A Tale of a Mother’s Blind Love and Its Ruinous Consequences
By Syed Majid Gilani
In the warmth of my childhood home, wisdom was passed down not through books alone, but through voices, gentle, firm, and seasoned by life’s many lessons. In those days, elders were the true custodians of knowledge. Their words carried the weight of experience, and their stories served not just to entertain restless children, but to shape hearts and build character.
Of all the voices, I remember, none echoes louder in my memory than that of my grandmother, the late Syeda Sakina Gilani. She was not a scholar in the worldly sense, but her understanding of human nature, her sharp sense of right and wrong, and her ability to read hearts made her a figure of rare wisdom in our family. Her stories, drawn from life’s harshest truths, were meant for us, to correct our faults, warn us of hidden dangers, and remind us of the cost of straying from the path of virtue.
Among those stories, one left an unshakable imprint on my heart, the tragic account of a woman named Nida, and the son she destroyed with her own hands, not through hatred, but through the misguided excesses of a mother’s blind love and unchecked pride.
It happened in a quiet city, where Nida lived with her husband Fazil and their only son, Raashid. Fazil was an upright, hardworking man, the kind of father every child deserves and every home needs. Yet his home was no refuge for him. His wife’s bitter tongue and cruel disposition turned their house into a prison. Fazil’s life was a long, silent endurance, marked by endless insults and indignities. To the world, he was a provider, a respectable man. To his wife, he was nothing more than a means to earn money.
In this toxic household, Nida poured all her obsessive affection onto her son, Raashid. However, it was not love tempered with wisdom, it was a dangerous indulgence. She turned him against his father, feeding him false notions that Fazil was weak, outdated, and unworthy of respect. She barred Fazil from having any say in the boy’s upbringing, raising Raashid entirely on her own twisted standards.
As the boy grew, the consequences of this reckless parenting began to surface. When Raashid stole a pencil from a classmate’s bag and confessed it to his mother, any sensible parent would have guided, scolded, and corrected him. However, Nida laughed it off. In that single moment of silence and approval, she planted the first seed of destruction in her son’s heart.
What followed was a slow descent into darkness. Raashid grew unruly, defiant, and loud. When he fought with classmates, Nida defended him. When he insulted teachers, she justified it. When he took to smoking, she shrugged it away. “He’s young,” she would say, “better this than gambling or drinking.” She emboldened every wrong, excused every mistake, and erased every line between right and wrong for him.
Then came the day that sealed his fate. Raashid brutally assaulted his class teacher over a petty disagreement. The teacher was left injured, and the school, unable to tolerate such violence, expelled Raashid on the spot. One would think a mother might be alarmed, humiliated, or at least concerned. But not Nida. She clapped him on the back and praised his bravery. “Good,” she said, “never let anyone suppress you.”
That incident became the turning point. With no school to attend and no fatherly hand to steer him, Raashid took to theft. Under the cover of night, he robbed homes in the nearby mohalla’s while his defeated father, Fazil, sat helplessly at home, carrying the silent burden of watching his son’s ruin.
The final tragedy came on a bitter, moonless night. During a burglary gone wrong, Raashid was confronted by a homeowner. In the scuffle, Raashid killed the man. He was arrested, tried, and sentenced to death by hanging.
As was custom, the condemned man was granted a final wish. Raashid’s request stunned the entire kingdom, he asked that his mother, Nida, be hanged beside him. When the King demanded an explanation, Raashid spoke words that would haunt every parent who heard them.
“I was born innocent,” Raashid began, tears streaming down his face. “But from the day I stole a pencil, my mother chose to stay silent. When I beat my teacher, she praised me. When I disobeyed my elders, she encouraged me. She taught me to hate my father, a good, gentle man, calling him weak, old-fashioned, and unworthy. She distanced me from his love, his guidance, and his discipline. She fed me poison in the name of love. And today, I stand at the gallows not because I was born evil, but because my mother raised me without a conscience. If anyone deserves to die with me, it is she.”
Nida collapsed upon hearing her son’s final words, consumed by a guilt that arrived far too late. The King, bound by custom and Raashid’s last wish, granted it. As mother and son stood side by side at the gallows, their fate served as a brutal, unforgettable lesson to all who watched.
My grandmother would always end this harrowing tale with a quiet warning: “Love your children with all your heart, but do not let love blind you. A home without discipline, where wrong is excused and elders disrespected, becomes a breeding ground for ruin. A mother’s greatest duty is not only to nourish her child but to teach him to stand upright in a crooked world.”
Even today, whenever I hear of parents dismissing their children’s faults or mocking the wisdom of their elders, this story rises within me, a tragic reminder of how one mother’s indulgence and hatred for her husband destroyed not just her family, but herself.
Syed Majid Gilani is a Government Officer by profession and a storyteller by heart. He writes about human emotions, moral values, family bonds, and the invisible threads that hold communities together. He can be reached at syedmajid6676@gmail.com
