| Hawaaon Ke Paighaam | Messages Of The Wind

| Murree |

Note: Murree is a city in Pakistan. Its a hill station and is wonderful to visit in summer and autumn.
Pronounced: Ma-ri

Pazaib is just another word for payal(anklets)
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Behke behke se mann, mehke mehke se tann, ujli ujli fizaaon main hain

Aaj hum hain jahan, kitni ranginiyan, chalki chalki nigahon mai hain

Neeli neeli ghataaon se hai chan rahi, halki halki roshni

Tumhi dekho na, ye kya hogaya

Tumhara hoon mai, aur tum meri

Mai hairaan hoon, tumhe kya kahu

Ke din mai huwi kaise chandini...

Two Years Ago
An autumnal evening in Murree

They say daughters are a burden; one taken on willingly, and then shook off willingly in the form of marriage. Waqas Ahmed had always had a problem with that analogy. His daughter had been brought into his life in the most traumatising of circumstances; his wife almost at death's door, his unborn son surely about to succumb to the same fate, and his unborn daughter fiercely fighting that fate inside her mother's womb. 

Waqas had been the recipient of many judgmental stares when he'd refused to sacrifice his daughter's life in exchange for his wife and unborn son's. It had been Anila's decision of-course, one she had prepared for ever since they had been warned of a tumultuous pregnancy. Save the strongest child first, no matter what. However, it was Waqas who was carrying out her wishes in the cold, sterile delivery room in one of Karachi's most prestigious hospitals. The designation of said hospital significant, because Waqas had believed that prestige meant education, and education meant evolution and open-mindedness.

This belief was cruelly shattered the moment he realised the stares directed his way by the surgeons, doctors, nurses, even the lady mopping up his wife's blood, were of incredulous judgement. He had just chosen his healthy unborn daughter over his very poorly unborn son, who had a less than 5% chance of survival. They had looked at him with such a strange expression in their eyes, repeatedly reassuring him that it was okay to try and save the son, that people did it all the time, even if it was unsuccessful. The room had been unwilling to believe that he wanted to sacrifice a son for a daughter, and if circumstances worsened, his wife too. Waqas could hand-on-heart say that he didn't want to sacrifice a damn thing. He wanted to go home with his wife and twin children, and live out the life he had always dreamt of. But life wasn't presented to us in a silver platter; heart-wrenching choices had to be made, and Waqas and Anila had made theirs.

Ultimately, he felt as if he had fought an entire battalion for his daughter's life; he had fought tradition, regressive thoughts, patriarchy and most of all, judgement, in order to let his daughter take her first precious breath in this world. In doing so, he had lost a son, and the chance to ever become a parent again, but his spirited daughter, in her tender twenty-three years, had repeatedly proved that Waqas and Anila didn't need anyone else as long as they had her. She had risen from the engulfing embers of death like a phoenix, and illuminated every darkened corner of their souls.

Waqas took in a deep, heavy breath, blinking away the moisture which threatened every time he thought of that painful night. His chest filled with the usual mixture of awe, tenderness and pride, whenever he thought of his little miracle. So very gentle, kind, honest, and most importantly, always looking out for others. It was these qualities which softened her otherwise firecracker-self, letting it be known that underneath her loud and bubbly exterior was a beautiful heart and soul.