Peerzada Masarat Shah
Hiba has been married for eight years. Her husband is respectful. The house is peaceful. There are no loud arguments. No broken dishes. No dramatic scenes.
But there is silence. And in that silence, she is slowly disappearing.
Her husband rarely reaches for her hand. When he does show closeness, it feels like a task being completed. Something to get through. Not something to share. After it passes, the distance returns. Sometimes bigger than before.
She waited. She gave it time. She told herself it was stress from work. She told herself it would pass. Months went. Then years went.
She tried talking softly. She tried explaining her feelings with great patience. When that did not work, she let the hurt show. Still nothing shifted. Her husband once visited a doctor. That gave her hope. He never went back.
Now she sits with a question that keeps her awake at night.
Why marry me if this part of us was never going to exist?
Hiba is not alone. She is one voice among thousands who carry this exact weight in silence. They do not speak about it because the world does not give them language for it. Society tells them a home without violence is a good home. A husband who does not shout is a good husband. Be grateful. Be patient.
But patience has a body. And that body gets tired.
The great Urdu poet Faiz Ahmad Faiz once wrote about longing that sits without a name. He understood that the deepest wounds are the ones no one can see. A marriage without intimacy is exactly that kind of wound. It bleeds quietly. For years. Sometimes for a lifetime.
Intimacy in marriage is not a reward for good behaviour. It is not extra. It is not a luxury for the lucky. It is a right. Islam recognised this fourteen centuries ago. The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said that a husband has responsibilities toward his wife and a wife has responsibilities toward her husband. Physical closeness is among those responsibilities. It was never left out of the conversation.
Yet today we leave it out constantly.
Consider another woman. Sana, thirty four years old, mother of two children. She told a close friend that she had not felt genuinely close to her husband in three years. She described it as living with a very polite stranger. Everything is handled. Nothing is felt. Her friend told her to count her blessings. She went home and cried alone.
Then there is Arif, a man in his early forties, who came to a counsellor last year. He said his wife had slowly withdrawn from him over several years. He did not know how to ask why. He had been raised to believe that a man does not express this kind of need. So he stayed quiet. She stayed quiet. They shared a roof and nothing else.
Both of them thought the problem was personal failure. Neither of them knew that what they were facing is one of the most common unspoken crises inside marriages today.
Mental health professionals across South Asia report that emotional and physical disconnection inside otherwise stable marriages is among the top concerns brought to therapy. Yet most couples arrive only after years of suffering. Shame keeps them away longer than the pain itself.
Dr Harish Shetty, a psychiatrist based in Mumbai, has spoken publicly about this. He said that Indian society has created a culture where couples can discuss property disputes openly but cannot discuss the emptiness of their own bedrooms. That silence causes long term psychological damage to both partners.
He is right. The research agrees with him. Studies consistently show that couples who report low physical intimacy also report higher rates of anxiety, depression, low self worth and loneliness. These are not small side effects. They shape entire lives.
So what does a person in Hiba’s position actually do?
The first thing is to stop having the same conversation in the same way. Repetition without change only builds walls higher. What is needed instead is one real conversation. Not during an argument. Not at the end of an exhausting day. A quiet moment. An honest moment. Not a complaint. A truth.
Tell him not just what is missing. Tell him what that absence does to you inside. The self doubt. The loneliness. The feeling that you are invisible. People often do not change because they do not truly understand what their silence is costing the person beside them.
If that conversation changes nothing, outside help is not weakness. It is wisdom. A counsellor, a therapist, a trusted elder, a respected scholar of the faith. Any of these can open doors that two exhausted people cannot open alone.
There is spiritual comfort available too. The Quran speaks directly to the hearts of those who feel their duas are going unheard. Allah says in Surah Al Baqarah that He is near. He hears. He responds. Hiba prays often now. She holds onto the dua of Musa, peace be upon him:
“Rabbi inni lima anzalta ilayya min khayrin faqeer.”
My Lord, I am in need of whatever good You send down to me.
And she prays for her marriage:
“Allahumma allif bayna quloobina.”
O Allah, bring our hearts together.
These words do not fix everything overnight. But they hold a person steady while they work toward something better.
One thing must be said clearly and without hesitation.
Patience is a virtue. But patience was never meant to mean the permanent erasure of your own needs. Your longing for closeness in your marriage is not a sin. It is not a weakness. It is not something to be ashamed of in front of Allah or in front of yourself.
The great scholar Ibn al Qayyim wrote that the heart which suppresses a legitimate need does not become purer. It becomes more wounded.
Your need is legitimate. Your marriage deserves to be whole. And you deserve to feel that wholeness.
A silent struggle is not a small one. The woman who weeps alone at midnight is not overreacting. The man who has forgotten what it feels like to be truly close to his spouse is not being dramatic.
They are both simply human. And they both deserve more than a life that only looks fine from the outside.
Speak. Seek help. Hold on to faith.
And know that naming the pain is already the first step toward healing it.
