Tragedy

Tears flowing down my eyes. It’s raining heavily now. A blurry image of a figure or two. The last thing I remember is leaning against a person. Sliding down. Fainting perhaps. It was as if the ground beneath me, just disappeared. I certainly remember staring in her eyes. Her eyes wide open horrified. But mine. Oddly at peace.

A word. I can hear a word I am muttering again and again. Now merely a whisper.

“Begum Khuwaja. Begum Khuwa…”

I rapidly felt weak. My eyes hurt, just like any muscle aches after a heavy workout. My head throbs at the slightest movement. I find myself lying on the pathway now crimson red.

Where did I go wrong? Why is this happening with me? Is the world really so gloomy a place?

As I explore the obvious, I find people gathering around me.

I shut my eyes in anguish.

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Join me, as I live my life once again. I live in an old, wrecked bungalow, people call an orphanage. I can’t recall my childhood memories. What my parents looked like. Were they rich? Why did they leave me? Was I a burden on them? Are they alive? So many unanswered questions. And it’s sad to know, that these questions will never be answered. The only thing I can do is to assume. Assume they were going through very rough times. That they loved me, yet they couldn’t bear my expenses. If I could have one wish granted, it is to get to meet my parents… if they are alive.

The only sign from my childhood is a letter. A cold, heartless letter. I have no clue of who wrote it, but I am pretty sure it was meant for me. It had a colorful home logo on the top left, with the phrase ‘Home sweet home’ underneath it. Ah, the irony.

This piece of paper, a collection of poorly chosen, mean words, answers some of my questions. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it doesn’t turn out how I pictured it to. I wasn’t wanted in my family. In fact, I was a burden on them. It breaks my heart, every single time I read it.

It’s amazing how you might feel related to a group of people you never remember meeting. And worse, you let these newly-related people hurt you. Words can make or break a person.

But recently, life has been kind to me. I have gotten used to the creaky, eerie looking place, its people, and the day to day conditions. I have met many kids, who are living a miserable life. Some have been admitted just recently. Some were dropped off by their step parents.

It’s devastating when you have been brought up with a golden spoon. And then, you’re made to stay in such challenging conditions.

Others just lost their family in an accident.

The perks of having a background such as mine, i.e. nothing. I get to choose my name, my past. I was told my family name is Khuwaja. Hence, I called myself John. John Khuwaja. As weird as it sounds, I didn’t care. I found solace in pairing a strange family name with a popular one. It made me feel like a part of the community. A sense of familiarity that I was in desperate need of.

Recently, I received an acceptance letter from a prestigious university. I have been selected by the university, through an orphanage program that aims to provide opportunities to potential students without a background. I am really grateful for this opportunity, though I knew, it wouldn’t be easy.

Society is divided like never before. Everything has a class. And the privileges you get, the quality of life you live depends on your family background and the number of digits on your bank account. I was foreseeing tough times ahead.

Little did I know, that I knew so little.

 

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My first day in university. I am excited. A new start. A door to endless opportunities. But I am also warned about the infamous trend in universities nowadays. That freshies must complete a ridiculous challenge if they expect to be welcomed by the seniors.

Even though I have spent my life in an orphanage. I did watch movies. And I was well rehearsed with this scene. Different movies, different incidents. All the same culprits. The popular, egotistical, rather insecure kids, targeting nervous, vulnerable newbies. I always believed that I am capable of handling this situation. But it is much different once you experience it firsthand.

The first day, it was all good until lunchtime. Somehow, anyone who saw me could easily recognize me as a new student. It was as if I had something written on my forehead. Maybe it was the fact that I was excited about university, that blew the cover. Or probably because I was neatly dressed, with my shirt tucked in, pant chest high, and my oily hairs neatly combed.

So, they spotted me just like they found others in the cafeteria. We were a herd of nervous goats cornered by some goats in disguise of wolves. Each student was given a different challenge. I was ordered to get my nails polished in bright pink. Or, grab a coin from another guy’s mouth, without using my hands. That is, with my mouth. Now that I think, I would be better off with pink nails.

A week later, I saw some new faces approaching me. I could smell trouble. They pushed me towards the wall. Just the likes of a typical movie scene, a group of boys cornered me. One taking the lead, with all the aggression. They were demanding my pocket money, which they obtained without little or any resistance. Either I was used to troubles in life, or simply shy and scared, I didn’t mind these kids. I didn’t let the fear of dealing with them, trouble me. Nor did I try avoiding them. Maybe because I felt helpless. Maybe I didn’t have the guts to stand up.

This kept going on. I was accustomed to seniors hurting me, sometimes physically, other times, mentally. They would throw some abusive comments as I would walk past them. It was reaching the point where I was leading a miserable life. I was tired of thinking of these bullies. Every day, I had to prepare myself to deal with some bully instead of focusing on my main objective, gaining the education. Though I was being educated on how cruel the world can be at times.

Then one day, as usual, they were taunting me. At how I dress. And how timid I am. I was staring at my shoes. Waiting for the time to pass. For one of them to get tired. Through the corner of my eye, I noticed someone walking towards us. I was expecting it to be one of their friends, coming to ridicule me. Instead, it was a tall young man.

Clearly a senior. He wore brown skin. Yet his accent was the likes of the locals living over there. His eyes hazel, just like mine. A sturdy figure, with his chest, proudly out and his chin up. There was something oddly familiar about him. As he approached, it felt as if we knew each other from ages. A long lost friend you know.

Anyhow, he interrupted the tormentor in the group. After a heated discussion between them, I saw a hint of fear in the bullies’ eyes. He looked at his friends, unsure, he made the first move. He walked away, in the opposite direction, never, once looking at me.

I was baffled. He was the obstacle I cried about every day. Gone in a matter of minutes. It seemed as I was given a fresh start. I made eye contact with the mystery man. He was quite friendly. Ahmed was his name. And funny enough, he came from the same country as mine.

We had quite an understanding and a lot in common, enough to make me uncomfortable for a moment. As we chatted, I discovered he is my senior, pursuing the same degree. He advised me on the upcoming exams and we became close friends in no time.

 

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After that day, we would hang out after a busy day. Have lunch together. He was the mentor I needed. He guided me on all the daily chores. Where to get groceries. Where to go to pay the utility bills. Not only was he there to support me while I was home sick, he acted as a shield from all the mischievous eyes on campus. He was more like a brother to me than a mentor. We would share everything that happened during the day.

I always wondered. Why me? Why is he making such an effort for a stranger? Is he like this with others? Clearly not. Is it because we both come from the same race? Then again, I didn’t let these thoughts bother me much. I decided to believe him for what he is. A generous and humble human, with good intentions. We simply can’t believe that people will do good without any expectation of return. Sad.

Then one day, the topic came up by itself.

Everything happens for a reason.

It was late at night. He had started drinking since his break up, a few days before. And that night he called me into rant on. We were talking about regrets. I shared with him, how I regret remaining quiet, while I could have screamed. I could have complained to my coordinator. Instead, I just let them degrade me and take pleasure from it. He opened up as well. Except his regret was nothing close to mine.

He never talked about his family, until this evening. He explained how happy his small family used to be. He lost his father at a very young age. He has always seen his mother put her blood and sweat in her work. To support him and his younger brother.

Things were going fine. She used to work during the day and late at night. But, they would always have dinner together. His mother, no matter how exhausted, would make sure the three of them were together. While having food, each of them would share their experience during the day. Any negatives or positives were welcomed on the table.

Picture Perfect! I am starting to get jealous of his childhood. If only I had a loving mom such as his.

But Ahmed, being elder and supposedly wiser then, could clearly see it. His mother was more affectionate towards the younger brother. And this killed him inside. He was in his teens. And it is in this prime age when the child needs someone to look up to, to guide him through. Ahmed needed someone to shower him with love and attention. He needed someone to hear him out. But his brother was too young to understand. And when his mother was free, she would spend time playing with the younger one.

Ahmed went silent after that. He was contemplating his next thoughts carefully. He talked about how he cried that night. He cried his heart out. And after changing sides on his bed, he eventually slept, with his brother on his mind.

He doesn’t recall the next day very well. Just bits and pieces. He had a grumpy mood. He wasn’t himself that day. He woke up with one thing in his mind. He had concluded that his brother was the cause. And somehow, he had a plan. A plan he would live to regret.

I leaned forward. Interested in knowing more about Ahmed and his mysterious past.

He took his brother for shopping. While they walked towards the shop, holding hands, he slipped a letter into his brother’s shirt pocket. He reconsidered. Staring into the eyes of the angel in disguise, he felt disgusted with himself. How could one hate such a soul? And suddenly that thought vanished. All that remained was the resentment and loneliness of the past few weeks.

My eyes narrowed and my cheeks reddened. This seemed oddly familiar. Quite relatable. I was starting to get uncomfortable with this conversation.

Standing in the bustling market, he didn’t have the heart to harm his brother. Instead, he just let loose of the grip of the tiny hands. He left the child in the market. After walking several steps, quickly crossing the road, he stopped. Turned back for one last time. People crossing in herds. His eyes fell on his brother. His brother, all confused and scared. Looking all around, screaming his name. Ahmed could see tears rolling down his brother’s eyes. And surprisingly, his eyes were swelling up as well. Reluctant to leave, he turned and left the market.

I was taken aback. I excused myself for the toilet. Rushed out of the room and threw up. After washing my face several times, I thought.

He has been carrying this guilt all this time. How can I look at him without judging him for his past? He has committed some grave deeds indeed. How can people be so selfish! But his tears right this moment, is genuine. I can feel the pain in his voice. The pain of a helpless soul. Too shy to claim responsibility in front of his mother. Weak enough to not be able to forgive himself. I don’t know what to think of Ahmed. All this time, he was a hero in my eyes. I can’t have a straight face now, while he comes out guilty. I don’t know what to say.

But at this moment, he needed someone to listen to him. And I needed to hear him out. I had some suspicion and… only he could clear it out. So, I return, to find him on the ledge, right where I left him, about 15 minutes ago.

He looks at me. Thinking if he did a mistake talking to me. But after receiving my assurance, he continued.

When he was near home, he came back to his senses

Ahmed realized the crime he had committed. He ran back to the market. But it was too late. The angel was nowhere to be found. He asked the nearby shopkeepers. Showing the picture to people passing by. But to no gain.

He realized the horrendous act he had just done. What was he thinking? How will he answer his mother? A mother, who had her heart in that young soul.

With a sunken heart, he walked home. Getting ready to face his mother.

He arrived. His mother, looking eagerly at him and his brother, who was supposed to be with him. It was dinner time, and the food was fresh on the table. He quickly glanced at the vacant chair, where his brother used to sit. He felt a lump forming in his throat. Finding his voice, he rushed to his mother. He acted all worried and lost. Catching his breath, he explained to his mother all that never actually took place. How some people kidnapped her young son, his lovely brother. How Ahmed screamed and pleaded bystanders to help him. But all in vain. The people just watched the show.

His mother was heartbroken. It was as if the earth was shaking beneath her feet. She fell on the chair. Seeing her hurt, he felt so low. He lost all respect for himself. Why did he have to do this? He never thought of talking to his mother. Asking her for her time. Complaining to her.
As she cried out her heart, he realized that day he lost his mother together with his brother.

Things were never same. If he had expected his mom to give him attention. It was quite the opposite. She barely did her job. At home, she would spend time praying and going through memories of her young son. He was telling me about how his mother wouldn’t eat or drink anything for days.

What is worse than losing a son. Not knowing if he is alive or not? If he is, in what condition is he living? Is he starving? What if he is uneasy and ill, on the side of some road.

He had a regret for not leaving any name, any address or contact detail on his letter. Recalling the incident, he now had a smile on his face. He told me how his brother was fond of a picture of a distinct, colorful home. And though Ahmed hated his brother, a kind side in him wanted his brother to remember him. And so, Ahmed pasted a stamp on that letter.

Looking at me, he felt he had spoken a lot.

He stared at me. Yearning for any word. Expecting me to judge him. To scream at him with disbelief. Or God knows what. Yet, he watched me leave the room.

I was flowing with emotions. My hand turned into a fist. I felt to say him a lot. I turned, about to speak. But then I thought I could do better than to respond. The silence was his best punishment, as nothing can undo what he did.

I could not take it. I have always tried not to judge someone. Up until now, I didn’t have to deal with a negative character in my life. Up until now. I had no idea how to react. All of a sudden, I was filled with hatred for a person. I started questioning his character and actions these past few months.

This is unbelievable. All this time I coveted for more details of my childhood. Now that I am aware of it, I have nothing but regret. I always wanted a mother figure in my life. I did get to know her, but at the cost of a good friend. The villain of my life.

I realized everyone is wearing a mask. Just rarely, you get to see a person take off one.

 

What a tragedy for me. All this time I yearned for someone familiar in this place. Alas, I get acquainted with a friend, who I thought I could call family. And now, I get to know his dark past. It all makes sense. He strongly regrets his actions. To compensate, to fill the gap, he is helping me through my life. Maybe seeing me reminds him of his brother.

But what about me. Should I cut off all relations with him?  Do I consider his past? Or I believe that he has changed.

I went with the latter. Why should his past define what he is now? He did make a grave mistake. But don’t we all? He was much younger, more emotional back then.

Although there was a war waging inside. My instincts were to forgive him. I went with my heart.

Life is really short. Why spend it carrying bitterness in your heart. A feeling that weighs you down. That doesn’t let you move ahead. This should be a good enough reason to forget, if not forgive. Or is it?

 

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The coming days went normally. We had lunch. Maybe my laugh was fake this time around, but so were his intentions. We helped each other out, just like old times. And I got more information on Ahmed’s family.

Fast forward couple of months. It was that time of the year when the few survivors of the magnificent university life get to attend a ceremony. Where they are handed over a scroll, that is supposed to decide their value as a human. All those years of stress and struggle, represented by that paper.

I had applied as a helper in the graduation ceremony. I was excited to see Ahmed. And of course, mother. His mother. I had a plan. I wanted to meet her. But in the absence of Ahmed.

I waited for the ceremony eagerly. Counting days and ticking off boxes on the calendar. Finally, the anticipated day began.

I dressed up smart. Put on my best pair of shirt and trousers. Set to make an impression.

I saw Ahmed early in the morning, busy with rehearsals. Some reason, he ignored me. He didn’t make any eye contact during the first half. I realized he was avoiding me.

As they entered the hall, I noticed him behave rather oddly. The whole time, he was accompanying his mother. Making sure she wasn’t alone, by herself.

What did he fear? What was going on in his mind?

Students were called on stage, one at a time. Handed over the sacred scroll, with a photographer ready to snap the moment.

Then Ahmed’s name was called. I knew that was my only chance. He walked towards the stage, his gaze all over the hall, constantly keeping an eye on his mother.

Seeing the opportunity, I started walking hastily towards the audience platform. As I started entering the row, I heard my name being called out. Surprised by what just happened, I turned, only to find my coordinator calling me to help her out. I started getting impatient. She was just a few steps away. But since I waited for, like my whole life, I might as well wait for a while.

The event progressed and eventually started coming to an end. I prepared myself. I looked at myself in the mirror. Combed my hairs and washed my face. My hand going through my pocket, ensuring the letter is still there.

The parents together with their children started leaving the hall. I followed Ahmed and his mother, maintaining a safe distance, waiting for the right opportunity. I could feel my heart beat out of my chest. I was quite nervous. My whole life was a mystery. Now, that I have a chance to set things straight, I am panicking. I had no idea what I would do, or say when I finally meet her. Yet I went with the flow.

Ahmed was conscious about his surroundings. Keeping an eye out for anyone following him.

A sudden downpour had caused a traffic jam on the street. Rain. Something I cherish. Grey clouds, thunder, and rain. This situation had the sky crying as well. This defining moment in my life. Which will change my future. Hopefully for the better. Hopefully.

As they waited for the taxi, I was about to make my move. Just then, Ahmed realized he forgot his gown in the hall. As he rushed inside to get it, I hopped onto my feet, rushing towards the taxi stand.

I am jogging towards her. A lady. A stranger. A stranger who has gone through sad times. A stranger who is supposedly my mother. I don’t know what would I say to her. I don’t know how she would react.

As I reach closer, I observe her features. The scene is picturesque. An old, fragile soul. Standing by herself. Just as she got herself all this time. Throughout her life, filled with struggles and hardships. I definitely got my dimples from her. She is smiling. No wonder she enjoys the rain as well. Wrinkles cover her cheekbone. While skin carelessly hangs on her hand. Yet. Somehow, she stands with confidence. Nothing to lose. As someone who has seen the worse.

Mesmerized by her personality, I realized I am acting like a creepy stalker, just a few steps away. I have her attention now. The moment we made an eye contact. It was as if we immediately paired up. A sense of family. A sense of familiarity developed. Which did not make sense to her. Even though we never met, we felt as if we were bound to speak.

Coming back to my senses. I realized Ahmed will be returning anytime soon. I was thankful for the rain. For one, it hid my tears. I did not know what to say. I recalled a faint memory from back in my childhood. A name. What was that? A name we used to call. It wasn’t just mama. A unique catchphrase. A mantra. It had Khuwaja in it yes. Khuwaja. Begum Khuwaja!

Thinking of it, I blurted it out. Her face reddened. In this black and white scene, she was rich of expressions. She was in a state of shock. The voice, my eyes, and the name. These all made a striking impression. A feeling she is not supposed to have. After all, how could it be possible? She lost her son, her 6-year-old son to a world so cruel. A world where grown men struggle to survive. How could she expect him to survive? To grow into a handsome hunk.

Was she dreaming? Or miracles do happen after all.

Begum Khuwaja. I repeated her name. Pointing to myself, I introduced myself. My full name. It was amazing. So much was said with no words involved. Rivers of emotions were flowing from both sides. A light shower. Two souls, bound by nature, separated by humans, finally reunited. A picture perfect!

But I had to make things straight. After embracing her arms for some time. I took out a letter. A piece of paper. The only proof of my tragic childhood. She read it, water and tears soaking the letter. It was not easy for me, to ruin a pearl of a moment that this was. I know she didn’t deserve this. But she had to know. I tried to forget what Ahmed, my brother did. But I would only forgive him if my mother would. If she could let go.

We cried. But I could see the love for both of us in her eyes. Unlike Ahmed, I was happy. I didn’t mind my mother giving attention to another soul. Because I believe love can’t be shared. And one is never short of love. Every soul gets his or her own quota that he or she deserves.

But I was glad she chose to forget. It is the toughest thing for a mother. To choose between two of her children.

I could see her watery eyes in this wet weather. It was filled with love. And rejoice. I would finally have a family, for once.

Just then something happened. I skipped a beat. My nerves all tensed. A prickling sensation at the side of my spine. A sharp object pricking through my flesh like a pencil through a layer of tissues. It happened so quick. The cold, selfish piece of steel glided through, cutting off much more than veins.

I turn, to find no other than Ahmed. Anger driven, he stabbed me several times, with a dagger-like an object. It sadly made sense to me. Why he was acting weird all this time. But once again. It was too late. The damage had been done.

Tears flowing down my eyes. It’s raining heavily now. A blurry image of a figure or two. The last thing I remember is leaning against a person. Sliding down. Fainting perhaps. It was as if the ground beneath me, just disappeared. I certainly remember staring in her eyes. Her eyes wide open horrified. But mine. Oddly at peace.

A word. I can hear a word I am muttering again and again. Now merely a whisper.

“Begum Khuwaja. Begum Khuwa…”

I rapidly felt weak. My eyes hurt, just like any muscle aches after a heavy workout. My head throbs at the slightest movement. I find myself lying on the pathway now crimson red.

Where did I go wrong? Why is this happening with me? Is the world really so gloomy a place?

As I explore the obvious, I find people gathering around me.

I shut my eyes in anguish.

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After seeing blood gushing through, Ahmed’s emotions subsided. He came back to his sense, just as he did several years ago. Only to find remorse and shame. He looked at his mother and tried to convince her. Tried telling her, that what I told about his brother is all a lie.

As he blabbed on, his eyes fell on some piece of paper drenched in rain. All that remained of it, was a house.

“Home sweet home.”

A colorful house in this gloomy world. A house no more. He backed off. Devastated. All of it hitting him at once. All the times in the past years. From saving me from those bullies to helping me through the semesters. Those late-night talks and… and that one talk in particular. He felt like a traitor. A coward. He got another chance. And he lost it, just like his younger self. He could see the intelligence and maturity of his brother. He could see it all drain away.

Some people simply don’t deserve a second chance. Or do they?

 

 

P.S. You’re not alone. Your family is always there with you. At least most of the times. Other times, you will find your family in a group of strangers you choose to call friends. A family You get to choose. You might be wrong about them, but at least you tried. Isn’t that what life is all about. Believing in Yourself. And trying.

Seeing is believing. Not true. You can’t believe anything. Or anyone for that matter. When you do, it’s at your own risk. You risk losing a friend. You risk getting disappointed. But then, you also risk it for further strengthening the relationship. If it wasn’t for this risk, wouldn’t everyone be strong, confident, and successful?

Live your life. Fight for the things you feel, is worth the risk. The last thing you want is regret.

Thanks for taking out time and reading through! 🙂