Returning Home to Say Goodbye
I’m not sure whether to call today a good day or a heartbreaking one. After 17 long years, I’m finally going to India — a trip I’ve dreamt about for so long. But this isn’t how I imagined it would happen.
As a child, I always longed to visit, but my mom never agreed. Every time grandma called and invited us, mom’s answer was always no. So grandma came to us instead — year after year, without fail. She was one of my favourite people in the world.
Grandma and mom couldn’t have been more different — especially when it came to love.
To grandma, love was the most beautiful thing on earth — something that gave meaning even to a life full of struggle.
But for mom, love was the ugliest thing — nothing but pain, disappointment, and heartbreak.
To grandma, love was like oxygen — essential, life-giving.
To mom, it was the reason people broke.
Today, I’m finally setting foot in the land I’ve only known through stories — but not for the reason I’d hoped.
I’m going to say goodbye.
My heart aches, and my tears won’t stop.
The woman who taught me what love really means — the one who waited for us all these years — is no longer here.
We’re going to India for her funeral.
And my favourite person in the world… is gone.
There were only ten minutes left before our flight touched down. I noticed the glimmer of tears at the corners of my mom’s eyes. She’s always been strong—maybe because she had to be. A single mother, fearless in every way.
Grandma used to say that Mom was once the opposite—soft-hearted, always crying over the smallest things. But after I came into her life, something shifted. Almost like magic. She transformed into someone unshakable. I’ve never seen her cry since.
As we stepped out of the airport, the air felt different—thicker, unfamiliar. No one seemed to be there waiting. I followed my mom closely. For me, India was a whole new world.
“Let’s get a taxi from there,” she said, pointing ahead.
We started walking toward the taxi stand when a young man suddenly appeared in front of us.
“Hello aunty,” he said, grinning. “I’m Zafar.”
Mom’s face lit up with recognition. “Oh, Zafar—you’ve grown so much!”
He was her cousin’s son. I’d heard his name before, maybe even seen him in a few family photos.
And okay… India’s men are quite handsome. I wasn’t expecting that.
“All of them are waiting for you,” he said, already lifting the luggage from Mom’s hands. Then he glanced at me—just for a second—but I noticed.
Crowds, Whispers, and an Empty Embrace
Within ten minutes, we reached home.
Mom whispered, almost to herself, “It was your grandma’s wish…”
The house was crowded. My grandma had always dreamed of welcoming me back, but now that moment would never come. She wasn’t there anymore.
As we stepped out of the car, Mom sighed heavily. “I regret not visiting when she was alive. I wish she had been the one to welcome us. That was her unfulfilled wish.”
The house stood tall—two storeys, looking fresh and new. I remembered my grandma’s voice from just two weeks ago: “I painted the whole house and gave a makeover to your room. I don’t know why, but I feel like you’re coming home this year.”
Mom had laughed it off back then, saying, “No way.” But here we were now.
Seventeen years had passed since I left. I was only three at the time. The first thing that caught my eye was the mango tree in the yard—my age mate. Grandma had planted it the year I was born. She often sent pictures of it to me, proudly showing how it grew. I still remembered the sweet taste of its mangoes she had brought us many times.
Inside, the house was filled with people. Every gaze turned to us. Of course—it had been seventeen years since we had come back.
Then my eyes fell on my dearest grandma’s still, silent face. My body froze, my vision blurred. I couldn’t believe she was gone. How I wished she could open her eyes, smile, and speak to me just once.
Mom bent down and kissed her forehead, whispering something only her heart could understand. I stood still, tears rolling down, staring endlessly. A hand touched my shoulder, grounding me back to reality. It was my cousin, Saniya—Mom’s brother’s daughter, four years younger than me. Around us, people were crying, reciting Quran, walking in and out.
The next day, visitors kept arriving. Everyone seemed to play the same game: “Do you know me?”
Honestly, I didn’t. Seventeen years was a long time. Mom recognized almost everyone, but I found myself irritated by the repeated questions and the long stares at my face. Some women whispered among themselves while glancing at me, which made it worse.
Suddenly, Zafar, standing a few steps away, tossed a small wrapped packet toward me. “Hey, this is for you.”
I caught it. “I don’t like chocolates,” I said flatly.
“Arwa doesn’t like chocolates or ice cream, but I love both!” Saniya snatched it from me with a grin.
“I love it too!” Noman, her elder brother—two years older than me—grabbed it from her. His best friend was Zafar, which explained why Zafar seemed to be always around.
Just yesterday, Saniya and Noman were making a strange bet.
“I’m sure Zafar’s ninth love story will end within a week,” Saniya declared.
“No, this time it’ll last. He’s serious now,” Noman countered.
“Bet?” she challenged.
“Yes. If I lose, I’ll tell you anything you want.”
“Same here.”
The whole thing felt odd to me. First, betting over someone’s love life was weird enough. Second, what did they even mean by “I’ll tell you anything if I lose”? I kept my thoughts to myself though—it wasn’t my business.
The Question I Never Dared to Ask
Three days had passed.
The game was still the same: “Do you know me?”
It was simple, really. They came to me, asked if I knew them, and I always answered no. But I kept wondering—who exactly wins this game? What if, one day, I said yes—would that make me the winner or the loser?
One afternoon, I overheard a lady whispering to another, “Where is her dad?” They spoke in hushed tones for a long time. I tried to catch their words, straining my ears, but couldn’t hear clearly. My heart tightened.
The truth was, I had never seen my dad. Not once. And strangely, I had never really asked. Only once, when I was very young, I remember asking Mom, “Where is Dad?” Her reply was sharp and haunting:
“If you keep asking that question, you’ll lose your mom too.”
After that, I never asked again. Not her, not anyone. But the question stayed buried deep inside me, burning quietly all these years.
Two days later, I overheard someone else asking about my dad again. Once more, I leaned in, trying desperately to catch even a fragment of their words. But their whispers were too soft, as if they didn’t want even their own ears to hear.
“Where is my dad? What’s his story? Why didn’t we come home for seventeen years? Is it because of him?” The questions began circling in my mind endlessly, louder and louder, until I could no longer silence them.
That night, while arranging Grandma’s wardrobe with Saniya and Noman, I finally gathered the courage. My voice trembled as I broke the silence.
“Saniya… do you know… anything… about… my… dad?” I asked, pausing heavily between each word.
Saniya looked down. “I don’t know anything,” she said softly.
But then Noman spoke. His voice was steady. “I know everything,” he said. “I know everything about your dad and your mom’s story.”
Saniya and I froze, staring at him in shock.
[ To Be Continued]
Lessons you can learn from this chapter
- Cherish the moments with loved ones. Life is unpredictable, and waiting too long to visit or express love can lead to regret. Arwa’s story reminds us to value the people who matter while they’re still around.
- Strength often comes from love and loss. Mom’s transformation—from soft-hearted to unshakable—shows how challenges and responsibilities can shape resilience. Love, grief, and duty intertwine to make people stronger.
- Never delay love and visits. Arwa’s grandma’s unfulfilled wish to welcome her back reminds us that time is fragile. If you love someone, don’t wait for the “right time” to visit, call, or express your feelings. Tomorrow isn’t promised.
- Memories live longer than moments. The mango tree that grew with Arwa shows how simple gestures of love—like planting a tree—can carry meaning and connect generations. Small acts today can become lifelong memories.
- Family bonds shape identity. Even after 17 years, Arwa was instantly recognized, whispered about, and tied to her roots. This shows that family connections don’t fade with distance or time—they remain part of who we are.
- Silence can be heavier than truth. Arwa grew up never asking about her father because of fear and her mother’s warning. But the unanswered question only grew louder with time. Sometimes, facing the truth—no matter how painful—is better than carrying the weight of silence.
- Every family carries untold stories. The whispers, half-heard conversations, and Noman’s revelation show that families often hide secrets to “protect” someone. But those hidden truths eventually find their way out, and when they do, they can change how we see everything.