On the wooden cart, atop a mat spread over bundles of straw, lay a child asleep—a child whose chances of survival were slim. That sick, innocent child was my father, Qurban Ali.

• Suddenly, a ragged, God intoxicated wanderer stood right in the middle of the road in front of the bullock cart and said, “Take him home. Nothing will happen to him—he will be fine.”

Fouzia Sandeelo

Walking along the dirt road, the creaking of the bullock cart’s wheels created a constant shudder in the air. It felt as if the road itself had a heartbeat. On the wooden cart, atop a mat spread over bundles of straw, lay a child asleep—a child whose chances of survival were slim. At that moment, countless shooting stars of worry were burning inside a mother’s heart, and the father, too, was staring into the child’s face with empty eyes full of despair.

Qurban Sandeelo

Suddenly, a ragged, God intoxicated wanderer stood right in the middle of the road in front of the bullock cart and said, “Take him home. Nothing will happen to him—he will be fine.” Those words, and the reassuring gesture of that vagabond’s hand, rekindled hope in the heart of the hopeless father who was taking his sick son to see a doctor. That sick, innocent child was my father, Qurban Ali. My elder aunt, Arbab, told me this story—how the gesture of that vagabond always comes to her mind whenever she speaks of my father. She says it felt as if that man was not a drunkard at all, but some life-giving angel sent to console a weary father and a grief-stricken mother, assuring them that their child would be fine. And indeed, within a few days, my father fully recovered.

Whenever I think of writing about my angel-like father, waves of excruciating pain come and overwhelm my mind. I push away the thought of writing, because remembering those paradise-like days makes my heart ache. That beautiful, dream-like time flew away like my father’s soul smilingly merging into the vastness of the sky.

It was such a short yet beautiful and peaceful time—when my father’s laughter echoed through the spacious courtyard as he watered the roses; when, on cold winter mornings, he would warm his hands over the embers in a clay stove, sip tea, and listen to Lata’s songs playing on the radio; when he would sit in a chair near his garden reading a newspaper or a book.

During the monsoon season, when the clouds thundered and rain poured down, I would take pulao, or sometimes fish with rice, to my father, and how happily he would eat! Those were priceless, beautiful moments.

My father was a man of great sensitivity and an innocent heart, who spent his entire life in a small village of mud houses whose courtyards were shaded by tall trees. Green fields surrounded the village, and olive orchards added to its beauty. On one side flowed the Dadu Canal, which we crossed by boat. Along its banks stood tall, dense neem trees. Beneath their shade, with the soothing sound of the flowing water beside him, my father would sit reading books. Escaping from the bustle of the household, reading in that tranquil setting had its own romance. Listening to the sweet chirping of birds perched on the neem trees, my father would become absorbed in his love for nature.

It was because of this love for nature that my father built two small mud rooms in the middle of the fields, surrounded by a high earthen wall. The courtyard there was spacious. He planted all kinds of flowers, plants, and trees. Alongside the green lawn stood lemon trees, mango, guava, and pomegranate trees on one side, and willows on the other. In between grew beautiful white oleanders and red roses. The soil was so fertile that anything planted would sprout into lush greenery within days.

My father would sit on that grassy lawn chatting with his friend, Uncle Bachal, or sometimes reading books. The walls of the rooms had built-in shelves filled with books—ranging from world literature to Sindhi works. Birds often built their nests on the shelves, and delicate cobwebs hung over some books. I would touch those books and think that, when I grew up, I would read them all like my father.

Being the eldest son of my grandparents, Haji Tharal and Bilqees Begum, my father was the center of love for the entire family. My uncles and aunts adored him deeply, and he fulfilled every responsibility as a devoted son. My grandfather, whom we called Baba Haji, loved keeping buffaloes. His buffaloes were famous in the whole village, and we always had fresh milk at home. My grandmother and my mother would wake up at dawn to the sound of birds, churn the milk, and prepare breakfast. Our extended family lived together under one roof in harmony and affection.

When my father’s friends—Master Rizwan and Uncle Mushtaq—came over, mats would be spread on the cots in the courtyard of our otaq (guesthouse) in the center of the village, under the shade of willow trees. My mother and grandmother would send food, often including a curry made from home-raised chickens.

But among those memories is one that cuts into my mind like a storm—the time my little brother Jawad fell ill. He was admitted to a hospital in Larkana, where my parents and I stayed with him. My father’s friend, Uncle Bachal, was also there. At night, Uncle Izhar would sometimes take me out for a short walk in Larkana before returning. Relatives from the village would come and go to check on my brother. It was a hard trial for our family. My little brother, only four months old, would cry at the sight of the doctors. He passed away due to an intestinal infection. My father bore the grief in silence. For many days, my brother’s tiny yellow shirt lay in the house, and I would often hold it to smell its lingering scent. It was the first pure sorrow of my life, and even today it scratches at my heart, turning my words into sobs on the page.

A few years later, another son was born and named Jawad, but the pain of losing the first Jawad still aches in a hidden corner of the heart.

My father was endlessly caring—the kind of father who would become restless even over our smallest discomforts. If we caught a seasonal fever or cough, his attention was so comforting that I sometimes wished to fall sick again just to feel that care. The happy days with my father passed like a gust of wind.

My father’s dream was for his children to receive good education and study in top universities. He lived to see those dreams come true. When my elder brother became the first doctor in the village, and when my other brother, Sajjad, returned after completing his PhD from Delft University in the Netherlands, my father said, “Today my head is held high.” And now, as my brother Asif studies and teaches at the University of Georgia in the United States, my father is no longer with us physically, but I am sure his soul smiles upon the education and upbringing he gave us, content with the fruits of his hard work.

To lead his children on that path, my father endured many hardships. Even as a landowner, he faced financial struggles—eating sugar walls (a cheap snack) to afford our books, pencils, and clothes, sometimes managing with only two sets of clothes for himself. Yet, he lived to see his dreams become reality.

Now my father rests in the bosom of the clay fields, beside my grandfather’s grave, and my heart is filled with desolation. Since my father’s passing, life feels like a terrifying, ghostly shadow.