Pakistan (Past)
The house had grown quiet.
Only the faint ticking of the wall clock disturbed the silence.
Zoya sat on the wooden chair at the foot of Baba's bed, absentmindedly scrolling through her phone. Beside her lay his medicines—the night's dose waiting to be given.
"Five more minutes," she thought.
A video appeared on her screen.
It was the kind of video that always made her stop scrolling. Her fingers froze over the display, but before she could press play...
She heard Baba's voice.
Slowly, she looked up.
He had awakened.
Without saying anything, she pulled her chair a little closer to the foot of the bed—her usual place.
She had never chosen that spot consciously.
It had simply become her place.
Whenever she sat there, she would quietly watch him.
Sometimes she would gently rest her hand over his feet, not because he needed it, but because somehow... she did.
There was a strange peace in sitting there.
A comfort she could never explain.
As if simply being near him made every fear inside her fall silent for a while.
Tonight was different.
Baba was sitting upright, his tired eyes glistening with tears.
The video was still playing softly in her hand.
She glanced at the screen...
then back at him.
Without thinking, she placed her phone beside his feet, rested her chin on her folded hands against the mattress, and simply listened.
She noticed the tears in his eyes.
But she asked nothing.
For six years, Baba had spoken only when necessary.
Some days, not even that.
Tonight...
He was speaking on his own.
She didn't want to lose a single word.
Quietly, she stopped the video.
Then she opened her camera and pressed Record.
Not because she wanted a video.
But because her heart whispered—
"What if these words never come again?"
The small red light blinked.
The room fell silent.
Then Baba spoke.
"I held your tiny hand... and taught you how to walk."
His voice was weak.
Gentle.
Almost like a whisper carried by the night.
Beneath the blanket, one of his legs trembled in its familiar rhythm—the illness refusing to let him rest.
The doctors had explained it many times.
His brain could no longer send clear signals to his body.
But to Zoya...
It was simply another reminder that illness had slowly stolen pieces of the father she once knew.
He looked at her with tired eyes.
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
"And now..."
He paused for a long moment.
"...you are the one keeping me on my feet."
Baba's words settled deep inside her heart.
Zoya slowly reached for the medicines lying beside her—the memory tablet and the aspirin.
Every night she had to remind him.
Every night she had to convince him.
She poured a little water into the glass and held the medicines toward him.
"Baba..."
Before she could finish, he gently pushed her hand away.
Just like a little child refusing medicine.
For a brief moment, Zoya smiled through the tears gathering in her eyes.
Once...
He had patiently taught her how to swallow bitter medicine.
Now...
Life had quietly exchanged their roles.
Baba looked at her again.
His eyes seemed distant, yet strangely aware.
Then, after another long pause, he spoke.
"I joined broken words together... so you could learn how to speak."
His voice trembled.
"And today... you understand even the words I can no longer say."
Zoya lowered her eyes.
Her fingers tightened around the medicines.
She didn't interrupt him again.
Some moments were too precious to break.
The room became silent.
Only the ticking clock and Baba's slow breathing could be heard.
She leaned forward unconsciously, listening carefully, afraid that if she moved even a little...
his voice might disappear again.
After what felt like forever, Baba spoke once more.
His next words were quieter than before...
but they carried the weight of years.
"I wanted to build your future..."
His lips trembled.
"...but somehow..."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"...you became my present."
Zoya's eyes filled instantly.
She looked at him, unable to say a single word.
She had spent six years believing she was taking care of him.
But in that one sentence...
he made her realize that perhaps he had been carrying the heavier burden all along.
He knew.
He had always known.
He knew she had paused her own life just to remain beside him.
And for the first time...
Zoya felt that Baba wasn't speaking as a patient.
He was speaking as a father.
Baba closed his eyes for a few seconds, as though gathering the strength to say what had been buried inside his heart for years.
When he opened them again, they were fixed on Zoya.
Not as a patient looking at his caretaker...
But as a father looking at his daughter.
His lips moved slowly.
"Why have you stopped?"
Zoya's heartbeat quickened.
"Why are you still standing here?"
His breathing grew uneven.
Each word seemed to demand all the strength he had left.
"Time never waits for anyone..."
He looked toward the window, where the darkness of the night stretched endlessly.
"Once it passes..."
"...it never comes back."
A painful silence filled the room.
Then he looked at her again.
"I am already walking toward my end..."
"Why are you walking with me?"
Zoya's throat tightened.
She wanted to answer.
She wanted to tell him she had no regrets.
But no words came out.
Baba continued, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Go..."
"Find your dreams."
"Walk toward the life Allah has written for you."
His trembling hand lifted slightly from the blanket before falling back again.
"Your journey has only just begun..."
"Why are you stopping before you've even started?"
Zoya bit her lip so hard it hurt.
Her eyes burned.
Still...
She refused to let the tears fall.
Because she knew—
if she cried now,
Baba would stop talking.
And tonight...
She wanted to remember every single word he spoke.
For a long moment...
Neither of them spoke.
Only the soft ticking of the clock echoed through the room.
Then Baba smiled faintly.
The kind of smile that carried more pain than happiness.
His tired eyes never left Zoya's face.
"My eyes have grown used to seeing you..."
He paused, as though searching for the right words.
"...but why have you made me your whole world?"
A tear slipped down Zoya's cheek.
She quickly wiped it away before he could notice.
But Baba continued.
"Look outside..."
His eyes slowly turned toward the window.
"The sparrows leave their nests every morning..."
"They spread their wings..."
"...and they fly."
His voice became weaker.
"Then why..."
"...have you folded your own wings?"
Zoya's breathing became uneven.
Every sentence felt like it was tearing something apart inside her.
Baba looked back at her.
There was no complaint in his eyes.
Only love.
Only concern.
"Whatever remains of my life..."
He smiled softly.
"...I will live it."
Then, almost in a whisper, he said,
"But why are you forgetting to live yours?"
That was it.
The wall she had been holding together for years finally collapsed.
The medicines slipped from her trembling hands onto the mattress.
She slowly slid down from the chair until she was kneeling beside the bed.
Without saying a word...
she wrapped both hands around Baba's feet and rested her forehead against them.
Her shoulders trembled.
The sobs she had buried for years finally escaped.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly...
like a heart breaking in silence.
As she fell to her knees, her phone slipped from the bed.
It landed on the floor with a soft thud.
The camera was still recording.
But now...
it captured nothing except the sound of a daughter crying at her father's feet.
For several moments, she couldn't lift her head.
Her tears soaked the blanket covering Baba's feet.
She wasn't crying because she was weak.
She was crying because the person she loved most was asking her to leave him behind.
Slowly, she looked up.
Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet.
She tried to smile...
but her lips refused.
In a trembling voice, she whispered,
"Baba..."
"I don't think you understand what you're asking me to do."
She lowered her eyes again.
"You keep saying I'm wasting my time..."
"...but to me, these moments are the most valuable part of my life."
She gently held his hand between both of hers.
As if she were afraid that even for a second...
it might slip away.
"People invest money because they hope for profit one day."
A faint smile appeared through her tears.
"I chose a different investment."
She looked into his eyes.
"I invested my time in serving you."
Another tear rolled down her face.
"Because I believe Allah never lets such an investment go to waste."
Her voice grew steadier.
Not louder...
Just stronger.
"The hours I spend beside you..."
"...I don't see them as sacrifices."
"I see them as gifts."
She gently squeezed his hand.
"One day, when I stand before Allah..."
"...I hope He will return every moment I spent with you..."
Her lips curved into a fragile smile.
"...as happiness in this world..."
She paused.
"...and as mercy in the next."
She lowered her head once again.
Then, almost like a little girl asking her father for reassurance, she whispered,
"Tell me, Baba..."
"If I choose you..."
"...am I really wasting my time?"
The room became silent again.
A silence so deep...
that even the ticking clock seemed to fade away.
Baba looked at her for a long time.
His eyes rested quietly on her face, as though he wanted to memorize every expression she wore.
He didn't answer.
Perhaps he couldn't.
Or perhaps...
some questions are answered only with silence.
His trembling hand slowly lifted from the blanket and came to rest over hers.
It was a weak touch.
Almost weightless.
Yet to Zoya...
it carried the warmth of the same hand that had once held her tiny fingers while teaching her how to walk.
She closed her eyes.
That single touch was enough.
Enough to tell her he had heard every word.
Enough to tell her he understood.
A peaceful silence settled between them.
No words.
No explanations.
Just a father...
and his daughter.
After a few moments, Baba slowly leaned back against the pillow.
Speaking had exhausted him.
His breathing became slower.
His eyelids grew heavy.
Within moments...
he drifted into a peaceful sleep.
Zoya remained exactly where she was.
Still holding his hand.
Still watching his face.
Afraid that if she looked away...
this moment might disappear forever.
Then something caught her attention.
A tear escaped from the corner of Baba's closed eyes.
Then another.
They rolled silently across his temples and disappeared into the pillow.
He was asleep...
yet the tears refused to stop.
As though somewhere beyond words, beyond illness, beyond memory...
his heart was still speaking.
Zoya quickly leaned closer.
With trembling fingers, she gently wiped away the tears before they could reach his ears.
Her own tears fell beside his.
Almost in a whisper, she said,
"Please don't cry, Baba."
"Your tears make my heart weaker than yours."
She lowered her forehead beside his hand.
"Stay with me for a little longer."
"There's still so much life I want to share with you."
She looked at his peaceful face and smiled through her tears.
"After six years..."
"...today I felt like I got my Baba back."
She sat there for a long time.
Not scrolling her phone.
Not thinking about tomorrow.
Just listening to the gentle rhythm of his breathing...
and thanking Allah for giving her one more night beside her father.
Days passed.
But Baba's words never left her.
They echoed inside her heart every single day.
Sometimes while making his tea...
Sometimes while folding his clothes...
Sometimes in the middle of the night, when sleep refused to come.
She would hear his voice again.
"Go and find your dreams..."
"Why are you standing still?"
Every time those words returned...
her eyes would quietly fill with tears.
After university ended, Zoya made another silent decision.
She moved her own mattress into Baba's room and spread it beside his bed.
Not because anyone asked her to.
But because she wanted that if Baba called her name—even in the middle of the night—he wouldn't have to wait.
She wanted to be close enough to hear even his weakest voice.
From that day on, the room became theirs.
If Baba whispered,
"Zoya..."
She would open her eyes before he could say another word.
"Yes, Baba?"
Sometimes he wanted water.
Sometimes his medicines.
Sometimes he simply wanted someone sitting beside him.
And sometimes...
he didn't need anything at all.
He only wanted to know that his daughter was there.
So she stayed.
Some days he became impatient because of the illness.
Some days he raised his voice.
And some days...
he smiled with the innocence of a little child.
Zoya never complained.
Because somewhere along the journey...
she had stopped seeing the illness.
She only saw...
her Baba.
Life continued...
Quietly.
Peacefully.
And perhaps...
too peacefully.
No one knew that sometimes, the calmest days arrive just before the hardest goodbye.
One evening, Zoya noticed something unusual.
Baba wasn't asking for water as often.
He wasn't looking around the room the way he usually did.
He simply lay there...
his eyes closed...
his breathing a little heavier than before.
She sat beside him for a long time, pretending everything was normal.
But deep inside...
her heart had already begun to panic.
That night, she hardly slept.
Every few minutes, she would wake up, lean toward his bed, and listen carefully.
Not to his words...
Only to the gentle sound of his breathing.
Each breath brought relief.
Each silence stole it away.
As Fajr approached, she finally closed her eyes for a short while.
When morning arrived, the house slowly came to life.
Voices echoed from different rooms.
The sound of cups, footsteps, and morning conversations filled the home.
Everything looked normal.
Except Baba.
His breathing had become slower.
Heavier.
As if every breath now required more strength than the one before.
Zoya stood beside him, unable to look away.
A strange fear settled inside her chest.
One she couldn't explain.
One she didn't want to believe.
She reached for his hand.
It felt colder than usual.
"Baba..."
she called softly.
There was no reply.
She tried again, forcing a small smile onto her face.
"Baba... do you want some water?"
Slowly...
his eyelids lifted.
He looked at her.
Not at anyone else.
Only at her.
His gaze lingered for several seconds...
as though he wanted to tell her something that words could no longer carry.
Zoya smiled through the fear gathering in her heart.
She squeezed his hand gently.
"I'm here, Baba."
"I'm not going anywhere."
For a brief moment...
his eyes softened.
And then...
they slowly closed again.
Zoya didn't know why...
but at that very moment...
her heart silently whispered—
"Ya Allah... please don't let this be our last morning together."
The room slowly began to fill.
One by one, family members gathered around Baba's bed.
No one was speaking loudly anymore.
Even the walls seemed quieter than usual.
Someone called the doctor.
Someone else whispered a prayer.
But Zoya heard none of it.
She quietly brought a small stool and placed it beside Baba's bed.
Then she sat down.
Exactly where she always did.
She didn't panic.
She didn't ask questions.
She simply watched him.
Watched every breath.
Every rise and fall of his chest.
As though counting them...
might somehow make them last longer.
She slipped her hand into his.
It felt colder than it had ever felt before.
"Baba..."
Her voice was barely audible.
"I've been thinking about what you said that night."
A faint smile appeared on her lips, though her eyes were already wet.
"You told me to chase my dreams."
She lowered her head for a moment.
"I promise I will."
"I'll become independent."
"I'll work hard."
"And one day..."
"I'll become the daughter you always wanted me to be."
Her fingers tightened around his hand.
"But today, Baba."
"Today..."
"I still need you."
Her voice finally broke.
She leaned a little closer.
"Please stay a little longer."
"I've only just finished university."
"I haven't even started making you proud yet."
A tear slipped onto Baba's hand.
She quickly wiped it away with her thumb.
Then, in an even softer voice, she whispered,
"If I have ever hurt you..."
"...knowingly or unknowingly..."
"...please forgive me."
"And if anyone else has hurt you..."
"...please forgive them too."
"Don't leave this world carrying pain in your heart."
The room fell completely silent.
No one moved.
No one interrupted.
Only Baba's breathing could be heard.
Slow...
Heavy...
Then...
A little slower.
Zoya looked at his face.
For one brief moment...
his expression became completely peaceful.
As if every burden had finally been lifted.
His fingers relaxed inside hers.
The room remained silent.
Until someone quietly recited,
إِنَّا لِلَّٰهِ وَإِنَّا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعُونَ
"Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un."
"Surely, we belong to Allah, and to Him alone we shall return."
Zoya didn't scream.
She didn't collapse.
She simply sat there...
still holding Baba's hand...
waiting.
As if her heart refused to believe that the hand which had once taught her to walk...
had now let go forever.
For the first time in her life...
the safest place she had ever known...
was gone.
No one knew how long Zoya remained sitting there.
The room was full of people.
The world around her continued moving...
but hers had stopped.
Her fingers slowly slipped away from Baba's hand.
For years...
that hand had been her safest place.
The hand that had taught her to write.
To walk.
To pray.
To face life.
And now...
for the first time...
it no longer held hers back.
She lowered her gaze.
The room felt unfamiliar.
The silence felt unfamiliar.
Even breathing felt unfamiliar.
She wanted to call him one last time.
"Baba..."
The word escaped her lips almost as a whisper.
She waited.
As she always had.
For him to answer.
For him to move.
For him to open his eyes.
But nothing happened.
Only silence answered her.
It was then...
for the very first time...
that Zoya truly understood the meaning of loss.
Not when the doctor confirmed it.
Not when everyone began to cry.
But when she called her father...
and no voice answered back.
A tear rolled silently down her cheek.
She didn't wipe it away.
Because no hand remained to wipe it for her anymore.
She slowly stood up.
Her legs trembled beneath her.
Someone reached forward to support her.
She gently shook her head.
"No..."
Her voice was barely audible.
"I can still stand."
But deep inside...
she knew something had fallen that day—
something that would never stand the same way again.
She looked at Baba one last time.
A faint smile appeared through her tears.
Not because she wasn't hurting.
But because she remembered his last words.
"Go and find your dreams."
She closed her eyes.
And somewhere inside the pain...
she made a promise.
A promise she never spoke aloud.
"Baba... one day, I will fulfill every dream you saw for me."
"Not because you are here to watch me..."
"...but because your prayers will always walk beside me."
The room grew quiet once again.
Outside...
the evening breeze stirred the leaves of the trees.
Life...
had already begun moving forward.
But for a daughter...
time had divided itself into only two parts—
the days when Baba was here...
and the days when he wasn't.
Days passed.
The house slowly returned to its routine.
The visitors stopped coming.
The recitation of Qur'an grew quieter.
The condolences ended.
Everyone, little by little, returned to their lives.
But Zoya couldn't.
Even now, whenever she crossed the hallway, her eyes would instinctively drift toward Baba's room.
Sometimes...
without realizing it...
she would stop outside the door.
Waiting.
As if, at any moment, she would hear the familiar voice she had spent six years answering.
"Zoya..."
Silence.
Nothing else.
One afternoon, she quietly pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room looked exactly the same.
His prayer cap still rested on the shelf.
His glasses lay beside the Qur'an.
His walking stick was still leaning against the wall.
Everything was in its place.
Everything...
except him.
She slowly sat beside the bed.
The same bed where she had spent countless nights.
The same place where she had learned patience.
Where she had laughed with him.
Cried beside him.
Fed him.
Prayed for him.
Held his hand.
She gently placed her palm on the mattress.
It had gone cold.
For a long moment...
she simply sat there.
Not speaking.
Not crying.
Just remembering.
Then, quietly, she reached into the bedside drawer and took out a plain notebook.
She opened it to a blank page.
The pen rested in her trembling hand.
For several moments...
she couldn't write a single word.
Because how could a few lines ever carry the weight of a father?
A tear slipped onto the empty page.
She smiled through it and whispered,
"Baba... today I'm writing to you because my heart still doesn't know how to live without talking to you."
She took a slow breath.
Then the pen finally began to move.
For Baba (Father)
I learned to walk...
holding your finger.
Whenever I stumbled,
you never let me fall.
Years passed...
and one day,
it became my turn
to hold your hand,
afraid that if I let go,
life would take you away from me.
You taught me how to speak,
one broken word at a time.
Then life became so quiet...
that I learned to understand
even your silence.
People thought
you had stopped talking.
But they never knew...
your silence taught me
what words never could.
You used to tell me,
"Time never waits."
"Go..."
"Chase your dreams."
"Spread your wings."
For so long,
I thought loving you
meant never leaving your side.
Today...
I finally understand.
Loving you also means
continuing the journey
with the prayers you left behind.
Baba...
I still search for you
without meaning to.
Sometimes,
I still turn around,
thinking you called my name.
Then I remember...
the voice I miss
now lives inside my heart.
I miss you.
More than words
will ever be able to explain.
But I pray
that wherever Allah has placed you,
your heart is at peace.
And when,
by Allah's mercy,
we meet again in the Hereafter...
I know
you will smile
when you see me.
That thought alone
gives me the strength
to keep walking.
Because even though
I can no longer hold your hand...
I still carry your prayers
with every step I take.
The pen stopped moving.
A single tear fell onto the final page,
blurring the last few words.
Zoya didn't wipe it away.
Some tears...
become part of the story.
She gently closed the notebook and held it against her chest.
The room was still silent.
But somehow...
it no longer felt empty.
She gently placed the notebook back into the drawer.
As she stood up, her eyes fell on the phone resting beside Baba's bed.
For a moment...
she simply looked at it.
Then she picked it up and opened the Gallery.
The first video was the one she had recorded that night—
the night Baba spoke after years of silence.
She pressed Play.
His gentle voice filled the quiet room once again.
"I held your tiny hand... and taught you how to walk..."
She listened without moving.
When the recording ended...
the next video began playing automatically.
It was the same video that had been interrupted that night when Baba called her.
A familiar face appeared on the screen.
Zoya lowered her eyes.
He was Korea's prince—blessed with beauty, fame, hard-earned wealth, a humble heart that touched millions, a smile that lit up the darkest days, and the priceless gift of health.
Yet he had never recognized the One who blessed him with it all.
To be continued...
Regards,
ZK💌