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You'll Always Be My Home: Part 2

Sharjeena: Lost The Race Against Time

The familiar room of her childhood was meant to offer Sharjeena comfort, but now it felt foreign, like a shell of something she no longer recognized. Her parents and younger sister, Rameen, hovered around her, their voices a distant hum. She couldn't make out their words, nor did she have the energy to try. Their concern weighed on her as heavily as her grief, pressing her further into the mattress. She nodded absently to their questions:

Paani chahiye?
Nahi, thank you.
Thand toh nahi lag rahi?
Nahi.
Khaana laa doon?
Mujhe sona hai.

Her voice was quiet, flat, unrecognizable even to herself. She saw the glint of tears in her mother's eyes as she kissed her forehead, but Sharjeena couldn't lift her hand to wipe them away. Her father's gentle touch on her shoulder was meant to be reassuring, but it felt like another reminder of her brokenness. As they left the room, closing the door softly behind them, the silence swallowed her whole.

She lay there, pulling the comforter up to her chin as if it could shield her from the pain that seeped into every fiber of her being. Her breathing was shallow, and her body felt too heavy for the mattress to hold. She piled another comforter on top, craving the weight, the pressure, as if it could anchor her, keep her from floating away into the abyss of her agony.

Her mind was medicated but not at peace. Tranquilizers dulled the sharpest edges of her pain, but the ache in her chest was constant, gnawing, unrelenting. Her thoughts moved like shadows, blurry and indistinct. She closed her eyes, and the darkness behind her eyelids brought no relief.

The baby's face appeared first. Tiny, fragile, a vision of perfection that had only existed in her mind. Her chest tightened, and she opened her eyes, desperate to dispel the image. But when she closed them again, it was Mustafa who surfaced next. His deep, earnest eyes, the face she had loved with every ounce of her being. Her stomach churned. She opened her eyes again, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Her breaths came faster, her chest rising and falling erratically. She wanted to stop thinking, to stop seeing. She turned her head to the side, squeezing her eyes shut, but the images only intensified. She kept opening her eyes, then closing them again, as if she could physically shake away the thoughts, the memories. But they clung to her, suffocating her.

When sleep finally overtook her, it wasn't peaceful. It was dark, tangled, and tormenting.

She was in Mustafa's arms, her baby nestled safely in hers. The warmth, the love, the joy—it felt so real she could almost touch it. But then, something shifted. Mustafa's figure began to stretch and fade, pulling away from her. Her arms grew heavy, and the baby slipped from her grasp, drifting further and further away.

"Nahi!" she screamed, her voice echoing into the void. "Nahi, ruko, vaapas aao!"

Mustafa was on one side, the baby on another, and she was being torn apart in the middle. She reached for both of them, her hands clawing at the air, but they kept slipping further and further away. She screamed until her throat burned, begging them to come back.

Suddenly, she fell. A bottomless pit swallowed her whole, and she landed on a cold, sterile hospital bed. The room was crowded with doctors and nurses, their faces blurred, their movements frantic.

"Ammi!" she cried out, her voice cracking. "Mera bacchha kahaan hai? Kahaan hai mera bacchha?"

No one answered. They moved around her as if she didn't exist. She screamed louder, her voice breaking with desperation. "Please! Bataaein naa, mera bacchha kahaan hai?"