Falling in Love

Love is a divine feeling—like the covalent bond of an atom, unbreakable and essential. It is beauty, fulfillment, and an enchantment that lingers in the soul. Love is both strength and vulnerability, a force that fuels existence. It is hope, longing, and contentment all at once. Love is love simply because it is love. It transcends dimensions, a treasure meant to be embraced. It begets itself, cleansing the heart, soul, and mind, purifying thoughts and purpose. Like a mirror, it reflects what we offer—what we sow, we reap. It draws us closer to the Divine, making the angels rejoice in our love and sincerity.

Love soothes the mind and soul, even in the midst of distress. It connects us to our dreams, our conscience, our actions. It makes us tender-hearted, aware of the Lord’s might, His glory, and His absolute authority. Love grants us the vision to perceive both the conscious and the subconscious. It is the Kohinoor of life, a priceless gem that renders one eternal. Without love, expecting mothers would abandon their young, parents would forsake their children, and humanity would crumble. Love is the binding force, a noor from the Divine, a spark embedded within all living things. It is the catalyst that carries out the Lord’s order, sustaining the rhythm of existence.

But today, the love I wish to speak of is not about human relationships—it is about my 9-by-13 cubicle, my hammam, my sanctuary. Nearly three decades ago, a tragic accident left me physically challenged. Since then, this room has become my Taj Mahal, and I, its devoted Shah Jahan. Within these four walls, I construct castles of dreams, weave the fabric of my joys and sorrows, and find solace in my solitude. The moment I step inside, it embraces me like an old friend. The back cushion reminds me of my late mother (Allah maghfirat kare—Ameen), her lap once my refuge of comfort.

My radio, a cherished gift from my parents, remains my loyal companion—silent, undemanding, yet always present. My bed, a witness to countless dreams—some realized, others still waiting—reminds me that life is an unfinished manuscript. The floral bedspreads and printed curtains assure me that my world will always be colorful and beautiful, InshaAllah.

The mirror in my room reflects the many shades of my life—youthful aspirations, moments of resilience, and the wisdom that comes with time. My corner table, a treasury of memories, holds photographs of my youth, my parents, my family, my loved ones. The once-handsome man in those pictures now stands as a silent testament to my journey, my endurance. The intricately woven kangri from Tahrir Sharif reminds me of my mother’s gentle hands placing isband (wild rue seeds) inside it, filling the air with a fragrance of protection and warmth. There was a time when I was a groom, and that time still lingers in the quiet corners of this room.

My winter companions—an electric blanket, layers of wooden blankets, a blower, and a hot water bottle—serve as my fortress against the cold. Two water bottles sit beside me, a simple yet profound lesson from the thirsty crow’s wisdom: life must be navigated with patience and perseverance.

A small table lamp casts its soft glow by my bedside, whispering gentle truths—that the world’s fleeting brightness should not blind me, that humility is the essence of life, that kindness is our greatest virtue. It urges me to fear Allah, to remain compassionate, to fill my soul with His noor. It warns against the illusion of materialism, reminding me that all of it will dissolve the moment we crash-land onto our deathbeds.

So, thank you, my dear room. You are my steadfast companion, my silent confidant. In you, I find love, resilience, and unwavering support. You are my democracy—always with me, always for me.

Abdul Hameed Dar, is a senior citizen from Bagh-e-Mehtab, Srinagar