By Muskan Shafi Malik

As I hold the wedding card of my parents, dated October 26, 1998, I feel a strange stillness. It is hard to believe that twenty-seven years have passed between that autumn and this one.

Time has slipped by like the leaves that fall on Srinagar's chinars: steady, inevitable, and deeply beautiful.

To many, it might be just another anniversary, but for me, it means everything: patience, love, respect, endurance, and a partnership that stood against the noise of the world.

My parents' marriage was never about pomp or performance. It was built on simplicity, understanding, and silent support.

My mother, the cornerstone of our home, or as we call her in Kashmiri, braand kean, turned our house into a living soul. She gave it warmth, aroma, and meaning. My father, the backbone of our family, worked as a medical representative, a man in formal dress who laboured like a craftsman, turning sweat into comfort.

Together, they built not just a home, but a world.

Every civilization rests on families. A family begins with two people and grows into a garden when children are born.

In their story, I see a reflection of how societies thrive, through companionship, sacrifice, and faith.

My mother often tells me how her life changed in her early twenties, a sudden shift from books to responsibilities.

In the 1990s, a young woman in Kashmir faced the constant pressure of social judgment. The whispers of“lukh garich koor”, a stranger's daughter, carried both curiosity and prejudice.

But she handled it all with grace, becoming a mother of three and a symbol of strength.

My father, on the other hand, is a man of few words and infinite effort. For nearly three decades, he has woken before dawn when most of Kashmir is still asleep. His evenings end in prayer. He may not hold official titles, but his worth rests on honesty and hard work.

Their love has never been the one you find in poems. It is practical, steady, and sacred.

My father's life taught me that masculinity is about endurance, humility, and respect. He treats my mother with admiration.

Together, they remind me that equality in marriage isn't a Western concept. It is, in fact, a human truth, born from compassion and balance.

When I once asked my father what marriage means to him, he smiled and said,“Marriage is a union of two unknown souls written by fate. A great marriage is not when 'I' and 'She' become 'We,' but when they remain 'I' and 'She,' yet still grow into 'We' after years.”

My mother's answer was simpler.“When we got married, we were nothing,” she said,“but being together, we are everything now.”

Their words stay in me like a prayer. They remind me that a good marriage shapes not only the couple but the children who grow within that atmosphere. It teaches values that extend beyond walls: patience, empathy, and the art of listening.

In Islam, marriage is a divine bond, a source of sukoon, peace and companionship. The Quran says that Allah created pairs so they may find comfort in each other.

This union fosters ethical growth, social stability, and continuity of love through generations.

Psychology too confirms what faith teaches.

John Bowlby and Mary Ainsworth's attachment theory shows that when parents share a strong, respectful bond, their children develop trust, confidence, and empathy.

A nurturing home builds secure individuals. When that bond weakens, children often mirror the hostility they see, carrying emotional scars into adulthood.

These bonds can be tested in unique ways in Kashmir, where extended families often live together.

I have spoken to women who say they were told to remain silent“for the sake of family honour.” Many husbands, caught between parents and partners, struggle to balance loyalty and love.

This tension silently erodes relationships. What begins as a misunderstanding can grow into a lifetime of silence or, worse, abuse.

Breaking this cycle requires the courage to set boundaries, talk openly, and listen without judgment.

MENAFN26102025000215011059ID1110248914