The Days When We All Wept…

Azaan Javaid

The first visuals that shook us were that of Tufail Matoo. As this young boy in his early teens lay still on a stretcher, one could see his head split wide open due to the bullet injury. I could not only see the dead boy but the dreams in his hollow eyes which were vanishing slowly one by one. I thought to myself that did he even in his wildest imagination dreamt of not coming back alive from the play ground where he was shot..All that I used to think while I was playing as a kid was returning home and see the lit up face of my mother. How unfortunate must the mother be as she received the body of her only lad soaked in blood? We wept for Tufail. We wept for all those who had the same fate and we wept for the ones whom they left behind. We wept for the whole day.

As the funeral of a young boy was passing through the curfewed streets, it was fired at .The crowd eventually had to run for cover. All of them ran but one didn’t. The last one standing was the father of the slain whose body now was lying on the street amongst the heap of dust and rocks. He didn’t isolate his dead son. I wondered what was it that he protecting him from. His son was a free soul and at peace, at least that’s what we want to believe. But this notion didn’t stop him. As he was being kicked, his tired eyes did not wander away from the soulless body of his son. His wrinkled hands lay over the face of his boy as if he did not want him to see what was happening to his old man. They kicked and kicked but his weak bones didn’t give up, not until the men were tired. As he cried out the name of his son and begged to the almighty to some how save him, we wept. We wept seeing his moist eyes. We wept seeing his trembling hands, desperately trying to save the already dead. We wept for a father. We wept for a son and we wept for the whole day.

A father of three young daughters leaves home to purchase some fruits for his family and he never returns. The father in this story died of the beating he received for no fault of his. The agitated men in this scenario landed relentless blows on his head which brought him down instantly. Some say that your whole life flashes back in front of your eyes when you are about to die. I doubt it in this scenario. All he would be thinking of is about his three young daughters. With every blow he would be seeing himself going farther and farther. The fear of leaving behind his loved ones would not have left him till the very end. He would miss the joy of getting them married. He will miss the joy to see them successful. The fear of the cruel world pouncing on his family would have grabbed him by the guts. And he would have left towards the heavenly abode in a double mind. But they also say that leave everything in Gods hands and he will take you in his. I guess he would have left them in God’s. As his three little daughters cried we could see their sulking shoulders. Who would laugh with them and who would cry when they are in pain? Who would be there to scold them and who would be there to laugh at the silly jokes? Who would give them a shoulder to cry when they are about to leave with their husbands? Who will bring them fruits? We wept for the slain. We wept for the daughters. We wept for their helplessness and we wept for the silent sobs of their mother who wanted to be brave. We wept all day.

An eight year old boy leaves home to visit his uncle. He is stopped and as he stands still with his half chewed pear he must have noticed the baton landing on him. What would have been his thoughts? An eight year old boy, I guess cricket, foot ball, cartoons and chocolates would have vanished from the mind of the toddler in a jiffy. We wept thinking how could he have bared the pain of the relentless hits. We wept thinking how would he have shrieked for help. We wept thing how much pain would he have felt when the same baton was shoved into his mouth. We wept all day.

We wept when the mother of the yet another slain landed her last kiss on the forehead of his young blood. The tears kept on flowing. The wrinkles ran deep but couldn’t stop the tears falling. We wept when the little boy saw his elder brother, his hero. We wept when his tiny hands tried to wake him up, but all in vain. We wept when we heard an old man’s begging to stop everything while burying his only son. We wept for everyone. We wept everyday. And all we did was weep.

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About theparallelpost
The language of words is more heavenly than the language of tongues and lips. The Parallel Post is a forum to offer a space for people who dare to speak through their words. The intention is to create an environment to share in words what we perceive in our minds...

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