He had returned home after playing with his friends in the locality, and now his body rested before them in a still, lifeless state. How his mother would have cried on undressing his young dead son and how they would have put on a kafann… how the strong smell of kaafoor would have filled up the entire hall and his birth day would have played vividly like a film in his mother’s mind. How his first smile, first cry, the way he had so strongly clasped her finger, his first step, first sound, first meal, first everything would haunt their dreams from now onwards.
Dreams. He must’ve weaved a lot of them. Now that he had completed his second year at college, he might have planned the wildest and most unique of dreams. Things he would have blurted out energetically to gain encouragement but would’ve been told were impossible, and how we would have then promised himself to prove the world nothing was ever far from a man who tries…
And how his siblings would have begged his motionless body to please return; to tease, to play, to fight, to laugh, to stay.
How his father would have put on a strong yet imperfect cover on his feelings to look at his son, and to attend his guests and relatives. How he would have hugged his other children and tried unsuccessfully to console his wife, and how his lips would have trembled on the words of Imaam: Inna lillahi wa Inna Ilaihee Rajiiyuun.
It is not true when they say some people die before their time. Nobody dies before time. Death has no time, no time at all.
[Rest in peace Hammad.]