Mother's Last Call

On behalf of my colleague!!

My mother and I used to live together in our small house in Gulshan. Since my father passed away years ago, it was just the two of us, and she had been my constant support, my confidante, and my strength. Every morning, before I left for work, she would see me off with a prayer, telling me, “May Allah protect you.” It was something I had started to take for granted, like the rhythm of the day.

A few days ago, as I was on my way to the office in Lyari, my phone rang unexpectedly. It was my mother, her voice weak and urgent. “I’m having chest pain,” she whispered, struggling for breath. “Please, come home quickly.” Her words left me paralyzed for a moment, my heart racing. I immediately turned my bike around, but the distance seemed endless. Every second felt like a lifetime, and with every turn, I prayed I’d make it in time.

I kept calling her, hoping she’d answer and tell me she was alright. I thought of asking a neighbor to call an ambulance, but panic clouded my judgment. As I frantically checked my phone, trying to connect to someone who could help, I saw two men approach me. They looked rough, their eyes dark with intent. I knew they were robbers. I pleaded with them, desperation in my voice. “Please, just let me make one call. My mother’s life depends on it. Take my phone after; take anything you want.”

But they wouldn’t listen. My pleas fell on deaf ears. One of them hit me hard on the head, knocking the phone from my hands. They snatched it, along with my wallet, and vanished into the crowd. Dizzy from the blow and lost in fear, I could only stagger forward. The urgency in my mother’s voice echoed in my mind, a painful reminder of how far I still was from her. By the time I reached home, my heart sank.

The house was silent. I rushed into her room, calling out to her, but there was no answer. She was lying there, motionless. The realization hit me with a force I couldn’t bear. My mother was gone. That small, comforting presence that filled my world had vanished in an instant. All that was left was silence, a hollow emptiness that filled every corner of the room and every part of my heart.

Since that day, I live alone in that same house. Her belongings remain where she left them—the prayer mat folded in the corner, her favorite teacup on the kitchen shelf, her scent lingering in the air as if she might walk in at any moment. Every morning, I wake up to the ache of her absence, wishing I could turn back time, replay that day differently, somehow save her.

"Do not grieve; indeed, Allah is with us."

– Surah At-Tawbah (9:40)

The memories, though painful, are also a blessing. My mother’s teachings, her kindness, her patience—all of it lives on within me. I hold on to the faith she instilled in me, the same faith that keeps me moving forward, even when grief feels overwhelming. I know now that her prayers, the ones she offered every day, still surround me like a protective shield, a testament to her love that death could not erase.