He killed my son...

The story of pain, suffering and longing – too pathetic to be described in words

Nayeema Ahmad Mahjoor
Srinagar, Publish Date: Aug 22 2017 9:58PM | Updated Date: Aug 22 2017 9:58PM
He killed my son...File Photo

Deafening sounds were all I could hear. My eyes were fixed on her Burqa lattice. She was not a vampire but she seemed to have become one the day she dressed herself in black attire. Perhaps she had felt a little sense of inherent safety though every other person passing her by probably had a different opinion. Her close neighbours would ask each other, has she changed from being human or this blackness of her soul has reduced her to nothingness. The small, button like eyes were peeking through the pattern of net cloth that made her to look into the core of my heart, which was shrinking with every sigh she was heaving. She felt pleasure in putting me in discomfort by penetrating deep into my heart.  Others sitting around had difficulty in finding out whether she was sobbing or cursing someone or feeling happy.  


On her right was her nineteen year old daughter, looking sad and gloomy and without any hope. On her left were three young daughters staring at a wall photo of a tortured woman who had been a victim of domestic violence. However, she showed no interest in any object that had become part of my office. We were all thinking, random and separable thoughts had engulfed us but nobody knew what the other person had in mind. Roads and streets had become chaotic. Lanes were flooded with young boys, link roads with girls and uniformed men playing hide and seek like cat and mouse. 


Amid of all this mayhem were gunshots and big blasts shaking my office. Youth had come out on the streets against the brutal killings of few boys who had become challenge to the mighty army of the largest nation of the world. Blood stained roads and bruised bodies were scattered around this old building. My clerk says this building had witnessed many massacres since 1931. The objective was never achieved since then. Neither the killing of the people stopped not the forces quit and this cycle of death never ended even if many tried to console people, entice young and then threaten young by showering bullets or humiliating them. What was happening on our roads, nobody including the woman in black, bothered to know.  As if humans have turned into soulless animals.


“What do you want from me?”, I asked in a very humble way.


She pierced me with a long sigh and after a pause said, “You have to witness my death and then write about it.”


“Why would I do that?”


“Because I like your expression and I want to become immortal after my death.”


“You don't need to die to get remembered. There are so many things you can do to live in people's hearts.”


“Rubbish. I don't like your sermons. Just watch my death and write about it,” she said, her eyes displaying hate.


“I can write it before you die so that you can see if I have written the facts”, I said.


“You have to witness my death.”




“I have to finish my life in the presence of you and your staff.”


“Why do you want to die when you have so many daughters to take care of, who would look after them?”


“I cannot live for my daughters when my son is buried under tons of soil. He was the only essence of my life and protector of my daughters. We are now hounded by men around us.”


“What happened to your son?”, I asked.


“He was killed by a man who is the father of my daughters. He despised me for being the mother of many daughters and took my son to live with another woman. He divided my family, daughters on one side and son on the other. My son didn't accept this division and ran away from him. He got him chased by goons and they took him to the forests where he was poisoned. Police found him dead in the middle of the night.” She was beating her chest and sobbing hysterically.


“Where is your husband now?”


“He lives with his other wife and did not come to grieve with me”.


“You need to fight against him and not kill yourself.”


“I tried to get justice from every quarter but nobody listens to me. The society is so brutalised that it does not count my pain, maybe my suicide will help you to hang killer of my son.”


"I want to hear how he poisoned him, how did he fight with him and what did he say while dying... did he call me in his last moment?”


I couldn't say anything and was scared because of the sounds of blasts in the road where protests outside the encounter site were taking a nasty turn. Her daughters were crying loudly and shouting, “Father, why did you do it?” I couldn't move my legs and was feeling heavy like lead. She had fixed her gaze and was ready to pounce on me or kill herself or kill her daughters. “I can't let you die”, I thought. She rose from her chair and stopped me from speaking further.


“Stop this nonsense. Dozens of boys are killed every day here and you have no guts to stand against it. You are coward and cruel. Are you at least going to get the father of my daughters arrested who had taken shelter under the Ikhwani banner for two decades?”  I was stunned, drained and could not utter a word until the sound of a big explosion left us lying on the floor of my office waiting, perhaps, to die all together....






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