Syed Majid Gilani
That evening, Hashmat went up to the attic looking for some old photographs. The wooden steps creaked as he climbed. The place was dim and forgotten, with a thin smell of dust everywhere. As he moved his hand across an old shelf, he touched something hard — a first aid box. It was worn out, its paint faded, its edges dull. Yet to him, it felt like a small door opening into the past. When he opened it, a faint smell of antiseptic rose in the air. Inside, every item carried a memory.
Rolled bandages, half-used ointments, and a jar of Betadine reminded him of scraped knees he had cleaned and little hands that had trusted him completely. Scissors and adhesive tape brought back evenings when the medicine had finished — but his care never had. To others these were ordinary items, but to him they were signs of a father’s love. Every card, every prescription, every tiny object was part of a quiet story that only he remembered.
And now… in a cold courtroom, those warm memories felt far away. Surrounded by harsh voices and heavy accusations, he felt as if those years of love had been pushed aside. The same hands that once held small heads and tied tiny shoelaces now rested helplessly on a table, unable to explain what the items in that box already proved: a father never stopped caring.
Inside the box was a small polythene bag with his children’s vaccination cards — polio, measles, meningitis, boosters. Each mark showed his dedication. There were also paediatric prescriptions for simple coughs, colds, fevers, and stomach pains — the small troubles of childhood that feel big to a loving parent. Even these minor illnesses had kept him awake at night. He sat beside them for hours, counting their breaths, checking their foreheads, fixing blankets, whispering small prayers until they slept. Often he stayed awake even after they were fine, watching their peaceful breathing and thanking God.
Every folded prescription carried a memory — a piece of his quiet care. To others, these papers meant nothing. But to him, they were reminders of moments no one else had seen: a trembling hand, a tearful face, a spoonful of medicine given gently. They showed how deeply he had loved, without expecting praise.
Across the room, Salma spoke loudly, her words sharp and confident. She called him careless — a father who never provided, never vaccinated, never cared. Her accusations came as if she could replace memories with lies. With every sentence, it felt as though she wanted to erase the years he had spent caring — the long nights, the whispered duas, the hidden worries only a father carries. As he listened, he wondered how easily the world forgets a father’s silent love simply because it is quiet.
So he waited. He stayed calm. The truth lived quietly — in that first aid box, in the vaccination cards and prescriptions, in the memories of tiny hands holding his finger, in soft breaths during sleep, in the coughs he soothed with patience. These moments made no noise, yet they carried the full weight of his love. True love does not need witnesses; it only needs honesty — and his honesty had never changed.
His children were his lifeline. They were the reason he kept moving even when life felt unfair. His love for them — steady and unconditional — was all the proof he needed. He believed justice would not abandon a truthful father. He trusted the law and Allah — the All-Seeing, the Most Merciful. Falsehood is temporary; truth stands forever.
Hashmat took a slow breath. He knew he could not stop others from lying or twisting stories. But he could hold on to the truth inside him. In faith, he found strength. In memories, he found comfort. And in his silent love — the kind that never demands recognition — he found a quiet light that would never fade, no matter how dark life became.
Syed Majid Gilani is a Government Officer by profession and a writer-storyteller by passion — weaving stories of real-life emotions. He can be reached at syedmajid6676@gmail.com
