In April 2001, when our second daughter was born, a wave of joy spread through the entire family. She was called a bit of sunlight, a bit of moonlight. The womenfolk showered blessings, the elders offered prayers. Sweets were distributed, feasts were held, offerings were made. We wholeheartedly thanked our Lord for blessing us once again with the gift of a child. We imagined the sight of the two sisters playing together in the courtyard—how beautiful a glimpse of divine mercy it would be.
In this state of elation, three or four months passed. Then one day, Maryam developed a fever, and soon after, she went into convulsions. We rushed to the hospital. The doctor administered an injection and said that if the fever did not subside and the seizures did not stop by the next day, they would extract spinal fluid for testing. However, by the next day, her condition improved. Another month or two passed, and during a routine checkup, the doctor told us that the development of her head was not progressing at the rate it should have been. One day someone pointed out that Maryam’s eyesight seemed weak. We didn’t want to believe it, but when we looked more closely, worry crept in. The mother choked up: “Oh, will my daughter need glasses at such a young age?”
We took her to an eye specialist. After a few days of examination, he said the eyes were perfectly fine, yet she was unable to see. He advised us to take her to Al-Shifa Eye Trust Hospital. We immediately traveled to Islamabad. They confirmed that she had no vision. The moment we heard it, the world went dark. The sky and the earth turned black. It felt as though it wasn’t Maryam who had lost her sight, but we who had gone blind. Our hearts shattered. Tears poured like a flood.
This was a divine truth—and a source of contentment. But it belonged to the realm of the unseen. The reality before our eyes was this: Maryam would now live a life without a single ray of light; surrounded by complete darkness; with no awareness of morning or evening; where the counting of days, months, and years would become meaningless. With this darkness came a silence so terrifying that it would last a lifetime. It would be a life resembling death—or a death draped in the veil of life.
Maryam spent the next twenty-three years in this limbo between life and death. During this time, we never truly knew what anguish she endured or what traumas she bore. We only knew what she expressed. Sometimes she was calm and content. Other times, deeply restless. Sometimes she would burst out laughing, and sometimes she would break into sobs and sighs. She knew only one word: “Mama.”
Perhaps she had heard it from her elder sister in the early years and remembered it. Or perhaps it was a meaningless sound uttered unconsciously.
In moments of helplessness, she would suddenly cry out, “Mama, Mama!” Her mother would rush to her, kiss her, and ask, “What’s wrong, my daughter? Are you hungry? Is something hurting? Did you get scared in your dream? What can I do for you, my child? Say something… tell me something…!”
The reply was often a deep silence—or, at times, a few tears rolling down her cheeks. We understood that through her silence and her tears, she was saying:
دل کے زخم کا رنگ تو شاید آنکھوں میں بھر آئے
روح کے زخموں کی گہرائی کیسے دکھائیں تمھیں؟
سناٹا جب تنہائی کے زہر میں بجھتا ہے
وہ گھڑیاں کیونکر کٹتی ہیں، کیسے بتائیں تمھیں؟
دھڑکتی رگ ہے چاہت اپنی، کاسے سنائیں تمھیں؟
ہم تو سلگتے ہی رہتے ہیں، کیوں سلگائیں تمھیں؟
The color of wounds upon the heart may perhaps reach the eyes,
But how shall we show you the depth of the wounds upon the soul?
When silence is steeped in the poison of loneliness,
How do those hours pass—how can we tell you?
Our love is a burning melody—why should we make you listen?
We are already smoldering—why should we set you alight too?
For the past five or six years, her difficulties had increased. Repeated pneumonia attacks had weakened her lungs. A feeding tube had to be inserted through her nose into her stomach. A little milk would be given through it. The discomfort was deeply painful. The agony would peak when, to prevent her from pulling the tube out, her hands had to be restrained. Alongside this came vomiting, spasms, skin issues, difficulty breathing, seizures—some form of hardship was always present. And yet, remarkably, she accepted all of this with such grace—as though this was life, and to endure it with a smile was her purpose.
She never grew weary or disheartened by this colorless and painful life. She always fought to stay alive. Over the last five years, the routine had become predictable: each year she would get pneumonia, be admitted to the hospital, and the doctors would tell us to prepare ourselves mentally—this is the end. With deep sorrow, we would resign ourselves to the doctors’ verdict. But Maryam would reject it outright. She would muster all the strength of her body and soul to fight for life—and she would win. The doctors would be astonished at the sheer will to survive displayed by her fragile body. From 2019 to 2023, this pattern repeated each year. Each time pneumonia struck, the doctors predicted death. Each time she defied them. Each time she defeated death and reclaimed life.
Her Courage Became Our Strength
Her courage always kept us strong. By God’s grace and the comfort of friends and family, we never once felt burdened by hardship—not even for a moment. But in 2024, as I entered my fifty-ninth year, I began to notice signs of decline—those subtle frailties that are known as the marks of old age. While bathing and cleaning Maryam, carrying her up and down the stairs, seating and unseating her from the wheelchair or in the car—I began to feel that weakness was overcoming me.
With full determination, I resolved never to let this weariness show in front of Maryam. I feared that if she sensed it, she would become anxious… she might give up. This resolve held strong for two or three months. But then, one after another, came a series of events that exposed all my efforts to hide it. She realized that her father was now struggling to meet the demands of love and care.
And that was it—she packed her bags for the final journey.
A shadow of grief, sorrow, and disappointment clearly spread across her face. I pretended not to understand and asked: “What’s wrong, my daughter?” She immediately turned her face away. And just then, from somewhere far off, a voice echoed:
تم سے الفت کے تقاضے نہ نباہے جاتے
²ورنہ ہم کو بھی تمنا تھی کہ چاہے جاتے
“You could no longer meet the demands of love And yet I too longed to be loved by you...”
We arrived at the hospital. The doctors told us it was pneumonia again—just like before—and there was no hope of survival. We thought: what’s new? This had been said five times before. And each time, she proved stronger. Each time, she had fought and won. Surely, she would fight again—and win again.
But this time, it was a different decision.
This time, she had resolved not to fight. This time, she had decided to surrender the game of life. So when the liver began to bleed, she let it bleed. When the heart began to stop, she let it stop. When the breath began to falter, she let it go.
I pleaded with her: “I’m absolutely fine. These are such small tasks for me—helping you gives me strength, fills me with life. And the truth is, if you leave… it will become very hard. Because then, there will be no reason left to be strong anymore.”
Her siblings begged her: “Just wait a little longer, then you can go… we haven’t had our turn to care for you yet.”
Her mother cried out: “Maryam, Maryam, we live because of you. Don’t leave us. Without you, where will we go? How will we survive?”
She heard all our pleas. For a moment, she stirred… but then soon grew calm. Calm forever.
On her face was the trace of the agony her soul and body had endured for twenty-three years. In her half-open eyes, there was also an answer to all our pleas—etched silently:
دنیا سے خامشی سے گزر جائیں ہم تو کیا
ہستی ہی اپنی کیا ہے زمانے کے سامنے
اک خواب ہیں، جہاں میں بکھر جائیں ہم تو کیا
اب کون منتظر ہے ہمارے لیے یہاں ³
⁴شام آ گئی ہے، لوٹ کے گھر جائیں ہم تو کیا
What if we live, what if we die—
If we pass quietly from the world, what’s the loss?
What is our worth in the face of time—
We are a dream; what if we scatter into nothing?
Who waits for us in this world anymore—
Evening has come… what if we simply go home?
References:
[1] Zuhoor Nazar
[2] Shanul Haq Haqqi
[3] With a slight alteration
[4] Muneer Niazi