The Journal! by

The Journal! by Zeneefa Zaneer what do you know about love? You never loved my dad...never a day I've heard you speak about him." That was the last words I spoke with my mother. For a second I thought her eyes were shining, I thought she would cry and say that I was wrong. But she didn't cry but a corner of her lips curved to a smile. Was it a mocking smile? I don't know, but all I could remember was that I stared back at her furiously and slammed the door on her face. That was the last time I saw her. I hated her and wished I never saw her in my life again. My wish has come true. I never was around her to see her again. On that night I packed my clothes and walked away from my home. That was never meant to be my home. My thoughts whispered. I got married to the love I admired. Wafiq was kind and generous to fill my world with the colors I wanted my life to be colored with. More than anything as I challenged my mother, he filled my world with love. Wazeem was blessed as a result of that love and we were a happy family as always I wished. We watched out little son grow. It was so amazing and at the same time I felt sorry for myself. I would have never gone through this joy. My mother was a strict woman. She wanted everything to be in order. I never felt comfortable in that house. It was more like a museum than a house. Keep your room tidy, wash yourself, brush your teeth, no water in between my meals, etc etc. She was like a jailer and I was like her prisoner. My husband insisted me visiting my mother, but I didn't want to. She deserves to be alone for she doesn't know the meaning of love. Once in a while she wrote to me. I didn't want to listen to her orders and commandments. Waste bin was the right place for her writings and one by one her letters happily joined the rest of the wastes. One day instead of her letter I received a telegram. I was so curious to know what in it. My fingers trembled. Then I took a deep breath. After all one day everyone meets their destiny, my rude thoughts whispered guessing what probably might written inside. And I was right. She's gone for some good reason. It took us quite a long time to fly back to that house where ghostly spirits might have accompanied her when she was in her death bead. 'Hikma, you are wicked' my mind accused. 'She was wicked too, she deserves it. I'm not surprised if none visited her funeral, she wasn't good with anyone else. Nobody visited us and I wasn't allowed to visit anyone either. I was isolated and all what she said was to be patient and tolerate. When I was seven she sent me to a boarding school, so that she could do whatever she want and only visit me once a month' my mind was muttering until we reached there. For my satisfaction she was gone, buried before we arrived. But I was quite surprised to see the number of people gathered in her house, correction my house. Everyone stared at me as I have committed a crime. Alright now even after you've gone you left mud to throw on me, I gritted my teeth with anger. "Poor sajida, died as she had nobody left" I heard an old woman. I ignored the woman and walked in. Everyone looked at me and my little son who was hugging my neck for being frightened of the number of people around us. "May Allah accept them to jannah! I heard another woman whisper. Who else is dead? I shook my head trying to brush away the weird whispers. Jannah is for good people. My mother is not a good person. She didn't love me or my dad. She didn't know to love her own people how could she love someone else? We waited until everyone left my home. I wanted a pretty good sleep. I have other works in my mind. I'm not going to live in this house probably with her ghost from today. The though gave me a shiver. The next day we met the lawyer and discussed about her last will. She had left everything to me except one third of her property to an Islamic school as charity. Whoa! At last she thought of leaving something good beside. When she sensed her soul will be ripped off she must have been frightened. I thought and it made me laugh. At home in the evening I thought of arranging the house. As always it was too neat and tidy and I didn't like it that way. It reminded my unfortunate childhood and it reminded me of my mother. That was the last place I wanted to be in, her room. It was too neat, everything was in order and all in a sudden it was too quiet. I felt a heavy heart. What is there to clean and arrange anyway? Why should I waste my energy and time? I turned to go back, but something stopped me. That wasn't on the right place. A piece of parchment crumpled under the bed. It was neglected and tried hard to float when the gentle breeze peeped through the window. I took few steps to the bed and bent to pick it up. It didn't look like it was carelessly crumpled but it looked as it was destined to be so naturally. I unfolded it. My fingers didn't tremble but it was moving quickly. "assalamu alaikum my dear sajida, It was a letter titled to my mother. I frowned and saw the date. It was dated three weeks prior to my mother’s sudden death. I knew it’s wrong. But I wanted to read further. The tiny blue inked letters were crooked. It looked like the writer was in a hurry to scribble the note. I read it again from the beginning. "assalamu alaikum dear sajida, Hope you are fine with the mercy of Allah. How is our little angel Hikma? Has she begun to crawl? “What? Even my son began to run” Inner mind teased. I turned the parchment and read the name signed at the end but I couldn’t read the signature. So the only way to know the writer is by continuing to read, my mind warned. “Or is she schooling by now? Oh! How bad my memory is? When is her wedding? The days are too long spent with cruelty and being apart from both of you is a torture. I can’t spend a day not thinking of you all. How beautiful the days are? I loved to feel Hikma’s tiny fingers running on my face. Oh! Sajida, you know not how much I miss you all. It is terrible living here. Every day is a pain. Every night I wish if I never woke up the next day. But it seems like Allah wants me to live. It doesn’t look like I am going to be released from both the prisons…life and this cruel prison. I cry when I bow down to my lord. Why is so unjust? I am caged in here for no reason. There are plenty like me here. You will never believe how life can be a hell. The cruelty I experience cannot be explained. And I don’t intend to make you cry. You must have cried until your tears become ice. I’m sorry sweetheart; I’ve left you with so much of responsibilities. Please bring up our child without letting her know all these miseries. My eyes ran through the word ‘child’ again and again until I felt tears welling in them, my father, a letter from my father. But until now I thought my father is not with us. I knew he left my mother. And I thought it is obvious, who on earth would love to live with a heartless woman? But… “I’m sure you’ll face troubles bringing up her. But be patient for the sake of Allah. He’ll help us. He’ll help us to bring her up without all these miseries. Sajida, I feel sorry to leave you honey. You were always a wonderful wife a man can have. You made our days beautiful. You sacrificed your happiness to keep us happy. jazakAllah for sending your precious journal. I loved reading them again and again. You are a beautiful mother; my Hikma is the luckiest child to have you around. The words gave chance to be released down the tears dancing in my eyes. They slid down happily as they are free from me. I sat on my mother’s bed. Actually I fell on it. Looks like there is more for me to learn about the woman I hated. “Protect my child sweetheart. I love you and this may be the last time I’m writing to you. They’ve decided the day I’ll be executed. I’ve got only forty eight hours left. No! Don’t worry. You are a strong woman. You can hold your breath and live without me. Wish and pray this would be the last time an innocent Muslim’s life being executed accusing for being a terrorist. I’m not sad honey, I’m happy to get rid of this prison. This life is a prison, we never know until we realize it one day. But it hurts to think of my child. How the society would blame her. Although I never lifted a weapon not at least my pen supporting terrorism, I was caught and titled as a terrorist. The only sin, if that was a sin according to their law I committed was working for them, serving them and voicing against them when I saw their unjust. Beyond everything the only violence I committed was being a Muslim and bearing the name Muhammad. Gone is gone for some reason. May Allah accept our good deeds and forgive our sins. La ilaha il Allah Muhammad ar rasoolillah! There’s surely no god but Allah and Prophet Muhammad is His last messenger. Love you both Wassalam A tear followed one another and I couldn’t control my cry. I cried. How didn’t I know he was alive until now, few minutes before? He has being imprisoned for more than twenty years and my mother hid this truth from me. Why? Only to protect me from insults and humiliation? And what did I give in return? My fingers ran through the mattress trying to grasp my mother’s hand though my imaginations. Wish she was next to me to ask why she did this to me? Then my fingers knocked on a hard surface hidden under the pillow. I quickly grabbed it out, a book. Could this be my mother’s journal my father wrote about? Which has filled his lonely days with happiness? What could be written in it? My fingers trembled. I unfolded the book. “Mmm…just a thought to write my feelings about you. My sweet little life growing in me…I love you…and waiting for the man I love, until your father came home to tell him the good news. Just can’t imagine how happy he would be…” Is this my mother? The woman I knew? I turned to another page. “A bad day, I call it. You naughty little pie…you’ve learned to strike now…refusing everything what I eat. Morning sickness…the morning doesn’t look like it changes into noon or night. The whole day looked as morning for I’m having morning sickness throughout the day, funny hah?” My lips curved. Then I turned to another page. “I’m so tired and nervous. Our first scanning. No matter what I’ bearing in, a girl or a boy, whatever it is, it is my child. Oh! SubhanAllah! That was one of the best days in my life. I saw you in me; I heard your heart beat. You were moving your legs like you were paddling a bicycle. Your father enjoyed watching at you honey. How Great Allah is? SubhanAllah! No words to thankful HIM” “sorry sweetheart I couldn’t write anything in this passage of time. It is difficult to keep doing whatever you do when time is approaching to give birth to your own child. I’m preparing to welcome you home inshaAllah. I’ve got a huge belly and I feel your kicks. That is a great satisfaction to feel your kicks mashaAllah. The words sank deep into my heart. It is a great satisfaction to feel your kicks’. What else have I given her except kicking her off from my life, I began to regret and I felt my throat swelling and aching. “subhanAllah! You are soft as cotton. I carried my bundle of joy for the very first time. It was a pleasure to hold you tight sweetheart. You cried being annoyed for I didn’t know how to carry you. Will I hurt you…? That was the only question I had in my mind. Alhamdulillah! This is called motherhood. I thanked Allah and I thanked my mother too for bearing me, protecting me and tolerating me” Regrets, regrets…piling in my heart for I never thanked my mother when I carried my buddle of joy. “You look delicious, your smell helps me feel good and your cry makes my day. I love you sweetheart.” “I love watching your dad playing with you. You resemble him mashaAllah. That was my wish when I bore you. To give me a child who’ll be like the man I love, a man who loved and honored his wife. The day by day when you grew up and watching you grow I fall in love over and over again with him.” I remembered the last words I spat on my mother’s face. It renewed my tears. “It is so nice to be a mother. I’m crying when you cry and I’m laughing when you laugh. You add color into my life. The journal was filled with her thoughts of a dearest wife and a loving mother. One by one the pages were added to the left portion of the book. Every page was decorated with her endless love. In every word written in a page I discovered a new woman I never have met, so generous, so thoughtful and so caring. What a great woman I’ve neglected? She has sacrificed her entire life to keep me happy. She has walked away from the place she was brought up after my father was imprisoned. My father worked for an American company and within few months time he was arrested suspecting to be a terrorist. Living apart from the family and isolated in an unknown country he had less opportunity to prove his innocence. He was sentenced to death for no reason, but they said he was a terrorist. Why? The only thing he did was voicing against his higher authority when seeing unjust. Bearing a Muslim name was sufficient for them to arrest him and make his life a hell. Bearing every pain in her my mother never let me know her miseries. She provided me a good education. She sent me to a boarding school not because she wanted to get rid from me but to keep me away from the society waiting to humiliate me calling ‘your father is a terrorist’. She feared growing me up with her will cause trouble in my life. I visited her once in a while. She feared when I wanted to go to school from home. And to keep me going to back to the boarding school she tried to become strict so that I’ll hate living with her. She was against to give me married to Wafiq because I will be requesting her for a grand function. She didn’t want me to get in touch with known folks so that they will never have a chance to humiliate me or reveal her secret. SubhanAllah! How hard it must have been for her. I didn’t know. I turned to the last page. “I miss you and I will miss her. It won’t please her to go back to school. But I don’t want her to be around me. I can’t spoil her life. No one treats me with a smile or two. They think you are a terrorist. I don’t mind of myself but I’m worried about her. How will she tolerate these kinds of treatments? I don’t want to see her suffering. May be this is a wrong decision but let it be. I will watch her grow distantly. Forgive me if I’m wrong. I want her days to be filled with happiness and I don’t want to pour my sorrows into her life. Let our miseries end with our lives” I read while tears continued to flow. And finally I saw my dad’s hand writings written on the bottom of the page. “You are the best mother Hikma could have and the best wife a man can wish for. I love you for every struggle you did to bring up our love. May Allah be pleased with you honey.” What else was left? I hugged the book trying to hug her love. How unfortunate I am to hate this beautiful woman? Forgive me, please! I whispered through my cry. Everything you left was love and love alone…you are the best mother a child could have’.