Secure in my sanctuary

In a world where togetherness is often glorified and solitude mistaken for loneliness, the quiet choice of some women—particularly elderly mothers and widows—to live alone is frequently misunderstood. But beneath the surface lies a deeper story, shaped by dignity, emotional resilience, and the simple human desire for peace. For many women, especially in Kashmir, life has been a long chapter of sacrifice. They’ve poured themselves into raising children, managing homes, supporting husbands, and preserving family honor—often without complaint. When their children grow up, marry, and start families of their own, the expectation is that the mother, now older and slower, will slide into the background, quietly adjusting to the new dynamics of the household. And yet, these new dynamics can often feel isolating, disrespectful, or deeply painful.

Living with a grown-up son and daughter-in-law, for example, is not always a harmonious dream. Differences in lifestyle, values, and expectations can create emotional fissures. A daughter-in-law’s indifference, a son’s passive silence, and a lack of gratitude for years of unacknowledged service can turn a familiar home into an alien space. It is in such quiet storms that solitude begins to appeal—not as an escape, but as a form of protection. Choosing to stay in one’s own flat, however small or worn out, becomes an act of self-preservation. It allows an aging woman the autonomy to set her own routine, maintain her spiritual practices, keep her memories intact, and simply breathe without judgment.

Zaitoon Begum had spent most of her life in a modest home in Noorbagh. Life had never given her much comfort but she had learned to live with dignity. She drew strength from her values, her memories, and the soil she had never left. Years ago, when Zaitoon was just 26 years old, her world changed overnight. Her husband died suddenly, leaving her alone to raise their two-year-old son, Samiullah, whom everyone lovingly called Sami. The grief was deep but the weight of responsibility was heavier. Zaitoon didn’t have the luxury to mourn for long. She picked herself up, wiped her tears, and stepped into the long quiet battle of survival. She took up tailoring and embroidery, working from a small corner of her room. Her fingers stitched through long nights while little Sami slept beside her on a thin mattress stuffed with worn cotton and hope. She saved every rupee, stretched every meal, and kept the house running. Even when the power went out and the streets were flooded with rain, she stitched on by the light of an oil lamp and whispered silent prayers for strength.

Over the years, she managed to raise Sami with great care. Although she had never been formally educated, she made sure her son went to school regularly. With whatever little she earned, she paid his fees, bought books from the second-hand market at Zaina Kadal, and sometimes went hungry so that he could have milk. By the time Sami completed his graduation and got a modest job in a private company, Zaitoon had aged far beyond her years. Her knees had grown stiff from long hours of sitting cross-legged on the floor. Her eyes had begun to strain from years of needlework. Sami got married to a girl named Nargis who was more familiar with Instagram than with managing household chores. Nargis was neither helpful nor interested in any work at home. While Zaitoon continued her routine of waking early, offering Fajr prayers, making tea, and tidying the house, Nargis often slept until late and wasted most of her time on her phone or watching videos.

When Zaitoon returned from the market, she would find the house in a mess. Dishes were unwashed, bedding was unmade, and Sami’s clothes were lying exactly where he had left them. Despite this, Zaitoon remained silent for weeks, thinking Nargis would adjust with time. But the situation only got worse. Sami worked for long hours and often returned home tired. He believed that everything was fine because Nargis smiled and spoke softly in his presence. Zaitoon didn’t want to create tension, so she kept her grievances to herself. Three months passed like this. One evening, while washing the dishes after dinner, Zaitoon noticed a moldy plate left in the young couple’s room. She hesitated but washed it anyway. The next day, another plate came out, smelling so bad that it reminded her of drainage water in summer. Still, she said nothing. But on the third evening, when Nargis handed her a plate crawling with insects and acted as if it was normal, Zaitoon finally spoke. Not with anger but with quiet firmness. She simply asked Nargis to wash her own dishes once in a while. That single sentence changed everything. The next day, Nargis stopped speaking to her. Sami was confused and asked his wife what had happened. With a few gentle words and wounded expressions, she had made it seem as though Zaitoon was unnecessarily interfering in their private matters. Sami exhausted from work and unaware of the daily realities at home, accepted his wife’s version without question. Within a week, they had packed their bags and moved into a rented one-bedroom flat nearby. Zaitoon stood silent, watching them leave, wondering if all the years of struggle had come to this. Months turned into years. Their communication became limited. Zaitoon rarely visited unless she was invited. Even then, she could sense the coldness in Nargis’s tone and the strain in Sami’s eyes. When their daughter Inaya was born, Zaitoon was called to visit only once. Although she brought clothes, toys, and sweets, she was never asked to stay.

Then came the turning point. After years of living in a rented flat, Sami managed to buy a small plot of land in Budgam. He had big dreams. A double-storey house. Enough space for everyone. A garden full of flowers and fruit trees. Zaitoon supported the idea quietly. She watched from a distance as the construction began. The first year, they built a fence. The next year, the foundation was laid. But then the work stopped due to lack of funds. During every visit to Zaitoon, their talk was only about the windows, wiring, plaster, and paint of the house. No one asked her how she was feeling. If her knees still ached. If she felt lonely. She listened quietly and nodded when needed, even though each visit left her more anxious. She began to suspect they wanted her to sell her ancestral house and use the money to finish their new house. One day, Sami told her mother that once the new house was ready, they could all live together. Zaitoon asked gently if that meant she should sell her ancestral house. Both Sami and Nargis lit up at the idea. But Zaitoon noticed a small change in Nargis’s face. A slight tightening of her jaw. A quick look of irritation. At that moment, she understood that living together would never be peaceful.

Still, she loved her son deeply. It hurt her to see him working so hard for so many years with little to show for it. She wanted him to succeed. To have a good home. To give her granddaughter a happy life. But she wondered, where would she live?

The ground floor of the half-built new house didn’t have the basics. No heating. No proper bathroom. Not even a working kitchen. It was not a place where an old woman with joint pain could stay. Above all there was no room for socialization at the new place.

She also knew that promises made when people are full of hope often fade when life becomes difficult. Marriage, money, and modern demands change people. Zaitoon understood that if she sold her flat, her son and daughter-in-law might be thankful for a while. But she would lose her freedom for ever. She would no longer have her own space. That night, she wrote a letter to Sami. She didn’t complain or blame anyone. She praised his hard work. She said how proud she was of him. She told him she believed his dream house would be complete one day. But she also wrote that she would stay in her own ancestral house. Not because she didn’t care, but because life had taught her one thing. Sometimes, keeping your own space is necessary, even if others don’t understand.

The next day, she mailed the letter. Sami never replied. But Zaitoon felt a strange peace in her heart. She had chosen solitude over humiliation. Clarity over emotional pressure. Dignity over uncertain comfort.

Note: Names in the article may not be real.

Any coincidence is incidental not intentional.

Dr Showkat Rashid Wani, Senior Coordinator, Centre for Distance & Online Education, University of Kashmir