Badamwari Broke Me Open

A brief scene in Srinagar's Badamwari Garden brought a flood of memories and painful truths about love, loyalty, and what we lose in the pursuit of material gain.

- Syed Majid Gilani

The sun was already high that June morning, its heat thick and suffocating. I sat in my old Alto 800, engine off, sweat beading on my skin, clothes sticking to me.

Outside the gate of Badamwari Garden in Srinagar, the air felt almost oppressive, but I was used to it. This was my Sunday ritual: waiting for my children, watching the road, thinking about the old days.

But that morning, something happened. Something small and simple, yet it shook me to my core.

A young couple arrived, gliding into the spot on a scooter. The man was dressed neatly in a shirt and pants, polished shoes, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. His wife sat behind him, holding a baby, no more than two years old.

What caught me wasn't their clothes or how they looked, but the way they moved together.

They looked like any other couple, but the way he steadied her hand, the tenderness in their eyes — it was love in its purest form. The kind I had long forgotten existed.

He bought ice creams for them both, from a small kulfi stall by the gate. Then they stopped at a roadside vendor for chips, a bottle of water, some chewing gum. Each exchange was simple. She smiled at him when he insisted she take something, and he persisted, his voice soft, his care evident. The way he held their baby in his arms with such tenderness — it was as if I could feel it too.