At the Threshold of Memories

September—a month marking the 48th death anniversary of my mother. Once again, this month and its days have quietly passed by in London. In the past, I used to observe this day in my hometown of Faisalabad. The large courtyard where my mother used to distribute charity, offerings, and sacrificial meat is now a place where her death anniversary is commemorated with communal meals shared with the neighbourhood. In the front veranda, women from the neighbourhood would gather for Quranic recitations and prayers, followed by the sharing of dates. After the prayers, during the meal, they would reminisce about my mother’s countless virtues, sigh deeply, and acknowledge that yet another year had passed.

Every year, at dawn, I would visit the cemetery to meet my beloved mother, lay floral sheets on the graves of other relatives, and find solace in this annual ritual. Before leaving, I would sit by the quiet mound of earth that was her resting place, sharing all that was in my heart. Even now, I search for her around me, quietly calling out, but she is nowhere to be found. As the poet Waris Shah poignantly said:

ہیر آکھیا جوگیا جھوٹھ  آکھیں

کون رٹھرے یار مناوندائے

ایہا کوئی نہ ملیا میں ڈھونڈ تھکی 

جیہڑاں گیاں نوں موڑ  لیاوندائے

بھلا موئے تے وچھڑے کون میلے

اینویں جھوٹرا  لوک دلاواندائے

Heer said, “O Jogi, you lie,

Whoever can reconcile with the departed beloved?

I found no one who could bring back the gone ones.

Who can reunite with those who have passed?

It’s a false comfort people give to broken hearts.”

I didn’t believe this before, but after four decades,

 I’ve come to accept that those who are gone can never return.

Waiting for them is futile, and so is searching for them and holding onto hope.

Yet, strangely, my heart still doesn’t accept this reality.

This is why every September reminds me of my solitude and the absence of her prayers. I feel that the dignified person who anchored my world, who made the world and its certainties mine, is no longer with me. Now, my back is unprotected, left vulnerable to the lashings of self-serving relationships. I remember her with a deep sense of longing, recalling that while she was there, I was safe, and so was my identity.

My mother, who taught me life lessons in her school of love, imparted wisdom and understanding of life’s mysteries. She instilled in me a love for humanity, made concern for others a part of my upbringing, and set the standard for judging people not by wealth and status, but by their noble qualities. She clarified the difference between right and wrong, made the importance of relationships and the ways to maintain them an inherent part of my nature. She was my guide and support at every step. Throughout my life, I held her hand, and she guided me.

She, who cherished the poor and downtrodden relatives, who cared for the old and needy as if they were the apple of her eye, who knew the art of earning and giving respect, whose compassionate nature always sought opportunities for service, left this world, and with her departure, the red roses began to turn black. Her smiling face delivered the message of a long separation, prayers became weak, words lost their power, relationships seemed empty and ashamed, and identities appeared invalid.

The places that once bore witness to her presence felt strange, and the city of Faisalabad, with its streets, roads, and atmosphere that were once integral to life, became foreign. It felt as if someone had suddenly pushed me into a vast ocean, onto a terrain where there was sunlight everywhere, but no shade in sight. The home where I slept soundly under the warm blanket of her selfless love, filled with her heartfelt prayers and sincere care, suddenly caught fire. My childhood, my dreams, my toys, and the lullabies—all burned to ashes. I stood in the courtyard of that house, thinking alone, “What will happen now?” Her picture, with a gentle dewy smile, kept watching me.

The home that was taken from me in 1976, its ashes are still tied to the corner of my heart, from which the sweet fragrance of her motherly love still emanates. This scent was my certainty, the only way to understand the mysteries of God and the universe. This melancholic son, lost in the triangle of God, mother, and love, is still searching for that missing link in this triangle—a link snatched away by an unfortunate moment four decades ago. The geography of his universe was shattered, and it remains shattered today. The universe feels incomplete, though his faith in the presence of love and God is firm, but the absence of his mother is a constant void that torments his soul.

Mothers are very important for their children, no matter who they are. But it’s only after they are gone that one truly realizes how essential they are. A mother is like oxygen; without her, one suffocates and gradually dies from within, continuing to perish indefinitely.

My Simple-Hearted, Beautiful, Kind, and Compassionate Mother

My mother, the noble woman dressed in white shalwar and a white-capped burqa, whose beauty and purity surrounded her like a halo of light. She remained distant from pretentiousness, ostentation, and worldly impurities throughout her life, recognising God and His creation through humility, compassion, love, and service. She was utterly unfamiliar with arrogance, cruelty, and the ego of “I,” and she instilled in us the importance of staying away from these vanities. She taught us the highest human values and imparted lessons of kindness, love, and service in our daily lives, making the awareness of loving goodness and hating evil a part of our nature.

When she departed from this world, she left behind an immense void, one that has never been filled since. Experience has taught me that the void left by mothers and love can never be filled. It’s our misconception that deceives us into believing otherwise, but in truth, it’s an illusion. Over these years, not even the shadow of my mother has appeared where I could lay down my sorrow or inscribe the tale of this separation that has caused such turmoil within me.

So, my dear mother! Tell me, what should I do? When I remember you, I recall beauty, goodness, and love, along with that enduring emptiness that has left my soul restless. Each year, September brings tears to my eyes and leaves a dampness in my heart. Every day, I find myself standing barefoot at the threshold of your memory. I wonder, why can’t I forget this beautiful and kind woman who stepped out of the colourful frame of life 48 years ago and became one with a lonely mound of earth, transforming from reality into a mere illusion? Why does her gentle presence continue to echo in my heart like the soft threads of cotton being spun? Why does sorrow seem to be perpetually seated within my heart?

This is a strange question that remains unresolved within me, even as 1976 has turned into 2024. This is why I want to tell my heavenly mother… Mother! I can no longer keep remembering you or staying this sad because I have so many other things to do in life. My grandchildren and Saba, my granddaughter, ask me countless questions about you. Perhaps, in the light of my answers, they want to become like you. They long deeply for you to visit their dreams, to talk to them endlessly, to lift their sadness. They want to share all their thoughts and desires with only you. In this crying, complaining world, they wish to live with joy and laughter.

And my dear mother, I have many other tasks to accomplish in life. I need to write, read, engage with the world, and above all, I need to live—just like other successful people who are alive and visible. The problem with your memory is that it doesn’t let me laugh or play. It keeps reminding me of the harsh reality and the tale of separation, preventing me from doing anything necessary for worldly success. So, my mother, my good mother, bless me so that I may forget you. I know you would never give me such a curse.

کما کے دولت میں ماں کو اتنا بھی نہ دے  پایا

جتنے پیسوں سے وہ میرا روز صدقہ اتارا کرتی تھی

I could never earn enough wealth to give to my mother,

As much as she spent daily to ward off misfortune from me.