The house silently occupied a corner of an ancient Lahore street, where rain scent mixed with dust and time itself waited. It was the type of house that shared stories when it was stirred by the passing wind through its windows. Within it, resided an old man, Ahmed Ali, who was alone yet unloved. His heart pounded with the quietness that only time would know.
Ahmed was once a school principal, a man of books and discipline. Now, at 76, his existence centered on but one room—her room.
It had been five years that Salma, his wife of almost half a century, had passed away. But Ahmed never let anything in her room get modified. The lilac drapes still fluttered by the window, her delicate green shawl hung impeccably on the chair, and her favorite cup rested on the bedside table, just as she had left it.
Neighbors would say that Ahmed was "trapped in the past," but he did not care. Every day, he would stroll slowly into her bedroom, sit in her rocking chair, and talk to her as if she were present.
"You'd laugh at the mess I made with the tea today," he would softly say, his voice shaking.
The walls had pictures of a well-lived life—birthday parties, holidays, picnics along the Ravi, and most of all, their wedding picture, black and white but full of feeling.
Salma
had been fond of music. The room still contained her old cassette player, piled
high with Mehdi Hassan and Farida Khanum ghazals. Ahmed had desisted from
listening to them since her death for fear that they would shatter the fragile
dam that controlled his tears.
A Sudden
Letter:
One winter morning, as Ahmed dusted the bookshelf in her room, something fell. It was a small sealed envelope, yellowed with time, hidden behind the Quran she used to read every night.
His fingers trembled as he picked it up. On it, in her delicate handwriting, were the words:
"For Ahmed. When I’m no longer here."
His breath caught. He sat down carefully, the letter clutched firm in his creased hands. For minutes, he simply gazed at it, heart racing like it had all those years ago when he'd first asked her to marry him.
At last, he opened it.
"My Ahmed,
If you're reading this, it means I'm gone. And if I know you well—and I do—you've kept my room just the same. You've never been good at letting go.".
But my love, life is not a pause. It's to move, to feel, to love, and yes, to let go.
I have a single wish. I hope you will fill this room once more—not with grief or emptiness—but with life.
Donate my books to the school library. Give my shawls to those who need warmth. Let the sunlight in, not memories alone.
And promise me this: you’ll play my favorite ghazal again. Not to cry, but to remember me with a smile.
Always yours,
Salma"
Tears fell
freely from Ahmed’s eyes as he pressed the letter to his chest. He sat still
for hours, absorbing her final words. She had always known his heart better
than he did.
A New Purpose:
That night, for the first time in years, Ahmed opened the windows wide. The wind brought in the smell of roses from the garden Salma used to care for.
The following morning, he went to the local school and gave her books to the library she once assisted in funding. The librarian, a young woman named Hina, stood agog holding the valuable collection.
These are classics," she whispered. "She must have loved them very much."
Ahmed smiled. "More than anything. Except me."
The shawls, bangles, and tea sets were one by one given away to neighbors and poor people. And as he gave each away, Ahmed felt the weight of his sorrow ease, as if Salma's soul smiled at the kindness.
He even brought out the cassette player.
That evening, for the first time in five years, the house rang with a familiar voice:
🎵 Ranjish hi sahi, dil hi dukhane ke liye aa…
The music played softly, and Ahmed closed his eyes, picturing her dancing in that very room, laughter echoing off the walls.
He didn't
weep this time. He smiled.
A Surprise Guest:
A week later, while Ahmed was sitting in the living room drinking chai, someone came to the door. It was Hina, the school librarian.
"I hope I'm not bothering you," she said, carrying a file. "I… I needed to ask something."
He invited her in, intrigued.
"Let me organize a storytelling session at the school for the kids. I was wondering if… perhaps you'd like to come and share a story from your life? Maybe about you and Salma?"
Ahmed hesitated. Talk in public about Salma?
But then he remembered her letter: Fill this room again—not with silence, but life.
He agreed.
The Story
Lives On:
On the day of the play, children met in bright uniforms, cross-legged on the ground. Teachers at the back waited anxiously to hear.
Ahmed, wearing a neat white kurta, sat before them. His gaze swept the curious young faces.
He started, voice firm:
Long ago, there was a man who fell in love with a woman who adored books more than anything… but she loved him too somehow."
He spoke to them of their first meeting at a book fair in college. Of their low-key wedding under a neem tree. Of how they made a life out of nothing but love, books, tea, and walks.
The children giggled as he imitated the scolding voice of Salma, and several teachers dabbed their eyes as he spoke of the day she died.
"But," he concluded, "her tale did not end there. Her love still fills my home… particularly one room."
The children applauded, not merely out of courtesy, but from true feeling. Even Hina's eyes welled with tears.
That
night, Ahmed strolled back home in the declining light, feeling lighter than
ever.
The Room Today:
Now, Salma's room is not a museum of sorrow anymore. It's a reading nook for kids from the neighborhood. Shelves of fresh books, floor cushions, and laughter on weekends.
Her cup remains on the side table—but now it's adorned with fresh flowers every morning.
Ahmed continues to speak with her. But no matter now, it's not due to pain. It's due to thankfulness.
"You were right, Salma. Life must move on… but love, love never departs."
The space
that was previously occupied by silence is now occupied by tales. Her tales.
His tales. And tales yet to be told.
***** THE END *****
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