She was a mother. A mother of a well-raised great kid. She was proud of him. How could she not be? He was simple, humble, down to earth, patriotic, loving, caring and everything she wanted to see him to be. Actually, even better than she wanted. He was her only son. He was her “ankhon ka tara”. All she wanted was to see her son living a happy life. Was it too much to ask for a son? A son who was loved by everyone. An honest and honestly, a ‘rare’ Pakistani. That was all she wanted. She had spent her life. She wanted a much better one for her son.
Now she is sitting on her chair. Grey hair, old body. She is sitting there on that chair, where she was sitting when he told her that he would come back after half an hour. He would not be late. The poor lady trusted him. That’s why she is still there. Waiting for him to come back. He went out there to get her medicines. She believed she did not need them but he didn’t. That’s why he went out there. She waited for him. That wait was not ending. Half an hour? what could have possibly happened? Traffic maybe. The worried mother turned on the T.V to get her mind somewhere else. It did take it somewhere else… somewhere she couldn’t possibly have thought of it going. There was the breaking news about firing between two groups of different sects. Four people from the groups were passed. Some people trying to help them, lost their lives too. She died inside seeing the place of the incident. Two blocks away from her home. He was never late. Why was he late? She called his phone again and again; it was busy. She did not know what to believe, what to do. And then, there was a phone call. She was afraid to answer it. But how could she miss it? She attended it with her shaking hands and there was a news the mother of the only son, didn’t wanna hear. She wanted to hear his voice but instead she heard his name in the list of dead people from the hospital. How was a broken soul supposed to react? There was nothing that could be done. He was the only smile of his face and now it was gone. He was gone. But her heart? What is she supposed to do with it, still living those thirty minutes, waiting for him to show up.
What was his fault? Maybe he was gone because a person like him couldn’t survive in this community, this country. Maybe people here just see what sect you belong and what is your caste. Maybe his fault was that he did not belong to the sect of the murderer.
Maybe she could have moved on. Maybe she could have lived rest of her life without depression if she wouldn’t see all those sons getting killed every other day. Maybe if there was less Jahalat in her country. Maybe if there was peace, some respect in her country. Peace created by people. People who could survive, unlike her son. Every time she hears the news of someone killed. She feels the pain all over again. She feels the pain for everyone. Every other mother losing her son, every wife losing her husband, every family losing their loved one, every child losing his parents. She knows the pain. She feels each bit of it.
That’s why she is depressed since forever.