The Red Flag

Her eldest and now only son walks out of the door. She knows where he is going but wants him to admit it. He does not. He leaves her, to bear the grief alone at home, to be close to where his brothers lies.

Laila stares at his back. He had become emaciated, his clothes are crumpled and has turned dumb just like his dumb born father. He has said nothing to her after he had seen the terrified and dejected tears of his mother, after an outburst of anger, of dire rejection and accusation that had escaped his lips, amidst the crowd.

Medals and certificates never seen before until it was too late for appreciation, are spread out on the couch. She wants to touch them, smell them. There seems to be a barrier as there always had been. She had always said ‘no’ when Fahad had asked to do this and that. Yet the boy had done them anyway, had emerged a winner, a great athlete, an undefeatable swimmer. The best. She was not demanding but over protective and that was what she was reproached and punished for. Again and again. Through anger and silence.

She recalls Fahad’s overwhelming laughter, his gaptoothed smile, his assuring words that she will never again hear. And then out of a corner emerges Fahad himself, wearing the new tie Laila had brought for him. He had asked for two new shirts to wear for his new job. He had promised to take her to the holy city of Mecca with his first salary.

Broken promises and shattered dreams surround her in clouds. Laila weeps again, unable to contain herself. Yesterday she had accused his friends, for taking him to the sea, had yelled at them. She knows that her son’s destiny was pre written. But it seemed easier, more consoling to pass on the blame.

This story captures the silent grief of a mother who has to bear the greatest sorrow there is for a mother to bear. The feelings of guilt which would invariably follow such an event is captured well here along with the helplessness in the face of it.

They had said that there was a red flag, that they had ignored the warning. They had asked forgiveness. Why had God spared them? Why had she allowed him to go sea bathing? Why had she not barred her child into the house, as she had always done, this one instance, that proved to be so fatal? Why had she failed to acknowledge his achievements? Why had she been privileged with the bounty of motherhood?

She will not forgive them. She will not forgive anyone, not even herself. She will accept the blame and it would spread in her body like a cancer.

She looks at the empty street, her son’s outline bearly visible. She sees in her garden, a red rose in full bloom. The plant had never produced any blossoms before.

And she feels an instant, impetuous urge to snatch the rose, feel its thorns and crush it into peices.

But she does not. Instead she retreats into the kitchen like she always did in the morning after seeing her children off.

(According to this story Fahad has drowned while

having a sea bath)