By Aiman Aijaz
In Kashmir valley, where mountains stand indifferent,
Tabassum moves quietly, her gaze heavy with secrets.
Rubina's pain fills the room.
But is quickly swallowed by the walls, which are meant to hide more than they give out.
The truth of a body—unforgivable,
its rhythm an inheritance,
Its silence a demand.
Menstruation—what should be simple—is whispered,
as though blood were a threat,
as though the world could crumble
at the knowledge of her womanhood.
She is told to remain small.
told that the world is not for her,
that a touch could steal everything,
that a glance could break what cannot be fixed.
Tabassum watches this,
feels the weight of it settling on her skin,
knows it is not only her sister’s pain
but the pain of a thousand girls
whose names won’t be remembered,
whose desires are folded neatly away.
There are no answers in this house.
only rituals, rules that feel like bricks
laid slowly, one on top of another,
until the walls are too high to see over.
But she questions in the quiet,
her mind drifting beyond the narrow paths they’ve drawn.
What if they could step outside?
If menstruation wasn’t a curse but a passage,
If their bodies weren’t guarded,
but lived in fully, freely?
The weight of honour, so heavy in her father’s hands,
feels like chains on her ankles.
He believes he is protecting them.
But what he guards is the fear of a world.
He does not understand.
Tabassum stays silent for now.
But her silence is a form of waiting.
Her questions are seeds planted in the dark.
She doesn’t know how or when.
but she knows this can’t last forever.
The shackles will break,
not in the loudness of rebellion,
but in the slow, steady rising
of a truth that can no longer be hidden.