A son’s silent struggles: Unveiling the poetic journey of pain, betrayal, and resilience

A mound of fresh beans sat on a piece of cloth in the kitchen. The ceiling fan slowly came to a stop, thanks to an unscheduled power cut. Darakhshaan packed lunch for her younger son, accompanied him to the main gate, and saw him off without kissing him on his forehead. Rarely would this mother forget to kiss her son goodbye in the mornings when he left for work.
Was it the beans that needed her immediate attention? Or, was it that she subconsciously knew that her son had forgotten something but wasn’t sure what it was? What made this moment unsuspicious was that her son, too, did not realize that he had missed his mother’s kiss and some other thing that made his mother rush to the kitchen.
There, in the kitchen, she spotted Luqman’s phone, plugged in for charging. Apparently, in his haste to get to his work on time, he had left it behind. She rushed outside and found Luqman a stone’s throw from her. However, before giving her son his phone, she accidentally pressed the side-mounted power button, making the contents on the screen visible. Darakshaan slowed down to take a look at the screen, which displayed a colourful wallpaper with text so small in size that she had to bring the phone very close to her eyes and zoom it here and there to read it. The text brought her to a complete stop, almost right in front of her son, who was unaware that his mother was reading the contents of the wallpaper.
The other day I saw his mother on their farm talking to someone who wasn’t there
He died believing in something sacred. I, on the other hand, brood, just brood, and injure my self-esteem
As I passed by, the dried leaves being crushed under my feet alerted her to my presence
She turned, and called my name like my mother does when she wants to hug or kiss me
“My darling, Luqman! I was just speaking to your best friend. He was there,” pointing to a tree nearby,“telling me not to worry
I didn’t get to see his face during his last moments. I see you, I see him”
Do those who die for a cause of one form or the other visit their loved ones from their graves? I asked myself
“We are going to have a word on this in the evening,” Luqman’s mother said to him, stammering a bit. He already knew what she was referring to. They briefly looked at each other in the middle of the gravel road that, after a quarter of a mile, connected their lane to the main road. None of them said anything further, except for a gentle nod and a quiet murmur of the title of the text that came from Luqman: A Recluse’s Free Verse.
Despite seeing the effect of his free verse on his mother which he knew could lead to serious fluctuations in her blood pressure throughout the day and stillchoosing to walk onwards to catch a bus to his work in Kashmir’s summer capital, Srinagar, he heaved a sigh of relief. “Luckily, she didn’t read Part II,” he said under his breath and started to walk briskly now. He also decided to read the Part II again once he was on the bus to be sure that it didn’t hurt or enrage his mother as the first part did, should she discover it in the evening.
Thrice she wanted to elope with me, thrice my family returned her
She begged my parents, some big-shot community members, and the cops at a nearby police post not to send her home
A consequence of severe thrashings and coercion at her family’s hands
One of her brothers probably hates me, thus does not see how deep in love I and his sister are
He also unilaterally backtracked from a mutually decided agreement that his sister marry me on 20th September
He called my father on 15th September that he wouldn’t give his sister’s hand in mine, come what may
He used foul language while breaking the news to my father over the phone, telling him that a shepherd from the mountains in the North was a better match than me
Now, she is to get married on 1st October to someone she has never known
Leaving me, the love of 5 years and the memories we had together, to deal with this double whammy
Why does it always have to be this way that some people get to decide the fate of others?
Why do people like to ignore the good in you and pick a certain thing to show you in a bad light?
I am heartbroken, and so is my family
“It looks like one of those complaint letters I used to write to God in my childhood,” Luqman smiled as this thought of self-criticism passed through his mind, “so basic and so straightforward”. However, he soon began to rationalize the rawness of Part II aboard the bus as it travelled past one stop after the other enroute to Srinagar. “I have heard somewhere that language spoils the essence of communication, and this, after all, is the pain I am carrying in my chest, though it happened some years back,” a burst of cough overtook Luqman and forced him to look out the window to breathe in fresh air. But that did not happen. The wind outside tasted a bit smoky, thanks to the dilapidated condition of the bus. Its exhaust coughed a lot of smoke than it should. “See, how old this bus is. Yet, it is going to take me to my destination,” another justification crossed his mind, but it also brought with it a question: What if Mother discovers this in the evening?
“Mother will be really confused if she gets to read both the poems one after the other in the evening” Luqman set out in search of possible reactions his mother would give. “No, she is a woman of letters and will understand the pangs of my heart. Anyway, Luqman seemed to grab on a different thought to dissect, “I don’t remember a day or an occasion in the past few years when I gave my mother something to cheer about. See, I am headed for a salesperson’s work. What good is being so educated in today’s world?” He was interrupted by the voice that came from the stairs on the left of the driver’s seat: Get up, all. We have reached Srinagar. Luqman was so enjoying his thoughts that he felt it rude on the part of the bus conductor to spoil them.
Luqman still had ten minutes to walk before he would reach the stationery shop where he worked. But he would not be able to continue digging further into the thoughts he was having on the bus, as he needed to be alert amidst the large number of cars and commuters on that stretch of the road. In the mornings, one always has to have all their senses working in sync to avoid being hit by a car or a motorcycle, or getting nudged, or pickpocketed from Jehangir Chowk to the Residency Road in Srinagar.
“How about writing another free verse to show my mother what I have been up to mentally of late and delete the previous two,” Luqman thought as he dusted his chair and the glass of the counter in front of him at the shop. “But I have always found it awkward to share my innermost feelings with her. This time, though, even if I can’t talk to her about them, at least I can take a printout of my words and hand it over to her in the evening, just in case she insists on reading Part 1 again. This will be a better substitute.” Luqman determined that during his lunch break, he would walk across the road to Jhelum View Park and put all his mother’s worries to restore multiply them if he chose to be too honest with his words. “I should not have left my phone in the kitchen this morning,” Luqman shook his head and wanted to shout but was soon alerted to an approaching student who was a few steps short of entering the shop.
“What kind of a son you gave birth to,” Luqman began the third and final part of his free verse spree, sitting on a wooden bench that went around a mammoth Chinar tree on the banks of river Jhelum. He, however, was quick to realize that this sentence would unnecessarily put his mother in the dock and cause a wave of unimaginable thoughts that might adversely affect her already stressed mind.
“I am not someone who likes to go around blaming people and playing a victim,” all of a sudden Luqman began to feel that he was going to write something that would not only have some truth to it but also give his mother some hope.
Luqman went ahead with some nuggets of truth to begin with.
Do you know Mother why I have been acting so weirdly, like a living corpse with no interest in anything, for the past two years?
Here is the truth, mother
I always thought I was the luckiest of my siblings, having been the first of my clan to pursue a major from one of the best institutions in the Valley
To go places where none of us has been before
To meet people none of us has met before
I also thought I had in my chest one of the best hearts that God has given to mankind
Full of love and compassion for others
I also thought I would never be wronged
Either by myself or by others
Mother, I trusted someone with my innermost feelings after being won over
I made myself vulnerable, least bothered about the consequences
I found true acceptance for a while or so I thought
Then the unthinkable happened
My trust became the means for my disgrace
But I fought back, mother
I knew I was not solely responsible
I was not defeated, but it hurt so deep
And I am still hurting, maybe a little less than I was a year or so ago, as what should have been celebrated became the reason for my sorrow
I learned my lesson, mother
But I am holding myself back, telling myself that I don’t deserve to be that old happy-go-lucky person again
I prevent myself from feeling any form of happiness
I tell myself to suffer further
I have been stifling my voice
I keep barring myself from doing anything meaningful
Mother, I am devoid of any joy
This stationery salesmanship sucks
But in my heart of my hearts, I believe I will bounce back, no matter what it takes
I don’t want to predict what life holds for me
I want to live it as it happens
I won’t let your upbringing and efforts to stand by my side when I was barely myself go in vain
Luqman might have wanted to write more if his phone had not kept ringing. His boss wanted him to be back in the shop as the footfall of customers had suddenly risen.
“When will I be myself again,” Luqman heaved a long sigh, put his phone into the right pocket on his beige trousers, rolled up his cuffs, and began to walk back to his shop.
About the author
Younis is a short story writer from Kashmir, India. He completed his 2-year leadership fellowship with Piramal Foundation in April this year. Prior to his fellowship, Younis was a Delhi-based Correspondent at FORCE Newsmagazine, a monthly magazine on national security and aerospace, where he extensively wrote on paramilitary forces and latest defence technologies. He was also part of Kus Bani Koshur Krorepaet season 1 (Kashmiri version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? produced by Studio Next – Sony Pictures Networks India – for DD Kashir) where he worked as Assistant Director and Casting Producer. Younis is the author of Jiji: the trials and tribulations of Parveena Ahangar (Hawakal Publishers 2020). He specialized in Narrative Journalism with Masters in Convergent Journalism from the Central University of Kashmir. He was awarded the 2013 Student of the Year prize and Best Debater of the College by SP College, Srinagar.

Younis Ahmad Kaloo