I have won several battles of the heart and the mind, and declared triumph over several wars that I have fought with my sword. Never have I ever stood defeated. And never have I ever felt so broke. Famine, hunger, poverty, a weak rule, all have come and went past me without as much as breaking my will and determination.
But, as each night passes, the nearby sky feasts on the moon until it completely disappears, only to rise back again in its full form, only to be defeated again. But the real tale of heroism that suits the moon is that it never gives up and rises again and again. I am trying to seek some inspiration from this small round of a white glow but to no avail.
As the night wears, it steals my son’s strength and he continues lying in his bed, as weak as a wounded creature, unaware of anything in the grip of the fatal fever. He has been tossing and turning in the lap of restlessness for days now. But for the last two days, he hasn’t as much as moved a muscle, which the healers consider as a step closer into the vale of death.
It is as if the child dearest to my heart is being flipped around between the fever and death. The fever is a stubborn devil that is unwilling to let my son go either way, it has encaged him within its painful grip, painting each part of his with pain and encasing him with igniting torture. On the other hand, death tries to lure Humayun inch by inch, the greedy creature that it is. As dangerous as it is, it won’t give up in any way.
Both the fever and death have crippled him, leaving no space for his life. Death has gained the winning edge now, as Humayun has been left with no resistance to even twist in his bed and fight like a warrior from the two enemies that have captured him from all the sides, in a dark hole where no light or sound leaks in. Humayun cannot hear his father’s cries or the Badshah Baber’s commands to live. He doesn’t hear the pleas that a defeated man makes, he cannot hear me at all.
Had he heard my shrill cries and the desperate appeals of an old, wrecked father; he might have gained some strength to pick his sword and enter the battle again. But I am a lost father and a broken king, as my son nears his grave gradually.
Death is finally dancing to the tune of victory, having covered all the distance between its latest victim.
s
