After you left,
The house did not become empty…
It became quiet.
Nisar Banbhan
Hailing from Village Mir Muhammad Banbhan, Taluka Mirwah, District Khapurpur and based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh, Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 25 years of multifaceted experience, encompassing 3 years in journalism and over two decades of service in a public sector organization. His extensive expertise spans content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyrics, poetry, and storytelling across multiple languages, including Sindhi, Urdu, and English. Nisar has honed his skills in writing articles, columns, and short stories, contributing to various national and regional media outlets. Additionally, he brings a deep understanding of program development, educational advocacy, and strategic planning, having led initiatives that promote quality education and foster community empowerment. His passion for literature and education merges seamlessly, enabling him to craft impactful narratives that resonate with diverse audiences while driving meaningful change in society.
The Moringa Tree
Mother…
After you left,
The house did not become empty…
It became quiet.
The walls are still standing,
The clock still tells time,
The door still opens…
But the house has forgotten
The sound of your voice.
That little pause at the doorway…
“You’re home, my child?”
It still hangs there somewhere,
Like a forgotten prayer
Caught between two breaths.
In the kitchen,
A small stain of turmeric
Rests on the wall.
Everyone sees a mark.
I see
Your fingers.
The cupboard still keeps
Your folded clothes carefully,
As if they are afraid
That if they move,
Your fragrance might leave.
And the pillow…
Every night it places
A piece of your dream
Beneath my sleepless eyes.
Mother…
In the courtyard
The moringa tree you planted
Has grown taller.
Perhaps it was growing upward
To find you.
Perhaps the roots knew
What my heart refused to accept…
That some people
Do not leave completely.
They go underground
And become roots.
When the wind passes
Through its leaves,
It does not sound like wind.
It sounds like someone
Whispering a prayer.
“May Allah keep you safe, my child…”
And for a moment,
I become small again…
A child who still believes
That every sorrow
Can be cured by a hand
Placed gently on his head.
After you left,
I searched for you
In many faces…
In an old woman’s blessing,
In a stranger’s kindness,
In a soft voice,
In the warmth of a passing touch.
But Mother…
A mother’s presence
Has a fragrance
That no other place carries.
People say…
Time heals everything.
Maybe it does.
But some wounds
Are not wounds.
They are rooms inside the heart
Where memories sit quietly
And light a lamp every evening.
Now, before every prayer,
Your name reaches God
Before my own words do.
I say…
My Lord,
The woman who gave away
Her nights for my dreams,
Who hid her wishes
Inside my happiness,
Who turned her whole life
Into a shelter for mine…
Cover her resting place
With Your mercy.
Make her loneliness
A garden of peace.
Give her a smile
That never fades.
And if one day
My journey reaches Paradise…
Let the first face I see
Be hers.
I will not complain.
I will not tell her
How heavy life became.
I will simply rest my head
In her lap…
Like I used to.
Because Mother…
Some tiredness
Does not come from walking.
It comes from living without you.
And that moringa tree
In the courtyard…
Will still be there.
Holding our story
Inside its leaves,
Standing as proof…
That some loves
Are not buried in earth.
They grow.
They become trees.
They become prayers.
They become shade
For all the days
We have left.
Mother…
I still do not call your name loudly.
I am afraid…
What if heaven opens its door,
And you appear with the same smile,
Touch my hair,
And ask…
“My child…
What took you so long?”
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