The Dawn Is On Us

C H A P T E R 3 9

D R E A D shrouded the home in its dark cloak. The place once full of life transformed into a sirai for the sufferers. A home that had always been lit up with the warmth of love, turned into a house, standing lonely in a street of love. Time had been cruel. It had changed the course of life of the residents. It had tipped its scale, turning on its own axis. Changing plans that had seemed to be the best, up until the tragedy had struck.

Ali Jamal, was the only son of Jamal. He was to be his budhapay ka sahara. He was the coolness of his mother's eye. After reaching his adolescent years, Ali had gotten himself involved with the wrong crowd. No matter how much his parents tried to explain to him, with words or fists, it did not seem to matter to him. For Ali, it was as if the whole word was against him. He had realised his wrongs a bit too late. And that had led him straight to his grave.

Jahan-ara's tears knew no end. The flew like water dripping from a damaged tap. Her sobs clenching the heart of those around her. The ladies all gave her their sincere sympathies, sitting with her for the better half of the night. Waiting for Jamal to bring back their son home. For one last time.

No mother wants to see her jawan son be shrouded in white. In the kafan, that they had prepared for their own self. No mother wants to see the son who was supposed to lift her charpai, have his own lifted by the fragile shoulders of his old father.

Jahan-ara could not forget the image of when the hospital had called. It was one in the morning. She and Jamal were worried. Still waiting for Ali's arrival. Praying hard for his survival. And when that call had come through, Jamal fell down on his knees. Crying. Jahan-ara shouted for her neighbours. And they had all led Jamal to the hospital. And none of them had returned, except for the ones that were really young. They had been sent to explain that the funeral would be happening at eleven am.

Jahan-ara received a phone call from a very melancholic Jamal. Who informed her that Hoor had been invited to the funeral. He instructed her to not put on a show. For the sake of their deceased son. Hoor and Ali may have developed differences as they grew older, but eventually, they were siblings who had shared a deep bond. That required no words.

Jahan-ara sat in between women, having already spread a white sheet on the floor of their courtyard. All of them sitting on chairs, some consoling her. While others made sure that things were being done the right way.

"Assalamualikum," a coarse voice greeted.
It was obvious that whoever the person was, had been crying for a long time.
Jahan-ara raised her head, opening her red swollen eyes. To be met with a sight if Hoor dressed in beige.
"Waalikumassalam," she replied.

Hoor bent down, hugging her mother. Letting a few silent tears drip down. Jahan-ara caressed her hair. Hoor's grief was greater than hers. She had just raised the child, Hoor shared the blood with him. And for a moment, Jahan-ara remembered the innocent siblings she had raised. Where had she gone wrong? Why had the two turned out to be so different than how she had raised them?

"Ammi.. bhai itni jaldi kyun chale gai?" Hoor questioned.
Her voice highlighting her pain.
"Uss ka waqt agaya tha. Chup kar jao. Roo mat. Jau ja kar mun dho kar ao," Jahan-ara instructed.
Hoor, not wanting to increase the pain of the mother, did exactly as she was told. Heading into her elder brother's room. Crying, seeing all his things laying messily.

It took her back to the time when she would fight with him to clear his mess. Or when she would argue with him about his habits. Teasing him that no woman would marry him. She regretted it now. Not showing him her love. But deep in her heart, Hoor knew that Ali knew how much she loved him. Her little actions were a reminder of that.

Hoor grabbed his discarded shirt. Grabbing it. Sobbing into it. The material muffling her sobs. As she put it down, a piece of paper fell out. She grabbed it. It was a sort of receipt. However, having no idea on how to read, Hoor placed it in her bag. She would have Mustafa read it out for her. Perhaps it would be a clue of who had shot her brother.

By the time she stepped out, Ali's body had been brought home. And everyone was looking at him. Taking in his face, for the last time. Now they would never be able to meet him in their mortal life. Never be able to hear him shout, cry or laugh. He had gone faraway from them. To their Creator.

"Hoor jao ap bhi apnay bhia ki shakal dekh lo," an old neighbour of theirs instructed.
Hoor nodded her head. Walking with heavy footsteps. His face was peaking out of the white blanket. A radiant glow in his face that was never there before. His lips stretched into a smile.
"Bhai ap chale gai. Mein apko rok bhi nahi saki. Mein itni buri tou nahi thi jo milay beighair chale gai," Hoor spoke silently, rubbing her hand on his cheek.
"Ammi jaan ko mera salam dena!" She kissed his forehead.
Moving away, covering his face. The men had come to take him away.

The men exited. Taking with them the son and brother. For him to never return. Hoor controlled herself. It was foolish to cry now. As the women ate the food that had been prepared, Hoor stood on the doorway. Awaiting the arrival of the men. She could not stomach anything right now. Just the look of food made her sick.

And then she saw it. The men making their way in to the street. All talking to each other. The sadness on Jamal's face was easily seen from afar. He was a man who had lost the apple of his eyes. It was obvious that he would be in pain.

"Assalamualikum," Hoor greeted her father.
He nodded his head. Patting her back. In this moment of grief, it did not matter that he had disowned her. She was his only child now. Perhaps, he could forgive her. For it was children who make mistakes. And it was their duty as parents to forgive and forget.

"Hoor, aao akar kha lo kuch," Jamal motioned.
She nodded. Her heart finally at peace. Her brother was united with Allah. Their God. He would no longer suffer at the hands of the mortals. Their Allah would protect her brother.

Mustafa silently entered. He had looked after all the details. And had been of great help. Thanks to his connections, everything had occurred without a hitch.

That night, Hoor stayed over. Giving her parents the support they needed. All three of them talking deep into the night. About the loved one they had lost. Laughing at the kind of person he was. Silently praying for him and his maghfirat.

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A U T H O R' S N O T E
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The scene of Hoor standing on the door and not eating was inspired by me. On my dadi's funeral I could not eat anything. I only ate after my father and everybody else had returned from burying her. It put me at peace. That she was now with Allah. And nothing could harm her.

Losing a loved one is a grief I faced for the first time on 22 January 2021.
As I write this chapter a month later, I want to tell you, it gets better. The pain heals itself. Leaving behind nothing but memories.

Also the scene of them laughing at night, that was my father and his siblings. They chose to not cry. Instead to laugh. We mourned her by shedding tears. But more than that we remembered the life she had lived, with laughter.