Frozen Friendship And The Nameplate
Dr. Yasrib Qurishi
Honouring The Tireless Researcher, Professor And Area Head
Why has the heart grown so burdened, and why has the graveyard itself become every mother’s grave?
What a cruel mockery this world has become where is the God of this earth?
Who will take account of the oppressors?
That day at my college was like any other usual day, but the only difference was that, because of the many events happening on campus, our professors had become quite busy. To make up for our classes, we were instructed to work on our research thesis and report our day’s work to our Supervisors, otherwise we wouldn’t be granted attendance for the day. Following my classmates, I, too, went down from the fourth floor to the first floor with the status of my thesis on my laptop to meet my supervisor. One distinct feature of our campus was that, unlike the other floors, the first floor alone was exceptionally bright and impressive. Everywhere you looked, there were shining glass railings and ceilings, along with posters, notices, and countless rules displayed on the walls about college updates though they always seemed to go straight over my head. The faculty and professors had glass-walled cabins, while the ceiling above had bright white lights, and for seating, there were elegant yellow and blue sofas. This was also because the director, along with high-ranking university officials, usually sat there to carry out their daily affairs. Since it was still going to take quite some time for my turn to come up according to the roll number sequence, I sat on one of those sofas to wait, right in front of my supervisor’s cabin door. Suddenly, my eyes fell upon the nameplate fixed on the door. It read: Dr. Yasrib Qurishi, Area Head of Clinical Diagnosis . My eyes lifted towards the name, and almost instantly lowered again in respect. I couldn’t help but wonder how many difficulties ma’am must have faced to reach this position and what struggles she would have endured in dealing with the hidden pitfalls of society. Truly, only ma’am herself would know the real value of that nameplate. For me, it was just a feeling of deep respect. Honestly, had it been a man’s name written there, I wouldn’t have been as moved. Before anyone ties me down with the charge of gender inequality, let me clarify this was because in my own life, I had been a firsthand witness to how a woman lost everything to reach a position of prominence. It wasn’t just our work that ma’am had to deal with; professors and faculty members from other departments of the university were also going in and out of her cabin. Some carried reports on their laptops, while others had notepads and pens in hand, all coming to seek guidance: what must be done here, what must be decided there. At that moment, I realised my scheduled turn would probably be delayed even further, as ma’am seemed extremely occupied. As I knew, ma’am she usually didn’t keep me waiting too long.
The issue was that, however, the place where I was seated, although right in front of her cabin door, still did not allow her to see me from inside. Not that waiting bothered me much; I was quietly absorbed in observing that scene when, all of a sudden, my eyes fell upon a girl wearing a black hoodie and a face mask, anxiously rubbing her fingers together. The way that girl carried herself, her appearance and her clothing, with her face covered suddenly reminded me of my friend Nimrah, my dearest companion, or rather, my only true friend. She too used to come to school dressed in the same way wearing a hoodie, with the hood pulled over her head and a face mask covering her face. The gusts of memory of Nimrah revived the old, dried blood of the wounds in my life, making them fresh once again.
How could I forget the first day at that new school when we had just recently moved from one city to another? My father worked in a government bank, and with his transfer came the need for us to migrate from one city to another as well. I was then in 12th grade, and due to the board exams, joining a new high school had already put a lot of mental pressure on me. One reason for migrating with my father was that we didn’t have a permanent home of our own. So wherever my father’s transfer took place, we were allotted some government quarters in the new city where we all lived together. On the very first day at my new school, in the very first class, the lecturer asked my name as soon as he entered. I found out he taught English, and unfortunately for me, he asked me to read a lesson aloud in front of the entire class. Now the issue was I had come from an Urdu medium background, and every word of this new textbook felt like a blow to my head. I tried my best to the core to read it, but because of my poor pronunciation and limited vocabulary, the whole class started laughing loudly, some even almost falling off their benches and chairs. A tear of salt water fell from my eye onto the very lesson in my notebook that I couldn’t read properly and then suddenly, a hand came and gently wiped my notebook page clean, then slowly, in a soft tone, started teaching me the correct pronunciation and vocabulary. It was a girl whose only visible feature was her dark eyes, wearing a white hoodie. Yes, that was Nimrah, that was my first meeting with her. Later on, Nimrah became a very good friend of mine. When I asked her about her appearance in later days, I found out it was due to a strange health condition that made her very prone to infections. Her immune system was suffering from a resistance disorder known as sepsis. Because of Nimrah’s unusual health condition, all the other children in the class kept their distance from her. Perhaps that was the reason she had no support or companion to rely on. It wasn’t long before this very fact brought our friendship even closer in a very short period of time.
School days passed, and Nimrah and I grew even closer in friendship. She helped me as much as she could with my studies, but the problem of my weak English remained. One day during the lunch break in class, Nimrah told me she had consulted her mother about tuition. She explained that the reason she was able to speak such fluent English today was solely because of her mother. I was very hesitant and it felt very abnormal that it would be strange to come to her house every day, and on top of that, her family might be disturbed. But Nimrah didn’t listen to me. She looked at me very seriously and said, “Who is there in my house except me and my mother?” Then she added, “At least meet my mother once. If you feel it’s a problem, then I will try to teach you English myself.”
It was probably an October evening. Nimrah’s house was almost near the mountains of Zanskar. In the season of autumn a light dusting of snow on the mountain peaks was visible from very far from the main highway road As I finally reached the gate of her house, the sharp icy winds were numbing my face and fingers.
I knocked on Nimrah’s house gate, and from inside came a gentle female voice asking, “Who is it?”
I am Ruhez, Nimrah’s classmate.” Within a few moments, the gate opened, and standing before me was a woman of about in her 30’s, wearing a grey hijab and before I could say anything more, she invited me inside the house. In a few moments, I found myself seated in her living room. Nimrah often praises you, saying that you are a very good person. I am quite surprised, dear, that even knowing Nimrah’s condition, you have become her only and very good friend. Her mother said this while sitting in my living room. Within moments, Nimrah also came into the drawing room with her mother. The same day was the first time I saw Nimrah without her face mask. She was wearing a pink frock and truly looked like a fairy descended from the sky. That day, my surprises were far from over. My eyes fell on the certificates, achievements, and medals displayed on the wall and the cupboard to the side, all bearing Nimrah’s mother’s name. My eyes widened in astonishment when I learned that her mother was a very famous international conflict researcher. Her mother went to the kitchen to arrange the evening tea refreshments. I was left looking at Nimrah in astonishment. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s a long story I will tell you one day when I have the time,” Nimrah said, giving me a faint smile.
“Nimrah’s mother served halwa puri along with tea and some other delicious dishes. Truly, her mother made very tasty halwa puri. In the course of conversation, it was decided that every Sunday I would come to their house to take English and English grammar tuition from her mother.”
Perhaps good times always seem to pass too quickly. Every Sunday, I would go to Nimrah’s house for tuition from her mother. Her mother always treated me with affection, and whenever her eyes met mine, a gentle smile appeared on her face. Behind that smile, there appeared a shadow of pain, an unspoken wound that showed itself no matter how hard she tried to hide it.
One such Sunday evening, I made the biggest mistake of my life with just a few careless words. I asked Nimrah, “Where does your father live? Why doesn’t he come home?”
If only I had been able to restrain my tongue… if only I had become silent before uttering those words. From both of Nimrah’s eyes, a fierce torrent of tears began to flow, soaking the edge of her dress. It was a relief, at least, that her mother wasn’t present at that moment to witness it. I tried, with my fingers, to wipe away the stream of tears running down her eyes, but it was a failed attempt. Perhaps that day, her tears carried too heavy a burden of sorrow to be stopped so easily.
Ruh… will you walk with me to that hill?” Nimrah asked, her words carried on broken, wounded breaths.
“Of course, why not. Let’s go,” I replied softly.
It was Nimrah’s mother who had first given me the name Ruh. One day, during a tuition class, she had mistakenly called out only the first half of my real name, Ruhez. From that moment onward, both mother and daughter affectionately called me Ruh, and the name stayed. And how could I ever forget that cold evening in the Zanskar mountains? In the evening it almost resembled the scene of a long, endless night. But then, that is the way winter evenings often are steeped in a darkness that arrives too soon, carrying with it a silence both haunting and beautiful.
“The one who discovered the deadliest poison in the world was perhaps unaware of this poison called love; otherwise, it wouldn’t have demanded so much effort. Love is nothing but a poison that, like a pink venom, slowly seeps into the veins of the body. Then, with a single blame of unrequited love, even pure water tastes like the bitterest poison to that soul”
Yes, I remember that one cold January evening near the mountains of Zanskar. On the border of a desolate plain, the scent of far-off, burning huts floated. The sun’s dying beams cast down gently on the snowy summits, and dense vapours minced through, like funeral shrouds. Snow was spread upon the earth like a white shroud, as if in mourning and yet, those minutes stood like said visitors, aware of leaving soon.
That evening by the Zanskar mountains felt like the soil of an abandoned country, A place where the war had already ended, A place where not a single soldier had survived. There was such absolute silence there. A silence so terrifying that even the sound of one’s own breath struck the air like thunder, echoing endlessly across the frozen void. And in that silence her face appeared: Nimrah broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. Nimrah, with tears carving burning lines down her cracked cheeks, her sorrow etching scars deeper than any battle, her grief heavier than the mountain stillness. With the evening, these cold, snow-laden waves were numbing my feet and my body.
“Nimrah told me how her father could never tolerate her mother’s passion for studies. He often said to her, “Now that you are married and have a daughter, why continue your education? What’s the need for all this now? It’s better for women to stay at home. These days are uncertain, one never knows what might happen.”
Such words dragged on again and again, but Nimrah’s mother had always loved studying. Her greatest wish was to at least complete her PHD. Yet stubbornness met stubbornness, and soon enough, the conflict grew so bitter that their marriage ended in divorce when Nimrah was just 3 years old.
Nimrah had always been very close to her mother. That is why she chose not to live with her father and, more importantly, because she could never leave her mother alone.”
All night long, Nimrah spoke her heart out
complaints about this society of hidden faces,
complaints about her broken and stolen love,
complaints about the betrayals she suffered in love’s name.
And in that falling snow, her grief burned me to ashes.
In Nimrah’s every word, a hidden sorrow kept wounding me again and again. Something inside me shattered with the sound of breaking glass.
What could I have told Nimrah then? Yes, our sorrows were different, carried in different ways but both our hearts had been shattered by grief all the same.
Nimrah advised me never to trust anyone, never to give anyone a place in my heart, for in these times people are selfish and insincere. But what could I tell her? The very feeling she spoke of I had already swallowed that poison long ago. I had already endured the torment she warned me about.
When love remains one-sided, perhaps it deserves to be called by another name: blame. That blame had already left its scars on me as well. The one in whose name I had written my entire life, the person I trusted more than anyone else she buried me alive the day I discovered that her heart held nothing for me. From then on, I was left only with myself, stitching together dreams in silence… and then tearing them apart with my own hands.
“It felt as if the entire earth had been overturned on me. Tears streamed from my eyes like the waters of a bursting river, and in that moment, my heart longed to scream so loud that the heavens and the ground would tear apart with my voice.
Love is a calamity. Like termites, it strikes the lover without warning, slowly draining the blood from his veins, until he is left a living corpse. I was running blindly, my vision blurred by my own tears, unable to see anything clearly. I didn’t know where to hide my shameless face, or where to destroy myself to escape it. Even a single breath felt unbearable, as if someone were tearing my existence apart, piece by piece. This world knows it too well, people are not blind to the truth of this cursed wound of a name called love. No one can even count how many homes it has hollowed out, how many lives it has shattered into dust. Love is nothing but a festering sore,
whoever dares to touch it finds their very being pierced through,
left torn, bleeding, and broken.
It spares nothing
not honour, not joy, not peace of mind.
It leaves behind only ruin,
and a heart that will never be whole again.
But in this endless kneeling, I am forgetting how to rise. My legs have numbed, my back has bent, and my body has learned the shape of the ground. Love doesn’t happen so easily and quickly; it takes time. This isn’t love. I don’t know what sickness has afflicted people to compare the people in their lives and their character to others. You also say that this pain is not love. Now tell me does grief come in the shape of a heart, or does it sharpen into something that cuts deeper than love ever should?
I made myself vulnerable and have allowed myself to shrink, to twist, to fold until I become the vessel of your sorrow.
My hands tremble with their useless offerings, my eyes blur with tears that do not heal, yet still I listen. Always, despite the breaking, despite the silence, despite the weight. I want to stitch and engrave you closed, to seal every wound with my words which are of no use and they always arrive too late, frayed and fumbling. Still, I hoard your sentences, replay them on a loop inside my mind until they carve scars of their own.
Nimrah shared with me letter by letter, from beginning to end all the hardships, struggles, and agonies her mother had endured. How, at the same time, she had pursued her studies to complete them, while also raising a delicate little flower, a doll, her only daughter.
Is my carrying of your pain worth anything? Is my bleeding alongside you meaningless? The void gives me nothing, no echo, no answer. Yet I feel a wild, desperate entitlement to your acknowledgment, to the right to hold up my own blood as evidence: I have hurt for you. I am still hurting for you.
Meri Zindagi Toh Khud Muhabbat Iss Jazbe Kii Zeer Tha
“Haan Wohi Muhabbat Jo Insaan Par Shuru Mein Toh Lateef Aur Narm Dhoop Kii Tarah Utar Taa Hai Lekin Dheere Dheere Woh Tapte Sehra Kii Woh Shakl Ikhtiyaar Karta Hai Jahaan Door Door Tak Koi Saya Nahi Rehta Aus Kii Rooh Tak Ko Jhulsa Dene Wali Tapish Hamare Narm Badan Ke Masaam Cheer Kar Hamare Andar Paiwast Hoti Rehti Hai Hamari Pasliyoun se Qalb Bahar Nikal Kar Rakh Deti Hai Hamare Halk Mein Kantoon Ka Jungle Barpah Kar Deti Hai Aur Phir Dheere Dheere Aur Katra Katra Hamari Jaani Issi Tapish Tale Suraj Tale Nikal Jaati Hai” Muhabbat Jaan Leva Hai” Aur Kitni Sitam Zareefi Kii Baat Hai Loog Isse Bas Ek Dikhawa Aur Jhol Samajhte Hain
Now tell me that this is fiction again, again this is a made up story and nothing else again this is a conspiracy and nothing else but my Dear Charmer I beg on my knees, not out of choice but with a deep urge because your pain has made a home inside me, hollowing me out until I can no longer tell where you end and I begin. I would stay here, bowed and broken, for hours, for days, for however long you need me to bear the weight alongside you. I pray you want me to.
As I was completely lost, entangled in the burning maze of my own words, when suddenly it felt as though someone had shaken my shoulder. It was as if I had fallen out from the spell of my memories only to find Syed, my classmate, standing before me.
I was sitting on the sofa on the first floor of my university, waiting for ma’am to discuss my topic for research. But a gust of memories had pulled me back into my past, drowning me so deeply that I forgot where I was.
“What are you doing here, just sitting like that? I have been calling you for a while. Were you asleep? Don’t you have to meet ma’am for your thesis?” Syed’s questions circled around me, wrapping me tighter in the chain of his words.
“Yes… I’m going,” I muttered, hastily gathering my bag, escaping from the weight of that moment, and quietly walking away.
A few moments later, when I stepped out of campus, the scorching road lay before me, its heat burning against my steps. And there, on that same street, I saw a woman with her weary face painted with exhaustion, despair, and surrender selling a few small stationery items: notebooks, pens, markers, pencils. Her naked tired feet wounded, dragged by fate itself, yet behind them hid a fragile little fairy, a child too delicate for the cruelties of this world. Shy, she would peek from behind her mother’s legs at the passersby, only to retreat again, hiding herself from a society full of corrupted minds and tainted gazes. For a moment, I watched the little one on that burning pavement, her innocence colliding with reality. And then my eyes returned to the mother, another mother, another helpless womb, struggling with fierce determination to nurture her delicate petal of a child while enduring the fire of survival.
To be honest, I could have written this article by gathering details of Dr. Yasrib Qurishi remarkable contributions and achievements and woven them into words of praise.
Or, like every other accomplished personality is celebrated, I could have interviewed Ma’am, carefully documenting the unheard struggles of her life, the challenges she faced, and the battles she fought with such courage
Dr. Yasrib Qurishi exemplifies extraordinary leadership, scientific brilliance, and unwavering compassion serving as the Area Head of Clinical Diagnosis at Jain University and inspiring colleagues and students across biomedical research. Her relentless pursuit of cancer cures, mastery across oncology, protein biochemistry, cell culture, pharmacology, and assay development, and her tireless devotion to advancing knowledge and healing mark her as a living legacy whose impact transcends accolades, leaving an indelible influence on the future of science and humanity.
“I couldn’t gather the courage and even though being a Begger of words still I do not possess the words strong enough, nor the stature noble enough, to truly describe who she is. All I know is that Mam is not just a name;
She is a symbol of strength, compassion, brilliance, and grace an entire story of greatness that outshines every attempt to define it”
“In our society today,
we are surrounded by snakes hiding in our sleeves
those who cannot tolerate a woman’s right to study,
a woman’s desire to grow,
or simply her voice.
If someone dares to rise
working day and night,
sacrificing their peace, their sleep,
to carve a place of respect with their own blood and sweat
still, these same people find fault,
still, they try to pull them down.
But nature itself has proven,
time and time again,
that though society may claim a woman’s lap is only for nurture,
when strength, honesty, and perseverance burn in her heart,
there is no peak too high,
no destiny unreachable.
She can break through every barrier,
and rise to the very highest throne of honour,
with nothing but her courage blazing the way”
Written By Kamran
The Writer Is A Final Year Master’s Student At The Jain University Bangalore
[email protected]
