By: Farheen Shehzadi

It was a Sunday in December 2016— a night cloaked in the deepest shades of winter. The bitter cold seeped through every narrow alley of Mariabad, wrapping each corner in silence and frost. It wasn’t just another cold evening in Quetta. No — this night held something special.For Naghma, this wasn’t just a random December night — it was the night she had been waiting for, with eager eyes and an impatient heart. It was the day of the much-anticipated Pakistan vs. India cricket match.From early evening, Naghma had been rushing around the house — setting the table with steaming dishes, hot beverages, and a colourful array of dry fruits. Every item, every little detail, was meant to turn this night into a celebration. Not just for her — but for the entire family.

To Naghma, the match itself was never just about cricket. It was about gathering together. It was about laughter echoing through the living room with every boundary hit, every wicket taken. It was about watching every ball, every over, side by side with her loved ones — as if it were a festive ritual.

And that night, in her heart, one thing was certain:

In her Pashtun spirit, Naghma whispered confidently,

“Nan ba pakistan ghati!”

(Today, Pakistan shall triumph!)

February 1, 2024 — Kabul, Afghanistan

It was the first of February, 2024. Naghma stood quietly in the heart of Kabul, her feet anchored on foreign soil, her heart still lingering in a December memory she could never let go. It wasn’t that she was weeping. No — her eyes weren’t just shedding tears. They were rivers now, flowing silently down her cheeks as her past played vividly in her mind.

While an international reporter documented the stories of Afghan returnees — those deported from Pakistan — Naghma sat among them, listening, feeling, remembering. And though her story was being heard like countless others, hers was not just another tale of exile.

When the microphone was finally placed before her, she didn’t speak like a statistic, nor as just another refugee.

With a steady but aching voice, she said:

“My name is Naghma Aimal Khan.”

In that one sentence, she wasn’t just identifying herself — she was reclaiming a name buried beneath sorrow, love, and displacement. Unlike many others, Naghma didn’t feel like a faceless refugee. She felt like a whole world — a girl torn from warmth, now standing in cold winds, clutching the memory of a December that once felt like home.

“Where I Come From…”

I was only six months old when my family moved to Quetta. Though we belonged to Afghanistan by origin, my earliest memories are of living in Pakistan. But life, in all its cruelty, changed far too quickly. When I was just three, I lost both of my parents in a tragic accident — a moment that reshaped my entire world before I was old enough to understand loss.

I was taken in by our neighbours — a kind-hearted woman named Najma Gul and her husband, Sher Khan, a close friend of my parents. They didn’t just give me shelter — they gave me a new life. Ever since, I have lived with them, grown up in their home, and been raised with the love and care of someone who chose me, not out of obligation, but out of compassion.

It is within that borrowed home, and through those borrowed dreams, that I built my identity. My early education was completed in Quetta. I studied at Government Girls High School, Marriabad, and later pursued further education at the University of Quetta.

From those classrooms to the alleys of Mariabad, from being a nameless orphan to a girl with goals — I shaped myself in the silence between longing and belonging.

One day, as I was returning from university, something happened that would change everything.

The moment I reached home, there was a knock at the door. I opened it, only to find a government officer standing outside — someone representing the Pakistani authorities. His tone was firm, his expression unreadable.

“Are you from Afghanistan?” he asked.

Without hesitation — and with the pride I had always carried in my heart — I answered,

“Yes. I was born in Kabul. My parents were from Afghanistan.”

He looked at me and simply said:

“You must return to your country by November.”

In that instant, it felt like my soul had been torn from my body.

It felt like someone had taken my life away — like I had lost my parents all over again.

Like the little girl I once was — the one who had already buried her world once — had been forced to relive that pain. I couldn’t get back what I lost.

But “If only someone could help me see my parents just once, I would be forever grateful.” I said.

March 2023 — “The Spring season” A season of Reunion

After months of bone-deep winter, March arrived like a sigh of relief. Spring had begun to unfurl its colors — a season of renewal, of subtle warmth, of whispered love. Greenery stretched across the land like a healing balm, and in the house of Sher Khan, joy quietly bloomed.

Guests began arriving slowly, laughter echoing softly in the background. And in the heart of the house stood Naghma — not too slender, not too full — the kind of beauty that didn’t demand attention but held it effortlessly. With a fair complexion, gentle dimples, and the grace of a Pathani girl wrapped in vibrant Balochi tradition, she looked like a vision from folklore.

She wore a hand-embroidered Balochi ghagha in deep crimson and teal, adorned with intricate golden threads. Her neckline was delicately decorated, and the sleeves featured patterns that told stories in silent stitches. Long black curly hair cascaded over her shoulders, with two strands tucked behind her ears—like poetry in a storybook.

This was the most significant day of Naghma’s life. She was about to be engaged — formally joined in a bond of love — to Wasiq Khan, the nephew of her guardians, Sher Khan and Najma Gul, who had raised her like their own after her parents’ passing.

Night had spread its velvet across Mariabad, glowing with fairy lights. In the courtyard, the ring exchange ceremony was about to begin. Wasiq had travelled all the way from Lahore for this day — tall, handsome, dressed in a traditional Navy blue shalwar kameez with a waistcoat — his presence striking, yet soft-spoken as ever.

Wasiq and Naghma had grown up together, raised side by side. They were each other’s childhood — partners in memories, in grief, in dreams. Wasiq had recently moved to Lahore for higher education. He often encouraged Naghma to join him there and study at a reputable university. But Naghma had always refused with quiet pride.

“Quetta is sacred to me,” she would say. “This is where my parents brought me. I cannot — will not — leave this land.”

She didn’t know then, of course, that fate would one day force her to do exactly that.

As the rings were exchanged, Wasiq leaned in slightly and whispered with a teasing smile:

Wasiq: “So Miss Naghma… does this mean you’ll finally leave Quetta?”

Naghma (laughing softly): “Never! You’ll have to finish your studies and come back instead!”

 Wasiq: “Is that so?”

 Naghma: “Absolutely. “Na-khush Badshah!”(A sad king) — A nick name she had lovingly given him.

The courtyard echoed with music and the chatter of happy hearts. But inside Wasiq, something was unravelling.

He was smiling, but only on the surface. Deep within, an ache was rising — a fear, a quiet grief. Though everything was going right, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somehow losing Naghma… even as she stood right beside him.

He looked at her — with the familiarity of someone who had seen her every day of his life, but with the awe of someone encountering her for the first time. In that moment, she seems truly radiant, her beauty shining through in a way that filled him with warmth and admiration.

When Naghma noticed He was looking pale and tense, she leaned in with her signature mischief and whispered, “Oh, Na-khush Badshah,” (A sad king). Wasiq had never been the type to shower praise — not because he didn’t notice, but because he was too shy to speak his heart aloud. He admired Naghma quietly, folding every compliment into silence, allowing his eyes to express what his words could not.

But Naghma? She wouldn’t let silence win. She didn’t seek compliments; she aimed to lift his spirits as he seemed weighed down. Catching him watching her intently — his gaze gentle, hesitant — she smiled and teased, ” Taaee minnat vaaran (I’m deeply thankful to you), Wasiq dear.”

He blinked, puzzled. “For what?”

“For all those compliments you just gave me,” she replied with a wink, her voice sweet as honey and sharp as a blade.

Wasiq laughed — a genuine, helpless laugh. That was her charm. She transformed his silence into a melody of laughter. He hadn’t spoken a word, yet she acknowledged everything he felt but couldn’t articulate.

He knew. She knew. They both understood.

She was the only one capable of drawing laughter from the depths of his silence. That was Naghma’s gift — making the unspoken feel acknowledged. And that was what inspired Wasiq to fall for her again and again.

And in that moment, under the lights and music, wrapped in culture and promise, everything seemed perfect.

Last Day of October – Mariabad, Quetta:

Naghma sat on the rooftop, in the same corner from where she used to gaze over the entire stretch of Mariabad — a view she had grown up with, shared with her siblings, and of course, with Wasiq. It was her sanctuary_ space where laughter had danced in the air, where she watched the seasons change, where the skyline carried her dreams.Yet tonight, beneath the cold expanse of the October sky, she sat in a heavy silence, utterly alone.

Winter used to be her favorite season, with its crisp air that tingled on her skin and the warm scent of woodsmoke that wrapped around her like a comforting embrace. But tonight, those familiar comforts felt distant and hollow. A throbbing ache in her head mirrored the chaos of emotions swirling within. Tears blurred her vision as memories rushed forth like waves crashing relentlessly on the shore, overwhelming in their intensity.

Tomorrow evening, she would be leaving this city, this home, these people — forever.

She was leaving behind the acquaintances, the alleys that had watched her grow, the weather she had always adored. The place she once swore she would never, ever leave. But all her dreams had shattered. There was no one left to stop this from happening.

She remembered everything. Every single moment. Her childhood. Her family. Her siblings. She walks to school with Wasiq. How she used to be so quiet, an introvert — and how Wasiq would always find a way to make her laugh, to bring her out of her shell, especially while playing cricket in the narrow lanes of Mariabad.

This was the city where she had studied hard, where she had succeeded, where she had met people from all walks of life, where she had learned to speak many languages. And now, she was crying like a lost child. She thought, maybe now it would truly feel like her parents had died. Maybe now she would truly feel like an orphan.

How swiftly everything had unravelled.

She hadn’t even had the chance to embrace love or marriage.

Ironically, there was a cricket match scheduled for tomorrow — but she felt nothing. No excitement. No energy. She wasn’t preparing for it. She just sat there crying, completely numb.

She didn’t want to leave her home.

She prayed silently, desperately, for a miracle — something, anything, that might stop this from happening. And in that moment of helplessness, she missed Wasiq more than ever. At the very least, she wished he could be with her one last time. Just one last day with her loved ones. One last cricket match with her family.

But those were just dreams now — just fading possibilities she clung to in her imagination.

“Shouldn’t a human be allowed to live where their soul belongs?” Naghma cried, trembling. “We built our lives there. We buried our dead there. And yet they call us strangers. Is there anything more cruel than being exiled from the only home you’ve ever known?”

After the deportation notice arrived, her father, Sher Khan, and Wasiq had thrown themselves into a desperate pursuit of solutions. They had traversed the labyrinthine corridors of politics, speaking to anyone who might offer a flicker of hope. Yet their efforts were mercilessly thwarted by the hard realities of legal red tape, leaving them ensnared in a web of helplessness.

Until the very last moment, they believed they could find a way.

That’s why Wasiq had gone to Lahore — to fight, to plead, to fix things.

But then, the letter came.

A government official delivered the final blow: she would be deported tomorrow, through the Chaman border.

The family, broken but determined to protect her, decided that Wasiq would go with her — because she had no one in Kabul. No family. No friends. No familiarity.

That was what the family had planned.

But fate… had other plans.

The final Day :

Morning dawned softly over Mariabad, but for Naghma, it felt as if the world wore a veil of sorrow. The house, while filled with familiar warmth, was stirred with a delicate tension, as family members bravely tried to present cheerful faces amidst a heartache that had already begun to fracture their spirits. Her mother set her favorite breakfast of sheermal bread and egg omelette on the table, accompanied by a soothing cup of Peshawari chai. Yet, even the once comforting scent felt bittersweet and hollow.

Naghma felt a heaviness in her chest, a weight that made it hard to breathe. Still, she forced a smile — for her mother, for her siblings who were desperate to uplift her spirit. That morning, she donned the mask of “Naghma” once more —their melody, their flower, their strength. She moved through the rituals of Match Day with a bittersweet joy, helping her younger siblings prepare their favorite foods, pretending as though this was just another day, all the while grappling with the painful truth that it was the last time they would share such a moment together.

Deep down, she understood — nothing could ever be the same again.

And then, Wasiq arrived.

His face bore the signs of sleepless nights, but the calmness in his voice offered a fragile comfort. Their eyes met, and an unspoken understanding passed between them—two souls navigating through their shattered realities, two hearts trying to be strong for one another.

Naghma had quietly packed her meagre belongings — a beloved scarf, her prayer mat, her cherished diary, and the necessary legal documents. One bag was for her, the other for Wasiq — separate yet intertwined, like their fates. Surrounded by her mother, and sibling, she embraced each of them, whispering a quiet promise: “We’ll return soon. Wasiq is with me. Don’t worry, we’ll be back soon.”

Sher Khan drove them, his silence overshadowed by a slight tremor in his hands as he gripped the wheel. Naghma sat behind him, while Wasiq rode in front, her scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and sunglasses concealing the tears that threatened to spill. The road stretched ahead, a scar across the landscape — the RCD Highway, once a route filled with joyful family road trips and bustling fruit markets, now a path leading to uncertainty and exile.

As they sped past Killa Abdullah, the halfway point to Chaman, the scenery transformed. The road was clogged with rickshaws, trucks, and vans overflowing with belongings, as well as mothers holding their infants close, children’s cries piercing through the air. Dust hung heavy, stinging their eyes and hearts. The cacophony — engines sputtering, babies wailing, and orders shouted in harsh tones — was overwhelming.

Naghma had never witnessed anything like it. A sense of dislocation enveloped her, making her feel small and crushed under the enormity of it all. She remained silent, her thoughts her only solace as she absorbed the surroundings.

As they approached the border, everything seemed to slow down.

A makeshift checkpoint came into view, guarded by armed soldiers. A white tent fluttered under a weary sky, and an officer in uniform approached their vehicle, his voice sharp and cold.

“Documents?” he demanded in Urdu.

With unwavering calmness, Wasiq handed over the papers. “These are our legal permissions.”

The officer glanced at them, flipping through their contents before narrowing his eyes in scrutiny. “Only Afghan nationals are allowed beyond this point. No Pakistani citizen may enter.”

Naghma felt her heart plummet, a chilling fear gripping her. Her breath quickened, fingers trembling in terror.

Desperately, she whispered verses from the Quran under her breath, her eyes closing as if her prayers could somehow soften the barriers that stood before them.

Wasiq stepped forward, his voice unwavering. I work with a UNHCR-affiliated organization, and I’ve been assigned to provide aid and assistance to Afghan returnees. I hold a No Objection Certificate (NOC) from the Government of Pakistan, and a valid entry visa issued by the Afghan government. All travel documents are in order and officially authorized.”

A heavy pause followed, filled with unspoken tension.

Then, a nod.

The officer stepped back. “Proceed.”

For a brief moment, a weight lifted from Naghma’s heart.

But then came the gut-wrenching moment they had both dreaded.

It was time to say goodbye to Sher Khan.

The man who had raised her with love, who had always made her feel cherished and secure. Her protector, her guide, her father figure.

And for the first time in her life, she saw tears cascade down Sher Khan’s face — silent and dignified, a profound sorrow that shattered her heart into countless pieces.

She yearned to hold him tightly, to promise him that she would never let go. But deep down, she understood — this was the end. The last look, the last hug, the final breath of home.

Wasiq stood beside her, quietly steadfast, bearing witness to her silent collapse.

And know it was time to say goodbye to Wasiq. Sher Khan hands trembled as he placed them on his shoulders, his eyes filled with years of pain and silent pleading.

“Wasiq Jaan,” he whispered, voice cracking like dried earth, “I trust you… I trust you with my whole heart. Please… take care of her. For me. For her dead parents. For God.”

And just like that — they crossed over.

After some moments they were at the busy Chaman border, Both sat side by side, distinctly aware of their surroundings yet connected in presence. Dust clung to their clothes, but the clamour around them fell away, amplifying the significance of their shared moment. Naghma, deep in thought, sat silently, but her silence was powerful. Wasiq, usually more reserved, confidently reached out to bridge the gap. Naghma tell me who is Na Khush Badshah (sad king) now? “You never go this quiet. We’re together, remember?” he said with assurance. He smiled, determined to elicit a response. Her hands remained poised in her lap as he handed her a folded letter. “Don’t open this until we reach Kabul, ok?” he whispered firmly, trusting in the journey ahead. She accepted it without looking away. He wrapped his coat around her shoulders, adjusting the collar like he did during a rainstorm in their childhood, watching her with unwavering confidence, ready to face whatever lay ahead together.

After official announcement They settled themselves  into the truck, worn down and crowded with belongings and silent faces. The checker stepped forward.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Wasiq handed over the documents. The man nodded, and they squeezed in, we sitting at the edge with their bags between them. The truck was tense; quiet sobs and a crying baby filled the air. Dust streamed in through the canvas.

The driver glanced at them. “You two,” he said. “Who are you to each

Wasiq replied, “She’s my wife. We’re both Afghan returnees — refugees going back to our homeland.”

He knew the driver likely wasn’t well-versed in paperwork or formalities. Wasiq sensed that a calm tone and a clear claim might be enough. With careful intention, he kept the explanation simple, trusting that the man wouldn’t press for documents he wouldn’t understand.

Naghma looked away, whispering, “You should didn’t have to say that…”

“If I didn’t, they might not have let us board,” he replied softly.

Naghma nodded, understanding the risks they faced. The truck rumbled to life, pulling onto the dirt road toward Kandahar, the only sound the wind through the fabric and the steady beat of a journey they never asked for.

I feel myself on the edge, heart heavy with each breath, yet around Wasiq, there’s a glimmer of fragile safety — like a candle struggling to stay lit in a tempest. He reads to me softly, his voice brushing away shadows of fear; I can almost imagine laughter escaping my lips. We share dry fruits, small morsels of warmth in a world that seems intent on growing colder. The truck rattled forward, packed with silent faces and uneasy glances. As we neared Spin Boldak, time seemed to slow — every breath thick with dust, tension, and something we couldn’t name.

As we near the border, suddenly, a chill runs down my spine. There was chaos and panic inside the truck. Armed men rise from shadows, chaos spilling into our lives like ink on paper. I brace myself as the haunting echoes of wailing children surround us. Our belongings, our hope — everything is threatened in an instant, and then I feel a finger pointing toward me. A cruel voice commands, “Bring the pretty one.”

Wasiq stands tall between us, unwavering as a mountain. “She’s my wife,” he declares, his voice trembling yet resolute. But they laugh, mocking the very essence of his words, demanding proof. My tears become my only weapon in this storm, and in the midst of this, I see the swing of a rod aimed at him and instead, it strikes my head.

Everything fades to darkness. When I regain consciousness, the scene before me is grim — blood on the floor, bodies motionless, and a suffocating tension fills the air. Yet, through it all, Wasiq clings to me, whispering fervently, “We’ll be okay.” Just then, a voice breaks through — a false hope that a Taliban checkpoint lies ahead. Will this be our salvation?

As we rush towards it, a cacophony of gunfire erupts, the Taliban, oblivious to innocent souls, unleashing chaos upon us. Wasiq pulls me into a corner, his grip tightening like a lifeline. But in the blink of an eye, a single gunshot resounds, and I watch as his body crumples before me, lifeless. I scream, but my voice is lost to the disarray.

Then, I feel the sharp sting of another bullet — yet even in that moment, time seems suspended. Silence settles in like the thickest fog, encompassing us. Soon, I find myself there in Kabul alone utterly alone, aware of each heartbeat, anticipating what comes next. This journey has left its marks, and I know deep down — the silence may linger, but my story is far from over. The world must hear about what we faced, for no one truly survived except the echoes of our ordeal. She was trembling, tears streaming down her face as she finished her story to international reporters.

 “I’ve been alone in Kabul for three months,” she said, her voice cracking.

Then, almost in a whisper — as if clinging to her last thread of hope — she repeated:

 “If only someone could help me see my parents just once… I’d be forever grateful.”

She said it again, this time louder, more desperate — and then everything went black.

“A melody has been silenced — Naghma is no more.”

Letter:

Naghma… oh dearest Naghma,

Uncle Sher Khan just called.

He said you’re sitting on the rooftop — our rooftop.

The place where you talked, and I listened.

Wasiq was always the quiet one, wasn’t he?

And Naghma, I know you’re probably thinking of me.

Maybe even missing me.

And guess what? I’m missing you too.

But I can’t even call you.

You know why, Naghma?

Because you always know.

You’ve always known how to lift someone up — just with your voice, your presence.

But Wasiq? I’m not like that.

I’ve never been good at the right words.

And I regret that, Naghma.

Sometimes I wonder if you deserve someone better.

Do you remember that day on the rooftop, Naghma?

I told you my rule — never fall in love, and if I did, never marry the one I loved.

Because I believed love would collapse if we tried to live it in the real world.

“Sometimes, the unlived dream is the most beautiful one… Isn’t it?

But Naghma… I imagined everything with you.

And it felt like sunlight after a long snowfall.

You always said Wasiq doesn’t talk much — and you’re right.

But around you, Naghma, silence turns into discussion long profound discussion.

You open parts of me no one else can reach.

Everything about you amazes me, Naghma.

Your languages, your cooking, your smile, your dimples.

Even cricket — which I only watched because you loved it.

You’re light, Naghma.

And I keep watching that light, hoping it stays with me always.

I remember our engagement day. You laughed, I smiled — but inside, I was afraid.

The deportations had begun. Since then, I’ve lived in a storm.

But Naghma, this storm will pass.

And you’ll read this letter in Kabul.

And we’ll build the life we dreamed of.

We’ll come home, our dream home Naghma.

“Do you know Naghma? Do you know what your name means? A melody.

A melody that makes me dance — even in darkness.

To each other.

“This is the first time I ever tried to write something for someone… not just someone — but you — the one who has always been the most sacred to me. I hope you’ll like it.”

– Na Khush Badshah ( A sad king).

“Near the dust-blown camp on the outskirts of Kabul, the reporter found a torn letter — its ragged edges whispering Naghma’s name, as if even the wind refused to forget her.”

###

Farheen Shehzadi is a student of International Relations at International Islamic University, Islamabad. She is an emerging researcher and fiction writer, with a passion for stories of migration, identity, and displacement.