“The First Cry”

July 21, 2007 — 3:35 PMFaisalabad, Pakistan • Mahala Nazar Niyaz, Street No. 4

A narrow brick lane, hushed beneath the heavy July sun, led to a three‑story house set among a row of similar buildings. Despite its modest size, the house stood out: two floors rented to strangers, the top floor home to Abida, her family, and the promise of a newborn.

Inside, the single room was suffused with tension. Exposed brick walls absorbed sweat and whispered of years gone by. A battered sewing machine sat in one corner, its pedal still warm from morning use. A dusty ceiling fan wheezed overhead, its single bulb flickering like a pulse, illuminating the bed where Abida, in labor, fought through pain sharper than any she'd known.

The air smelled of dust, iron, and something electric—anticipation, fear, and hope entwined.

Labor's Long Battle

Abida's labor had lasted all day—a marathon of contractions that shook her frame and tested her resolve. Her best friend, Bebal, knelt at her side, dampening a cloth to press against Abida's forehead, murmuring calm reassurance:

"You're doing beautifully. Just a few more pushes… I'm right here."

Two nannies from the neighborhood—seasoned women with years of midwifery knowledge—moved methodically around the bed. One checked Abida's pulse, the other prepared clean cloths and fresh water. Their voices were soft but steady, each syllable a tiny anchor in the storm of pain.

Abida closed her eyes, panting. Remorse flickered through her memory—those dark pills she'd swallowed in a desperate moment before her first ultrasound, hoping this life wouldn't begin. Now, every pang of labor felt like penance.

Guilt: she carried it with each breath.

A Cry Splashes Silence

Then, in a final surge, Abida's breath caught and the world stilled for a heartbeat.

A sharp, urgent cry pierced the hush—a newborn's first scream—and the room exhaled as one.

Wrapped in trembling hands, the baby's tiny form was revealed: red‑skinned, wet, alive. He writhed and howled, arms flailing as if greeting the world with furious energy.

"Here's your child," Bebal whispered, awe and relief mingling in her voice.

The nannies quickly wrapped him in soft white cloth, cleaned his face, and laid him beside his mother. His cry subsided into hiccups and small grunts. For a moment, all eyes were on him—on the fragile miracle he represented.

An Emergency Unfolds

Abida tried to smile. Her voice cracked when she whispered:

"He's beautiful… my son."

But her body, drained, slumped. Color drained from her cheeks. The nurses exchanged grim glances.

"She's bleeding too much," one said, urgency sharpening her tone.

In seconds, they lifted Abida onto a makeshift stretcher—Bebal and one nanny guiding her toward the door as another hurried to fetch a waiting car. Abida's eyes fluttered, moisture glinting.

"Please be okay," Bebal murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from Abida's damp forehead.

The outside air struck Abida's face—a cruel contrast to the stifling warmth inside. She closed her eyes, clutching at Bebal's hand as helpers lifted her into the car. Tires screeched, and the vehicle raced toward the hospital, leaving newborn Aqeel in the care of strangers.

Alone with Promise

Back in the empty room, the sewing machine's hum seemed intrusive. The single bulb flickered. Dust motes danced in the sunlight pouring through the small window.

Bebal looked down at the swaddled infant in a cotton cradle. His tiny fists curled. He blinked once, then—silence. No more cries. No movement. Just breath.

"He's okay," the remaining nanny said gently. "Mother will be fine."

Yet the hush felt fragile. Bebal brushed her fingers along the cloth covering his chest, feeling it rise and fall. She whispered:

"Sleep now, little one. You're safe."

Somewhere deep in the baby's mind—if it could think—an echo stirred. A flicker, a pulse, something ancient remembering its promise.

A Father Unaware

Upstairs, in the house's rented second floor, Javed worked at his desk. As a junior manager at a textile company, he was often on call. He hadn't known the birth would come today. His phone buzzed—messages about maintenance in the mill—yet he sensed something. An impulse tugged him from his chair.

He stood, straightened his shirt, and pushed open the door to the stairwell.

A distant wail floated up—a cry he recognized as a newborn's. His heart skipped. His stomach knotted as he climbed.

He was healthy at thirty‑six—no rumors of illness, no whispers of mortality. Yet hearing that cry, he felt a curious pang—as if he, too, had just been born.

He reached the hallway where Bebal stood, framed in dust‑lit light, holding the swaddled child.

Their eyes met.

He stepped forward, reaching for the infant.

"My son," he whispered, voice thick. He laid the baby against his chest, rocking gently. "Welcome."

A tear rolled down Javed's cheek—an unexpected, unbidden sign of the depth in his heart.

Tender First Moments

Javed's rough hands were careful as petals. He whispered nonsense—stories of factories, of cotton fields, of prayers for patience. The baby's eyes fluttered, taking in the strange new world.

"I promise I'll protect you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the baby's forehead. "No matter what."

For that moment, the house felt whole—mother in the hospital, father and son united by fate's design.

Flickers of the Divine

As Javed cradled his son, the ceiling fan's blades cast shifting shadows on the walls. In the infant's wide gaze, it was as if he saw something beyond—an unspoken truth. His newborn eyes gleamed with a light that seemed too old for this life.

Javed felt it: a charge in the air, a whisper behind his ribs. He blinked, looking down at the child:

"What's this?" he asked aloud.

The baby's cry fluttered again, soft this time, as if acknowledging Javed's wonder.

A Promise of Return

Outside, the car carrying Abida vanished down the street. Bebal slipped away to prepare for her wife's recovery, leaving Javed alone with the sleeper in his arms.

He rocked gently, unaware that this child would carry memories no human could bear, secrets the world was not yet ready to know.

In the hush, the baby's fingers flexed, and for one heartbeat, the room shimmered with something… unseen.

A New Dawn of Quiet

The sun rose slowly over Faisalabad, its pale light filtering through narrow windows and casting long shadows across the floor. In the small room where Aqeel slept, wrapped tightly in soft cloth, Javed sat in the early haze of morning. He balanced the baby on his knee, humming a lullaby he remembered from childhood.

The house was silent, save for the gentle hiss of the ceiling fan. Two small brothers—Tanzeel, aged three, and Fazeel, aged one—stirred quietly in the next room, curious about the new addition to their family but too young to understand his significance.

Javed watched the baby's chest rise and fall. He felt a surge of pride, tempered by a distant ache. Life had handed him a precious gift and a hidden curse, and he knew only one would survive.

The First Weeks Together

The first few weeks passed in an almost dreamlike rhythm:

Feedings at dawn, when the sky was still ink-blue and the call to prayer lingered in the air.

Diapers changed with surprising tenderness, as Javed learned the intricate folds and fasteners.

Soft songs in Urdu and English, fragments of lullabies he had learned as a boy.

Aqeel was a calm infant. He cried when hungry or cold, but otherwise—for reasons no one could explain—he stared at Javed with ancient eyes, as though he recognized more than a father's face.

Javed found himself talking to the baby more than anyone else. He shared stories of his work at the textile mill, of the crowded streets, of the distant promise of a better life. Sometimes, he swore he heard a faint response: a soft coo, a flutter of the eyelids, or a fleeting smile.

"He's extraordinary," Javed whispered one evening, rocking the cradle. "You'll do great things, my son."

A Father's Hidden Sickness

Underneath the gentle routines, a secret war raged in Javed's body. He first noticed it as a dull pain in his abdomen—a whisper of discomfort he couldn't ignore. Within months, his stomach swelled with fluid, and simple tasks became exhausting.

Doctors at the local hospital frowned at test results. They spoke of ascites, fluid buildup in the abdomen, but could not pinpoint the cause. They ran scans, ordered blood tests, and offered medications that eased symptoms but did not cure.

Javed knew the truth. He had seen his own father suffer something similar. He had felt the cold grip of mortality before, and it was returning now, stronger than ever.

He never told Abida or his brothers. He carried his pain alone, like a shadow bound to his ribs.

Tender Moments in Pain

As his illness progressed, Javed's strength faded, but his love only deepened. He refused to let his condition define the moments he shared with his son:

He painted tiny pictures of cotton bales and looms, placing them near the cradle.

He whispered prayers into the baby's hair, asking for protection and wisdom.

He pressed his forehead against the infant's soft cheek, drawing courage from the child's warmth.

One afternoon, Tanzeel and Fazeel peeked through the doorway to watch their father play peek‑a‑boo with Aqeel. Seeing their laughter, Javed smiled—an act of defiance against the pain that tugged at his insides.

Erosion of Strength

By the time Aqeel was eight months old, Javed's steps had grown slow. His once‑steady hands trembled. He paused on staircases, breath stuttering. Yet he never missed a feeding. He whispered to the baby:

"Rest now. Dream of fields and open skies."

Late one night, he awoke to the soft cooing of his sons. He sat up, clutching his stomach. The pain was sharper than ever. He rose unsteadily, passing by a cracked mirror. He caught his reflection—pale skin, hollow eyes—and he saw both himself and something older, someone ancient staring back.

He touched the glass and found himself whispering:

"I'm sorry."

But the mirror remained whole. His apology unheeded.

A Quiet Farewell

Early one morning, as the first call to prayer echoed softly through the neighborhood, Javed felt his heart falter. He called for Bebal, Abida's friend who still visited, and for a nurse from the hospital.

They arrived to find him pale and sweating, the baby asleep beside him, and the two older brothers curled against the pillows.

"Take my hand," Javed said to Bebal, voice distant but steady. He reached across the bed to touch his son's cheek. "Remember me, my boy."

Aqeel stirred, blinking up at his father. In that glance, devoid of childish confusion, lay the entire promise and tragedy of his life:

"Be brave," Javed whispered, more to himself than to anyone. "Live well."

Moments later, his breathing eased into silence.

Silence After Storm

The room held its breath.The fan groaned softly.The baby's breaths came and went.

Abida and Bebal and even Tariq—all arrived within minutes—found Javed's body still, his final gift complete. They covered him with a simple white cloth, tears unspoken behind bowed heads.

Aqeel stirred, sensing an absence. He crawled to the edge of the bed, reaching for a hand that was no longer there. He touched the empty space, then drew back, puzzled.

No one could explain what the baby felt. They simply said:

"He's too young to understand."

But something in his gaze told another story: a soul had witnessed departure before birth, and it would not soon forget.

An Echo in Memory

Years later, Aqeel would not remember that morning. He would have only fragments:

The cold stillness of a room that had been full of life.

His mother's silent sobs, heard through closed doors.

The hush of two brothers staring, faces pale.

And in the deepest place of his memory, buried beneath layers of time:

A whisper that sounded like his father's last breath:"Live well, my son."

A Quiet Shift

Morning light in the rented second floor filtered through thin curtains as Aqeel sat curled beside his cradle, one chubby hand clutching the hem of Bebal's shawl. The room felt emptier now—his father, Javed, had left this life, and in the hush that followed, a new presence would soon arrive.

Downstairs, in the small courtyard cluttered with drying laundry and potted geraniums, Tariq stood waiting. His posture was straight, measured; his eyes reflected both respect and sorrow. Few in the neighborhood knew him well—Javed's longtime friend, a paramedical officer at the local hospital. Now, by Javed's final request, he had come to care for Abida and her three sons.

A New Arrangement

That afternoon, a simple document was signed in the landlord's office next door. No wedding feast. No gold bangles or new clothes. Just two signatures, a witness stamp, and a promise:

"Tariq Ahmed will provide for Abida and her sons after Javed's passing."

Then, in a hushed car ride back to Street 4, Tariq and Abida exchanged weighted looks. She wore her grief like a shawl—draped across her shoulders, dragging at her feet.

"Thank you," Abida said, voice trembling. "For doing this."

Tariq nodded. "Your family was his family," he replied softly. "I will do my best."

Settling In

That evening, Tariq climbed the narrow stairs to the top floor. He paused at the doorway, observing the little family:

Abida, pale but dignified, rocking in a wooden chair.

Tanzeel, clutching a stuffed rabbit, eyes wide as he watched an unfamiliar face.

Fazeel, rubbing sleepy eyes.

Aqeel, perched by the cradle, head tilted as if measuring every moment.

Tariq cleared his throat. "Good evening," he said. His voice was calm—reassuring. He stepped inside and placed a gentle hand on Abida's shoulder.

"I'll take care of them," he promised.

Abida managed a small nod. "Thank you," she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes.

As the children were tucked into bed, Tariq lingered by the cradle. He reached out, brushing a fingertip against Aqeel's soft cheek.

"You're sleeping well," he murmured."I won't let anything hurt you."

Learning a New Father

Over the next months, Tariq settled into the rhythm of the household:

Morning visits to see the children before heading to the hospital.

Evening stories—he told them about distant cities, dusty roads, and the strange world of medicine he navigated daily.

Quiet discipline, never harsh, but firm. He corrected Tanzeel's mischief with a gentle word, soothed Fazeel's tantrums with a calm touch, and offered Aqeel simple puzzles to solve.

To onlookers, Tariq was a blessing—a stable presence where chaos had reigned. But to Aqeel, just shy of his second birthday, Tariq was a stranger. The boy accepted Tariq's kindness, but his heart remained reserved, as if waiting for someone else to return.

A Child's Eye

One humid afternoon, Tariq found Aqeel sitting by the open window, staring at the distant skyline. He held a hand‑drawn cotton bale—one of Javed's sketches—his small fingers tracing its lines.

"Javed taught you to draw?" Tariq asked, stepping closer.

Aqeel did not look away. After a moment, he spoke in a soft, measured voice:

"He said I would do great things."

Tariq paused, heart tightening. "He was proud of you," he said.

Aqeel nodded once, without surprise. He returned his gaze to the street below. To Tariq, it felt as if the child knew more than anyone should.

Family Reactions

At the end of each month, relatives gathered to offer condolences and advice. Some aunts fussed over Abida's well‑being; others scolded Tariq for "not matching her match," forgetting that no living man could replace Javed. The grandmother—Abida's mother—remained stoic, her grief internalized but evident in thin smiles and distant eyes.

Tanzeel and Fazeel ran through the rooms, their games echoing off brick walls. Occasionally, their laughter reminded everyone that life still pulsed here.

But Aqeel sat apart, watching. When cousins asked him to play, he sometimes complied—stacking blocks or sharing a cookie—but more often, he chose to observe shadows, the patterns of light, the slow dance of dust in a sunbeam.

A Whispered Promise

Late one night, Tariq returned from the hospital to find Aqeel awake, sitting by his cradle. The baby was asleep, and the house was silent.

Tariq knelt beside the boy.

"You miss him, don't you?" he asked.

Aqeel looked at him, eyes reflecting the overhead fan's glow. Then he whispered, in a tone far older than his years:

"He said I would remember."

Tariq's breath caught. He wanted to ask what "he" meant, but he understood that some things a child "remembers" are not meant to be explained.

Instead, he shed his shoes and sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall.

"When you're ready," he said softly, "you can tell me about it."

Aqeel did not speak again that night. But in the space between their breaths, a fragile bond was born—two men tied together by love, loss, and the quiet mystery of a child whose soul carried secrets long forgotten.

Closing the Chapter

As dawn approached, Tariq rose and fetched warm milk for Aqeel, who drank without fuss. The two older brothers stirred, rubbing eyes and yawning. Abida watched from the doorway—exhausted, yet comforted by the gentle hum of life around her.

Aqeel closed his eyes, clutching the cotton bale sketch to his chest.

In the hush, Tariq placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Sleep now," he whispered.

And for the first time, Aqeel did—resting in the arms of the second man who would help shape his destiny.

Morning Stillness

A haze of dawn light filtered through the dusty curtains of the top‑floor room. The soft hum of a distant street vendor—selling fresh flatbread—wafted up the stairs. Inside, Aqeel, now nearly two, lay curled beneath a thin blanket, his chest rising and falling with untroubled breaths.

Around him, life stirred:

Tanzeel, at four, practiced riding a wooden tricycle in the courtyard below, wheels creaking in the morning chill.

Fazeel, at two, tottered after his older brother, giggling as the tricycle spun in circles.

Abida moved quietly among them, preparing breakfast in the small kitchen—warm rotis, sweet milk, the aroma comforting against the weight of grief.

In the hush, only Aqeel remained still, as though sensing that the quiet was not merely sleep but something deeper.

Grandmother's Visit

As the children ate, a familiar rattle came at the door. The family's matriarch—Abida's mother—entered, her hair dusted with gray, her gait slow but determined. She carried two small mugs of tea and placed one before Abida.

Her eyes fell on the cradle. She approached, kneeling beside it, and whispered:

"He sleeps like the world is a lullaby."

Abida nodded, voice tight. "He is calm," she said. "Almost too calm."

Grandmother pressed a palm to her daughter's shoulder. "He knows more than we think."

Abida's gaze flickered to Aqeel—sleeping so peacefully it seemed unnatural. In her heart, she felt both pride and a silent alarm.

A Mysterious Gaze

Later, as the courtyard filled with early sunlight, Aqeel sat at a small wooden table, one chubby hand holding a half‑eaten biscuit. His glasses—prescribed at age seven—were nowhere in sight yet, but even now, something about his gaze was different.

He stared at the ceiling fan's blades as they turned slowly, casting rounded shadows that danced on the walls. His lips parted slightly, as if he were listening to a distant whisper.

For a moment, Tanzeel called his name. "Aqeel!" But the boy did not turn.

Instead, he whispered in a soft, deliberate voice:

"It's time."

The words hung in the air—uncertain of their meaning, yet heavy with promise.

A Walk with Tariq

In the late afternoon, Tariq took Aqeel by the hand for a quiet stroll down the brick lane. The narrow street bustled with neighbors sweeping steps, children chasing stray cats, and the warm haze of cycle rickshaws rattling past.

Tariq pointed to simple sights—a fruit cart, a mosque's minaret, jasmine vines climbing a wall—speaking in gentle tones.

But Aqeel paid little attention. His eyes stayed fixed on a distant rooftop where an old satellite dish sat tilted, rust flaking off its surface.

He tugged, uncharacteristically urgent. "Up there," he said.

Tariq followed the young boy's gaze. "That's just an old dish," he said softly. "Nothing more."

Aqeel nodded, but his eyes betrayed him—filled with longing, as if searching for a shape he remembered from another life.

Family Shadow

That evening, relatives gathered again—this time to celebrate Fazeel's second birthday. Laughter and conversation filled the rooms below. Plates clinked, children squealed, and for a moment, life felt ordinary.

Upstairs, Aqeel sat alone by the window. He watched a moth circle the lightbulb overhead, its wings flashing silver. He reached out, fingers quivering, as if to catch the glowing insect—but it flitted away too quickly.

Behind him, Tanzeel appeared and slipped an arm around his younger brother. "Come play," he urged.

Aqeel shook his head. "Not now," he whispered.

Tanzeel frowned, but didn't insist. He disappeared as quietly as he had come, leaving Aqeel to his silent vigil.

The Quiet Before the Storm

In the hush of the night, as Tariq tucked the boys into makeshift beds and Abida closed her prayer beads, Aqeel lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

He remembered:

The soft hum of nurses' voices on his birth night.

His father's gentle whisper, "My son."

Javed's sacred promise as he cradled him.

The moment he saw the world split in two, and the voice that said, "Your time is over."

Though he could not speak these memories, they stirred within him—a tapestry of loss, love, and destiny.

He closed his eyes. The final thing he felt before sleep claimed him was a soft echo in his chest—a promise that the Messenger's journey was only just beginning.

End of Chapter 2