Grammar of My Grandmother’s Love

Some relationships do not merely influence our childhood; they quietly shape our entire existence. My grandmother was such a presence in my life. She was not expressive in conventional ways, yet she was profoundly formative. She did not instruct through sermons or advice; she taught by living, by doing, by enduring. Her values entered me gently, like water seeping into soil, unnoticed at first, but permanent in effect. Looking back now, I realise that much of who I became was first imagined by her long before I could imagine myself. She wore a long Kashmiri burqa, flowing and dignified, her pace measured yet determined. She neither rushed nor delayed; she moved with quiet certainty.

I walked beside her, small fingers wrapped around hers, feeling safe simply because she was there. Every Friday, without exception, she would take me to Bazar Masjid at Bohri Kadal. The destination was sacred, but the journey itself was a lesson. We would go to listen to the Friday sermon of Molvi Naab Sab (Ghulam Nabi Mubaraki), a name that still resonates with spiritual authority in my memory. I did not always understand the sermon, but I understood its seriousness, its gravity, and the reverence with which my grandmother listened. She would sit quietly, eyes lowered, lips occasionally moving in silent prayer, as if she was stitching invisible threads between heaven and earth. Those Fridays taught me that knowledge is not only learned; it is absorbed.

When I grew older and started going to school, another ritual began; one that still tightens my chest when I recall it. She would walk me to the bus stand, carrying nothing but concern and love. She would stand there until the bus arrived, watching until I boarded, and then continue to stand long after it left, as if her gaze itself could escort me safely. And when I returned, she would be there again—waiting, scanning faces, searching crowds. At that age, I did not understand the cost of waiting. Today, I know it was a daily act of sacrifice. She often took me to shrines of saints, places filled with silence and prayer. At times, the caretakers would give tawiz—small amulets with verses folded carefully inside.

At home, my grandmother would open her sewing box and stitch those tawiz into cloth with her own hands. She tied them gently around my arm, especially during examinations. Sitting in the exam hall, nervous and unsure, I would instinctively touch that cloth. It was not superstition; it was reassurance. It carried her faith, her care, and her silent confidence in me. One memory stands out with unusual clarity. During a visit to Dargah Hazratbal, my attention was drawn to the grand gates of the University of Kashmir nearby. Curious, I tugged at her sleeve and asked what that place was. She paused, looked at the gate thoughtfully, and said, “It is a big house of Allah.” When I asked who lived there, she smiled and replied, “Angels and great scholars.” I walked up to the gate, touched its emblem, and rubbed my face against it, as if seeking blessings.

I did not know then that one day I would belong to that world. Looking back now, I realise she planted a dream without naming it. Childhood fears are rarely logical, but they are deeply real. Like many children growing up in Kashmiri homes, I believed that every house had a pious ghost—one who woke up before dawn for ablution and prayer. When I heard sounds in the darkness, imagined footsteps or doors creaking, I was terrified. I would cling to my grandmother, pressing my face into her bosom. She never laughed at my fear, never dismissed it. Instead, she pulled me closer, whispered prayers softly, and placed her hand on my head until sleep returned. Her body became my first refuge against fear. Once, during childhood, I developed severe fever tremors late at night. Without hesitation, my grandmother lifted me in her arms and walked barefoot through the cold streets to a child specialist Dr.  Puran Raina. She did not wait for morning.

She did not wait for help. She acted as if responsibility itself lived in her muscles. I remember fragments of that night—the cold, the movement, her breath steady despite the urgency. Only later did I understand that love often reveals itself most clearly when no one is watching. When I grew older and examinations became serious, my grandmother’s care evolved with my needs. She would wake up at midnight, quietly boiling water, preparing tea, making sure I stayed awake and focused. She would sit nearby, revolving charkha, though her eyes never left me .She never asked about marks. She never pressured. She only ensured that I was not alone. There were moments when I failed—morally, emotionally, academically. There were times when others were quick to judge and chose silence instead of support. My grandmother was never silent. She defended me when it was inconvenient, spoke for me when it was risky, and shielded me when it would have been easier to withdraw. She never exaggerated my virtues, but she never exposed my flaws to the world. She corrected me privately. She protected me publicly. In an age where criticism is cheap and loyalty rare, her conduct remains my moral benchmark. She never reminded me of her sacrifices. She never claimed credit for my success. She never said, “Because of me.” Yet every step of my career mobility bears her fingerprints. Another image returns to me often—quiet, unassuming, yet deeply instructive. My grandmother used to spin the charkha, especially during long winter nights. I would sit near her, watching the yarn form between her fingers, fascinated by how effort slowly turned into substance. She worked without complaint, without drama. To me, it looked like patience had a sound. When the yarn was ready, she would carefully bundle it and take it to a seller at Zaina Kadal, near Gagar Masjid.

I remember accompanying her sometimes, walking proudly beside her, feeling as if we were carrying something precious. When the seller paid her, she would quietly slip a small amount into my hand. “This is for you,” she would say. With that money, I bought toys and sweets, and my happiness knew no bounds. Only much later did I understand the depth of that gesture—that my joy was woven directly from her labour.

Through the charkha, she taught me a lesson no textbook ever could: honest work creates not just income, but dignity and generosity. I can never forget how she would lovingly wash my feet when I suffered from snow bites during the harsh winter months. Her gentle hands, soothing my pain with warm water, were a symbol of selfless love — a love that asked for nothing in return. There was a time when homes had no running water. At 4:00 a.m., while the city slept, my grandmother would rise silently. She would lift a large copper vessel—called a noot in Kashmiri—onto her head and walk towards the community tap near the baker’s shop. She never spoke of the cold. She never spoke of fatigue. She returned with water before the household stirred, as if ensuring that the day itself could begin smoothly.

That image remains etched in my mind as the purest definition of responsibility—doing what must be done before anyone asks, before anyone notices After fetching water, she would light the daan—the traditional Kashmiri fireplace—carefully coaxing fire from wood and embers. The smell of burning firewood, the warmth slowly spreading through the kitchen, the sound of utensils—it was the soundtrack of my mornings. She cooked not just meals, but continuity. Even in scarcity, she maintained order. She ensured that every stock was preserved—kangri embers, firewood, spices, grains—neatly stored in the ganjeen, the traditional Kashmiri storage space. Nothing was wasted, nothing neglected. Her household management was not rigid; it was quietly intelligent.

My grandmother was the only sister among four brothers whom we fondly remembered as Bood mam, Hablee mam, Rahim mam and Ali lalee all four have expired May Almighty place there blessed souls in evergreen gardens of paradise.  They loved her deeply and cared for her until their last days. They visited her regularly, not out of obligation but affection. One deeply moving chapter of her life was her devotion to her own mother, whom we fondly remembered as Deed. During Deed’s final years, she was ill and bedridden. My grandmother visited her regularly at Mandir Bagh, where Deed was staying. These visits were not brief or symbolic. She took exceptional care of her—cleaning, feeding, comforting, and sitting beside her for long hours. She did this not as a duty, but as an extension of love.

Watching her tend to her mother taught me what filial devotion truly means. It was not loud grief or visible sacrifice; it was consistent presence. My grandmother’s relationship with the Quran was deeply rooted and lifelong. Her father had arranged a tutor to teach her the Quran during her childhood, at a time when educating girls was neither common nor encouraged. She learned with dedication, carrying that knowledge quietly into her adult life. Later, without formal recognition or expectation, she began teaching small children the Quran in her own home—free of cost. For her, knowledge was a trust, not a commodity. Through this, she practiced a form of charity that left no record but shaped many lives. Among her relationships, one stood out for its simplicity and purity—her friendship with Mrs Ghulam Mohammad Beigh of Pather Masjid. It was a relationship without display or calculation. When Mrs Beigh fell ill one winter, my grandmother prepared food with her own hands and sent it quietly through someone else, so the act would not be noticed. When asked why she did not go herself, she replied simply, “Friendship does not need witnesses.” That sentence has stayed with me, echoing her entire philosophy of life revolving around Surah Al Maun whose central idea is small acts of kindness without visibility. During our stay at Pather Masjid, we shared a common courtyard with several families. Life was simple and closely knit.

One afternoon, I returned from school tired and hungry. My grandmother asked our neighbour, Sundmassi, if food was ready. Without hesitation, Sundmassi served me rice with beans and pickle. The taste remains vivid even today. There was no embarrassment, no formality, no sense of charity—only care. That meal taught me that community was once an extension of family. Today, when I reflect on my journey, I understand that my grandmother walked my path before I ever did. She cleared it with prayer, patience, and presence. Some people educate you. Some people raise you. But a rare few carry you into the world before you are ready. She is that rare soul. I conclude with this prayer “  Allah, protect my grandmother, grant her health and well-being, bless her with a long life in Your obedience, make her a comfort to our eyes, fill her heart with peace and mercy, and grant her a good end. Amen.”

Author is Senior Coordinator, Centre for Distance & Online Education, University of Kashmir