Lahori Novels
The Withered Garden
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawn as Mehermah and Iqra sipped their coffee, a comfortable silence hanging between them. Iqra, a young woman with a curious mind, couldn’t help but notice the sparse greenery surrounding them. “Momo,” she finally remarked, “You didn’t answer us. Why are there so few plants in the lawn?”
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Mehermah, lost in a distant memory, looked up with a start. “Nothing special, just surprised to see so few plants in the lawn.” She chuckled softly, “It seems I’m still wondering why the lawn is so small.”
Iqra, intrigued, leaned forward. “Perhaps Agha doesn’t like plants?” she suggested.
Mehermah shook her head. “Baba Jan liked plants very much. And this quality was passed down to Rajabhai and Agha. Agha was very fond of plants. I heard from Rajabhai that he planted a sapling when Agha was born.”
Iqra, captivated by the story, walked barefoot on the grass, her eyes drawn to the few scattered plants. “Agha,” she mused, “was interested in them, wasn’t he? He used to spend time with them.”
Mehermah nodded, a wistful smile gracing her lips. “Later, when he was fifteen years old, he had planted many varieties of the same plant at Rajab Bhai’s house. Dawood Sahib told me that he had also created his own little garden at his grandfather’s house.” She paused, her voice softening, “After Pinar Bhabhi… after he lost her, he spent most of his time with plants. He loved gardening, Iqra. I wonder why he has so few plants at his house. Are they planted? Or did they wither away?”
Iqra, sensing a shift in Mehermah’s mood, felt a pang of sympathy. “Momo,” she said gently, “You know his childhood was different from that of normal children. He endured immense hardship at a young age. Life dealt him a cruel blow, and perhaps all his passions withered along with them.”
Mehermah’s eyes, now filled with a melancholic sadness, met Iqra’s gaze. Iqra felt the weight of her unspoken grief, the years of pain and loss etched on her face.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the lawn, Iqra felt a profound sense of understanding. The sparse greenery wasn’t just a lack of aesthetic appeal; it was a reflection of the withered hopes and dreams of a man who had endured a lifetime of sorrow.
Later that evening, as Iqra lay in bed, she couldn’t shake off the image of the barren lawn. It was a poignant reminder of the fragility of life, the way joy could be shattered, and the enduring scars that remained. She realized that the withered garden was not just a physical space; it was a symbol of the emotional landscape of a man who had lost his way, a man who was still searching for solace and healing.
The following day, Iqra decided to take matters into her own hands. She spent the afternoon in the garden, carefully weeding and planting new seedlings. She imagined Agha, years ago, tending to his plants with the same care and affection. As she worked, she felt a sense of purpose, a feeling that she was not just nurturing the plants but also helping to heal a wounded heart.
She knew it would take time, perhaps years, for the garden to truly flourish. But she believed that with patience and care, life could find a way to bloom again, just as new life could emerge from even the most barren soil. And as she watched the tiny seedlings push their way through the earth, she felt a glimmer of hope, a belief that even in the face of immense sorrow, the human spirit could find a way to heal and grow.
