A wedding in Kashmir can last for days, host hundreds of guests, and drain a family's savings for a decade. The marriage itself sometimes lasts barely a fortnight.

In one case, a woman returned to her parents after fifteen days. According to her husband, he discovered after the wedding that certain personal circumstances had never been disclosed to him. She, in turn, felt disappointed upon learning what he could actually afford. The wedding gifts and her mehr went with her. The arguments that followed lasted considerably longer.
Another marriage ended within a year. The groom's family says they learned only after the wedding that the bride had obsessive-compulsive disorder. They claim they accepted her condition and treated her as a daughter. Disagreements emerged over ordinary household arrangements when the husband returned to his job in Bangalore. Eventually she went back to Kashmir. According to his family, she took jewellery and cash. The dispute became entangled with her father's debts. The facts remain contested.
These stories are no longer isolated. Family courts in Srinagar now hear three to five divorce petitions daily, a pattern judges and lawyers describe as unprecedented. In the early 2000s, courts in the region recorded barely fifty to sixty divorce petitions annually. Today, reports suggest a 300 to 400 percent increase in urban centres like Srinagar, Baramulla and Pulwama. Data presented before the J&K Legislative Assembly showed reported domestic violence cases rising from 893 in 2023-24 to 1,979 in 2024-25, an increase of roughly 121 percent.
But figures cannot answer a more fundamental question: why?
Every short-lived marriage contains competing narratives. A husband says his wife concealed a mental illness. A wife says her husband never fulfilled his responsibilities. His family says the jewellery was taken to repay her father's debts. Her family says it was her rightful dowry. Some speak of abuse. Others speak of incompatibility. Some allege undisclosed circumstances. Others allege financial exploitation. Courts are left to untangle what happened between two people who once stood together before witnesses and now stand apart before a judge.
This is not a simple story of moral decline. The fragility of Kashmiri marriages reflects a society undergoing profound transformation under multiple pressures.
Economic strain is the first culprit. Young Kashmiris are more educated than ever before, yet stable employment remains elusive. The average marriage age has risen to 31.5 years for men and nearly 28 for women, far exceeding national averages. Many graduates spend years searching for work. Marriage thrives when couples can imagine a future together. Persistent unemployment makes that future harder to envision. When a husband works in Bangalore while his wife remains in Kashmir, or when a wedding costs ten to thirty lakh rupees only to end in a month, economic anxiety becomes domestic friction.
Meanwhile, traditional mediation mechanisms are eroding. Once, when couples disagreed, parents, grandparents, religious scholars and respected community elders would intervene before matters reached a breaking point. That culture created a powerful support structure. Today, nuclear families are more common, kinship networks looser, young people more independent but also more isolated. One lawyer observed that many young people "plan weddings with precision" but "omit planning the actual marriage." Communication skills are lacking, apology is a foreign concept, and listening has become a lost art.
Deeper changes in expectation play a role as well. Social media presents curated images of ideal partners and ideal lives. Real life rarely resembles those pictures. Women increasingly expect respect, companionship and equality. Men often enter marriage with traditional role expectations. When two scripts collide under one roof, conflict becomes inevitable. A 2026 study linked excessive social media use among young Kashmiri couples to "technoference," trust erosion and infidelity behaviours.
The law plays a dual role in this landscape. The Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act provides essential protection for women facing abuse. In January 2026, the High Court upheld an interim maintenance order of ₹12,000 per month, reiterating the duty to protect vulnerable spouses during prolonged litigation. But legal proceedings, once initiated, can become attritional warfare. A husband may face allegations of cruelty, harassment, dowry demands and impotence. Even if unproven, his professional reputation and family relationships may suffer lasting damage. A marriage lasting a few months can produce litigation lasting years.
The core dilemma is this: legal tools designed to protect the vulnerable can sometimes become instruments of pressure. And those genuinely suffering violence may exhaust themselves in procedural labyrinths while seeking justice.
No single remedy exists. The law must remain sensitive, neither tolerating genuine abuse nor allowing process itself to become punishment. Communities must rebuild mediation mechanisms—not to return to an old model that suppressed individual dignity, but to offer early intervention oriented toward repair rather than confrontation. Premarital counselling should address not only religious rituals but communication, financial management and mental health awareness.
Most fundamentally, perhaps, marriage itself must be reimagined. Weddings in Kashmir are becoming more expensive. Marriages are becoming more fragile. When jewellery, banquets and social display occupy centre stage while character, responsibility and mutual understanding recede to the margins, the foundations of marriage quietly loosen. As one observer wrote, the strength of a marriage lies not in how grandly it is celebrated but in how sincerely it is lived.
A fifteen-day marriage leaves behind not a simple lesson but a complex question. As traditional social controls recede and individual freedom expands, Kashmir must find new ways to ensure marriage is neither an inescapable prison nor a disposable contract. That requires answers from law, community, family and every young person about to stand before witnesses and say yes.
Why My Pen Does Not Stop… Not another number. Another concern. Sometimes themirror must be held up—not to accuse anyone, but to help all of us see ourselves more honestly.

Email:---------------------------------drfiazfazili@gmail.com