When joy arrives drenched in sorrow
In the hustle of wedding preparations, the fragrance of flowers fills our home. Laughter echoes through newly painted walls. Family and friends gather, clothes are being stitched, and invitations are being sent. But amidst all this joy, there is a silence only I can hear — a silence so loud it drowns the drums and songs.
Because my mother, Zainab Aziz, is not here.
On the 4th of May, I am getting married — a day she once dreamed of, longed for and prayed for. But the woman who waited for it the most won’t be here to witness it.
She left us on a Friday, right after the sacred Jumuah prayer, on the 9th of December, 2022. She breathed her last in PGI Chandigarh — in my arms. In that one moment, life split in two: before and after. Since then, every joy has worn a shade of sorrow.
My mother was not just my world — she was its soul. A woman of such generosity that no beggar ever left our gate empty-handed. Some families came daily for milk, oil, or clothes — she never turned them away. She fed the hungry, clothed the poor, and treated every guest like royalty. She was the embodiment of warmth, sincerity, and silent sacrifice.
To her children, she was a fortress of love. She would often say, “One day, you will succeed.”
That one day is almost here — but her eyes won’t see it.
She was so fond of my marriage, always praying for it, dreaming of the day her son would step into a new life. She longed to see us move into our newly built home — what she called her dream mansion. Today, we live in it, but it feels hollow without her warmth.
Recently, my only sister, Shazia Zainab, achieved what every daughter dreams of — a government job in the health sector. My mother prayed for it day and night. I still remember how her face lit up at the thought, her eyes glowing with dua. That prayer has been fulfilled — but she isn’t here to embrace my sister with pride.
We are trying our best to live by her values — to be honest, to be kind, to stay close to the Qur’an, to pray regularly, and to serve the poor. She always reminded us: “Never let pride touch your heart, and never let a needy hand return empty.”
After she passed, I was lost — emotionally shattered. But then came a ray of mercy: my Murshid, Mr. Abdul Salam Dar — a man as pure as a flowing spring. He embraced me with compassion, consoled my aching soul, and guided me back to the light of true Islam. His love and support became a shelter in the storm. My mother always wanted to meet him, and although that meeting never happened, I believe their souls are connected through purity.
There are nights I wake up yearning for her scent. There are days I walk into rooms expecting her to call my name. And every day, I feel the ache of not being able to hug her — to hear her soothing voice, just one more time. But this world has its limits. What I can’t have here, I pray for in the hereafter.
Oh Lord of the universe — Ya Rabb, I have only one request:
Let me meet her in Jannah.
Make me a noble soul whose deeds benefit her even there.
Allow me to serve her in the gardens of eternity,
Just as she served us in this fleeting world.
As I take the most important step of my life, I carry a void inside me. While others will dance and celebrate, I will hold back my tears behind a smile. And in that moment, I will whisper to the sky:
Ammi, your son did it. But without you… it hurts.
May Allah elevate her to the highest ranks of Jannat-ul-Firdous. Aameen.
The writer, hailing from Bijbehara, is a “seeker of truth” and a “student of love and spirituality” under the guidance of Mr Abdul Salam Dar. This heartfelt piece is a tribute to his late mother, Zainab Aziz, whose absence has left a permanent void in his life.
Shahid Hussain Dar
sh**********@***il.com