October 25, 2025

It was a quiet afternoon in late September, when autumn was settling in. The earth was getting ready to sleep after bright spring and summer months. I was sitting on the verandah, watching Phuphee, who was busy in her kitchen garden. Soon she came to me, carrying a small wicker basket full of turnips and a big smile. “Waitch sa [look],” she said, showing me the turnips. “Walle, gogji rogan josh rannao [come, let’s cook turnip rogan josh],” she cheerfully invited, moving to the kitchen. Inside, I watched her skillfully turn simple turnips into a rich dish fit for a wedding feast. Just as she was finishing, a helper came in to say a lady was waiting. Phuphee told the helper to cook extra rice and asked me to join her. In Phuphee’s room stood Asma, the headmistress of a nearby girls’ school. She greeted us quietly before breaking down in tears. Asma shared her pain — she was married with children but had long been estranged from her two brothers. She spoke of how her younger brother, once close to her, stopped talking and even betrayed her trust after getting married. She believed his wife had cast a spell on him or poisoned his mind. Phuphee listened without interrupting. After letting Asma cry, she comforted her by sitting close and holding her arm. Then Asma asked Phuphee for a taaveez (a talisman) to break the spell or at least take away her pain. Phuphee smiled and called the helper to serve lunch. “Spells could not be broken and hearts cannot be mended on an empty stomach,” she said. We all ate second helpings of the delicious turnip rogan josh with hot rice. After the meal, Phuphee spoke softly to Asma: “When someone very dear to us does cruel, unthinkable things, it is natural to search for reasons. We do not expect to hurt those we love.” She continued, “It may be true some blame lies with your sister-in-law, but your brother is also responsible. He is not a child. The loving brother you knew has ‘died’ in every way. Cherish your memories but understand the reality. You are not weak or deluded to still love him — that love is very human.” They sat quietly, and after some time, Asma left with a small bag given by Phuphee. When I asked later if it was the taaveez, Phuphee smiled and said, “I gave her something better — some fresh gogji she could cook.” Later that day, these words stayed with me. Years later, I too learned that sometimes people are lost even when alive. All we can do is honor the love once shared and grieve the loss. This story from Kashmir shows how love, pain, and hope weave together with simple acts like a meal and warm words. Saba Mahjoor, a Kashmiri living in England, lovingly shares this story from her scarce free moments, reminding us to hold on to the humanity in love and loss.

Read More at Thehindu →

Tags: Kashmiri story, Family relations, Love and loss, Phuphee, Taaveez, Emotional healing,