Aboo, Ami and Adil مِلَن
A meeting that I have been yearning most of life, now is perceived in photograph
Floral motifs weaving through arabesques, geometry mingling with calligraphy, the intricate jali work, and silhouettes of muqarnas bathed in the glow of crescent moons and stars. Here, peacocks and lotus blossoms gently surface beside the tree of life. But then Scandinavian patterns try to combat the woollen fibres of Chitrali Shu.
I scarcely recall the faces of aboo, ami (mother), and my younger self.
At times, a dream murmurs faintly.
What words did we exchange that day?
What scents lingered on ami and aboo?
How did Lahore's air taste in the dawn of the '90s?
Sometimes, aged photographs coax us into crafting a phantom realm.
A tragic romance seems to unfold its prologue, its genesis uncertain.
Aboo, you never set foot in the land of the British—a kingdom promised by dreams but betrayed by the weight of reality. Unlike you, we arrived not as free spirits but as subjugates, lured by visions of liberation yet bound by the invisible chains of assimilation. Your purity anchored you to our motherland, where your identity could not be conquered. We, the scattered seeds of your lineage, are the ones lost, grafting ourselves onto foreign soil, mimicking the coloniser’s ways in a desperate bid for acceptance.
With my tapestry of degrees and the scars of experience, I resist this pull toward assimilation. Instead, my story carries an undertone of unrest, a political awakening that lays bare the oppressions concealed behind the West’s glittering facade. Aboo, I see through the illusions of democracy that parade as freedom, the promises of a civilisation whose gifts often bear the sting of control.
What is azadi, Aboo? The freedom you once breathed? It is more than resistance; it is a soul-deep rebellion against the very hands that promise liberation while tightening their grip. Your struggle was not so different from mine. Your resistance was rooted in defiance—against those who shared our skin yet carried the coloniser’s agenda in their hearts. Did they force you into the slumber of the conquered, Aboo, through fear or betrayal?
The sounds of your mornings—the soft, lyrical cadences of Punjabi, the warmth of brotherhood—linger in my memory. What did solitude look like for you? These musings pull me back to the homeland, not to the physical soil where you once stood, but to the spirit of a nation that whispers your essence.
I am the son of an uprooted tree, carrying it across decades and continents, searching for a land where its roots might finally hold. The soil, Aboo, speaks its own language—perfumed with Sahiwal’s essence, heavy with the lifeblood of martyrs who died not for the land but for an idea. Their sacrifice seeps into the earth, turning it sacred.
When I smell tobacco or the acrid sting of cigarettes, memories of you awaken. But is there a scent that fathers carry, Aboo? I wonder. When I rest my head on another man's shoulder and inhale his fragrance, I sometimes feel as though I am searching for traces of you. This longing makes sense one moment and dissolves into confusion the next. Aboo, am I selfish for thinking this way?
Your life, Aboo, was marked by a solitude that the world often demands of men. You languished alone in Pakistan, carrying the weight of grief, longing, and an unforgiving patriarchy. You died alone. Not one of us—your wife, your children—was there to hold you. What story did you carry in your heart, unspoken and unclaimed? What fear kept you from breaking free of suffering? Why didn’t you fight harder for yourself?
As I sit now in my house in Chitral, unpartnered and child-free by choice, I am living the life I always desired. Slowly, I shed the cultural baggage handed to me, dismantling the armour my family forged. I reject it all, not with bitterness but with gratitude and humility. This, I believe, is growth. And yet, in my quiet moments, I long for you and Ami to visit me here in Chitral. What would it be like to sit with you over steaming cups of chai on a winter morning? What would your eyes tell me? Aboo, I wish I had been there 25 years ago to save you, to encourage you, to fight against the injustices you bore in silence.
For years, I couldn’t believe you were gone. It felt like a cruel jest. I thought you might reappear, laughing, ready to embrace me. My first Eid in Chitral was a torrent of grief. After Eid prayers, as I wandered through the Shahi Bazaar, my eyes searched for you. Aboo, I imagined you surprising me, pulling me into a hug, and taking me on a long walk.
As I delve deeper into our shared history and my displacement, the lines blur—between your struggles and mine, between oppressor and liberator. In this haze, perhaps what we are seeking is not a physical place but a state of being. Freedom, I have come to realise, is not something granted by the West but something reclaimed from within.