I just can’t believe my eyes.
My mother has never refused to hug me before. I don’t know of a reason she will.
I miss her warmth.
In its redemption, I’m recalling the day she had hugged me for the last time.
Despite zillions of words, I often run out of adjectives to describe how I feel at times.
That hug is an exception. I’ve a perfect adjective for it: heavenly.
I’d returned home from the Madarsa with a surprise for her.
Inspired by Hamid of the exemplary story Idgah that Premchand wrote, I brought bangles for her and that too oversized.
Unlike Hamid, I wasn’t wise enough to buy a present of the highest utility.
I just had bought whatever leaves enough money in my pocket that I’m able to buy sweet potatoes.
My mother merrily tried to wear them and adored them with her eyes. She has the prettiest eyes. In dinner, she made sweet potatoes.
I ate them in regret as I didn’t tell her about the money I managed to save.
It’s a heavenly day.
Not alike the day on which I faced my mother’s rejection.
I kept craving to be hidden in her warm bosom but she kept crying.
I was unable to figure out why.
Was it the oversized bangles that I bought?
While she wept, the other unrecognisable faces around us watched in silence.
It’s an oxymoron: the deafening silence.
I was determined. Once I spread myself next to her, I kept myself in the same position like a huge pile of papers awaiting to be set abalze or buried down the land.
When my vision was blurred and my toes were being plucked out as my soul squeezed out of me like a rubber ball, tilting my eyes back and pulling my tongue out only to fall off my chin, my mother didn’t hug me.
She broke into tears and patted her chest and lost her conscience.
I awaited her to stop and hold me for one more time.
Instead, she let me go.
I have no blood in my veins. I have ink.