The sun dawned early the day my mother passed away. But it did not enlighten any of my spirits, not that day. Head down, concentrating grimly on the bugs that followed the procession, I, a mere youth of nine, dragged myself to the place where they were to burn her. She lay at a bed of logs, immobile, a picture of oblivion which brought to me sentiments infinite. A person who had cherished a waif like me inexpressibly since childhood; somebody who used to make me laugh when the doctor gave me an injection, just so I wouldn’t know; a soul I had been clinging on to since the entirety of my life, lay listless. No, she wouldn’t wake up if I got and sat over her like every morning. No, she wouldn’t pull me to her with a hug. No, she was Deep Asleep. And Baba had told me not to disturb her.
He himself stood side by, robust, wearing the covert look I have never been able to recognize. I had often pondered over why he could have been so numb to my mother. So sharp, so stinging, it left my mother stilled. The funeral proceeded, and I actually began to realize what was happening. As the funeral pyre erupted, I saw something. Saw something that made me scream, louder than the pierce of the fire as it burnt. Burnt my mother away. I saw something that made me run. Something that has never made way from my mind, and never will. I saw her toes twitching.
Like she had never died.
I ran. Ran as fast as my little legs could carry me, as much as I could go. Rameen found me that night, dripping from a downpour, asleep at her front door. Baba never came for me, and I never expected he would. In any way, he was somebody whom I completely and irrevocably disliked. Hated.
Rameen was more than a mother to me. In the epoch where I had a life to pave, but knew nothing, she caressed me, brought me up like I was her own. I climbed the rungs of life with her son, Shahid, who was to me the brother that I had never had. And in time now, the one I wish I never did.
Another one of those stormy nights befell, and once again they set out a new course for me to take. He left me stranded, pallid and torn, disbelieving and shattered. But I had had experience; breaking my trust had been a hobby for my closest. I never saw Shahid again.
I bore his son, with Rameen to stay at my side all the time I raised him. She had felt guilty than ever, but a quarter of my life had passed by and she was the only person I had found that I could trust. And then one day he took it all away.
Rameen woke me up, sobbing, to somehow blurt out the story. He had come by night and taken my son away. Yes, that is all he has been able to do as a father. Steal his son.
I have crossed a hundred miles on foot, begging, stumbling, asking for the way. My sustenance has been out of the question, all that has mattered to me is to save my son from the shackles of his father. A wrong father can disintegrate your entire life.
My hair is now white, and when I see my reflection I see a stranger mirrored. A face cockled with wrinkles, eyes squinted in, lips shivering yet stimulating the energy to tell those who ask me. My face has lost all the glow it possessed, all the happiness which once used to emanate from my laughter. I have come to Kabul now, a throbbing fear pervading my heart throughout my journey here, knowing that it is a city of war, knowing that anything could have happened to my son. But my want has urged me on. Because this was my last hope, I had nothing more to lose. And now I weep over his body, the body which once used to nestle on my very chest. There’s not much to feel, just a pang, heaving my conscience with its merciless throbs. For there was mirth in my smile, now there is disdain. There was mirth in my smile, now there is only pain.
I am a tornado of surrender, of anguish, of fervor relentless. I am a wave of passion, crashing and pulsating, merging and transfusing, subduing emotion within itself. I am the chant of a pain multifarious. I am the vision of murk within my void. I am the cry which pierces and stabs me wholly beyond, a wail audible only to my soul. I am Zara, the one who fought. Zara, the one who lost. Lost with life as the victor.
Sakina Batool
LGS Shahjamal
Project: Ink 