When Arafat turned around, a strange feeling washed over me.
"Zara? You? Here?" Arafat said in surprise.
"Who is it, Arafat?" Arafat's father said as he came out from the cowshed.
Seeing me, he said, "Hey girl, aren't you the one from the hospital? What are you doing here?"
Arafat said to his father, "Why are you talking like this, Dad?"
"Be quiet. I understand now, it's because of this girl that you're in this state. She ruined your studies. If it weren't for her, you wouldn't be like this," Arafat's father shouted.
"Me?!" I said in dismay.
"Dad! How is this her fault?" Arafat said.
"Girl, get out of here. Leave now," Arafat's father shouted.
"But Uncle, I just wanted to talk to Arafat for a moment, please don't do this," I said.
"Didn't I tell you to leave? Leave quickly," Arafat's father said.
Suddenly, my father appeared from behind.
"You can't talk like this as a gentleman. You are a teacher," my father said.
I quickly went to my father, my eyes were filled with tears.
"Oh, really? What kind of father are you? Your daughter will do whatever she wants, and you won't say anything? It's because of fathers like you that society is in this state. My son was never interested in these love affairs. Your corrupted daughter must have done this to my son," Arafat's father said.
"Speak respectfully. I am still talking to you with respect. I can help you if I want to. I can take care of all your son's medical expenses," my father said.
"I don't need your help, take your daughter and leave now," Arafat's father (Abdul Alem) said.
"Dad! Please stop. Why are you behaving like this?" Arafat said.
"Look. I understand your situation. Please calm down. Please speak calmly," my father said.
Abdul Alem said in a slightly lower voice, "Why have you come here?"
"Look, just as your son means everything to you, my daughter means everything to me. I don't want my daughter to suffer or be angry with me for any reason. Look, if I don't do anything for your son's illness, I will be a criminal in my daughter's eyes. So I request you, please let me help with your son's comfort or treatment," my father said.
"Who are you? Who are you to do all this?" Abdul Alem said.
"Look, I have a stake here, and that's my daughter's happiness. I can do anything for that. Now everything depends on you," Father said.
Saying this, Father started to leave the house. He told me, "Zara, that's enough. Let's go home now."
I stood still for a moment, looking at Arafat, and then slowly walked out.
I went home. After that, I wanted to go to Arafat's house many times, but my Father didn't allow me.
2 days later i went to the village and reached Arafat's house and saw there was no one. I asked neighbors and they said that they left the place yesterday.
I was broken again and for some days I looked for Arafat but didn't find him anywhere.
A few days later-
I was sitting in my room listening to music when Auntie came and said, "The new renter downstairs has arrived, go and meet them."
Annoyed, I said, "What? Why should I meet them? What's it to me who moves downstairs?"
Auntie said, "Oh! Your father called and told me to tell you. I don't know much. Besides, your father wouldn't ask you to meet someone for no reason, right?"
Annoyed, I said, "Alright, I'll go."
I went after a while.
When I knocked on the door, Arafat opened it. I was completely shocked. I couldn't understand what was happening.
In that moment of silence, Arafat broke the quiet atmosphere and said, "Zara, how are you?"
Hearing him, I didn't know what to say, so I blurted out whatever came to mind.
"First, tell me where you disappeared to, ignoring me like that."
"I'm sorry, really, but there was nothing I could do," Arafat said.
"I will never forgive you for what you did," I told Arafat.
"That's up to you. Anyway, I won't live much longer. Forgive me before then," Arafat said with a smile.
"Shut up, I will do what I say. And who told you that you're going to die? The doctor? It doesn't matter. When I say I won't forgive you, I mean it. Because I won't let you disappear again," I said.
"We'll see. But now answer my question, how are you?" Arafat said.
"I was fine, I had forgotten you. Now I'm not fine, because..." I trailed off.
"Because what?" Arafat asked.
Without saying anything, I hugged Arafat.
I said, "It doesn't matter. I still love you."
As I hugged Arafat, I realized his body had become very thin. His body felt like it was made of bones with little flesh.
Hearing the bathroom door open, I let go of Arafat.
Arafat's father came out of the bathroom. I greeted him this time.
His appearance had changed a lot. He no longer looked like that angry teacher.
He said to me, "Forgive me, my dear."
I said, "Oh no, Uncle, what are you saying?"
"Forgive me as if I were your father. I behaved so poorly with you that day," Abdul Aleem said.
That day I found out that it was Father who convinced him. Father gave him a job at his orphanage as a manager of the place and took on all the expenses for Arafat's treatment.
From that day on, my routine changed. I spent a large part of my day with Arafat. Arafat's hands worked a bit, so we would draw together, play games, and watch movies and series.
But gradually, Arafat's hand functionality decreased. Within two months, his hands became completely unusable. As a result, Arafat couldn't feed himself anymore. I took on the responsibility of feeding him.
Arafat's father was not at home during the day because he had started teaching.
My responsibilities towards Arafat increased because I wanted to take them on.
The days passed like this, with doctors coming and saying that his condition was deteriorating.
Two months later, Arafat became completely bedridden. It was very painful to see a loved one in such a state.
It got to the point where Arafat could do nothing but speak. Still, our conversations never ended.
One day, I went to Arafat's house, and he was sleeping. Arafat's father was watching TV.
My relationship with Arafat's father had improved a lot by then. He asked me to sit next to him.
"Dear Zara, do you know why I call you 'dear'? Because the kindness in your eyes reminds me of my mother. I am really grateful to you and your father. I used to think love was a bad thing, but seeing you changed my mind. I pray to Allah every day, crying, to heal my son, even if it costs me my life. If my son were to get better, making you his bride would be the best decision of my life. Alas, that's not possible," Arafat's father said.
"It's still possible for me to marry Arafat," I said.
"No, don't say that. I see you as my daughter. Doing that would mean ruining your life. I want you to grow up and be known as an exceptional person," Arafat's father said, placing his hand on my head.
Before I could say anything, he stood up and said, "I have to go now. I was actually waiting for you. Arafat hasn't woken up yet. Last night, he was talking about you. He wanted to tell you something."
"Alright, don't worry, Uncle. I'm here," I said.
Arafat's father said, "With you here, I have no worries."
And then he left.
I went to Arafat's room. I saw that he was sleeping, and I felt a strange unease inside.
Leaving Arafat's room, I checked what Arafat's father had cooked. Since Arafat had difficulty swallowing solid food, the meal consisted of soft foods like soup, poached eggs, and rice flour bread.
Suddenly, I heard a noise from Arafat's room. I rushed in and found Arafat had fallen off the bed. Blood was coming from his head. He was unconscious.
I quickly bandaged his head and called Arafat's father. Then, we immediately took him to the hospital.
On the way to the hospital, his condition was very bad, but we managed to get there in time. Within three hours, Arafat regained consciousness.
At that moment, I remembered the time when Arafat got severely injured in front of me. That day, I was following Arafat around, trying to befriend him.
Recalling that memory made me feel sad because I learned that Arafat's MND was primarily caused by the injury from that day. If I hadn't followed him around that day, none of this would have happened.
As I was thinking about this, the doctor informed me that I could now see Arafat.
I went in and saw that Arafat had regained consciousness, but he couldn't speak at all. The doctor said the nerves controlling his vocal cords were also damaged.
It pained me to think that I would never hear Arafat's voice again, but I was grateful to Allah that he could still be saved.
From that day, Arafat was admitted to the hospital. It had been almost seven days. I visited him every day. I talked to Arafat, and though he couldn't speak, he would just smile faintly. That was my solace.
One evening, I went to see Arafat. He was sleeping, and I sat beside him. Suddenly, Arafat started to convulse. I got scared. Arafat was trying to say something but couldn't. I quickly called the doctor and held Arafat's hand tightly. As soon as the doctor entered, Arafat's body gave a big jerk.
Arafat's hand slipped from mine. Before I could say anything, the doctor urgently asked me to leave. When I refused, a nurse forcefully escorted me out.
I felt like everything was over. I was stunned and remained silent. Tears welled up in my eyes.
Then, I don't remember anything else clearly. Yes, just one thing stands out: when the doctor said, "Arafat is no more, he's passed away."
Present Time
|| The writer (Zara) was crying at that moment, tears were falling on the paper. She was writing all this, sharing her past in the paper as a text.
Zara closed her diary. A person came and said, "Ma'am, please get ready quickly. There's not much time left. If we delay today, it will cause a lot of trouble."
Zara said, "Yes, I'm coming. You get the car ready, I'm leaving."
Zara got up, put her diary in a box, and thought to herself, "Today, Arafat was supposed to be in my place."
Zara went downstairs and got into the car. The car started moving. Zara looked outside, a tear fell from her eye.
The car stopped in front of a grand event. As soon as Zara got out of the car, people started taking pictures. Walking on the red carpet, Zara took her seat at the front.
The event was mainly a national award ceremony. Awards were given to many people for various achievements. It was announced, "The award for the best artwork of the decade goes to Zara Akhtar. With her artwork named 'The butterfly of slider Lily ' "
Zara went up on stage to receive the award, tears streaming down her face.
She looked at the audience, her father applauding. Behind him, she saw a shadow of Arafat. The hand clapping fades away in a moment as she sees some red butterfly in replacement of Arafat's shadow.
She smiled with tears in her eyes.
The End-----