Ghulam Mohammad Khan narrates a poignant story about how deeply interconnected the lives of parents and their children are, making the pain of their children their own.
The two polythene bags in his hands, one bulging with vegetables and the other with fruits, felt like anchors pulling his drooping body deeper into despair. Once teeming with life, the marketplace now felt barren and suffocating—just like the world beyond it. Nothing fascinated him anymore. By the time he reached the end of the lane, where the din of traffic merged with the rumble of the bridge, he stopped to catch his breath. Across the bridge, a cluster of poplars caught his weary gaze. Their golden leaves rustled against the crisp autumn air, trembling as if they knew they were moments away from falling. Autumn is tired. And so must be Sisyphus, he mused bitterly.
Once, books had been his sanctuary. Now, they only unsettled him, whispering truths he’d rather ignore. He dreaded returning home to his wife—she had become a shadow of herself, endlessly waiting for their absent son. A sudden, dark thought gripped him: how easy it would be to step into the river and dissolve into its silent embrace. The notion was fleeting but powerful, and he clenched his fists around the bags as if to anchor himself to the moment. The sight of falling leaves angered him inexplicably as if they mocked his waiting. He left the spot abruptly, feeling the weight of his existence grow heavier.