"~A Goodbye that dosen't feel Final~"
651 Words
Eid morning came with the smell of sheer khurma and the quiet clinking of cups in the kitchen — but not the joy it used to carry. Amma stood near the corner shelf, holding out Baba’s folded new suit.
“Wear this today,” she said softly. “It’s Eid. What will people say when they see you go to
prayer dressed like every other day?”
Baba sat on the floor mat, rubbing his stomach. He had barely eaten the night before.
His voice came out low and dry:
“I’m not wearing anything new. U go and get ready.”
Amma tried again, a little more gently.
“You should look fresh, at least for Eid. I will not get ready too then--It’s not
right—”. “Then don’t get ready either,” he cut her off sharply.
He leaned back on the cushion and grabbed the remote, switching on the TV like the conversation never happened.
Amma went silent. Still looking at baba.
Farah stood in the hallway, watching.
Tayyba sat quietly by the shoe rack, unwrapping her new sandals.
Maryam, eyes wide and unsure, looked at her mother, then at Baba.
Amma still didn’t move. That’s when Farah spoke first:
“Amma... leave him. Let’s get ready. We need to go.”
Amma blinked like she’d just come out of a dream. She nodded.
“Yes. You’re right. Let’s go.”
The three girls got dressed quickly.
Laughter echoed softly as Maryam struggled to tie her scarf just right.
Amma wore a light beige shalwar kameez — not new, but clean and ironed.
She prepared two extra dishes before leaving — chicken curry and sweet rice — just in case Baba felt better while they were away. He would be alone, not well. No matter what, she couldn't leave without caring.
As the four of them stood near the front door with their bags, Baba was still lying on the floor, watching TV, a pillow tucked behind his head. They stood awkwardly for a moment. Farah spoke first:
“Khuda Hafiz, Baba.”
“Allah hafiz,” he replied flatly, eyes still on the screen.
Tayyba echoed,
“Bye, Baba.”
Another simple nod from him.
Then Maryam walked over slowly. She bent down beside him, wrapped her small arms around his chest, and rested her head against him for a second.
He finally turned.
Hugged her back. She kissed his forehead and whispered,
“Take care, Baba.”
He looked at her, a faint softness in his eyes.
“You too.”
They turned to leave. But just as Maryam reached the door, her hand on the knob, she suddenly ran back again.
Amma turned, surprised.
Maryam threw her arms around Baba once more. This time, he smiled.
“Take care of my plants, okay?” she said.
“Water them. Every day.”
He nodded slowly.
“I will. I’ll keep them fresh till you come back.” “promise?”said maryam.
“Pka promise!”he spoke gently.
Then they left.
The four of them, stepping out into the bright sun, letting the door close behind them.
In the rickshaw, the wind brushing against their faces, they laughed.
Real laughter.
Loud. Light. Free.
They talked the whole ride — about Mamu, about Mami’s food, about cousins and mehndi and old jokes.
For those two days, they were going to live like the past never happened.
“Like trauma didn’t sit in their walls.
Like fear wasn’t hiding in the curtains.
Like silence wasn’t a language they knew too well”
At Mamu’s house, they were welcomed with hugs and chai and noise — the good kind.
For these days, they forgot the snakes.
They forgot the tension.
They forgot the way Baba hadn’t looked up when they left.
They just wanted to live.
Freely.
Even if only for a little while.
- Writer
