The next hearing
There are no suspects here — only the murderers of my son and there is no doubt in that matter
Sitting in the corridors of the court, I am waiting for my turn. It’s 9.30am in the morning and only 15 minutes are left for the call-out. They told me that they will only call out the names of the suspects and there will be no hearing today. I don’t really understand what they mean by ‘suspects’. There are no suspects here — only the murderers of my son and there is no doubt in that matter.
Sitting here waiting, I am getting flashbacks of the times I spent with my son. Believe you me, I can smell him even after six years of separation; a separation that brought him even closer to me. He used to say, “Abba ji, it’s in your nature to love me, you cannot do anything about it, but me loving you is different.”
I never knew I loved him so much that everything other than him will be meaningless to me after his death. He would polish my shoes and then kiss them; I haven’t seen anyone do this my entire life.
I remember how, just four days before his death, we were coming home from our dera on a motorcycle and he asked me at least a dozen times, “Abba ji aren’t we friends?” I repeatedly told him we were. I really wish we were just friends and there was much less pain than that which I suffer all the time now.
Now only one minute is left for the call-out and I am all ears! They will call the name of my uncle’s grandson and he is already smiling at me standing at the other corner of the corridor holding the chain of his German Shepherd. My son told me, one cannot find a German Shepherd in this area easily. One has to import it from Islamabad. I never knew the man standing at the other corner of the corridor liked the same breed of dog. Lo and behold! They called his name and he has responded by shouting back his name while stubbing his cigarette against the right side of the no-smoking sign. Now, a smoke-screen will linger for another two years before the next hearing, keeping him out of sight.
Published in The Express Tribune, November 28th, 2015.
Sitting here waiting, I am getting flashbacks of the times I spent with my son. Believe you me, I can smell him even after six years of separation; a separation that brought him even closer to me. He used to say, “Abba ji, it’s in your nature to love me, you cannot do anything about it, but me loving you is different.”
I never knew I loved him so much that everything other than him will be meaningless to me after his death. He would polish my shoes and then kiss them; I haven’t seen anyone do this my entire life.
I remember how, just four days before his death, we were coming home from our dera on a motorcycle and he asked me at least a dozen times, “Abba ji aren’t we friends?” I repeatedly told him we were. I really wish we were just friends and there was much less pain than that which I suffer all the time now.
Now only one minute is left for the call-out and I am all ears! They will call the name of my uncle’s grandson and he is already smiling at me standing at the other corner of the corridor holding the chain of his German Shepherd. My son told me, one cannot find a German Shepherd in this area easily. One has to import it from Islamabad. I never knew the man standing at the other corner of the corridor liked the same breed of dog. Lo and behold! They called his name and he has responded by shouting back his name while stubbing his cigarette against the right side of the no-smoking sign. Now, a smoke-screen will linger for another two years before the next hearing, keeping him out of sight.
Published in The Express Tribune, November 28th, 2015.