By Syed Majid Gilani
It was the last week of June 2025. The sun was merciless. The heat was intense, the kind that makes you uncomfortable even while sitting still. I was seated in my modest Alto 800, parked quietly outside the gate of Badamwari Garden, Srinagar’s famous almond orchard. Like many Sundays before, I had come there to wait for my three beloved children.
Sunday had quietly become the most important day of my week. The other days passed in routine, work, and silence. But Sunday carried hope. Sunday carried longing. Sunday carried the possibility of seeing my children, even if only for a short while.
It was around 10 o’clock in the morning, yet the sun had already grown harsh. Sweat trickled down my forehead, my clothes clung to my body, and my head felt heavy in the heat. Still, my eyes remained fixed on the nearby lane opposite the garden, the path from which my children were expected to arrive on foot. I was waiting to pick them up and take them home. A father waiting for his children is never an ordinary sight. Every passing moment becomes heavier. Every unfamiliar face makes the heart restless.
I deeply missed my children. Days passed without seeing them. Their laughter, their voices, their small conversations, everything lived only in memory. Sundays offered limited opportunities to meet them, and because of that, each Sunday became precious beyond words. Even a brief meeting meant everything. Even a short drive home together felt like a complete world.
Many Sundays, I sat there quietly, my heart silently praying that they would arrive soon. Sometimes, emotions grew so heavy that my eyes quietly filled with tears, not of weakness, but of longing. A father’s heart, waiting week after week, learns patience, but it never learns how to stop missing his children.
While I sat there quietly, an ordinary scene unfolded before me. It was a small moment, almost unnoticed by everyone around. But for me, it quietly shook my heart.
A young couple arrived on a scooty. The husband looked gentle and composed, neatly dressed in a formal shirt and pants, polished black shoes, spectacles, and a small, well-kept beard. His wife sat behind him, modestly dressed, holding a little baby, hardly two years old, in her lap.
There was warmth in their presence. There was care in their gestures. And there was a quiet happiness in their small family.
The man parked the scooty and gently helped his wife get down. He looked at the baby lovingly and then walked with them toward a nearby MalaiKulfi stall. He bought kulfis for both himself and his wife. The baby watched with curiosity, and both parents smiled.
Nearby, a small roadside stall displayed chips, mineral water bottles, chewing gums, and small toffees. The man asked his wife softly if she wanted anything. She selected a few small items for herself and the baby. He paid quietly and placed them carefully into the simple bag hanging from her shoulder.
Then, tenderly, he took the baby into his arms and held him close.
A little ahead, there was a food truck, a small roadside eatery with biryani, fried rice, and kebabs. The aroma floated in the warm air. The man gently asked his wife if she wanted some biryani or fried rice. She smiled politely and refused, saying they had already taken snacks. He asked again, and she again refused with a soft smile.
That simple, ordinary moment quietly opened an old door inside my heart.
Suddenly, I was no longer just sitting outside Badamwari. I had travelled back into my own past.
I too had lived those moments once. I too had visited gardens like these. Sometimes with one child, sometimes with two, and sometimes with all three of my children, along with my family.
I remembered those simple outings. Buying kulfis, snacks, toys, and small treats. Holding their tiny hands. Watching them run across garden paths. Listening to their laughter. Fulfilling their small demands. Those were ordinary days, yet they were the happiest days of my life.
I remembered how my children would cling to me in crowded places. How they would ask for small things. How even a simple outing would turn into a joyful memory.
Those days were simple, but they were full. Full of laughter. Full of warmth. Full of love.
As these memories returned, my eyes slowly filled with tears. Quiet tears. Tears that no one around me noticed. But inside, they carried years of love, longing, and the silent pain of missing my children, week after week, waiting for Sundays to arrive.
Along with sweet memories, some quieter reflections also surfaced.
Life does not always remain the same. Sometimes, slowly and silently, things begin to change. Conversations become shorter. Smiles become fewer. Expectations grow, and misunderstandings quietly find their way into relationships.
At times, people who once shared everything begin to drift apart without fully realising when the distance started. Silence replaces warmth. And what once felt effortless begins to feel heavy.
I have seen such changes not only in my own surroundings but in many families. Often, unspoken words quietly build walls.
Children, in such situations, often become silent observers. They may not understand everything, but they feel the change. They sense the quietness where laughter once lived.
Watching that young couple, I was reminded of those early, simple moments of family life, moments that often pass unnoticed while they are happening, yet later become the most precious memories.
Sitting in my modest Alto 800, watching that young family, my heart quietly filled with emotion. For a moment, I forgot the heat, the crowd, and everything around me.
Only memories remained.
I watched as the young couple walked hand in hand toward the garden. Their child giggled in the father’s arms. Sunlight filtered softly through the almond trees.
Slowly, they disappeared into the garden.
I remained seated, silently watching, still waiting, still hoping, for my children to arrive, for another brief Sunday that meant everything.
Badamwari may have witnessed countless stories of love, hope, separation, and longing.
That morning, it quietly witnessed another story, a quiet moment, a small scene, and a father waiting, with a heart quietly filled with tears.
Some scenes appear ordinary to the world, but quietly, they leave a lifetime of memories behind.
And sometimes, those memories return as silent tears.
Some waits are silent, some Sundays become lifelines, and some fathers live from one Sunday to another.
Syed Majid Gilani is a government officer, storyteller, and freelance writer from Srinagar. He writes on family values, relationships, and real-life emotions. He can be reached at syedmajid6676@gmail.com.
