The Silence Between Us: Delhi to Srinagar

By Nasiruddin Hamid

 Delhi, 1910

An old apartment in a forgotten alley of Delhi, dimly lit by a flickering laltain, cast a soft glow across the room. The walls were cracked, the paint peeling in places, yet everything was clean and in order — a strange kind of dignity preserved in decay. The room was gloomy and dark, yet there was a stillness that made it feel clear, almost sacred. On one side, a rusted iron bed creaked under the weight of two bodies — a man asleep, and beside him sat a young, beautiful woman, dressing herself in tatters. She was a woman of the town. Her dark black eyes were like an abyss — a chaotic chasm — telling that the hidden misery was too deep. Her naked body, partially hidden in shadow, bore fading scars of beatings — cruel reminders of what she had endured. And yet, her slender frame looked like a reluctant masterpiece sculpted by pain. On the other side of the room, on a smaller bed near the cold wall, a little girl — barely two — slept curled up, wrapped in an old but clean shawl. The woman looked at her with a strange softness. The reflection of her sadness showed that once she had a beautiful family, but now she had only a beautiful body, which she had been selling to feed her daughter.The man, who had been asleep, his name was Dr. Mir, woke up and praised her beauty. He got up, dressed, gave her some money, and left. He went straight to a local tavern where he ordered some wine, drank, and returned to his office. He was good looking, tall, handsome, about 28 years old. He was well-known in the area and well-established.2 years later: SrinagarSnow had melted from the mountaintops, and spring had begun to paint the valley. Almond blossoms danced in the soft wind, and the air smelled of wet earth.In the biting cold of dawn, a beautiful young girl about 20 years old limped across the dew-soaked fields, a rusted sickle in one hand and a bundle of dry grass in the other. Her shawl was torn at the edges, and her slippers were too big, always threatening to slip off her feet. Yet she moved — slowly, steadily.She fed the cows, patted their rough backs, and swept the floor of the mud shed. Her hands, though young, were cracked and dry from hard manual laboring of washing, milking, and scrubbing. The smell of dung never left her clothes.Her aunt stood by the door, arms crossed, eyes cold.“Move faster, you wretched girl,” she snapped. “You think you’re a queen? You’re just a curse in this house!”Shazia didn’t reply. She kept sweeping, her head bowed.“You killed your parents,” the uncle grumbled from behind a hookah. “If it weren’t for you, they’d be alive. Your bad luck followed them under that bullock cart.”Shazia had learned not to cry in front of humans anymore, but she still cried in front of God. She only limped to the back of the shed, picked up the milk pail, and began to squeeze the udders gently. The cow mooed softly, and for a moment, that was the only sound in the air.A tanga stopped near an old wooden house by the Jhelum.  Dr.Mir stepped down — wearing a black coat over a white shirt and grey pants. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his eyes looked tired but calm, as if he had buried many storms within.Dr. Mir had come all the way from Delhi, leaving behind a past he never spoke about — a past full of shadows: wine, women, and guilt. He came to Srinagar not for fame or fortune, but to hide... and to heal.He opened a small clinic and began treating the poor. He rarely smiled and never mixed with people more than necessary. But his hands were kind, and his medicine worked.One morning, he saw the unfortunate girl Shazia. She was limping across a field, carrying a basket of wet clothes. Her clothes were worn, her shawl faded. But her face — calm, soft, and full of grace — stayed in his mind.He came to his abode and thought and couldn’t sleep :“The girl I saw was a pure angel; a rose of sharon.Her transparent eyes were filled with the peace of Eden.Her torn clothes were the shadow of light.Her trembling hands were pious — not because of fright.She wounded my heart with humility and humbleness.I’ve never felt this way before in my life — doubtless.I wish I were pious, or at least clean in heart or soul.but I have known many women who sold their bodies whole.”The villagers whispered about her. Her parents had died in an accident when she was 12. A bullock cart had crushed her leg. She survived, but her foot was never the same. She was taken in by her uncle and aunt, who treated her like an animal. She worked in their fields, cleaned their house, and ate whatever was left.Dr. Mir began to notice her more often. Her silence was heavy, but it didn’t beg for pity. It was strong and pure.Meanwhile Dr. Mir became famous in the whole region for his wisdom and humanitarian work. Many rich peasants offered their daughters to Dr. Mir for marriage. He refused them all. But he never approached Shazia either, because deep inside, he believed he was not pure. He was a man of sins — a man who had once lived among drink and filth and prostitutes. How could he offer himself to someone like her?Then one day, everything changed. Shazia was brought to the clinic, unconscious. Her lips were blue. The villagers said she had eaten poison. Dr. Taqi worked quickly, gave her medicine, and after a night of struggle, saved her life.When she woke up, she wept quietly and said, “They gave it to me — uncle and aunt. They want the property my parents left for me, so they want me dead.”A fire rose in Dr. Mir’s heart. He didn’t show it, but he decided something that night.He kept her in his clinic — as his assistant. He taught her about medicine. She had a sharp mind and a quiet strength. She healed fast — not just in body, but in soul.She fell in love with him.But she never said it. She thought she was broken, crippled, and too low for a man like him.Dr. Mir also loved her — deeply. But he kept silent. “How can a man like me,” he thought, “dirty with sins, touch someone so pure?”Meanwhile, her uncle and aunt kept troubling her. They threatened her and beat her when they found her alone.One day, her uncle tried to take advantage of her but fortunately Shazia escaped and ran to Dr. Mir.He began to give the uncle and aunt a special medicine — slow, silent poison. It caused confusion, hallucinations, and fear. Soon, they began to see shadows in daylight, heard voices in the walls, and cried at night. People said they had gone mad.Within months, both died — one drowned in a well, the other hung herself from a tree.No one knew the truth. Only Dr. Mir did. Shazia was now free. Her property came back to her name. People began sending marriage proposals to her — respectable men, landowners, traders.She refused them all.One quiet evening, she stood before Dr. Mir and said, “Will you marry me?”He looked at her with soft eyes, and then lowered his head.“I am not a good man, Shazia. I ha ve done things... ugly things. You deserve someone clean. Someone better, someone pious.”And just like that, he left and returned to Delhi, disappearing into the crowd once more but he never returned to those dark streets and alleys again which he had once wandered those streets of filthy love and liquor. Ten Years Later: SrinagarThe valley had changed. Roads were built. The city had grown. But one clinic still stood by the Jhelum, with a wooden sign and clean floors.Inside, a woman with calm eyes and graceful hands treated the sick with quiet care.It was Shazia, who became a doctor. She had never married. Never forgot. Never stopped waiting for Dr. Mir. And then one day, a tired looking man walked in.His beard was grey now, not because of age but because of a burden of unfulfilled love. His shoulders lower. But his eyes — still calm.She looked at him, heart pounding, but said nothing.He looked around, surprised. “So, you became a doctor.”She smiled gently. “You taught me.”There was a pause — ten years of silence between them. Ten years of longing wrapped in quiet days and sleepless nights.They both knew they had been waiting for each other.Then, softly, she asked again — her voice trembling, barely above a whisper: “Will you marry me now?”Dr. Mir looked at her — really looked. Her eyes, once filled with sorrow, now brimmed with tears of quiet joy. His own vision blurred. For the first time in his life, he felt tears rise — not of guilt, but of something purer… something he had never dared hope for.He took her hand, gently, reverently. “Only if you’ll forgive me.”Tears slid down her cheeks, and he let his fall too.That night, neither spoke of the past. The silence between them was not empty — it was full.And then, as if the years had collapsed into that single moment, they reached for each other.They clasped one another tightly — as if afraid the world might pull them apart again.

By Nasiruddin Hamid