Once upon a time there was an innocent world....
She sat benumbed on her prayer mat. The picture on the mantlepiece across looked back at her. The child in the picture was the picture of pure innocence. A small shy little boy bravely facing the cameraman. Tousled soft brown hair, sunshine angled at the lens so that the face was half illuminated, half in shadow. How she loved the picture, how she had loved the child, as had everyone around them.
"Oi Mukhtaarey ! " resonated around the house, as she chased him across the rooms, trying to get him to finish his milk. "Oi maaaaa... Pehley dhoond to sahi mujhko.." the little boy would chortle, as his mum pretended to search for him...
The first day of school. His Abba and his mum, holding onto his little fingers, as he wrapped them tightly around theirs, refusing to let go. Where had time flown. Childhood evolved into teenage. The child who had been content to listen to bedtime stories, now preferred his laptop to his mum. She who anxiously still queried his meals, only to be told brusquely that she need not bother. He still could not sleep without hugging her tho, and she sought solace from his friends mums who reassured her that their children did just the same.
He had been her only child, and they had tried to give him the best that life had to offer. Being Muslim and young was no longer easy, in an increasingly hostile world. She knew that he spent long hours discussing the scenario abroad, the US, Australia, even France, after the Charlie Hebdo attacks. That he had made it abroad, to a university of his choice, in spite of it all, showed his dedication to his studies. How proud she was of him !
Yet. Within her heart she knew. They lived in a dangerous world. The internet had brought home all the angst and violence that prevailed in the world. How safe was he, was a question she asked herself everyday. All it would take was one zealot, one madman, one racist police officer, one shot from one gun. Everyday anxiously they waited for night and the skype, to reassure herself he was alive and well. His choice of subject did not help. Journalists were constantly at risk of life and limb.
Where was the world of her youth ? Where did the innocence go ? Questions that she asked herself often. The only rebellion then had been a stolen ice cream, a party with girlfriends on the sly. Fathers word was law. For her and her brother. Marriage was a happy arrangement. Maybe the thought that it was for keeps brought security and love. A journey she was contented to share with a good man who cherished and loved her. Of the child she beget him. The son who grew up happy. Until the advent of the computer. That it made a recluse of him, she could forgive, that it took her away from them, opened up the vistas of wild and dangerous adventure, she never could. Yet if she was to keep up with him, she needed it. Vitally.
Then it happened. For the next five days there was no contact. Skype, phone calls, even e mails were not responded to. Only after she had panicked and called her cousin there, did he call her. The call came from an unknown number. An he told her that she was not to contact him. He would whenever he could. When she demanded to know why, he impatiently replied that he was busy with exams, job interviews.
So she waited. Prayer beads in hand. These days, they were never far from her hands. Her otherwise carefree husband seemed to be retreating into his own world. He came and went, silent as a shadow. They avoided looking into each others' eyes, lest the fear she felt was reflected in his too. The tenth day, he came home with a ticket in his hands. He was off to the United States. To bring him back. Joy and trepidition, her heart filled with mixed emotions, but she was relieved that he was going.
The wait became longer. Her husband no longer picked up the phone too. And still she waited.
When the door bell rang, she went to answer it. Outside stood her son, and her husband. But why the wheel chair. A thousand questions shrieking in her mind, she gathered him in her arms, going down on bent knees to embrace him, their tears mingling within her dupatta.
The society he had joined, had demanded of him that he use his expertise to make a bomb. Oversee the explosion. He refused, his mothers love and anxiety had saved him in the end. But he had to pay a price. The next day as he crossed the street, the car came swiftly, silently. He was thrown into the bushes nearby with the impact. When he came to, he lay in hospital. The stub of his amputated leg, a grim reminder of how lucky he had been.
His father had been called by his relatives to bring him back home. Back to the innocent world of his mother's love.
She sat benumbed on her prayer mat. The picture on the mantlepiece across looked back at her. The child in the picture was the picture of pure innocence. A small shy little boy bravely facing the cameraman. Tousled soft brown hair, sunshine angled at the lens so that the face was half illuminated, half in shadow. How she loved the picture, how she had loved the child, as had everyone around them.
"Oi Mukhtaarey ! " resonated around the house, as she chased him across the rooms, trying to get him to finish his milk. "Oi maaaaa... Pehley dhoond to sahi mujhko.." the little boy would chortle, as his mum pretended to search for him...
The first day of school. His Abba and his mum, holding onto his little fingers, as he wrapped them tightly around theirs, refusing to let go. Where had time flown. Childhood evolved into teenage. The child who had been content to listen to bedtime stories, now preferred his laptop to his mum. She who anxiously still queried his meals, only to be told brusquely that she need not bother. He still could not sleep without hugging her tho, and she sought solace from his friends mums who reassured her that their children did just the same.
He had been her only child, and they had tried to give him the best that life had to offer. Being Muslim and young was no longer easy, in an increasingly hostile world. She knew that he spent long hours discussing the scenario abroad, the US, Australia, even France, after the Charlie Hebdo attacks. That he had made it abroad, to a university of his choice, in spite of it all, showed his dedication to his studies. How proud she was of him !
Yet. Within her heart she knew. They lived in a dangerous world. The internet had brought home all the angst and violence that prevailed in the world. How safe was he, was a question she asked herself everyday. All it would take was one zealot, one madman, one racist police officer, one shot from one gun. Everyday anxiously they waited for night and the skype, to reassure herself he was alive and well. His choice of subject did not help. Journalists were constantly at risk of life and limb.
Where was the world of her youth ? Where did the innocence go ? Questions that she asked herself often. The only rebellion then had been a stolen ice cream, a party with girlfriends on the sly. Fathers word was law. For her and her brother. Marriage was a happy arrangement. Maybe the thought that it was for keeps brought security and love. A journey she was contented to share with a good man who cherished and loved her. Of the child she beget him. The son who grew up happy. Until the advent of the computer. That it made a recluse of him, she could forgive, that it took her away from them, opened up the vistas of wild and dangerous adventure, she never could. Yet if she was to keep up with him, she needed it. Vitally.
Then it happened. For the next five days there was no contact. Skype, phone calls, even e mails were not responded to. Only after she had panicked and called her cousin there, did he call her. The call came from an unknown number. An he told her that she was not to contact him. He would whenever he could. When she demanded to know why, he impatiently replied that he was busy with exams, job interviews.
So she waited. Prayer beads in hand. These days, they were never far from her hands. Her otherwise carefree husband seemed to be retreating into his own world. He came and went, silent as a shadow. They avoided looking into each others' eyes, lest the fear she felt was reflected in his too. The tenth day, he came home with a ticket in his hands. He was off to the United States. To bring him back. Joy and trepidition, her heart filled with mixed emotions, but she was relieved that he was going.
The wait became longer. Her husband no longer picked up the phone too. And still she waited.
When the door bell rang, she went to answer it. Outside stood her son, and her husband. But why the wheel chair. A thousand questions shrieking in her mind, she gathered him in her arms, going down on bent knees to embrace him, their tears mingling within her dupatta.
The society he had joined, had demanded of him that he use his expertise to make a bomb. Oversee the explosion. He refused, his mothers love and anxiety had saved him in the end. But he had to pay a price. The next day as he crossed the street, the car came swiftly, silently. He was thrown into the bushes nearby with the impact. When he came to, he lay in hospital. The stub of his amputated leg, a grim reminder of how lucky he had been.
His father had been called by his relatives to bring him back home. Back to the innocent world of his mother's love.
