It is not easy to write about Moajie, my grandmother, whose silence fell upon us in the early hours of August 15, at 4:19 am on a Friday. Even now, while the world outside moves in its rhythm of routines, my own heart stumbles—because how do you say goodbye to someone whose very being was your first language of love?
In Kashmir, it’s said that a maternal home truly becomes a home only when grandparents are there—when grandmother and grandfather fill its walls with love, stories, and blessings. Their presence turns houses into sanctuaries, courtyards into playgrounds, and family gatherings into celebrations of belonging. Without them, an emptiness seeps in, and the home never quite feels whole.
My grandmother- Moajie- was the soul of our nanihaal. Moajie’s love was ordinary and extraordinary at once. Ordinary in the way every grandmother loves—with food, with protection, with endless concern. Extraordinary in how she carried it across decades, across sickness and time, until her last breath. She didn’t just live among us—she kept us together. In moments of joy (khair) she was the host, the one in whose courtyard the noise and laughter flowed. In moments of hardship (shar), she was the glue, the voice that turned fear into patience.
I’ve written before about those childhood days when the mud walls of my maternal home looked like palaces, when the orchard blossomed with cherries and grapes, and when Moajie’s hands pulled food and stories from a magical sandook. Each of us, her grandchildren, was stitched together by her. We never imagined a day would come when that thread would fray.
I went to see her twenty days before she left. By then, her frame had grown so fragile she could no longer walk or speak in the way she once did. Two of my cousins had to gently lift and move her, as one would a child. She was on oxygen, her breaths measured by machines. It was night-time, and the room held that heaviness you feel when everyone knows they’re in the presence of both life and its nearing end.
And yet, when her eyes found me, something stirred inside her. My cousin leaned close and whispered, “Moajie thoud wathkhey”—Did you want to stand on? And she was keenly watching at me and my cousin asked her.Did you recognise him? She nodded, weak yet certain. Then, with difficulty, she lifted her head and, pointing toward me, asked in gently broken voice, “Emis Dichva chai?”—“Have you served tea to him?” Even then, in her pain and frailty, she was thinking not of herself, but of me. Of others. Of making sure love was never left undone or unoffered. When she was asked, “Who is he?” she spoke my name clear and firm, though she wasn’t recognizing many by then. That moment pierced my heart. It was as if love alone gave her strength to remember, to hold on, to bless.
On that night, surrounded by her children, their wives, and grandchildren, Moajie expressed a simple wish—a yearning for the green, long, thin grapes we call “kishmish dach” , the very ones from which raisins are born. I searched everywhere to bring her that taste of memory, that small comfort, only to find none. It was a heartbreaking reminder that, sometimes, even love cannot fulfill every desire.
Before she passed, Moajie was admitted to SKIMS Soura. On a Thursday, she was discharged at 12:30 pm. I was at my shop, taking lunch to my father, when a vehicle stopped nearby. My father said, “It’s your Moaj.” My heart clenched as I saw her—frail, fading, unaware of her surroundings, lost in deep sleep. She was with my mother, two cousins, and a driver. They left soon after, and I held onto that last chance to see her, sensing the edges of goodbye closing in.
When dawn broke the next day, my phone rang early with the unbearable news. My cousin called me softly to say that Moaj was no more.
When we reached her home that morning, it seemed Moajie lay in a deep slumber—the kind of sleep from which no one ever wakes. The room was full, heavy with sorrow. Tears welled in every eye; some fell quietly, others rolled freely down cheeks. But Moajie—she was still, at peace yet silent in her final rest. For the first time, she did not ask if I had eaten, if I had been served tea. She did not fret over whether I had run away or grown frail. The questions that once came with her love had quieted forever. Alas, Moajie—how cruel the silence you leave behind.
Now, her courtyard is silent. Her sandook lies unopened. Her voice, once rising above the chatter of children, has returned to the earth. And yet, her love remains in every corner of that house, in every memory that refuses to fade.
She left us on Jummah—the holiest day of the week—at the very moment the muezzin’s adhaan filled the air. It was as if her soul slipped quietly into a sacred light. Those who gathered for prayers and condolences whispered with certainty: “She’s jannati.” A good woman, pure in heart. May Almighty Allah forgive her shortcomings and grant her Jannat-ul-Firdaus.
Grief is more than missing someone. It is relearning how to live in a quieter, softer, emptier world. But for me, with every kite flown, every fruit plucked, every cup of tea poured, and even every uneaten grape, her name lingers. She is gone, but her love isn’t. And perhaps that is the truest kind of immortality—the echo of a heart that held us tightly, even while slipping beyond our reach.
You will be missed forever, Moajie!
@peermohdamir.
