The Slap That Stole and Restored My Memory

The Slap That Brought Back My Memory

BY:Ubaid

My name is Naila, and I like to think of myself as a bright and dutiful student. I never miss school, I finish my homework on time, and my Urdu teacher often praises me. She believes that if I continue like this, I will come first in the annual exams. Even though I study in an English-medium school, I regularly read Urdu magazines, and that has helped me polish my language skills.

But behind these little achievements, there is a world at home that is not so easy.

A Morning Gone Wrong

It started one ordinary morning. I was about to leave for school and couldn’t find my shoes. I asked my mother where they were. She rushed from the kitchen and, instead of answering calmly, slapped me hard across the neck.

“They’re right there on the shelf!” she shouted.

As it turned out, my brother Asad had polished his shoes the night before and had placed mine neatly on the shelf as well. But how was I supposed to know that? I usually leave my shoes near my bed for convenience.

That slap hurt more than just my skin—it stung my heart. Why was a slap necessary for such a small thing?

Small Mistakes, Harsh Punishments

My mother, it seemed, was always waiting for me to slip up. If I didn’t put my schoolbooks into my bag at night and preferred to do it in the morning, she scolded me. If I left my uniform on the bed for a while before hanging it, she would lash out again.

Sometimes I wondered: was I really so careless, or was she simply too strict? I came home from school tired, hungry, hoping for comfort, but instead, I was met with anger.

Once, after washing my face at the basin, a few drops of water trickled down from my elbow. My mother saw and screamed, “Why is water dripping everywhere?”

It was just a few drops, not a river. Yet her shouting ended with another round of slaps and scolding. My head spun, and my memory seemed to blur with every blow.

The Wrong Lap

That evening, as we sat down to eat, my hands instinctively went to my sore cheek instead of my mouth. And when I absentmindedly picked up our cat Manno’s rival, our dog Moti, and placed him in my lap, things only got worse. Moti had just bathed, and my frock got wet. Mother was furious again. She pushed the dog away, changed my clothes, and muttered about how I never did anything right.

Later that night, the aftershocks of her anger still lingered. I absentmindedly put on Asad’s clothes instead of my own after dinner. When he saw me, he shouted, “Why are you wearing my clothes?”

I quickly hushed him, stroked his hair, and promised him a chocolate if he didn’t tell Mother. The thought of another scolding terrified me.

By now, it wasn’t just about mistakes. I felt as though the constant punishments were erasing my memory, just like in films where the hero or heroine forgets who they are after an accident.

A Blank Page

The next day at school, I wandered into the lounge, chewing roasted chickpeas, waiting for class to begin. The bell rang, but I was still munching. Suddenly, a heavyset woman walked up to me.

“Will you just keep chewing chickpeas, or do you plan to study as well?” she asked.

She was clearly the headmistress, but I couldn’t remember her name. Embarrassed, I slipped the packet into my pocket and went to class.

Our Urdu teacher entered and gave us an assignment: “Write a short essay on Allama Iqbal. Tear out a page from your notebook and begin.”

I tore out a sheet and sat frozen. Who was Allama Iqbal again? Where did he live? Which language did he write in? My mind was blank. I couldn’t recall that he was the Poet of the East.

When the papers were collected, it was too late. I remembered only after my copy had left my hands. The teacher marked me with a big, fat zero.

I sat quietly for the rest of the day, feeling crushed.

A Stranger at Home

When the final bell rang, I boarded the school van. It wasn’t until I reached home that I realized something was wrong: I had forgotten to bring Asad back.

Moments later, a boy stepped out of another van. He looked familiar but distant. Was he my brother?

Then, as if out of nowhere, the same heavyset woman appeared again. She walked beside me and asked, “So, how was your Urdu exam today?”

“And who are you?” I asked, confused.

“I’m your mother!” she snapped irritably.

“No,” I said firmly. “I don’t have a mother. My mother only beats me. And I don’t deserve that because I don’t even misbehave.”

Her face turned red with anger. She dragged me inside the house, placed my schoolbag neatly on the shelf, and—once again—the slaps began.

Memory Restored

But this time, something unusual happened. With each sting of her hand, something inside me cleared. The fog in my brain began to lift. My memory, which had been slipping away, suddenly returned with sharp clarity.

I remembered who she was. I remembered my brother, my teachers, my essay, everything.

It was as though the very force that erased my memory had restored it again.

Reflection

Now, when I think back, I wonder: was it really necessary? Did I need the pain to stay sharp, to stay alert? Or could a little kindness have made me even better?

My teachers see me as a bright student. I see myself as someone eager to learn. But at home, under the shadow of constant fear, I often feel like a child whose worth is measured by how perfectly she behaves, rather than how genuinely she tries.

And so, my story ends where it began—with a slap. Except this time, it wasn’t just punishment. It was the strange, painful trigger that brought back the memories I thought I had lost.