A Potrait Of A Kashmiri Mother

By Zahoor Mehdi

I felt the strength of my mother's hands long before I understood what they taught me.

In our small home in Kashmir, she filled every corner with a presence as bright as the sunlight over the hills outside. Her lap was my first classroom, her voice the first guide I learned to follow.

Everything she said and did shaped the person I was becoming.

She taught me to speak with care, to fill my words with respect and warmth. The first prayers I learned were hers. Her voice guided me through syllables I could barely pronounce, shaping my understanding of gratitude and devotion.

Mistakes were met with gentle correction, turning early failures into lessons in humility and humaneness.

I carry those moments with me still, like markers along a path I follow whenever uncertainty comes.

Her character was the real classroom. Patience unfolded in how she moved through the day, in how she faced life's hardships without complaint.

Kindness and strength were inseparable in her actions. She taught me that honesty carries weight, that compassion is measured in deeds, and that hard work is an unspoken responsibility.

These were not abstract concepts. I learned them by watching her face the ordinary and the extraordinary with equal grace.

I have felt the force of her prayers throughout my life. Behind achievements and small moments of ease, I have sensed their power, opening doors and lighting paths I could not see on my own.

She taught me to honour others, make life easier where I could, and approach each situation with gratitude.

These lessons have guided my relationships, work, and the choices I make every day.

MENAFN12122025000215011059ID1110470910