A Mother’s Boundless Love

Mother used to feel unbearable to us when, in the freezing winters, she forced us to wash our hair. Lux, Capri, or Rexona were unheard of in those days. A coarse date-brand soap was used for everything—clothes and hair alike. The soap stung our eyes like thorns, and our ears would burn red from Mother’s scolding. At the slightest mischief, she would flare up and grab the washing stick we called the damni.

Yet she never actually beat us. Sometimes Grandmother would intervene just in time, sometimes Father, and at other times we would simply run away. Our camp lay far from the village, right in the middle of the fields. Walking along the narrow path to the village was Mother’s biggest shopping trip—and being deprived of it was our greatest misfortune. If Mother went to the village alone, she would try to console us on her return with maronday.

At first, we would hit her with our tiny hands, pull at her dupatta, then finally place our heads in her lap and cry our hearts out. When she took us along, we would jump and run happily behind her. In the evening, returning from the village, we would cry again because we loved the village so much.

“Mother, when will we live in the village?” I would ask.

“When you grow up, get a job, earn money, get married…” she would reply—the same worn-out answer every time.

Once, there was a wedding celebration at Baba Muzaffar’s house in the village. There were blinking lights and fireworks. I begged Mother to stay the night, but she refused. While crying behind her on the way back, a mischievous thought crossed my mind and I quietly returned to the village.

It was evening. When Mother realized I was missing, she went mad with worry—calling out my name in the dark fields, searching every corner from the camp to the village with a lantern in hand. Late at night, when I was recovered from the wedding house, she lunged at me like a lioness. Had the village women not intervened, she might have beaten me that night.

Once, when Father had gone to Sargodha to visit his spiritual guide, I was six or seven years old and fell severely ill with fever. Mother wrapped me in a warm shawl, carried me on her shoulder, and walked three kilometers through the fields to the village clinic. On the way back, while jumping over a ditch, she fell into the field but saved me. Perhaps she injured her knee; all she uttered for me was “HasbiAllahu.” This remains one of my earliest memories—proof of her immense courage and strength.

Time passed. I grew up and moved far away from Mother. When I returned home once a year, she would hug me and cry, while I laughed in front of everyone. At night, when all slept, I would quietly lie beside her, bury my face in her shawl, and cry freely.

She worked endlessly—cutting fodder, carrying heavy bundles, even running the fodder cutter herself. When I was home, I helped as much as I could. Whenever I grew tired, she would whisper, “Shall I talk to that family about your proposal?” She knew I was a born romantic, and such talk instantly recharged me.

We built a house in the village, and Mother married me off according to her choice. I moved to the city with my family, while she created her own world back in the village. She came to the city for my first son’s birth. I even took her to see the sea. Sitting at Clifton Beach, sipping tea, she said, “Our little pond near the camp looks more beautiful than this sea.”

ops of blood can never repay the debt of the day you carried me to the village doctor and fell while saving me.”

On her deathbed, when I repeatedly asked forgiveness for my shortcomings, she said, “I am pleased with you, my son… why ask for forgiveness again and again?”

She passed away before my eyes. I did not cry then. The next day, I went to her grave and wept uncontrollably.

Years later, while performing Tawaf at the Kaaba, pushed by crowds, I suddenly found myself against the Kaaba wall. It felt as though I had returned to my mother’s lap—the same peace, the same love, mixed with fear. This time, I did not just cry—I sobbed aloud. The Lord who loves more than seventy mothers… and we, forever His mischievous children.