at [email protected]

MENAFN14062025000215011059ID1109674862