My mother wakes before dawn. She prays, then she cooks. She began this routine in her parents’ home, continued it in her in-laws’ house, and maintains it today, decades later. 

I once asked her, directly, whether she ever felt exhausted by this endless repetition. She looked at me, called me “Meri Jaan,” and said simply: “It is my duty.”

That word, duty, contains multitudes. It speaks to a love so absolute it erases itself, and points to a sacrifice so complete it becomes invisible. 

My mother completed her “duty” through fevers, pain, and days when her body begged for rest. She smiled through it, and taught me that a woman’s strength lies in her silence, sympathy, and spirit to disappear into the needs of others.

I am writing this on National Safe Motherhood Day, an occasion meant to honour women like my mother. The irony strikes me hard. 

We dedicate one day to maternal health, one day to recognising the physical toll of pregnancy, the sleep deprivation of new motherhood, and the emotional labour of raising children. We spread awareness about nutrition and medical care. 

Then we return to our structures, expectations, and assumption that mothers will simply continue, silently, completely, without complaint.

My mother wombed me for nine months. Her body transformed, hormones surged, and bones shifted to accommodate my growth. She........

© Kashmir Observer