Opinion | For My Mother

Dear Mumma,

I have never really had the chance to talk to you the way daughters often talk to their mothers, with openness and ease. Partly because I have always struggled to put my feelings into words, and mostly because I never felt the need. I was young, foolish, and often angry at everything and everyone for reasons I did not understand myself.

I don’t remember much of my childhood. Whenever I try to recall it, it feels like a distant memory, wrapped in a kind of dark fog. But there are moments that remain vivid. I remember leaving for school when I was in LKG, and you insisting that I drink chocolate milk because you knew I loved it. I remember how much I adored the thick layer of malai on milk, I didn’t know what it was called, so I used to call it “gudd.” You would carefully store it in a cup for me so I could add it to my noon chai.

I remember the first time I hurt my hand, it was bleeding badly, and I was too scared to tell you, the way children often are. But the moment you saw it, you rushed me to the hospital. It was late evening, but none of that mattered to you. All that mattered was that I got proper treatment.

I remember how shy and awkward I used to be. At the dinner table, you would loudly say, “Please check on her and see if she has eaten, she won’t ask even if she’s hungry.” You were one of the first people in my life who truly understood me.

Ever since I began to understand the world, I have only seen you work, constantly, endlessly. You would wake up before everyone else and begin the household chores. Somewhere along the way, I started waking up early too, trying to help you, even if just a little. Without realizing it, I formed a bond with you that I still cannot fully describe. I became your kitchen partner. I never liked cooking or cleaning, but I did it because I wanted to ease your burden. I don’t know if I ever succeeded, but in the process, my respect for you only deepened.

I know how difficult it must have been to raise five daughters, five girls, each rebellious in her own way. I know what it did to you when people pitied you for not having a son. I know what it meant to raise strong, opinionated daughters in a village where women are rarely allowed to be rebellious. And no matter how much we deny it, I know that our rebellion comes from you.

We are opinionated because we have seen you speak your mind without apology. We are independent because we have seen you make decisions for us without fear. It may be easier for us, we are modern women, educated, exposed to the world, but you… you never even had the chance to go to school. Yet you remain one of the smartest and most capable women I have ever known.

I remember when there was construction work going on at home. The workers would watch you give instructions, amazed at your authority. One of them once told me, “Your mother is one of the smartest women I’ve ever seen. If she had been educated, she would have been somewhere else in life.” I understand now why he said that. In a place where men are expected to lead and decide, you carried a presence that made people listen.

When I came to Delhi, I realized how much you had always taken care of everything. I never had to worry about what to wear, you bought our clothes until I was in college. You took us to doctors, you handled everything. Papa was there too, of course, but without you, I don’t know what would have become of us.

I remember how happy you would get whenever my articles were published. You would proudly tell everyone about them, asking my sisters to translate and explain what I had written. You would ask me to record my speeches and then proudly put them on your status. In a place where girls are often raised only to become wives and mothers, you encouraged your daughters to be thinkers, writers, speakers, to become more than what the world expected of them.

I know we have had our differences, and we still do. We argue, we disagree. But not even in my wildest imagination can I ever hate you. I only feel the deepest respect for everything you have endured for us, for every hardship you faced so that your daughters could have a better future.

You work day and night. Sometimes you complain, and you have every right to. Yet if even one of us is upset and refuses to eat, you are the one who worries the most. You quietly ask one of us to go and convince the other to eat. That is the kind of love you carry, silent, constant, and selfless.

I remember waking up just after you to help with breakfast. So many mornings of my life were just you, me, and Papa, talking about how life had been unkind to you. I know how much you have suffered. And even when you are harsh with us sometimes, I remind myself that you have carried so much bitterness in your life that I don’t mind taking a little of it, if it gives you even a moment of relief.

You may not understand feminism or the language of equality, but you have lived it in your own way. You were brave enough to send your daughter to Delhi. You supported her dreams, even when she spoke of going abroad. You may not know the world beyond Kashmir, and I know it worries you that I am here, but you have never once stopped believing in me. You have never told me I couldn’t become who I want to be. And for me, that is all the feminism one needs to understand.

Do you know why I work so hard? Do you know what my dreams are? I don’t want to achieve greatness just to earn respect or recognition. I want to give you the life you deserved but never had. I want you and Papa to experience the happiness that the world once denied you. Until I do that, I don’t think my life will ever feel complete.

I am writing this to remind you that I love you, even though I have never said it out loud. I love you with all my heart. I carry a part of you with me wherever I go. People say I resemble you, and maybe that is true, because I know I carry your strength within me too.

I just hope life is kinder to you from now on. I hope you finally get to see the gentle, beautiful side of the world. I hope you receive everything you ha

ve ever been denied.

Yours truly,

Ennu

shafiyawani33@gmail.com