A Mother's Love

A Mother's Love

On her deathbed, when I was repeatedly seeking forgiveness for my shortcomings, she said, “I am content, my son... why do you keep asking for forgiveness?”

We used to find our mother unbearable when, during the winter, she forced us to wash our heads with soap. We had never seen brands like Lux, Capri, or Rexona—only the date-palm soap that was used to wash clothes and heads. The soap would sting like thorns in our eyes, and our ears would turn red from her scolding. At the slightest mischief, she would become furious and grab the stick used to wash clothes, which we called "Dumni."

But she never actually hit us. Sometimes, our grandmother would rescue us, sometimes our father, and sometimes we would just run away. Our home was far from the village, surrounded by fields, and our little hut was our world. Walking the narrow path from our home to the village was the most significant shopping trip for our mother, and missing out on it was the greatest misfortune for us! If ever she went to the village alone, on her return, she would try to calm us down with sweets. At first, we would hit her with our little hands, pull her scarf, and then cry, burying our faces in her lap. When she took us to the village, we would joyfully run behind her, jumping and playing. When we returned at dusk, we would cry because we loved the village. "Mom, when will we live in the village?" I asked her once, to which she would always respond, “When you grow up, get a job, earn a lot of money, get married, and so on.”

And so, mother and I would talk as we reached our dark little hut.
I remember there was a wedding celebration at Baba Muzaffar's house in the village. There were lights flickering, and firecrackers went off. I begged my mother to let me stay for the night, but she refused. As I cried, walking back with her, I secretly returned to the village.

It was evening when my mother realized I was missing. She called out my name frantically, searching every corner from our hut to the village with lanterns in hand. Later that night, when I was found at the wedding house, she attacked me like a lioness. If it weren't for the village women, she would have beaten me up that night.

Once, when my father went to Sargodha to visit a religious scholar, I was about six or seven. I fell very ill with a fever. My mother wrapped me in a warm blanket, carried me on her shoulders, and walked three kilometers through the fields to take me to the doctor in the village. On the way back, she fell in the field while crossing a ditch but saved me. She may have injured her knee, but all she said was, "Hasbi Allah" for my sake.

This incident remains one of my earliest memories. She was undoubtedly a brave woman, working tirelessly until her last breath. Later, I grew up and moved far away from her. Every time I returned home after a year, my mother would hug me and cry, but I would laugh in front of everyone. Then, when everyone would fall asleep, I would sneak into her room, lay down beside her, and cry quietly, hiding my face in her blanket.

Mother worked hard in the fields, cutting fodder and carrying heavy bundles on her head to the threshing floor. Sometimes, she would even load the fodder herself and operate the threshing machine. Whenever I was home, I would try to help her. When I would get tired from threshing, she would whisper, "Should I talk about your love life to someone?" She knew I was a born romantic, and such conversations would always recharge my spirits.

We eventually built a house in the village, and my mother arranged my marriage according to her preference. I moved to the city with my family, and she settled in her own little world in the village. She came to the city when my first son was born. I even took her to see the sea. While drinking tea on Clifton beach, she remarked, “This sea is nothing compared to the pond by our hut.”

When my mother fell ill, I was on leave and tried to reassure her for days, telling her it was just a slight stomach ache and she would get better soon. But the pain worsened, so I took her to a big hospital in the city, where the doctors informed me that she had terminal liver cancer. They urgently needed blood, and I lay down on the blood bank bed to donate. When my mother found out, she looked at me with sadness and said, "Why did you donate blood? You could have bought it somewhere, you fool!" I barely managed to say, “Mother, no amount of blood can repay the debt you took upon yourself when you carried me to the doctor in the village and fell while crossing the ditch.”

She laughed, and I said, “Mother, forgive me, I couldn’t serve you enough.”
I think I never really served my mother as I should have. There was never enough time. But she was very generous. On her deathbed, as I kept asking for forgiveness, she said, “I am content, my son… why do you keep asking for forgiveness?”

She passed away in front of me, but I didn’t cry. The next day, my head felt heavy, so I went to the cemetery and sat by her grave, wailing. It has been a long time since I lost my mother, and now I can’t even believe she was ever in this world.

Today, while performing the Tawaf at the Kaaba, I was almost kicked by the feet of the Pathans and Sudanese, but somehow, I bumped into the wall of the Kaaba. It felt as though, after so many years, I had returned to my mother’s lap. The same peace, the same comfort, the same love, mixed with fear... this time, I didn’t cry softly, but wailed as I did when I was a child. The Lord of the Kaaba, who loves more than seventy mothers, and we, the ever mischievous children.