A Stranger's Lesson In Srinagar

By Nusrat Hassan

I remember that morning as if it were yesterday. The house buzzed with festive sounds. Plates clinked, pans sizzled, and the smell of saffron rice mixed with fresh bread.

I had dressed carefully, or maybe too carefully: silk that caught the light, gold earrings heavy enough to swing, a handbag that announced itself even before I said a word. I felt ready to be admired, to belong.

Then I saw her.

She stood at the edge of the hall, her mother beside her, wrapped in a simple shawl that made her almost invisible against the crowd. Something about her made me walk over, as if I had known her all my life.“Why aren't you taking pictures with the bride?” I asked.

Her smile was calm and gentle.“People are valued for their clothes,” she said. Her voice was soft, yet it carried a kind of certainty I couldn't ignore.“We have none of this: no fine dresses, no jewelry, no courage to sit with people like these. We are recognized only by what we wear.”

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