Sleepy Eyes

The night was calm, heavy with the scent of autumn. In a small village house, Jamala Bibi lay on her bed with a rosary in one hand and prayer beads in the other. The half-moon cast a faint light across the room as she looked toward the door again and again, her heart waiting for someone who never came home on time.

Sleep finally pulled her under. The rosary slipped from her hand. Startled, she woke up and looked at Jani’s empty bed. The moon had vanished behind the clouds. Sitting upright, she whispered a prayer, then went to fetch a cup of water.

Just then, the door creaked open.

Jani entered — his blanket in one hand, a gun in the other. He bolted the door and said softly, “Mother…”

Jamala smiled faintly. “How can a mother sleep when her son spends half the night wandering in darkness? Come, drink some water.”

Jani took the cup, smiling weakly. What a simple woman my mother is, he thought.

“Why are you so sad, Mother? I’m not a child anymore. Leave me alone.”

She sat beside him, her eyes glistening in the dim light.

“Ah, Jan Mohammad,” she sighed, “a child never knows the pain of losing one. Only a parent feels that wound — deep in the chest where no one can see.”

He handed the cup back. “Mother, you’re stronger than I’ll ever be. Don’t waste your heart on such useless worries.”

She kissed his forehead and smiled. “Sleep now, my son.” Then she turned toward the courtyard and disappeared into the silence of the night.

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Jamala Bibi had four sons. The three eldest were married, living scattered lives among laborers in cities and other villages. Only Jani stayed with her — wild, restless, and without purpose.

He spent his days wandering, his gun slung over his shoulder, his laughter lost in the haze of hashish and music. He had no job, no dream, and no restraint. Whenever someone insulted him, he reached for his pistol instead of reason.

Jamala had saved for years to open a small salt and oil shop for him. But within two months, it was gone — his money wasted on friends and intoxication. She urged him to marry, but who would give their daughter to Jani? When her brother refused, calling him a fool, Jani’s temper exploded. He attacked his uncle in the fields and nearly shot him. The uncle survived and reported him.

Jani was arrested but released after ten days. His mother’s peace, however, never returned.

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A week before a grand wedding in the Malik family, the entire village was alive with noise, laughter, and smoke. Every night, men gathered under the stars, drinking, singing, and firing their guns into the sky. Even the local SHO joined in the madness.

Jani was there too, lost in intoxication, his eyes sleepy and red. On one wild night, he fired his pistol into the air — and soon, every man followed. The sky lit up with bullets and fireworks. It was chaos, like a battlefield dressed in celebration.

If all that money and gunfire had been saved, two or three villages could have been rebuilt for the poor.

When dawn came, the muezzin’s call echoed through the valley. Allahu Akbar.

Jani stumbled home, drunk and dizzy. He entered quietly, expecting his mother to call him as she always did. But she didn’t.

He walked to her bed.

“Mother… I’m home.”

No answer.

Jamala Bibi lay still — pale, cold, her rosary resting on the floor. Her soul had already left this world.

Jani fell to his knees, calling her name again and again, but the silence was deep and merciless.

For years, she had stayed awake waiting for him.

Now, she had finally closed her eyes — forever.

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This story is inspired by the countless mothers who wait for their sons long after the world sleeps. If Jamala Bibi’s love and pain touched your heart, please leave a ❤️, share your thoughts in the comments, and subscribe for more stories about family, struggle, and the human soul.