The winter night was still. The only sound in their modest home was the slow crackling of firewood in the kangri. Aisha sat near the window, stitching an old pheran, her fingers moving slowly, almost mechanically. Mohammad sat across from her, eyes fixed on the dark night outside, lost in thought. A sudden gust of cold wind whistled through the cracks in the wooden frame. Aisha shivered slightly, then spoke—softly, but with a weariness that had long since become part of her voice.
Aisha: “Mohammad… have you heard anything? They said last month the regularization orders would be issued.” Mohammad didn’t turn to look at her. His fingers tightened slightly around the cup of nun chai he held. He took a sip, as if buying time, then whispered, almost to himself—Mohammad: “God knows better.” And Silence.It wasn’t the first time she had heard that answer. For 32 years, she had asked. For 32 years, he had replied the same way.
Aisha: “You’ve served the department since 1996. Every storm, every blackout, every accident… they called you. You never said no. Isn’t there any justice in this world?” Mohammad sighed. His face, once full of life, now bore the lines of labor, disappointment, and silent endurance. His eyes, dulled by years of waiting, stared into the flames.
Mohammad: “I was 20 when I got that adjustment order. That day, the whole village celebrated like it was Eid. Sweets were distributed, elders blessed me.We thought, in 7 years, I’d be permanent.”He paused, his voice trailing off into the memories.
30 Years Conversation Between Husband & Wife. A sound that had become the lullaby of unfulfilled dreams
Mohammad: “Now I’m 55. Five years to retirement… and still nothing. Just… files moving from one table to another.”Aisha stopped stitching, her eyes moist. She looked at him—not with anger, but with deep sorrow.
Aisha: “I remember the day we married. Baba said, ‘Mohammad is hardworking, he’ll soon become a permanent employee, he’ll rise, InshaAllah.’ I believed that. I believed you’d earn enough to give us a good life. That you’d rise through the grades. 30,000; 50,000 or maybe even a lakh a month by the time you retire.”Her voice broke.
Aisha: “But we’ve barely survived.”Mohammad’s hands shook slightly as he set down the cup. His voice, though low, was steady.
Mohammad: “Aisha, I’ve done all I could. Worked in snow, rain, storms… never missed a day. I went where they sent me, climbed poles, risked my life.”She looked at him, eyes searching for hope.
Aisha: “So what now, Mohammad? They’ve regularized others, younger ones, connections, bribes.What about you?”A long pause. Then, he smiled—a tired, faint smile that masked oceans of pain. Mohammad: “God knows better.”
Aisha turned away, wiping her eyes with the edge of her dupatta. She didn’t press him further. She knew there was nothing more to say. Later that night, as he lay down, coughing softly, Aisha adjusted the blanket around him.Aisha: “Will you go to the office tomorrow? Maybe ask again?”Mohammad looked up at the ceiling, eyes heavy with sleep and years of disappointment.
Mohammad: “Yes I’ll go. Who knows, maybe this time.”He smiled again and said “God knows better.” And with that, silence returned to the room, saved for the soft crackling of firewood—a sound that had become the lullaby of unfulfilled dreams.
(The author a freelancer is also teacher and a researcher based in Gowhar Pora Chadoora. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”)
Dr. Ashraf Zainabi
