The Dawn Of Fatherhood In Kashmir

By Dr Syed Eesar Mehdi

On 16 September 2025, Syed Mehdi Mosvi was born. The world shifted the moment he arrived. He is only two months old, and already time moves around him, shaped by his breath, his cries, and the twitch of his tiny fingers.

The philosophers speak of transformation, but none prepare a man for the depth of becoming.

Beyond books, fatherhood is discovered in the way a child's presence rearranges priorities, redefines courage, and renders ordinary moments profound.

I watch him lie on the blanket, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as though it is a cathedral, and I am reminded of Blake: to see a world in a grain of sand, a heaven in a wild flower.

He sees the world in ways I had almost forgotten.

The curl of his fingers, the blink of sunlight in his eyes, and the sigh that escapes him in sleep teach me how to notice, and be fully present.

Children arrive with wonder, untouched by routine or expectation. Adults lose this gift. The new born brings it back.

He brings it back as he rests his face on my chest. Our heartbeats meet, and that single touch carry the weight of the whole universe.

The tenderness that seizes a father at first touch is unlike any other feeling. It is not pride or fear, though both run alongside it. It is awe. Rumi wrote that we are born of love, and I understand now that love shapes both father and child.

The devotion that makes me tiptoe to his crib at night, the stillness that sweeps over me when he smiles in sleep, originates in a place older than thought.

In two months, Syed Mehdi has reshaped my understanding of time, presence, and what it means to live deliberately.

Evenings are for poetry. I read lines of Tagore, whose tenderness toward children seems boundless. I whisper Shakespeare, whose words remind me that wisdom is not possession but desire, the willingness to learn who a child is becoming.

Sometimes I hum lullabies woven from memories of my own childhood, stories told to me, and promises I hope to make. He cannot understand the words, but I imagine they settle in him like seeds, waiting for spring.

Children teach patience, attention, and stillness. I watch him stretch and yawn and learn to witness.

Morning light falls on his cheek and becomes more than illumination. It becomes a way of seeing, a means of noticing marvel. His tiny sighs and shifting limbs transform the room.

I live through him the questions I cannot answer: what is love, what is destiny, what does it mean to guide and to let go? Rilke advised living the questions. I live them now, through each breath of his.

I imagine him chasing shadows, laughing at birds, tasting the rain, learning that the world is both astonishing and unyielding. I hope he grows with courage that is gentle, curiosity that is fierce, and an understanding that love is a force instead of possession.

I hope he notices the extraordinary and the ordinary with equal reverence: in candlelight, in conversation, and in his own breathing.

Every day he teaches me to slow down, attend, and marvel. Time is no longer measured in hours or dates, but in gestures, in small discoveries, and in the light falling across his countenance.

Hopes for a child often accumulate like silent prayers. I hope he experiences a childhood unhurried and free. I hope he knows laughter before responsibility, wonder before duty, and light before burden.

I hope he grows into his name, his heritage, his aspirations, but not before he has tasted life through the softness of experience, through play, and curiosity unpressured by expectation.

The world will ask of him much. I hope he remains gentle while becoming strong.

Every father sees himself reflected in his child. In Syed Mehdi's eyes, I see beginnings of stories I cannot write, legacies I hope to leave, and a light that illuminates everything I thought I knew about life.

He is my dawn, the smallest light capable of filling the entire room. Gibran wrote that children are“Life's longing for itself.” Holding him feels like holding the pulse of that longing.

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