Syed Majid Gilani
My late grandmother, Syeda Sakina Gilani, was a treasure trove of wisdom, her voice weaving tales that carried lessons deep into our young hearts. As children, we would gather around her, wide-eyed, hanging onto every word. Among the many stories she shared, one remains etched in my memory like a vivid painting—a haunting tale of how small missteps within a family can unravel entire generations, leaving behind a legacy of ruin.
In a quiet village nestled among rolling hills, a family lived in what could have been simple contentment. There was a hardworking husband, his sharp-tongued wife, and their only son—a boy with a future yet unwritten. The husband earned his living through toil and travel, often leaving home for days or weeks to provide for his family. Each time he returned, weary but hopeful, he longed for the warmth of a welcoming embrace. Instead, he was met with a storm of venomous words. His wife, hardened by her own bitterness, saw him not as a partner but as a target for her scorn. “Weak,” she called him. “Useless.” “A man of no worth.” Her insults cut deeper than any blade, eroding the peace he sought in his own home.
Over time, the husband’s spirit withered under her relentless cruelty. The home that should have been his sanctuary became a battlefield, and he began to stay away longer, seeking solace in distance. But the tragedy extended far beyond the fractured bond between husband and wife—it seeped into the heart of their son. The wife, perhaps unaware of the poison she was brewing, turned her child into a weapon against his father. Day after day, she filled the boy’s mind with contempt. “Your father is nothing,” she’d say. “He has no honor, no strength. His words mean less than dust.” The boy, still tender and impressionable, drank in her venom until he, too, saw his father as a shadow unworthy of respect.
Yet her mistakes ran deeper than sowing division. In her blind love, she shielded her son from accountability, mistaking indulgence for affection. The first sign came when he stole a pencil from school—a petty act, easily corrected. But when she discovered it, she brushed it aside, offering neither reprimand nor guidance. That moment planted a dangerous seed: wrongdoing carried no consequence. Soon after, he struck a classmate, his small fist a warning of growing defiance. The school sent word, but instead of addressing his behavior, she defended him fiercely. “If he hit someone, they must have deserved it,” she declared, her pride outweighing reason.
His descent continued unchecked. When teachers caught him smoking, their warnings fell on deaf ears. “People drink worse things,” she scoffed dismissively. “Smoking is no sin.” With each misstep, her refusal to discipline him emboldened his rebellion. He abandoned his studies, fell in with rough companions, and began stealing more boldly. Each time, she stood by him, her loyalty unwavering but tragically misplaced. The father, broken by his wife’s disdain and powerless against her influence, retreated into silence, a ghost in his own home.
The boy’s path darkened until it reached its inevitable, horrific end. In a botched theft, he took a man’s life—a crime born of the recklessness his mother had nurtured. Captured and brought before the king, he faced the gallows. When asked for his final wish, his words stunned the court: “Hang my mother alongside me.” Gasps rippled through the onlookers, and the king, intrigued by such a request, demanded an explanation.
Tears streaming down his face, the young man spoke from a place of raw clarity. “The first time I stole, she said nothing. When I struck someone, she defended me. When I smoked, she called it trivial. But her greatest sin was teaching me to despise my father—a good man I never learned to honor. She filled me with hate instead of respect, indulgence instead of discipline. At every turn, she pushed me further down this path. If she had stopped me at that first theft, if she had taught me to heed my father’s wisdom, I would not stand here a murderer today.”
The mother, once so defiant, now stood mute, her head bowed under the weight of her shame. But regret could not undo the past. The king, moved by the son’s words, granted his wish. Mother and son faced the noose together—a grim testament to the consequences of her failures.
This tale, though rooted in my grandmother’s storytelling, reflects a stark truth. A wife’s disrespect can fracture a family; a mother’s blind love can doom her child. Children need more than affection—they require boundaries, respect for both parents, and lessons in right and wrong. A single misstep, left uncorrected, can ripple outward, destroying not just a family but the very fabric of society.
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Syed Majid Gilani is a writer inspired by his late grandmother, Syeda Sakina Gilani, and her timeless stories. He explores human relationships and moral lessons through his work. Contact him at syedmajid6676@gmail.com.
