Chapter 24
اے درد بتا کچھ تو ہی پتہ ۔ اب تک یہ معمہ حل نہ ہوا
ہم میں ہے دل بے تاب نہاں یا آپ دل بےتاب ہیں ہم
Aye Dard Bata Kuch Tu Hi Pata
Ab Tak Yeh Mu’ammya Hal Na Hua
Hum Mein Hain Dil-E-Betaab Nihan
Yah Aap Dil-E-Betaab Hain Hum
O grief! Now you give me some clue,
For this puzzle isn’t solved yet:
Whether a restless heart is concealed within me,
Or I, myself, am a restless heart.
As my parents grow older, I see changes in them that unsettle me. The other day, my nephew fell and got a small bruise near his upper lip — a minor incident, the kind that children encounter as they explore their little worlds. Yet, when my father saw it, something shifted in him. His breath grew heavy, his face pale, and for an instant, I feared he might collapse.
This was the same man I grew up hearing stories about. A brave, chivalrous young Pashtun — a sportsman, a skilled marksman, a camper, a hunter, a politician whose ambition seemed boundless. For a moment, I wondered if those stories were mere myths, crafted to inspire us all to do good, to be brave. Because now, standing before me, was a man who seemed fragile, almost childlike, breathing heavily.
Get Bhittani’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
It kind of struck me there and then: my father carries within him a younger, more vulnerable self. A self he has hidden for decades, behind strength, behind resolve. But as the years pass, the walls around that concealed child have thinned. Now, the world can see the fear, the tenderness, and the raw emotion in his eyes — especially when he looks at us, his children, navigating life’s rough patches. He can’t help it anymore.
Perhaps that’s what growing older means. We’re told that time makes us stronger, wiser. But with each year, our capacity to understand life diminishes, not grows. When I was younger, I saw life as vibrant, filled with desire and curiosity. I won’t say I’ve lost that entirely — I still want to see what life holds — but I approach it differently now. I guess. Back then, I looked at life with wide, unclouded eyes. Now, I don’t know. Maybe this is an Dilemma: not having words to describe it in the first place.
Now, my strength to hold onto emotions has weakened. I was asked the other day, “What advice would you give your younger self?” But I would rather ask her for advice. I’d ask her how she held onto excitement without breaking at every step. How did she carry a heart that wasn’t restless but eager? How did she challenge the world, playing video games with her brother, defying the claim that “girls can’t play”?
I still want to be her. I want to fight, to explore, to rebel. But my heart now craves peace, a solace she never needed.
How would I tell her that the person she idolized now carries fears she never knew existed? That I, like my father, have a restless heart, a vulnerable self I’m struggling to conceal?
Maybe the truth is, that we never truly outgrow that younger self. She lives within me, just as my father’s younger self lives within him. With time, we learn to build walls around that vulnerability. But as life unfolds, as the years wear us down, those walls weaken. And perhaps that’s not a failing, but a form of strength — allowing the world to see the raw, unguarded parts of who we are.
This is Chapter 24 of my life. And maybe all I want to write myself is that you don’t have to be brave. That, life moves on, and the old pieces of your heart are replaced by new ones. And the grief that you feel is nothing but the love that you carry in your bones.
And Love, no matter what you say, can’t be concealed. That love is always the answer. That, as afriend of mine would say, brings with it the ultimate khyr.
