We measure our lives by achievements—degrees, jobs, responsibilities. But rarely do we measure the silent ageing of those who made it all possible
Dr Fazal Wani
It was just a routine video call. A simple moment in an ordinary day. The kind of call we make without preparation, without expectation. But sometimes, life chooses the most ordinary moments to reveal extraordinary truths.
As the screen lit up and my mother’s face appeared, I smiled as always. The same warmth. The same familiar presence that has been my comfort since childhood. But this time, something felt different. I could not immediately name it. It was subtle, almost invisible, yet deeply powerful.
I saw time. In her eyes, I noticed age resting quietly. Not loudly, not dramatically, but gently like evening sunlight fading into dusk. The sparkle is still there. The love is still there. But around it, I could see the years she has carried. Years of sacrifice. Years of silent prayers. Years of sleepless nights spent worrying about her children.
Of course, to me, she is still young. She will always remain the strong woman who carried responsibilities without complaint, who stood firm when life tested us, who hid her own pain so that we could smile freely. In my heart, she is timeless. Mothers do not age in our hearts; they remain the protectors of our childhood.
Yet reality has its own language. The hands that once lifted me effortlessly now move a little slower. The voice that once called out firmly now carries a softer tone. The eyes that stayed awake through my illnesses now reflect a quiet tiredness that only years can bring. And in that moment, I realised something painful: while I was busy growing up, she was growing old.
We often measure our lives by our achievements – degrees earned, jobs secured, responsibilities handled. But rarely do we measure the silent ageing of those who made all of it possible. We move forward with ambition, while time moves forward with our parents.
There is a strange guilt in noticing this. A feeling that perhaps we should have looked more closely, called more often, visited sooner, listened longer. Distance makes us forget that time does not pause for anyone. Not even for mothers.
And yet, there is also gratitude. Because every line on her face is a chapter of love. Every grey strand of hair is a testimony to patience. Every sign of ageing carries a story of sacrifice, most of which we will never fully understand.
That video call lasted only a few minutes. But it left behind a realisation that will stay much longer. Our parents are not permanent fixtures of our childhood. They are human. They are fragile. They are ageing. And perhaps the greatest responsibility of adulthood is not just to succeed in life but to become a source of comfort for those who once made us feel invincible.
That day, I did not just see my mother on a screen.
I saw the years she gave me. And silently, I prayed that I may give her peace in the years that remain.
In that quiet moment after the call ended, my heart turned to a verse from the Qur’an, where Allah reminds us:
“And lower to them the wing of humility out of mercy and say:
‘My Lord, have mercy upon them as they raised me when I was small.’”
(Surah Al-Isra 17:24)
How powerful these words feel when one truly understands them.
When I was small, she carried me. When I was weak, she protected me. When I was unaware, she prayed for me.
My Lord, have mercy upon her as she raised me when I was small.
And perhaps that is the greatest prayer a child can ever make.
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