It is amazing how a single word like 'life' can contain so much meaning. The way it can be so complex so as to contain so much 'philosophy'. Life is a precise amalgamation of being joyful and sad and anxious and annoyed and angry and depressed at various times. It is these emotions that make us realize how alive we are. These emotions vary our heartbeat and our blood flow and we come to this conclusion: we could not be any more alive than we are right in that moment.
Habiba’s father belonged to a business family. A family that owned dozens off factories and petrol pumps around the country. Her father, Qasim, himself though was an army officer.
Qasim Ali was born in Gujranwala in a rich and well off household as the oldest son. He had two brothers and one sister. Never once in his life had he seen a shortage of anything while growing up. Everything he had was ample in amount. The only thing that he did not have was peace of mind, and just a little bit of happiness.
Domestic violence is prevalent not only in lower, illiterate classes but one also finds such cases in families who are literate, and know how wrong it is, yet do not refrain from it.
The first time Qasim saw it with his own eyes was when he was merely 12. He had been outside in the lawn, playing catch with his favorite blue ball that had been gifted to him by his father on his birthday, when he heard a women crying from inside the house. At first he thought it was his mother crying because she missed her father. His maternal grandfather had passed away a month ago because of a heart attack. His mother had been crying on and off since then, and any attempts to pacify her had been futile.
Quietly he entered her room, and saw her sitting on the edge of her bed. When she saw him approaching her, she tried to wipe off her tears quickly so that her son would not be able to see them. But Qasim was a clever child. He reached her and placed his small hand on her cheek.
"Mama? Why are you crying? Are you missing Nana?" he asked innocently.
His mother gave him a small smile, trying to shield her sorrow, "Yes my little boy. I'm missing my father."
A mere child that he was, he hugged his mother and tried a few words of comfort, "Don't worry Mama. I'm here with you. You can hug me whenever you want."
The words only made her sob harder.
As Qasim left the room that day, he missed the bruises on his mother's neck.
Two days later, he woke up to the sound of his mother's screams in the middle of the night. He crept out of bed and tiptoed to his parents' room. The sight that met his eyes was one that would forever be etched into his mind. His mother sat crouching on the floor holding her arm while his father stood towering over her with a thick, wooden stick in his hand. It took moments for him to piece up the actions.
His mind wouldn't stop buzzing as he dragged himself back to his room, his eyes watered up.
"Papa is beating Mama with a stick." He kept repeating the words under his breath again and again until he fell asleep and forgot about it for the night.
He never mentioned what he had seen that night. He was too scared. Scared that Papa would beat him too, like he beat Mama. Or that Papa would take him away from Mama. But every single time his father hurt his mother, he knew. He just knew.
Three years later, he was a Matric student and was being asked to make a choice about his career. He had decided it already. His best friend, Rahim's father was an army officer and over the years he had been to Rahim's place enough times to know what his life was like. He did not live as luxurious a life as Qasim did, but there was love amongst his parents and prosperity in the household. And that was the one thing he had craved desperately all his life.
