The unloved child.
I, the unwanted, unloved child, will shower my internal morbidity on to these fresh, crisp pages which will soon be wilting and soaking under the burden of my tears and helplessness.
When I was born, I was hardly a blessing for my parents who despised me from the moment I opened my eyes as they had wanted a daughter, not a son. As I grew up, I faced the challenges no child at this tender age dreams of facing. My own flesh and blood always put me down, never pausing to groom me, never thinking of correcting my faults- just reprimanding and judging me, never pausing to think that I was still a child and not a grown up who knows the difference between right and wrong. A child in dire need of loving attention, not scorns. A child who craved for none other than his mother and father to understand him, but in vain.
I couldn’t, for the world, fathom a conclusion as to what part of me led to their utter disgust and hatred for their only son. My two, younger, twin sisters, mindless as thought they were, soon harped along the same strings as my parents and resorted to teasing, disturbing and taunting me as often as they could, knowing full well that Mother and Father would never contradict them on their annoying behavior.
I spend my time alone, in my own company. When I do go out and try to sit with my family, my mother doesn’t cease pointing out my shortcomings to my little sisters after which I simply leave, not being able to tolerate the constant nagging and jabbering.
I study in a small scale public school where all students are treated with the same indifference. My parents, not being educated enough, do not realize the importance of sending a child into a good school where children can grow, where creativity is appreciated and where the individual skills of a child are honed. However, I did hear my mother talking on the telephone the other day, asking her friend about a “good school” to get my sisters admitted in. Why wasn’t I given the same privilege?
I love to write, so I asked my father meekly one day to get me a nice, thick notebook where I could record my thoughts, but he just gave me a weird stare and refused. I now am forced to write in the leftover pages of my old school notebooks and telephone directories lying around the house. I read books, borrowing them from my school mates, neighbourhood friends and and some of my friends’ fathers who are surprised but kind enough to lend me the books that belong to them. They are surprised that a boy my age would want to, and moreover, would be able to read and understand those books of history, literature, poetry and religion, hardly suitable for young kids.
I feel soothed when I read books. They are my family. They do not judge me.
Dear God, I know there is a reason for everything, but what is the reason behind this injustice? Does a ten year old child deseve this? Do I deserve the treatment I get from my parents? I have combed my house, including my father’s safe, for a document or simply ANY thing that will prove that I’m not actually their child, but to no avail. If it had been proved, atleast I would’ve had the comfort of knowing that my real parents would not have treated me like scum. The tears that stain this page are like a stamp confirming my unfortunate fate.
This is me, Nazeer, an unwanted, unloved child, showering my internal morbidity on to these previously fresh, crisp pages which have now wilted and soaked under the burden of my tears and helplessness.
Note: The title “Shikwa” has been inspired from Allama Iqbal’s poetry “Shikwa”[protest] and it’s answer, another poetry by Iqbal, the “Jawab-e-Shikwa” [meaning: Rejoinder to Protest]. This is, however, not in anyway related to Iqbal’s poetry. In addition, I will not be continuing this with my version of “Jawab-e-Shikwa”.
