Peerzada Abdal Mehjoor
In the heart of Kashmir, where mountains cradle secrets and rivers murmur age-old lullabies, love stories are not merely tales—they are traditions, etched into the soul of the valley like timeless poetry. Among these immortal romances, there exists one that belongs to my blood, my lineage, my soul—a story of two hearts entwined long before I ever came to be. The story of my parents—Mohammad Amin Ibn Mahjoor, son of the celebrated Shayir-e-Kashmir Mahjoor, and Nadira Begum, a woman of grace, resilience, and unwavering love.
One photograph. That’s all it takes sometimes to pause the rush of life, to take a quiet breath and step into the past. Captured around 1931, the image of my parents in their youth is nothing less than a canvas of love—brushed with the hues of innocence, the strokes of dreams, and the golden frame of time. It stands not only as a family heirloom but as a silent witness to a love that bloomed amidst the chinars, beneath a sky untouched by modern chaos.
In this photograph, my father and mother appear not just as a couple but as kindred spirits—laughing eyes, relaxed shoulders, subtle smiles. My father, Mohammad Amin, with the poetic depth inherited from his illustrious father, carried the elegance of a thinker and the charm of a dreamer. And my mother, Nadira Begum, radiant and composed, reflected the dignity of Kashmiri womanhood, draped in tradition but brimming with quiet rebellion—the kind only love can inspire.
Looking into their eyes in that photo, I see more than youth—I see faith. Faith in each other. Faith in life. Faith in the journey ahead, no matter how uncertain. It was a time when communication meant waiting for letters scented with longing, when a walk by the river was more precious than any luxury, and when love was spoken in glances, not texts.
Their story, like the best Kashmiri tales, wasn’t grandiose in the way history books demand. It didn’t involve palaces or revolutions. But it had something rarer—it had depth. Love was not loud; it was layered. There were hardships, undoubtedly. The political landscape of Kashmir was shifting, the identity of its people being rewritten. But in their small world, carved out between a poet’s legacy and a woman’s strength, my parents built a universe where love was home.
They were each other’s refuge. When the world outside grew too heavy, they returned to laughter, to shared cups of noon chai, to poetry recited not for applause but for understanding. My father, inspired by his father Mahjoor’s verses, often wrote for her. And my mother, who may not have penned stanzas, answered him with silence that spoke volumes. Together, they created a language only they understood.
This photograph, taken during the early years of their marriage, serves not only as a glimpse into their blooming affection but as a lesson. It reminds us that love doesn’t begin when life is perfect. It begins when two imperfect lives decide to walk forward together—hand in hand—through every season.
What is especially haunting and beautiful is how that era celebrated youth not as a reckless phase but as a sacred chapter. Their smiles were not filtered or posed—they were real. No cameras caught a hundred takes. No edits were made. The joy was genuine, captured in a single frame for eternity.
We live in a world now where love often struggles to survive the noise. Relationships bend under the weight of ego, time, and the tyranny of choices. Yet when I look at this photograph, I am reminded that once upon a time, love was simpler—yet stronger. It was about presence, not presents. It was about writing your beloved into your poetry, not just your phone’s contact list.
As a child of that legacy, I carry both pride and responsibility. Pride in knowing my roots are nourished by love that was patient, kind, and enduring. And responsibility—to pass it on, to remember it not just in anniversaries or framed photos, but in daily acts of affection and respect.
To those who still have the elders of their families with them—capture their stories. Listen to them. Ask about their beginnings, their first meetings, the hesitations, the confessions, the laughter that sealed their bond. Because one day, these stories will be all that remain—and what beautiful memories they will make.
So here, in the valleys where time moves slowly and memories linger like mist, I pay homage to Mohammad Amin Ibn Mahjoor and Nadira Begum. Their love was not loud, but it was lasting. Not flamboyant, but foundational. A love that now flows in my veins, whispers in my dreams, and lives forever in the gaze captured by that 1931 photograph.
In the garden of youth, where flowers once bloomed under shy glances and shared silences, my parents found each other—and in doing so, gifted me a love story for the ages.
Peerzada Abdal Mehjootr is a seasoned broadcast writer known for his compelling storytelling and deep understanding of media narratives. With a strong command over language and a passion for cultural and social themes, he has contributed significantly to both radio and television scripts, infusing each piece with authenticity and emotional resonance. His work reflects the voice of the people and the pulse of the times, often rooted in the ethos of Kashmir and broader societal concerns. Peerzada Abdal continues to bridge traditional values with modern journalism, carving a distinct space in the world of broadcast writings
