Every morning before I leave home for work, my Mouj (mother) performs a small ritual that carries the weight of a lifetime of love.
She hovers a fistful of rice over my head, feeds it to the birds, and before I step out, she softly says: “Zuv Wanday, Araam saan aes zi pakaan” — may I be sacrificed for you, travel safely.
Perhaps every Kashmiri home carries its own version of this prayer. The words may differ, but the emotion remains the same: a mother placing her child’s safety above everything, even herself.
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And that is what Mouj has always done.She eats last after feeding everyone else. She hides her illnesses so the family does not worry. She continues working even when exhausted. When children suffer the smallest pain, mothers feel it more deeply than we ever can. They sacrifice silently without asking for acknowledgment, applause or credit.
Yet the painful truth is this: many mothers who spend their entire lives building families often receive the least emotional care when they grow old.
Today, social media timelines are flooded with “Happy Mother’s Day” posts, photographs, captions and emotional statuses. But once those stories disappear after 24 hours, how many of us truly practice the love and respect we publicly display?
Because motherhood cannot be repaid through a status update.
A mother does not need expensive gifts as much as she needs dignity inside her own home. She needs respect in conversations. She needs time, care and emotional presence. She needs children who still sit beside her after marriage, who still ask whether she has eaten, who still make her feel important and loved instead of abandoned in silence.
No mother who sacrificed her youth, sleep, health and happiness for her children deserves to spend old age feeling unwanted, isolated or emotionally neglected.
Children grow older, yet mothers continue worrying with the same intensity they did when we first learned to walk.
That is the strange permanence of motherhood: children outgrow dependence, but mothers never outgrow concern.
In Kashmir, motherhood carries another emotional weight — uncertainty.
For decades, mothers here have lived with anxieties shaped by conflict, harsh winters, unemployment, migration and fragile circumstances. Many spent years waiting for their sons to return home safely at night. Many watched their children leave the Valley in search of education and work. Many silently carried families through grief and instability without allowing homes to collapse emotionally.
Yet despite everything, Kashmiri mothers remained the emotional spine of households.They preserved routines when life felt uncertain. They kept families together around shared meals. They continued praying even when answers never arrived.
And perhaps that is why Mother’s Day in Kashmir feels different from social media celebrations and greeting cards. Here, motherhood is less about one day and more about thousands of unnoticed acts repeated quietly across decades.
It lives in sleepless nights spent beside us when we are sick. In sacrifices children often realize far too late.As children, we rarely notice these details. Mothers become part of the background rhythm of our lives. Then one day adulthood arrives quietly, and we begin understanding things differently. We notice how tired their eyes look.
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How often they sacrificed their own needs so ours could be fulfilled.
Our mothers do not need our money nearly as much as they need our affection.
They need us to listen patiently. To sit beside them without constantly rushing elsewhere. To value them while they are still here.
Because one day, the voice that prayed for our safety every morning will fall silent. And no Mother’s Day post in the world will ever fill that emptiness.
Perhaps the greatest tribute to Mouj is not celebrating her for one day, but respecting her every single day she is alive.
Before leaving home tomorrow, listen carefully if your Mouj calls out behind you.
Sometimes love sounds like a simple Kashmiri prayer whispered at the doorway.
