In Jammu and Kashmir, a broken marriage rarely ends with two people — it becomes a public trial. Behind the silence and stigma are stories of courage, loss, and quiet reconstruction.
By Mool Raj
Sometimes a relationship doesn’t collapse — it frees the people trapped inside it. But in Kashmir, where the scent of chinar leaves drifts through homes layered with history, custom, and unsaid rules, a broken marriage is still spoken of like a scandal. The word ‘divorce’ is dropped in whispers, as though merely uttering it might disgrace the walls that overhear it. We are a society that has weathered wars and survived winters, yet the idea of two people choosing to walk away from an unhappy marriage still shakes us more than conflict ever has.
In Jammu and Kashmir, when a marriage ends, the rupture rarely stays between two people. It becomes a public event — a story claimed by relatives, neighbours, and entire mohallas. A woman is instantly branded: either a victim deserving pity or a rebel who dared to leave. A man, meanwhile, is cast as inadequate, arrogant, or inherently flawed. And in this courtroom of community judgment, almost no one pauses to ask the simplest, most humane question: What must they have endured to take such a step?
Komal’s Story: A Quiet Defiance
Komal, a young woman from Doda, once pictured marriage as a gentle garden of companionship. It began as many Kashmiri marriages do — promise-laden photographs, warm family prayers, and an unspoken expectation that endurance equals virtue. But behind closed doors, that promise corroded. Words became weapons. Affection turned into humiliation, and her lively laughter slowly sank into rehearsed silence.
Komal stayed. She tried to “adjust,” the word so often forced upon women like a commandment. But when the emotional bruises deepened, she gathered the small reserves of courage that had survived within her and sought a divorce.
She didn’t expect celebration, but she hoped for understanding. Instead, she was met with a suffocating hush — a silence that shamed her more than any insult. Relatives traded her story like gossip. Strangers turned her life into a cautionary tale. Even those who loved her softened their voices when speaking about her — as though her name had become fragile.
Today, Komal teaches at a private school. She walks to work with her head higher than before, her steps firmer. She is rebuilding herself. But society still clings to its favourite label: “the divorced one.”
When Men Become The Accused
We often assume stigma belongs only to women. But in Jammu and Kashmir, divorce does not spare men either.
Raju, an entrepreneur from Doda, chose separation after realizing that his marriage had become a cage rather than a partnership. His decision was driven not by impulsiveness but by exhaustion — the kind that hollows a person from within.
Yet the community judged him long before they heard him.
“He must have been cruel,” many assumed. “Why couldn’t he adjust? Why couldn’t he keep his wife happy?”
Prospects for remarriage evaporated the moment the word “divorced” entered the conversation. Families didn’t even ask why — they only asked how: How to avoid such a man? How to guard their daughters?
“Divorce didn’t break me,” Raju once told me, his voice steady but tired. “People’s judgment did. We grieve deaths with sympathy, but we refuse empathy for those grieving a marriage.”
Komal and Raju’s stories are not rare. They echo across Ramban, Kishtwar, Srinagar, Anantnag, and every quiet corner of this region. They speak of a collective discomfort with choice — especially when that choice resists suffering.
The Contradiction Between Faith and Culture
The tragedy deepens when viewed through the lens of faith. Islam neither romanticizes nor condemns divorce. It acknowledges it as a final but legitimate option — a pathway chosen only when kindness and compatibility have withered.
Yet cultural pride often overwhelms religious wisdom.
We push couples to “stay together for family honor,” even if togetherness has decayed into cruelty. We revere silent endurance but mock the courage required to walk away with dignity. Our social gatherings become arenas of moral storytelling, where someone else’s pain becomes entertainment.
In reality, divorce — when thoughtfully chosen — is not rebellion. It is honesty. It is the moment two people admit that their hearts no longer move in the same rhythm.
New Beginnings That Society Refuses to Allow
One of the most painful consequences of divorce in J&K is not the breakup itself, but the way it stalks people afterwards. A broken engagement or marriage becomes a lifelong warning label.
A young woman from Marmat Goa once said, “I’m not scared of ending a bad marriage. I’m scared of how society will look at me afterwards.”
Her fear is shared by many. The moment someone is labeled divorced, proposals disappear. Conversations end abruptly. Families hesitate, as though a past breakup is a contagious disease. And the same relatives who pushed her into marriage now become the gatekeepers denying her another chance.
This refusal to allow new beginnings traps people in a cycle of guilt and shame. It damages them more deeply than the divorce itself ever could.
The Urgent Need to Unlearn Shame
The time has come to reflect: Why do we treat human fragility as scandal? Why do we measure someone’s worth by their endurance of pain instead of their pursuit of peace?
Divorce need not be celebrated. But it must be understood.
A failed marriage is not a moral failure. Sometimes it is a triumph of self-respect — a decision to reclaim dignity after years of erasure. We owe it to our children, and to ourselves, to unteach the idea that suffering is noble and leaving is shameful.
We must raise a generation that sees divorce not as a disgrace but as a difficult, painful, deeply personal choice deserving of empathy, not judgment. They should learn that walking away from toxicity is an act of renewal.
Our valley has weathered enough storms. It is time our hearts learn gentleness.
Toward a More Compassionate Tomorrow
Imagine a Kashmir where a divorced woman enters a room without lowered eyes. Where a separated man builds a peaceful life without whispers trailing behind him. Where a broken marriage is not a lifelong sentence, but a chapter — closed, respected, and left behind.
Divorce will always be painful. But it does not have to be humiliating.
If we choose empathy over judgment, understanding over gossip, dignity over spectacle, then perhaps our people will finally breathe freely — even when their freedom comes wrapped in heartbreak.
In the end, every separation is not merely the end of a relationship. It is often the beginning of a life reclaimed. And in a land as bruised and beautiful as Jammu and Kashmir, that kind of freedom carries its own quiet, sacred grace.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this newspaper
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