And within those haunting echoes, the truth whispered back
By Farhat Jabeen
The air was crisp in the hush of dawn, and the sky still carried traces of the night’s embrace. It was the sacred month of fasting, and the world outside was steeped in quiet devotion. She had risen before the call to morning prayer, offering Tahajjud, her whispered supplications dissolving into the silence. After Sehri, with time to spare, she stepped out with her elder sister, hoping to breathe in the fresh air of the early hours.
The world outside felt safe and familiar. Houses lay wrapped in slumber, and the lanes glowed dimly under flickering streetlights. They walked side by side, their hushed words vanishing into the stillness of the night.
Then—footsteps.
Soft at first, then deliberate, drawing closer.
At first, they paid no heed, assuming it was the men of the neighbourhood heading toward the mosque for Fajr prayer. But moments later, a grating sound reached their ears—the bolt of a gate being shaken.
A strange unease coiled around her heart.
Before they could react, an uproar erupted. Loud, commanding voices. The clang of boots against the ground. The air filled with words laced with anger, and something darker happened—something that made the blood drain from her face.
They turned to rush back inside, their hearts hammering against their ribs. But fate, cruel and merciless, had played its trick—the door was bolted from within. Their mother, unaware of their absence, had unknowingly locked them out.
Panic surged through her.
They banged on the door, their fists pounding desperately against the wood. “Abba! Open the door!” they cried, their voices rising in terror.
But silence answered.
And the shouting behind them grew louder.
When they turned back, they froze—figures clad in the shadowy green of authority, their faces carved in merciless stone. The Armed Men.
Her breath hitched. Her sister trembled beside her.
They pleaded, they wailed, voices raw with fear, but no answer came from within the house. The realisation struck like icy water—Abba was too far away. He didn’t hear them.
And in that moment, helplessness was more painful than fear itself.
Something inside her refused to surrender. She would not be swallowed by silence. A desperate scream tore from her throat, shattering the stillness of the night. She cried for help, for anyone who could hear, for anyone who would listen. Her voice broke against the quiet, a wild and aching plea against the tide of oppression.
Then—
A touch.
Gentle. Grounding.
She gasped, looking up through tear-streaked eyes. It was her sister, shaking her softly, concern shadowing her face. “Are you alright?” she asked, her voice a tether pulling her back to reality.
The world around her wavered. The soldiers, the gate, the looming darkness—all dissolved like mist at dawn.
It was a dream.
Just a dream.
Yet her heart still pounded, her skin damp with cold sweat. The fear clung to her, as real as the fading moonlight.
And somewhere deep inside, the echoes of that nightmare lingered, whispering of a truth far greater than sleep.
The writer teaches at SRM Welkin Higher Secondary School, Sopore
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