It was 24th of October; a son was born to pious and noble parents. The young mother was delighted to learn that this was the day of Hajj as well. As the newborn took his first breath and cried, the mother, still in pain, smiled, lifted her arms in prayers; “Jazakamulla, my Lord, it is a son, on the day of Hajj- a day of Sacrifice!” Tears of gratitude rolled down her face as she cuddled the newborn in her arms.
Over the years she groomed him with utmost affection and love. She never lost an opportunity to instill the value of sacrifice. How Prophet Abraham (pbuh) sacrificed his son Ishmael and wife Hajira, on this very day, thus laying the example of a great sacrifice.
My mother, Bejan, as we called her, took me and my brother to a Kindergarten school when I was three or four years of age. The very thought of school was a nightmare. Till now I luxuriated in the lap of my mother. There was hardly a moment when I left her – in the room, in kitchen, while dining and even when out shopping. She would take care of me most tenderly. I vividly remember she would part with her portion of meals on my obduracy.
In school, I felt lonely, insecure, and depressed. I wept bitterly, and without waiting ran out of my class, and retraced my steps home. My mother was cleaning the house. She was alarmed to see me and took me in her lap. The next morning I was taken to school much against my wishes. Once again I ran out of the class and reached home. I cried and pleaded that I would never go to school lest I be separated from her. With my arms around her neck, I grasped her, clinging like a baby monkey. ”You will not send me to school, will you?” I asked. My mother in two minds did not utter a word. She wept holding me close to her bosom. With tears in her eyes, she complained to my father. “What will be the future of our child?” My father took a deep breath and said, “Never mind we’ll send him in the armed forces. They do not need geniuses.” It was not too long before my parents realised that I had “flat feet”, a disability considered unfit for the armed forces. My mother was devastated. She probably had imagined her son to read, write and excel in life.
However, my parents never lost hope. They knew there was yet another option, a greater option than all worldly ones - prayers and supplication! I remember those days when my parents, particularly my mother, would spend hours praying for me while I continued my pranks and following her like a shadow. Many times she would hold me and hug me with fondest love. She talked to me and narrated stories of great people – prophets, saints, and wise men. Her prayers were finally answered; she instilled in me the virtues of hard work, honesty, humility, and sacrifice. Above all, she taught me how to establish communion with Allah and love for His Creation.
One wintry evening Bejan got unwell with a high fever and shaking chills. Outside it was freezing cold. The sky was overcast and drizzling. I quickly covered her in warm clothes, and with a blanket to ward off the cold wind I rushed her to a nearby clinic. While returning an old man, shivering in cold, was sitting by the roadside. Bejan, on seeing him in such a pitiable state, told me to take the sick man to his home. I complied with her instructions. Having returned after more than half an hour Bejan was by the roadside on a cold wintry night – still shaking with fever and pain. I thought and wondered at her extreme self-sacrifice! A lesson I will never forget.
My mother’s prayers stood by me at every step - in trials, tribulations, happiness, and joy. She was part of me and I was a part of her
As a child and later in my teens I yearned, as all young people do, to stray, to venture and explore away from the nest. Why did I have to come by evening, take a bath, and not forget to brush those teeth? I was ready to take on the world. What could there possibly be that I could not do? Nothing, I thought. Once again I was to prove myself wrong, a trend I now see all too familiar as I look back on life. On the day I was leaving for the medical school, hundreds of miles from home, she packed my bag with everything essential – including my prayer mat, the Holy Book, and eatables. She even tucked a few currency notes in my bag – her savings of many years. Before bidding me farewell, tears welled in her eyes as she prayed for me. Her trembling hands held her shirt high in the air, begging Allah for His help. It was the same gentle demeanor that gave me those all-important talks about sacrifice, placing others ahead of myself, and most importantly, life.
Years passed – I stepped into middle age. Allah’s benedictions were countless. My mother’s prayers stood by me at every step - in trial, tribulations, happiness and joy. She was part of me and I was a part of her. She knew exactly when I was sad. I remember her holding my face and kissing me to comfort me.
It was one of those years in my middle age when I was struck by a most horrific illness. High-grade remittent fever, splitting headaches, and loss of appetite. The prolonged illness had reduced me to a mere skeleton. I could hardly walk and would faint on standing up. I lay listless staring at the roof waiting for a miracle to happen. Several possibilities surfaced – is it a brain tumor, meningo encephalitis, collagen-vascular disease, or some occult malignancy? When things got worse, I was whisked away in an ambulance to the intensive care unit. At the portals of my house, I saw my mother, bare-footed, head uncovered, weeping bitterly. Her hands held high in the air, praying for her son she loved dearly. As I took a last look at her – that silvery long hair, her chiseled facial features, and her glowing fair look – brought tears to my eyes. How much pain and suffering I had caused her at this age? My parents, loving wife, and children were by my bedside 60/24/7 (sixty minutes to an hour, twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week). Once again, my mother’s prayers and many others were listened to. By the grace of Allah I made a full recovery to vigorous health. On seeing me her face radiated with joy. She hugged me most passionately. I can still feel the warmth of her body as she embraced me. With tears welling up in her eyes she prostrated thanking Allah. She was an angel of beauty, her demeanor graceful and her smile captivating.
Towards the last years of her life, my mother developed cancer in her breast. She underwent a radical mastectomy and received radiotherapy. She fought her battle with cancer for the next seventeen years. During these trying years I observed her closely and saw her fortitude and patience. She never bowed and submitted to defeat. Her bravery was enviable. She kept her composure and resilience. She offered her five daily prayers with punctuality. Her recitation of the Holy Quran was melodious. She gave charity to the poor and needy.
Two days before her demise she was admitted to the hospital with excruciating abdominal pain. Aggressive medical management failed to stabilise her clinical state. Her vital signs continued to deteriorate till she lapsed into semi-coma. Holding my hand she made a last effort to grip my hand, brought it close to her lips, and whispered. “Aghashirin (my nickname) you go and sleep now. You haven’t slept for two days.” She was gasping for breath with her blood pressure un-recordable and pulse imperceptible. Remembering her children who were on their way she finally whispered, “Aghashirin, khuda hafiz!” Her grip loosened and she breathed her last in the wee hours of Friday morning in the month of Rajab. Her wish was fulfilled.
As I lowered her in grave in the cemetery in Rabwah, the last resting place reserved for those who had sacrificed at least one-tenth of their income and property for the service of Islam, I looked at her for the last time. We were together for half a century. She was an embodiment of sacrifice which I always wished to emulate. As I look back over those years I say to myself, “I owe all this achievement of my life to my late mother, Bejan, whose prayers always stood by my side, though she could not. Blessed be her soul.”