Nadeem, a teenager, embraced a lifestyle which was at variance with his family’s approval, engaging in it with reckless abandon. He was busy, idly tossing aside the prime of his life, totally indifferent to the responsibilities mandated to the realisations of one’s goals. He was living a kind of life that defied the expectations of his parents, treading his own path without any introspective analysis. His father, Nisar Ahmad, a tailor by profession, would often remain distressed by his son’s indifference to the prospect of a better life and another thing that he was mostly troubled by was his inability to meet financial obligations.
Every night at dinner, when Nadeem confronted his father, Nisar Ahmad would unleash a barrage of exhortations, vehemently admonishing him to abstain from the activities that yielded no results. However, he persisted in doing what was contrary to his father’s wishes. In fact he began to grow tired of receiving incessant tongue-lashing from his father.
“I want to have dinner,” Nadeem announced abruptly, appearing unexpectedly and startling his mother, Shameema, as he entered late one evening.
To avoid seeing his father and his endless monologue, He convinced his mother to have dinner twenty minutes earlier than usual. His mother initially resented his words, though Nadeem’s insistence subordinated her resentment to a state of helplessness. Subdued by powerlessness, she acquiesced to her son, conceding to his desires. She broke into sobs, after Nadeem had dinner without his father, pondering over a convincing explanation to be trotted out as soon as Nadeem’s father would arrive.
“Where is Nadeem?” Nisar Ahmad exclaimed with intrigue as he dinned.
“He finished his meal just before you came as he was slightly out of sorts”, Shameema managed to reply, her words subtly tinged with dread.
Having averted the looming danger, she was now racking her brain, striving to conjure yet another persuasive explanation, so as to stave off the brewing storm.
“I haven’t seen Nadeem since yesterday morning, what’s the matter with him?” Inquired Nisar Ahmad the following day, with lingering frustration in his tone.
“He is upstairs with his friends who have arrived to ask about his health,” she quickly blurted out.
Shameema breathed a sigh of relief after Nisar’s curiosity was put to rest. Before they went to bed, they had turned off all the lights. Tossing restlessly herself in the bed, Shameema lay awake, deeply agitated by the consistent lies being told to her husband to ensure the defence of her son.
The following day, she was awoken by the Fajr Adhan, made ablution and offered prayer, she then lifted her hands to the heavens. With tears streaking her cheeks, she muttered something, her words soaked in desperation.
As she set the tablecloth for dinner, Her heart raced with what-ifs. Before she could even dole out the rice onto the plates, Nisar burst out, “Where on earth Nadeem has disappeared to?” His words laced with simmering rage, alluded to impending misfortune. For a while everything seemed to have stopped, it looked as though, the entire world had suddenly come to a shuddering halt. Nothing was heard except the distant, plaintive wails of dogs in the backdrop.
Shameena with her mouth agape, unable to utter a single word, as if a peculiar sense of helplessness seized her. His words preyed on her mind. Nisar’s gaze remained fixed on her as he bellowed, Is Nadeem home”? His voice sliced through the eerie silence that had settled just a moment before over everything.
“He doesn’t feel like having dinner with you,” Shameema finally spilt the truth, her heart pounding.
Upon hearing his wife’s words, Nisar fell silent, his hand froze in the air, suspended in astonishment while having dinner, his eyes relentlessly fixed on his wife. He stopped taking food, quickly washed his hands then ascended the staircase into his bedroom.
Shameema totally dismayed at what happened previously, kept herself busy with washing the utensils after her husband was gone. Her mind was consumed by an array of things that could ensue as an aftermath of unvarnished truth. After she was done with her work, she walked upstairs with trepidation, hesitant to confront her husband and talk out the whole matter. However, by the time she made it into her bedroom, Nisar had already slept.
The following day, she woke up a little early, tended to her household duties as usual and was wondering about her husband who was still sleeping, she went on working till it struck eight. Nisar was still upstairs, fast asleep. Her dread swelled within her, Shameena had swiftly run upstairs and gently started to rouse her husband from sleep, yet he remained unmoved. She placed her hand close to his lips to see if he was breathing. Panic seized her as she found him dead. A shrilling cry tore from her lips, penetrating through the walls and hurrying in neighbours: men, women, and children coming upstairs. Soon, the room was filled with the mournful wails of relatives, their grief mingling with Shameena’s. Women sat around her, trying to wipe her tears, as they cascaded down her cheeks in a ceaseless deluge. Meanwhile, men threaded their way through to reach the dead body. Relatives after being telephonically informed, raced in with tear-stained faces, their voices choked with sobs and wails.
Nadeem was nowhere, still oblivious to his father’s sudden departure from this world. Shameema, through sobs, pleaded to fetch Nadeem, so that he would come to know about his father’s sudden passing. While the dead body was being prepared to be wrapped in a white piece of cloth, Nadeem came lamenting with no shoes on his feet and flung himself upon his dead father. Onlookers stood wrapped in unfathomable grief, their eyes swelled with tears. Some of them volunteered to come forward and lift him up to allow the final rites to be performed.
After the ritualistic ‘fourth’ and the final day of mourning, Shameema, lost in a cascade of sorrow, was morbidly consumed by the nagging truth that she spoke a day before her husband died. Nadeem, in one of the corners of the room, sank into ineffable silence, the weight of his regret creased across his face.
Zahoor Farooq is a writer and book reviewer. He can be reached at [email protected]

Zahoor Farooq