Migration, Menopause and our Mothers- My Mother’s Silence, My Voice

I am fifty now, I know you can’t believe it!

On a serious note, my body is shifting in ways I can no longer ignore, sleepless nights, beads of sweat soaking my pillow at 3 a.m., the sudden rage I don’t recognise as my own. Menopause, they call it. A stage, a transition- I know the name, I know the science, I read articles, talk to friends, ask my doctor endless questions; still, it is hard. But when I think of my mother, I realise how different our journeys have been and how much harder hers was .

This is not the story of just my mother but every Kashmiri mother who had to endure this transition in difficult times when our whole community was going through migration, displacement, uncertainty and above all no place to call home. I wouldn’t be able to tell you when my mother hit menopause as she never showed it us or to anyone else but when I compare the symptoms I would definitely be able to tell you it was in the dreaded 1990s. We lived in a crowded joint family home with our bua (who we fondly call Behanji) in Jammu after migration as she was the only one who had a “proper house” in Jammu. We lived with cousins, my grandparents, and endless streams of visiting relatives.

The kitchen was always hot, not ignoring the squelching heat of summers in Jammu, heavy with the aroma of spices. Nothing could dampen my mother’s “mazrath”. From dawn until night, she worked, washing clothes, preparing food, getting us ready for school ensuring everyone is comfortable and silently enduring the most uncomfortable phase of her life. Her world was service, her body had no right to complain.

I remember her lying down in the afternoons sometimes, the gold bangles on her wrist clinking faintly as she pressed a hand to her forehead. She would close her eyes, exhausted, while the household bustled around her. She never raised her voice or snapped at someone but I can see now that she wasn’t the same Tathi as everyone knew her, jolly, selfless and happy but noone asked why. Noone wondered if her body was waging an invisible war. She never had the words “hot flashes or hormonal changes”. There was no Google, no pamphlets, no friend to whisper, “I’m going through this too.” All she knew was that her body was changing in ways she couldn’t explain, and that she must carry on as if nothing was happening. Sometimes, I would see her pause in the middle of cooking, wiping the sweat off her face with the edge of her dupatta, her cheeks flushed. “The kitchen is too hot,” she would mutter. I know now that it wasn’t just the kitchen. At night, I would hear her shifting restlessly on the mattress on the floor, unable to sleep, staring into the darkness. But in the morning, she still had to get up before everyone else.There was no space for her suffering. She was the backbone of the household but her own body, her own needs, were invisible. And in all this daddy was trying to keep it altogether with money, job and providing for the family and honestly mummy wouldn’t bother him with another thing so she suffered alone and in silence.

My experience is so different. When I feel unbearable heat rise in my body, I know it is a hot flash. When my moods swing wildly, I remind myself it is not weakness, it is biology. I have friends I can message late at night to say, “I can’t sleep, is this happening to you too?” I have my husband who, though confused sometimes, tries to understand. I have doctors who tell me this is normal. I have books, blogs, podcasts-knowledge that comforts me.And yet, even with all this, I sometimes crumble, I feel overwhelmed. Which makes me think, how did my mother do it? How did she survive without ever being seen, without ever being comforted, without ever being told, “It’s not your fault. You are not alone.”

Her silence was not strength alone, it was also the burden of the circumstances that did not allow her or other Kashmiri mothers to speak of their bodies.I carry her story with me now with pride and dignity. When I share openly about my menopause with my daughter, my friends and my colleagues I feel as if I am speaking not just for myself, but for her too and for all the Kashmiri women of her generation who bore their pain quietly.

My mother’s journey was silence, mine is voice and I want my daughter’s to be freedom; freedom from shame, from ignorance, from invisibility. Because no woman should have to go through menopause the way my mother did- alone in a crowded world.

Share this story with your mum, if you are lucky enough to still have one, I am sure she will say that this is her story! 

Maa, thank you for everything 🙏🏼