Do I need to wait for Mother’s Day or Women’s Day to pay tribute to ” Mouj” of the world’s most militarized zone. She has facilitated the men’s fight. Mothers bereft of their loved ones stand in solidarity with hands outstretched to embrace the godforsaken . Every dawn is as challenging as the setting sun .
I salute the kashmiri mothers who await their sons’ return till their last breath and silently expresses their anguish and agony in the Pratap park every year. Most await battling life, seeking graves and camps . Your eternal search ultimately comes to an end with your last breath when you accompanying your disappeared son in paradise . You are courageous , Mouja.
I salute the mothers whose blossoms wither before they bloom. You send your daughters as brides and embrace them back as a widow or half widow. Most share the same white scarf for the rest of their life. Once they shared giggles under the warm sun , now tears away from the crowd.
I salute the mother who bids her son as a groom and sings martyrs song as a marriage song lest they are not forgotten at such special moments. She pays respect to Saida of Aloosa , who awaited her three sons’ return and finally joined them in heaven . Faitma or Saida of Aloosa , both were mothers who never saw the spring of their life .
I shall not forget the mothers putting henna on the cold fingers of their dead sons . They bid them adieu as grooms to heaven. Dream of his marriage shattered on this earthly life will never let us fathom the depths of her unseen wounds.
She sheds no tears and declares his martyrdom. No regrets.
They take pride to celebrate the birth and death both in their lifetime.
I bow to you, Mouja.
How can I forget the mother who was offering milk to her son in the shroud . She was lifted along him on his last journey. This rare moment of last love poured on the son by a mother was captured by cameras and we remained mute spectators.
I bow my head in respect to the mothers of Dardpora and Kunan poshpora.They have faced the brunt of armed conflict . Be it the three sisters ,Ruquaiya , Zarifa or Shamima .They are hollowed by pain and hunted by solitude.
Mothers who have nursed their neighbour’s orphaned babies along their own, have fed two lives at a time. Today she’s mother of twins ,blessed to gift a life to the lost paradise . Indeed Universal mother. Though your own life is incomplete preface with incoherent words.
Mothers of Kashmir, you are undoubtedly the best creation . How do you hold your scattered and battered world in your bosom. Your tear soaked pillows are the graves of your dreams.
The speckles of life is locked in the tiny booties and toys , kept in the trunk in the corner of your room.
The blank walls are your companions at night. The album of your life is painted on them .
I neither have the heart nor the courage to share this album of yours .
Your rugged life line is reflection of perseverance and persistence .
Your dark clouds never showed the silver lining.
You are the living inspiration , measurably immeasurable.
Mouja, I hold you in reverence above all.
Please follow and like us: