How A Father Died

My father walked to the Punjab Medical Institute. He was a professor at a very prestigious university in Pakistan. They wrongly diagnosed him and gave him the wrong injection. His liver ruptured and that was the last day I had with my father. That day I had met him again after coming home from work. This time he was sleeping and could not hear me. Imagine how my soul felt. Imagine how my world dissipated. These doctors had no remorse. My shouts and screams did not have any effect on the staff at the institute. Now I realize that hundreds of men and women shout at them each day and they have become prone to it. We can only voice our anger. There is no institute or governance where we can show them the pieces of the puzzle and suspend the licenses.

I will publish this book one day. But till that day, I write this story with an empty heart. What can we do? Should we burn the hospitals and shoot the doctors on our own? Should we create the institutes of governance? But how? The ministry of Health is heedless of this story. It has been sent to them multiple of times and still we see our tomorrow being injected with wrong medicines and people dying without a cause.

Each day Pakistan will kill its stars of tomorrow. If Pakistan had saved my father, he would have taught another generation. He might have met his grandchildren. Maybe my angel could have met her grandfather instead of staring at his pictures. Maybe I could have had time to say I love you and given him hope and love. Maybe the hundreds of people like me could have had another moment of solace and tranquility. Can I blame my country for the death of my father? I have written a poem for my father


He let go of his breath
His breath that could have catered to so many more beautiful years
Years that could have left indelible imprint on the minds of millions
Years that could have floated thoughts and ideas to generations to come
Years that could have saved lives
But if years were not destined, then months could have been bargained
Months that could have whispered last statements in incomplete books
Months that could have embarked memories that were upcoming
Months that could have allowed you to become a grandfather
Months that could have mystified at least my years to come
Months that could have rewritten history
Even days could have been anticipated as your breaths started fading away
Days that could have witnessed relentless goodbyes
Days that could have allowed travel to the house of god
Days that could have meant so much to so many
Days that could have allowed us time to rewrite your passions
Even in the darkness of the diminishing moments, I prayed for hours
Hours that could have penetrated our promises into reality
Hours that could have answered our questions
Hours that could have provided some more happiness in a deadly and dying world
Or perhaps minutes that could have nurtured our dreams
Completed our hopes
Manifested our emotions
Cemented our life
For only a second, I could have reiterated my life in your blood
And wrote the pages of my life in your veins
And captivated my entire soul in your wounds
And touched every atom of your essence
And kissed every emblem of your body
Only for a few seconds

For my dad July 10, 2007

Article -From one our readers. We have no affiliation with him or any party that submits.