I was a child, too young to understand loss, when life changed forever. I still remember that afternoon faintly sitting by the window with my four-line English notebook, drawing uneven letters as sunlight spilled across the page. The world outside was ordinary, but inside our home something extraordinary was unfolding. People thronged in- relatives, neighbors, strangers to my little eyes. Their whispers, their sobs, the rustle of footsteps carried a weight I could not decode.
That was the day my mother left.
The memory is fractured, like a mirror cracked into pieces some shards sharp with pain, others blurred by time. I have so little to hold on to. A few faint images: the warmth of her lap, the trace of her voice. Even those feel fragile now, almost like dreams fading at dawn. My memories of her are so few they can be counted on fingers, and yet they remain my most cherished possessions. The most important chapter of my life was torn away in pre-childhood. I grew up missing the very foundation of love that children everywhere are cradled in a mother’s affection. What I have read in books, what I have heard in stories, what I have seen in other families the epitome of selfless love that is a mother was not mine to experience.
As one poet has written:
ماں کی دعا جنت کا دروازہ ہے
ماں کی مسکراہٹ روشنی کا چراغ ہے
(A mother’s prayer is the gateway to paradise, A mother’s smile is the lamp of light.)
Even our deen reminds us of her unmatched stature. The Qur’an commands:
وَقَضىٰ رَبُّكَ أَلّا تَعبُدوا إِلّا إِيّاهُ وَبِالوالِدَينِ إِحسانًا
“And your Lord has decreed that you worship none but Him, and that you show kindness to your parents.” (Surah Al-Isra 17:23)
And in Hadith, when the Prophet ﷺ was asked, “Who is most deserving of my good company?” he replied three times: “أمك” (your mother), and only then, “your father.”
I was left to learn these truths not from her presence, but from words.
Twenty-seven years is a long time. Enough to grow from a child into an adult, to step into education, work, responsibility, even fatherhood. Yet the absence of a mother is a wound that never heals with age. It is like a silence that stretches endlessly sometimes loud in its emptiness, sometimes quiet but never gone. But when people speak of her now, I realize what kind of woman I was blessed to call my mother, even if for a short time. They tell me she was pious, noble, and humble a woman of quiet dignity. They tell me she was more than a good mother; she was a good neighbor, a friend to all around her. Even today, when I walk past familiar doors, I hear from the elders about the perimeters of her kindness, the warmth she carried, the way she made people feel seen and valued. In their voices, I find glimpses of her character that I myself could not fully know.
Iqbal once wrote, reminding us of the timeless bond:
وجودِ زن سے ہے تصویرِ کائنات میں رنگ
اسی کے ساز سے ہے زندگی کا سوزِ دروں
(The universe draws its beauty from the existence of woman, From her melody springs the inner warmth of life)
And Parveen Shakir, in her gentle voice, captured the ache of absence:
ماں کے بغیر دنیا کی حقیقت کچھ بھی نہیں
ماں کی دعاؤں کے بغیر جیتے جی سکون نہیں
(Without a mother, the world holds no true meaning, Without her prayers, life carries no peace)
Her absence, though painful, shaped me in unseen ways. It made me realize early how fragile life is, how nothing is guaranteed. It forced resilience upon me. And it gave me empathy for others who carry invisible wounds. At times, I searched for her reflection in other women an elder’s affection, a teacher’s guidance, the kindness of strangers. Yet none of these could replace the singular, irreplaceable presence of a mother. They were glimpses, not the whole. Even now, I often wonder what conversations we would have shared. Would she have been proud of my studies, my career, my attempts at writing? Would she have guided me in choices, calmed me in storms? These questions remain unanswered, suspended like echoes in an empty room.
Today, the 20th of September, marks twenty-seven years since she departed. For the world, it is just another date. For me, it is the heaviest page in the calendar. Each year it returns, reopening the silence. It reminds me of that little boy at the window with his notebook, and how his world turned upside down before he even knew what loss meant. Time has moved forward, but grief does not follow the same clock. It lingers sometimes soft, sometimes sharp. On this day, I do not just remember her absence; I imagine her presence. I imagine her smile. I imagine her calling my name. I imagine her hands blessing my daughters, her granddaughters, with the same love I missed.
ماں کے بغیر دنیا سونی ہے
ماں کے بغیر زندگی ادھوری ہے
(Without a mother, the world is empty, Without a mother, life is incomplete)
Though she is gone, she is not absent from me entirely. Her silence has become part of who I am. Her memory, faint though it is, still guides me. Her love, unseen yet eternal, still surrounds me.
The Prophet ﷺ said: “الجنة تحت أقدام الأمهات”
“Paradise lies beneath the feet of mothers.”
I may not have lived a life full of her presence, but I live a life full of her absence and that too is a form of connection. The longing itself keeps her alive in me. When someone you love so deeply leaves, they never truly leave. They remain in your breath, in your blood, in your prayers, and in your tears.
ماں کا سایہ سب سے بڑی نعمت ہے
ماں کی جدائی سب سے بڑا دُکھ ہے
(A mother’s shade is the greatest blessing, A mother’s parting is the greatest sorrow)
And so twenty-seven years later, I still write of her, I still remember her, and I still pray for her. Her silence has lasted nearly three decades, but within that silence, her presence continues to echo forever. I have kept my daughter her name Say’yidah Kashaf Us Saarah! As a tribute and memory
“Ya Allah, make my mother among the dwellers of Jannah al-Firdaus, forgive her shortcomings, and let the light of Your mercy reach her grave.” Aameen
The author is Educator at GGHSS YARIPORA KULGAM
Author can be reached at umairulumar77@gmail.com