Why to make our families registries of accumulated malal?
If you ask me what the biggest unresolved issue in Kashmiri society is, I won’t say politics, inflation or traffic. I will say, with complete confidence: our Mubarak problem.
I belong to two large Kashmiri families. One is my own. The other is my in-laws. I love them both. They love me too. But every few months, I find myself sitting in the middle of an emotional border dispute because somebody forgot to say “Mubarak.”
Someone’s son gets into medical college. “Mubarak nahi di.”
A niece graduates from university. “They didn’t even send one message.”
A baby is born. “They saw the WhatsApp status but remained silent.”
Someone passes away. “They came after three days.”
By the end of the discussion, people are no longer talking about the baby, the degree or the bereavement. They are talking about the absence of a phone call. Somewhere in Kashmir, another invisible “malal” is born.
What amazes me is the extraordinary memory we Kashmiris possess. We may forget where we kept our spectacles, but we remember with astonishing precision who failed to congratulate us in 2018, who skipped a wedding in 2021, who arrived late at a funeral in 2023 and who merely reacted with a thumbs-up emoji instead of writing “Mubarak.”
Our emotional bookkeeping is more accurate than the accounts department of a multinational company.
The funny part is that both sides maintain identical ledgers.
“They never congratulate us.”
“No, they never congratulate us.”
“They don’t care.”
“No, they don’t care.”
Nobody notices that everyone is making exactly the same complaint.
The result is tragic and hilarious at the same time. Families that would happily donate blood to save each other stop speaking because someone forgot a congratulatory phone call.
Sometimes I wonder whether we should introduce a new government department: the Directorate of Mubarak Affairs. Its officers could verify whether a congratulatory call lasted long enough, whether the tone sounded sincere, and whether the emoji used met acceptable emotional standards!
But jokes aside, I genuinely think our society needs one simple reform.
We need a Family Amnesty Day.
One day when both sides gather, laugh, drink kahwa and make one collective declaration:
“Today we erase every old emotional account. Nobody will ever again mention who didn’t congratulate whom, who missed whose function, who forgot whose birthday or who called late after a bereavement. From today, our scorecard is permanently deleted.”
Just as businesses occasionally write off bad debts, families must sometimes write off emotional debts.
Because the truth is simple. We keep score only with people we love. Strangers don’t hurt us by forgetting to say Mubarak. Family does, because expectations are highest where affection is deepest.
Perhaps our real tradition should not be remembering every forgotten greeting. Perhaps our tradition should be giving every relationship another beginning.
If we can declare an amnesty for old grudges, I have a feeling Kashmir will suddenly become much richer, not in money, but in laughter, lighter hearts and family gatherings where the only thing people count is how many cups of kahwa they shared together.
In a time when life is already filled with stress, anxiety, financial pressures and personal struggles, our families should become the safest refuge for our hearts and minds, not registries of accumulated malal. A little grace, a little forgiveness and an occasional amnesty for forgotten Mubaraks may do more for our heart health, mental well-being and social harmony than we often realize, allowing our families to remain what they are meant to be: our strongest pillars of love and mutual support.
