Sharjeena: Lost The Race Against Time

The familiar room of her childhood was meant to offer Sharjeena comfort, but now it felt foreign, like a shell of something she no longer recognized. Her parents and younger sister, Rameen, hovered around her, their voices a distant hum. She couldn't make out their words, nor did she have the energy to try. Their concern weighed on her as heavily as her grief, pressing her further into the mattress. She nodded absently to their questions:

Paani chahiye?
Nahi, thank you.
Thand toh nahi lag rahi?
Nahi.

Her voice was quiet, flat, unrecognizable even to herself. She saw the glint of tears in her mother's eyes as she kissed her forehead, but Sharjeena couldn't lift her hand to wipe them away. Her father's gentle touch on her shoulder was meant to be reassuring, but it felt like another reminder of her brokenness. As they left the room, closing the door softly behind them, the silence swallowed her whole.

She lay there, pulling the comforter up to her chin as if it could shield her from the pain that seeped into every fiber of her being. Her breathing was shallow, and her body felt too heavy for the mattress to hold. She piled another comforter on top, craving the weight, the pressure, as if it could anchor her, keep her from floating away into the abyss of her agony.

Her mind was medicated but not at peace. Tranquilizers dulled the sharpest edges of her pain, but the ache in her chest was constant, gnawing, unrelenting. Her thoughts moved like shadows, blurry and indistinct. She closed her eyes, and the darkness behind her eyelids brought no relief.

The baby's face appeared first. Tiny, fragile, a vision of perfection that had only existed in her mind. Her chest tightened, and she opened her eyes, desperate to dispel the image. But when she closed them again, it was Mustafa who surfaced next. His deep, earnest eyes, the face she had loved with every ounce of her being. Her stomach churned. She opened her eyes again, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Her breaths came faster, her chest rising and falling erratically. She wanted to stop thinking, to stop seeing. She turned her head to the side, squeezing her eyes shut, but the images only intensified. She kept opening her eyes, then closing them again, as if she could physically shake away the thoughts, the memories. But they clung to her, suffocating her.

When sleep finally overtook her, it wasn't peaceful. It was dark, tangled, and tormenting.

She was in Mustafa's arms, her baby nestled safely in hers. The warmth, the love, the joy—it felt so real she could almost touch it. But then, something shifted. Mustafa's figure began to stretch and fade, pulling away from her. Her arms grew heavy, and the baby slipped from her grasp, drifting further and further away.

"Nahi!" she screamed, her voice echoing into the void. "Nahi, ruko, vaapas aao!"

Mustafa was on one side, the baby on another, and she was being torn apart in the middle. She reached for both of them, her hands clawing at the air, but they kept slipping further and further away. She screamed until her throat burned, begging them to come back.

Suddenly, she fell. A bottomless pit swallowed her whole, and she landed on a cold, sterile hospital bed. The room was crowded with doctors and nurses, their faces blurred, their movements frantic.

"Ammi!" she cried out, her voice cracking. "Mera bacchha kahaan hai? Kahaan hai mera bacchha?"

No one answered. They moved around her as if she didn't exist. She screamed louder, her voice breaking with desperation. "Please! Bataaein naa, mera bacchha kahaan hai?"

Her cries grew hoarse, her throat raw, but no one listened. She turned her head and saw Mustafa standing outside the hospital window. Relief surged through her as she screamed his name.

"Mustafa! Humaara bacchha, Mustafa! Humaare bacchhe ko bacha lo!"

But he didn't hear her. He was busy, his hands full of files and papers, his face focused on something far away from her. She screamed again, louder this time, but he remained oblivious, lost in his work.

Her voice cracked with her final plea, "Please Mustafa, humaare bacchhe ko bacha lo!"

And then everything went silent.

Sharjeena jolted awake, her body drenched in sweat, her heart pounding violently against her ribcage. Her throat burned as if she had actually been screaming. She clutched at the blankets, her breaths shallow and fast.

It was just a dream, she told herself, trying to calm her racing mind. But as the seconds ticked by, reality began to settle over her like a crushing weight.

It wasn't just a dream. It was worse.

Her baby was gone. The life she had been carrying, the child she had nurtured and loved even before its first breath, was gone. And Mustafa—he wasn't here. He hadn't come to her. He hadn't fought for her.

The tears came suddenly, violently, like a flood breaking through a dam. Her body shook with sobs, each one more painful than the last. She buried her face into the pillow, muffling her cries, but they wouldn't stop. Her chest ached, her throat raw, her entire being consumed by grief.

She grabbed at the blankets, piling them on top of herself as if they could shield her from the pain. But there was no escaping it. The loss, the emptiness, the betrayal—it was all too much.

She curled into herself, her body trembling under the weight of her anguish. Her hands instinctively moved to her belly, now flat and empty, and the sobs came harder. She had failed. Failed her baby, failed herself, failed the life she had dreamed of.

In that moment, she wasn't just mourning the loss of her child. She was mourning the loss of everything—her dreams, her love, her trust. She was mourning the pieces of herself that had been shattered, the pieces she wasn't sure she could ever put back together.

She lay there, broken and defeated, her sobs echoing in the silent room. The world outside her window carried on as if nothing had happened, but inside, her world had ended. And she didn't know if she would ever find a way back.

Sharjeena lay motionless in the bed, her body a shell, her soul somewhere far away. She couldn't summon the energy to move, to think, to care. The weight of the blankets felt both suffocating and necessary, grounding her in a reality she wished she could escape. The evening sunlight streaming through the curtains was too bright, the chirping of birds as they were returning home outside too cheerful. Everything felt wrong, misplaced, mocking her grief.

Her mother entered quietly, the soft clinking of a tray in her hands breaking the silence. She sat down beside her on the bed, placing the tray on the nightstand. The aroma of tea wafted through the room, but it felt distant, irrelevant.

Her mother reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Beta," she said softly, her voice thick with concern, "Tumhaare liye chaai aur naashta laayi hoon. Thoda sa kha lo."

Sharjeena blinked slowly, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. The words filtered into her mind, but they felt hollow, like echoes in a vast, empty space. She turned her head slightly toward her mother, her face blank, and whispered, "Bhookh nahi hai."

Her mother sighed but didn't push. Instead, she picked up the cup of tea and gently placed it in Sharjeena's hands. "Acchha, chaai toh pee lo," she urged.

Obediently, almost robotically, Sharjeena raised the cup to her lips and took a small sip. The warmth of the tea did nothing to thaw the coldness inside her. She cradled the cup in her hands, staring into its depths as if it might hold some answer, some solace.

Her mother began to talk, her voice low and soothing. She spoke about time, about healing, about how wounds, no matter how deep, eventually scar over. Her words floated in the air like fragile feathers, but they couldn't reach Sharjeena. They fell away, unheard.

Sharjeena's eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the ceiling. The ceiling, at least, didn't demand anything of her. It didn't ask her to eat, to talk, to feel. It simply existed, unmoving, a blank canvas for her empty thoughts.

Her mother paused, her voice taking on a different tone. "Beta," she said hesitantly, "Mustafa ka phone aaya tha."

The name hit like a sharp jolt, a tremor beneath her surface. Her hands tightened slightly around the cup, but her face remained expressionless. She said nothing, staring ahead.

Her mother continued carefully, gauging her reaction. "Tumhara phone band hai toh usne mujhe phone kia tha. Tumhari tabiyat ka puch raha tha. Bohot pareshan tha, bohot taqleef mein lag raha tha."

The words dug into her, scratching at a wound she was desperately trying to seal. Her ears rang with the sound of his name, his worry, but she forced herself to remain silent, to remain still. Her mother's hand found hers, warm and comforting, but it only made the ache inside her grow deeper.

"Ek baar usase baat kar lo, beta," her mother urged gently. "Voh bhi bohot taqleef se guzar raha hai."

Sharjeena turned her head slowly to face her mother. Her eyes were void of any light, hollowed out by grief and exhaustion. Her lips trembled slightly as she whispered, her voice so soft it barely escaped her throat, "Ammi... aap aaj raat yahaan so jaaengi? Mere paas?"

Her mother's heart broke at the sight of her, this strong, vibrant girl reduced to a fragile shadow. She nodded quickly, tears welling in her eyes. "Haan, meri jaan. Main yahi hoon, tumhaare paas."

Her mother adjusted herself, letting Sharjeena lay her head in her lap. As soon as her head rested there, Sharjeena felt a faint flicker of safety, like a child seeking refuge in their mother's embrace. Her mother's hand began stroking her hair, a gesture so familiar yet so far removed from the whirlwind of pain she was trapped in.

Closing her eyes, she tried to shut out the world, tried to escape the haunting images that played on repeat behind her lids. Her mother's lap was warm, her hand gentle, but even that couldn't keep the storm at bay. She was exhausted, her body heavy, her mind drowning, but sleep was not a reprieve. It was just another place for her grief to follow her.

She wanted to say something to her mother, to tell her that she wasn't ignoring Mustafa out of anger, but because the pain of acknowledging him was too unbearable. She wanted to tell her that every time she thought of him, she felt the sharp stab of what they had lost, what she had lost. But the words wouldn't come. The grief wouldn't let them.

Instead, she lay there in silence, her breathing shallow, her tears soaking into the fabric of her mother's clothing. She clung to her mother's presence, needing it to fill the gaping void inside her, even if only for a moment.

———————————————————————————-

The days bled into nights, and the nights dragged into mornings, but for Sharjeena, there was no difference between the two. Time had become irrelevant—a slow, torturous loop of existence. She had lost everything she once clung to with hope and love. The vibrant future she had imagined, the love she had cherished, the child she had dreamed of holding in her arms—all gone. Every bit of warmth, every sliver of joy that used to fill her heart, had been replaced by a cold void. Her family tried endlessly to reach her, to remind her that they were there, but their words, their presence, it all felt like a distant echo in a world she no longer belonged to.

Mornings came and went with her mother bringing tea, food, or books to keep her company. But Sharjeena merely existed in those hours, nodding when asked a question, shaking her head when prompted to eat, and then retreating back into herself. Her bed had become her refuge and her prison, the place where she would lie for hours, staring at the ceiling, her body heavy with grief.

Sleep, when it came, was no reprieve. Nightmares plagued her, vivid and cruel. She would see herself cradling her baby, feel the joy in her heart, only to have the vision ripped away as Mustafa turned his back on her, or darkness engulfed her. She would awaken in cold sweats, her chest heaving, unsure if the nightmare was worse than the reality she lived in.

Her thoughts often drifted to Mustafa, no matter how hard she tried to push them away. She would replay their last few arguments in her head, each word like a dagger piercing her heart. "Tum impractical ho, Sharjeena. Unrealistic. Tumhare sar pe paagalpan sawaar hai bacchha paida karne ka. Yeh haalat hain humaare bacche rakhne waale? Bacchha bas paida karna nahi hota hai, usey paalna padta hai, uski parwarish mein paise lagte hain." His words echoed, cruel and unforgiving. She had believed in the beauty of love, in the strength of their bond, in their ability to face anything together. But had she been wrong? Was it all her fault? Had she loved too deeply, hoped too much, and ignored the harsh realities of the world? Had she pushed him away with her dreams, her naïveté, her refusal to see the world the way he did?

The weight of those thoughts crushed her every day, keeping her locked in a cycle of guilt and despair. Her own mind had become her enemy, tormenting her with questions she could never answer and memories she could never escape.

One morning, weeks after her collapse, her mother approached her hesitantly. "Beta," she said softly, sitting beside her on the bed, "Mujhe aaj thodi der ke liye baahar jaana hai, kisi ke ghar afsos ke liye. Tumhare baba aur Rameen bhi ghar pe nahi hain. Par main aise tumhein chhorr ke nahi ja sakti, bina is tasalli ke ki main tumse phone pe baat kar paaungi."

Sharjeena barely nodded, her response a ghost of her former self. Her mother picked Sharjeena's phone placed on the bedside table and handed it to her. "Please, apna phone on kar lo, beta. Jisase ki meri tumse baat ho paaye. Main jaldi waapas aa jaaungi."

Reluctantly, almost mechanically, Sharjeena reached for the phone. The act of turning it on felt monumental, like reconnecting to a world she had shut out. The screen lit up, and immediately, a flood of notifications appeared.

She stared at the screen, her breath catching in her throat. Missed calls. Texts. Voice messages. All from him. Mustafa.

Her hand trembled as she opened the first message. His voice poured through the phone, raw, desperate, filled with anguish.

"I miss you, Sharjeena. Please, please mujhse baat kar lo. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Message after message, text after text, they all said the same thing. He was pleading, begging for her to respond. Tears blurred her vision as she read his words. He told her he couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't function without her. He missed her voice, her laugh, her presence. He blamed himself over and over again, each message more heart-wrenching than the last.

Her breath quickened as his words pulled her back into the past, to the night that had changed everything. She remembered feeling unwell that day, she remembered calling him, over and over, her voice trembling as she left messages he never answered. She remembered crying alone in her apartment, her sobs echoing around the empty home. She remembered collapsing on the sofa, weak and alone, waiting for him. The darkness of the apartment when the power went out. The panic that rose in her chest as she stumbled in the pitch-black room. The sharp excruciating pain that tore through her body as she fell, the cry that escaped her lips before the silence consumed her.

And then she remembered waking up in the hospital. Her mother's tear-streaked face as she whispered the words that shattered her world: "Voh bacchha ab nahi raha."

Her body convulsed with sobs as the memories consumed her. She clutched the phone to her chest and screamed, the sound raw and guttural, reverberating through the empty house. She cried for the baby she had lost, for the love that had been broken, for the woman she used to be. She cried for the nights she spent alone, the calls Mustafa never answered, the moments she felt abandoned when she needed him the most.

Her voice grew hoarse, her body trembling as she sank to the floor, unable to contain the pain that had been locked inside her for weeks. Mustafa's voice played on a loop in her head, his apologies, his anguish, but they only deepened the ache.

She clutched her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth on the floor as the tears poured from her eyes. Her mind was a storm, a chaos of memories and emotions, the agony of the past colliding with the emptiness of the present.

For hours, she stayed like that, her body wracked with sobs, her soul unraveling with every thought. The house was silent, but inside her, a tempest raged. She cried until there were no tears left, until the exhaustion overtook her and she lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, her chest heaving with shallow breaths.

The phone lay beside her, Mustafa's voice still echoing in her ears. She didn't know what to do, didn't know if she could ever face him, didn't know if she could ever forgive him—or herself.

All she knew was that the pain was too much to bear.

————————————————————————————

More time passed and flowed like a quiet, relentless river for Sharjeena. She had no sense of how many days or weeks had passed since her life had splintered into irretrievable shards. Days blurred into nights, and nights blurred into an overwhelming void. Each sunrise was an uninvited visitor, each sunset an unwanted end to a day that meant nothing. She felt like a ghost within her own life, haunting the spaces she once filled with laughter and love.

Gradually, she began stepping out of her room. At first, it was just to the dining table, her steps slow and hesitant, her face an unreadable mask. Her family tried to welcome her warmly, but their smiles were tight with concern. She would sit there quietly, mechanically lifting her spoon, chewing without tasting, staring at her plate while the murmur of conversation flowed around her. Words felt foreign, and she had no desire to join the dialogue.

Eventually, she ventured to the porch and balcony, her movements tentative, her gaze distant. She would stand there, leaning on the railing, staring at the world below as if it belonged to someone else. The streets bustled with life—children laughing, cars honking, vendors calling out—but none of it touched her. She felt like a spectator in a play she no longer had a role in, her heart weighed down by a grief that had taken permanent residence.

She started noticing things she hadn't before—the worry etched into her father's face, the dark circles under her mother's eyes, the way Rameen hesitated before entering her room. Her family was breaking under the weight of her silence, their love stretching to meet her grief, but she could see the toll it was taking. She realized with painful clarity that her sorrow wasn't hers alone anymore; it had seeped into the walls of the house, infecting everyone she loved.

That night, over a quiet dinner, she spoke for the first time in weeks. Her voice was hoarse, as though it had forgotten how to form words. "Maine dobara job karne ka faisla kia hai," she said, her tone flat and devoid of emotion.

Her parents exchanged a glance. Her mother's brows furrowed slightly, concern flashing in her eyes. "Beta, kya tum sure ho? Koi jaldbaazi nahi hai kisi cheez ki—"

"Mujhe karni hai," Sharjeena interrupted, her voice firmer this time. She