I still don’t know what sin Allah was trying to wash away—was it mine? Baba’s? Or was it the sins of our entire bloodline, a family that had never harmed a soul? I was told, by the Moulvi and others, that our trials are the result of sins, sometimes sins we don’t even remember. But none of this made sense to me. Why would Allah punish us when we only wanted to live simple lives, to dream small, to walk straight, and to hold onto our dignity? Was this the result of some forgotten wrong?
As I sat there, crushed under the weight of everything, the Maulana’s old words kept coming back to me—“Allah punishes us for our sins.” And I don’t know why, but my mind went back to that one childish act… when I had stolen eggs from a bird’s nest. Back then, it felt like nothing. But now… it felt like maybe that small sin had opened a door to all this pain. Like that one moment had somehow written the first line of this tragedy.
I couldn’t see Bebey like that—lying there in silence, a silence heavier than any cry, as if life itself had drained out of her and left only an empty shell behind. Asma Baji sat near her, pressing her feet, as if trying to revive her with every touch. But Bebey didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. She had forgotten how to feel.
I stood by the door, listening to Baba and Chacha talk inside. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but their words weighed heavy on me. “If somehow Baitullah comes back,” Chacha said, “do you think Haji Gul Zaman will let him live in peace?” Baba was quiet, nodding slowly, as though the weight of the decision was crushing him. “We’ll have to send him away… to Dubai maybe. It’s better that he goes far away from this village and its poison.”
I heard them, but I couldn’t understand. Why was Baitullah being sent away? Why couldn’t they find a way to solve things here, in their own village? To me, it felt like abandoning him, like betraying him, especially after all that he had been through.
When Baba and Chacha came out to go to the police station, I asked Baba if I could go with them. At first, he refused. “That’s no place for you,” he said. But before he could say more, Bebey’s voice broke through. “Let him go. He can take some clothes for Baitullah.”
Baba turned to her, angry not at her, but at the heaviness of it all. “After everything Baitullah’s done for this family, you think clothes matter now?” he said. Bebey, holding her head, spoke weakly, “I didn’t mean new clothes… just clean ones. Why do you always take everything the wrong way?”
Chacha stepped in, trying to calm things. “She’s right. He’ll need clothes. Let Shamir go… Let Nouman go too. If something comes up, they’ll be there to help.”
Baba didn’t argue. He just walked over to Bebey, resting his hand on her head, the way only a man full of guilt and love can. “Give him the clothes. And anything else Baitullah might need…”
And then, as if she had found her breath again, Bebey sat up and looked at Asma. “Aye jenae, raza che da kapre rawalo…” She said softly, “Come, my child, let’s take out the clothes for Baitullah.”
But in the quiet of my mind, I was still searching for answers. I wanted to understand—why was Allah allowing this suffering? Had our sins finally caught up with us, or was it just the way of the world? The Maulana had told me that Allah tests us through hardship, but what had we done to deserve this test? Perhaps, the answer was in the silence we had learned to live with.