By Faraz Parvez (Pen name of Dr. Arshad Afzal, Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA)
Characters:
- Bashiran – A middle-aged, childless woman, longing for motherhood.
- Waris – Her husband, a kind-hearted but submissive man.
- Hafeeza Bibi – Waris’s mother, dominant and bitter.
- Shahid – A young orphan Bashiran takes under her wing.
- Munawar – A well-to-do man in the village, owner of the land Waris tills.
- Fateh Deen – The village elder, wise but pragmatic.
Story:
Bashiran had been married to Waris for twelve years, and in all those years, her womb had remained empty. The women in the village whispered, and Hafeeza Bibi, her mother-in-law, never missed a chance to remind her:
“A woman without a child is like a tree without fruit. What good is a barren tree?”
Bashiran had endured the taunts, the bitter stares, and the backhanded sympathy for too long. The tiny courtyard of her mud-brick home echoed with silence, and at night, she often placed her hand on her stomach, as if pleading with it to give her the joy of a child.
One evening, Waris brought home a frail boy, no older than ten. His parents had died in the floods, and he had nowhere to go. The boy’s eyes were large, dark pools of sadness. Bashiran looked at him and, in that moment, something stirred inside her. She took him in, bathed him, and fed him with the tenderness of a mother.
“Shahid,” she whispered, choosing his name.
Days turned into weeks, and Shahid became the son she never had. He would run to her, calling out “Amma!” as she spread butter on his roti. She felt whole. Even Hafeeza Bibi, though reluctant, stopped complaining.
But happiness, like the winter sun, never stayed too long.
Munawar, the landowner, came one morning and spoke to Waris. “Waris, times are hard. I need my rent.” Waris lowered his gaze. The crops had failed, and he had no money.
“Give me another month, Sahib,” he pleaded.
“A month won’t change anything. Either pay or give up your land.”
Waris knew what that meant—hunger, destitution, shame. That evening, Hafeeza Bibi, with her sharp tongue, turned to Bashiran.
“If we had a real son, he would have grown up and taken care of us. But instead, we have an orphan to feed!”
Bashiran’s heart pounded. Was Shahid not real enough? Had she not poured her soul into him? She found Waris sitting outside, staring at the darkening sky.
“We have to send Shahid away,” he muttered. “It’s what’s best.”
Bashiran felt the ground shift beneath her feet.
“He’s our son!” she cried.
“He’s not, Bashiran,” Waris said softly. “He never was.”
That night, Bashiran sat beside Shahid, who lay curled up, his tiny hands clutching his blanket. She ran her fingers through his hair, memorizing his face. He stirred and blinked at her.
“Amma?” he mumbled, half-asleep.
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Sleep, my child,” she whispered.
The next morning, as the sun rose, she took him to Fateh Deen, the village elder.
“Find him a home where he’ll be loved,” she said, her voice steady but hollow.
As she walked back, the village air smelled of blooming mustard flowers, but she only felt the barrenness inside her.
That evening, Waris found her sitting in their silent courtyard, staring at the sky.
“Bashiran, talk to me,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder.
She turned to him and smiled—a small, empty smile.
“What is there to say, Waris?”
And in that moment, she knew—some women were destined to be barren, not just in their wombs, but in their lives as well.
