THE VOICE AND THE ECHO

"Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones. A legacy is etched into the minds of others and the stories they share about you." - Shannon Adler.

The world came. Not just his family, but the whole world stood still in his remembrance. Everyone, including Ghullah, a carpet weaver who never allowed the family of the deceased to drink water and drop the cup.

He kept coming to collect his outstanding payment. But the day he came for it sadly that was the day of Iqbal's funeral.

People from all walks of life came together in a supportive environment to mourn and to wave sour farewell to the little hero.

After minutes of long waiting, there was no sign of a hearse. No corpse. No casket. Not even a gravestone. The family filled with anguish held some banquet of flowers - roses. Iqbal loved roses; they were bloodstained red, he loved anything red. To him red signified passion. Love. Resilience!

The atmosphere was not only looking gloomy but she felt gloomy. Everywhere the mourning eyes looked there were no smiles. Tears stained the cheeks. why did he have to die? Ghullah thought momentarily.

It was a sunny day, with birds chirping and flowers blooming. His well-wishers would have given anything to see that day. Besides, all of his childhood buddies, church friends, former school classmates and cousins came to the funeral, making the air a little too stuffy.

As if the mourners weren't enough, the clouds knitted her face and cried bitterly. And all scampered for a shade. Some minutes later, she mopped her eyes dry and in the background, faintly playing, was a heart touching hymn Iqbal used to listen to every day. "Amazing grace how sweet it sounds..." The hymn moved every soul to tears regardless of their faiths.

Another curtain of the service was drawn open. Attributes were recited. Iqbal lived a well-spent life as the world testified of his goodness and heroic feats. He successfully carved his monument in the heart of millions. And his framed photo was raised for all to view for the last time. So it happened to be his corpse. Casket. Even a monument of remembrance. Many tears were shed that there was nothing left to cry.

'Poor boy!' Ghullah sighed as he reluctantly joined them. He even had a tear shed, but it honestly wasn't sadness. It was worry.

Would the family be able to pay off their debt? Now that the collateral is gone, what's next? His thoughts ceased not to perch as they flew from one imaginative reflection to another as if he was the murderer. Only Heavens knew!

Let's pray!' A man's voice piped from a corner, drawing all eyes towards the direction as he make his way to the front.

It was a man on a white priestly robe and a string of a cross around his neck. It was a vicar of St. Andrew Chaplaincy, Reverend Steve Omar. A man in his mid-twenty. His comeliness could make a peacock shy but priesthood beckoned and he sincerely took the mantle and embraced celibacy.

'God, we thank you for the life that you give us. It is full of work and of responsibility, of sorrow and joy Today, we thank you for the life of Iqbal. For what he has given and received. Help us in our mourning and teach us to live for the living in the time that is still left to us.

'May the peace of the Lord be unto you all!' The man of God said, stretching forth his hands over every.

'And also with your soul!' The Christians in the crowd responded.

'My name is Rev. Steve.' He continued. 'On behalf of all family and friends, I would like to welcome everyone as we have gathered today to remember one of our brothers in the Lord.

Your presence here today is an affirmation of your love and support to the family. Thank you for being here. Although the family may not remember every word we share here today, they will remember your presence for the rest of their lives.'

The officiating priest delivered a concise, heartening, and powerful sermon giving comfort to the family and friends of the deceased. His soft voice sank into the deep belly of every heavy heart, thus, cutting the lines of their thoughts from bitterness to sober reflection of life.

Iqbal was loved by his family, friends and the world at large. He was a soldier of righteousness. A champion of freedom and justice. A hero both here on Earth and above. A voice to the voiceless. And most importantly, he lived and died in Christ. He wasn't a lost - In Christ he gained victory over death.

'Hear me oh you under the sound of my voice.' The priest cried. 'Life is vanity. This life is fleeting. That's why we should live every day as though it were our last. The book of James chapter 4 verses 14 pictured life as a vapour that appears for a little time then vanishes away. What are we doing in this time of pain and suffering, hardship and trials, etc?

All of us are busy writing the history of our lives. After each hour, we write a paragraph. After each day, we write a page. After each week, we write a division. After each year, we write a chapter. And at the end, we finish the book.

Although we usually try to keep the thought far from us. Today especially, we are made to realize that someday we also must step from this life into another that is without end. Have it come to your mind that each of us will have our funerals conducted. How would the last chapter of your life end?

As we search for answers and comfort, I would like to draw you to John 14:1-3 which stated that we should not be troubled. Death isn't the end. Even Jesus passed using death into the other world and came back again. Thus, Jesus is the one that has the answers, the revelation, and the comfort regarding death.

Let's be comforted in Christ Jesus. Why not lift your eyes yonder to the cross. Surrender your life to the spotless Lamb slain on the cross. He's ever ready to forgive you. Jesus saves!

The man of God concluded the sermon with a prayer. He prayed, blessed and strengthened the entire family of the deceased. And everyone departed after the rite. Ozoemena - may it never happen again!

The message of his death flew far away to the land of Sweden and caused a heavy flood. His friends in school mourned him bitterly. Ike was on an empty stomach for three nights. Sofia broke down when the news came to her. She couldn't hold herself. Her eyes were filled with tears.

Why Iqbal? Why me? She kept on asking herself from time to time. When she closed her eyes, and her mind, the only voice she could hear was that of Iqbal whispering some sweet nothings. Those pleasant memories kept flipping over her mind. She wished for the man on a long black coat to knock at her door as his next victim.

One summer morning, a huge, spinning, glowing sphere of hot gas finally showed his face, and the birds sang more joyfully. Perhaps, the sun was timid because of such a pleasant welcome, and the blazing face tucks out behind the mountain. And it slowly emits a golden glow. At this moment, everything is full of vitality. The layer of ripples on the river surface reflects the golden sunlight.

The wooden door cracked open and tiny pattering feet came in. It was Sofia. A bouquet of fresh flowers on her table gave her a saucy smile and she returned it.

And with a puzzled look on her little face, she looked around. There was no sign of forced entry. She was so sure the door was locked. And her mum hasn't returned from where she went to. She quickly made her way to have those beautiful sweet flowers. She sniffed them and they smelt nice!

'Nice flowers.' She inhaled.

'Daughter, I am home.' Margareta chirped.

'Welcome, mom!' Sofia ran into the arms of her mother. Even the blind could see that she looked for all the world like her old girl.

'Hope you're good?'

'Yeah.'

'You must be hungry, darling.' Margareta said, wearing a bright face. 'Please I need your hands in the kitchen.'

'Ok, mom.'

'Good girl!' Margareta said, ruffling her hair affectionately.

'Thanks for the flowers.' Sofia added, giving her the best smiles.

'I didn't send them.' She answered. 'It was one of your friends.'

Who? Who could have done that? She was still deep in thought when the little bird whispered her a clue.

'Iqbal!' Sofia blurted.

'Iqbal?' She remarked inquisitively. 'Who is he if I may ask?'

'A friend.'

'Boyfriend?'

Sofia responded with dead silence and walked away with saucy smiles. Margareta shook he head and went to the kitchen. While Sofia was admiring the bouquet, she saw a neatly wrapped paper in between them. She carefully opened it and read:

"Hello, Sofia, did you get the flowers? Please would you grace me with your presence this evening at the chapel? I would be there by 4 on the dot. I look forward to meeting you. Thanks!

Iqbal.

Her heart leapt for joy after reading the note. She saw the ray of the sun right before her eyes. Iqbal had been her secret lover whom she admired from far.

Stringing a word together was a challenge. It feels like her tongue has swollen inside her mouth and doesn't want to work the way it was supposed to.

Sofia went to the kitchen to join her mother in the preparation for the dinner. She helped in tidying up the kitchen and washing the dishes. The world could see the happiness in those eyes. Even a blind man could testify. It was unlike her.

'Are you going out?'

'Mum, I'd be leaving to chapel for vesper.'

'Ok.'

Sofia had already washed her body. She smiled as she stood with no clad before a mirror on the wall. She was exploring her physical charms. Her raw body was fresh and fleshy.

She turned and looked over her shoulder to see her backside. It was tempting. She imagined having a soul-piercing touch in the spot where the sun doesn't touch.

The daylight had begun to drain away. It was sharp five when they got to the rendezvous. Iqbal pointed to the hill that was near the chapel. They both trudged to the top of the hill, sat there and began to play. Iqbal suddenly recoiled in silence. He was a bit reserved. Sofia perceived it and wrapped up herself. And a deep silence grew amidst them.

The high voltage of these three affectionate words electrocuted Sofia. Her dreams of countless nights were gradually coming to life.

'Sweetie, come and have your dinner. The table is ready!'

Sofia reeled and wrenched herself back to reality by a familiar voice - the voice of her mother. The chains of her thoughts were cut off - and those sweet memories curled and blackened in the flames of intrusion.

'What is the matter, sweet dove?' Margaret asked.

Silence.

'Please talk to me.' she piped. 'Remember that I am your mother...'

'Please I need some silence here!'

'Ok. I would leave.' Margaret said, kissing her on the forehead. 'But always know that I love you. I want the best from you.'

The door slammed shut.

After everyone has eaten and gone to bed. Sofia stood and made her way to the dining. While at the table, she was staring at the food with no appetite. The meal was left uneaten. She forked it to an unpalatable state.

'Forever in my heart, Iqbal!' She sighed, clinging to the string of a wolf's tooth around her neck. It was a special gift from her late beau.

I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it. - Sylvia Plath.

Darkness was settling around the plain sky. It was time to cease labour. People from all walks of life were returning to the various homes. Iqbal happened to be at home. He was released on time. As a child after his father's heart, Masih, his father loved and entrusted his cattle into his care.

They were grazing in an open field at a distance. Iqbal set to herd them. The horizon can't drain of colour without him bringing them home for the night.

Story-telling was a common entertainment in their family. Masih was good at storytelling. He could spellbind the whole community. He mostly talked about Pakistani's independence. The glory days of the past national heroes. The Arab folks. And so on!.

Iqbal remembered the story he had told them. It was a horrific story. A story of a certain man who was working in his field one evening, when someone came and offered to help him.

The man accepted his offer, but after a while, the farmer looked at the man's feet and saw that they were the feet of a donkey. Paralyzed by fear, he started running and he didn't stop until he reached the rim of the village.

At the edge of the village, he met another man who comforted and asked him what had happened in the field, and he said that a human-like creature had appeared to him whose feet were the feet of a donkey.

The man said to him: "like my feet," and the farmer looked and saw that the man had the feet of a donkey. He search for the amulet he made with a bone and fur of a wolf but it was nowhere to be found. So he took up to his heels. It was a belief that such a bestial creature keeps an arm's length away from a wolf.

The Pakistanis claimed that wolves have power over the monstrous creature known as Mukhfi whenever they appear in physical form, and they can attack and devour them.

And strangely enough, the Mukhfi can take form as a snake, a black cat, a sheep or even a black dog. Hence the villagers often wear an amulet containing something from the wolf because they believe that the Mukhfi flees from the scent of wolves.

But this night was different. A heavy silence hung in the air. Masih and Anayat sat in a corner. Iqbal could see darkness roaming around his family. And he heard someone sniffing in tears. He listened carefully to perceive it was a household voice - his mother's!

It depressed him because as a child he had grown with the belief that if a woman broke into tears when a man is there then she must have seen no hope in the situation swallowing up the man.

For the first time, Iqbal could see his mother face to face with a problem to which tomorrow was no response. It also cost him his freedom and future as a child.

Iqbal shovelled his legs waiting for the next button to be pressed. Masih wrapped up himself straight in his wooden armchair. He seemed to fill his throat with many words. Suitable words for that matter! He then finally made an effort to speak.

'Iqbal!'

'Yes, father.'

Silence fell again. But this time, it was a tap. Maybe Masih was rebooting himself to break the earthen pot of silence. Iqbal had already perceived that something went wrong somewhere but he couldn't tell what really was the matter.

'Son, you'd be a boy to Ghullah for a meantime.' Masih's voice rang the darkness.

There was no more talk. The night was wordless like a dead bird. Iqbal felt like he was stuck in a rut. The look in his eyes was blank and not chalked out.

It would be a cry in the wilderness for one to stand on ceremony to tell if he was down in the mouth or chime with the development. But his nose was wrinkled up. Was it an apprenticeship? How long would it last? No definite time for freedom!

Iqbal, a child of five years worked in a carpet factory. Before then, his mother Anayat needed money for surgery. So she took out a loan from a carpet factory owner called Ghullah. And the loan or 'peshgi' was in Iqbal's name, and that is to say, Iqbal owed six hundred Rupees.

Now a free-born Iqbal became a debt slave to Ghullah until the debt is paid. Iqbal oftentimes is been dragged through the narrow streets to a carpet factory as the sun rose. Ghullah even made sure the little boy never blink eyes while at work and he was not well-fed. And consequently, he grew thinner that one could read his ribs.

Toils and sweats paused every day as the sunset. Iqbal closed from work and wearily trudged home. This evening his body was heavy. His eyes too were heavy with sleep. He collapsed into bed and fell asleep. But then sleep wouldn't come to relieve him.

The more he tried to enjoy his sleep the more he wanted to forget his life because he was only conscious of restlessness and servitude. Even in the dreamland, he couldn't find rest. Perfect rest! Sometimes his master Ghullah woke him around midnight. Indeed, his life cut a sorry figure!

'We have a carpet delivery that has to be finished. Come on, get up.' Gullah woke him by a blow from the carpet fork. The little lad startled from his sleep and reluctantly followed him in obeisance to his workplace.

The Raja bazaar was a market in the hearts of many souls. There was no manner of things one can't see in the market. If one isn't penny-wise he could spend all his life savings in the market.

The crow side of it is that the market was a very dirty place full of buzzing flies, while the stench of humanity hung in the air like a heavy cloud. And yet, different feet stamped in and out, at a stretch like safari ants.

'Subha Bakher!' Iqbal greeted a passerby in Urdu, with his head bowed and the hand placed over the heart.

'Aap kaisay hain?'

'mai theek hoon, shurkiya.'

'Aap ka din acha guzre. Have a beautiful day!'

'Khuda Hafiz Kehna. God be with you!'

The man whom Iqbal greeted returned a few minutes later with a bowl of rice served with lobia daal - tasty black-eyed peas curry.

He gave the starving little boy a smile and the bowl of food. Iqbal returned the smile and accepted it without hesitation. He was about to eat without having his hands washed. Ghullah, his master showed up on his dark brown old blind horse and took the food away from the lad.

'Why are you eating by this time? Are you through with your work?'

'Jee than!' Iqbal nodded.

'Resume your duty before I unleash hell on you!' Gullah roared. 'A slave has no rest until death or freedom.'

Iqbal walked away with tears blurring his eyes. He longed to taste good food. Stay healthy. And to regain liberty. But the road was extremely long to walk alone.

"Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. The obedient must be slaves." - Henry David Thoreau.

Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!!

The voice of a muezzin thrilled, calling the faithful to worship. And the masses trooped into the mosque to answer the call. The shadowy corners had just sunk into the firmament as the fused warm light of dawn crept down the summit.

Bow wow!! Barked the neighbourhood's dogs. The little town of Muridike just woke up. And every corner was lively with human activities. The women were busy doing some of the domestic chores while men were with their pipes puffing away the coldness from their bodies.

'Assalam Aleykum!'

The weather was cruel and freezing. The breeze could bend and melt humans. And even blow away the chattering teeth from the root.

It was on that certain day, a little boy in the carpet factory had a high fever. Gullah, the owner, tied the boy's feet together and hung him upside down from the ceiling fan.

'You rug rat! I am the one who decides when you work.' Gullah roared, whipping him furiously with a belt.

Iqbal stood aside watching with a yelp of fear. He knew that one day he'd be a victim of the same situation. His face grew dark. He couldn't bear the sight of his friend under torture and shivering with fever.

Iqbal now found his voice and swung into action as Ghullah raised his hand again to deliver another blow.

'Enough, master!' Iqbal cried. 'Are you not a human? Or have you created a beast?'

Gullah stood still like the sun. He looked at Iqbal and grabbed him by the shoulder. Iqbal felt the grip and winced with fear. And then revived his courage.

His master growled something inaudible and then released him, turning his face away to the direction that his feet led him out of the scene. And silence reigned.

Iqbal had always been a dreamer. A visionary who consoled himself when he's faced with the difficulties of the moment by a look at a better day to come.

He knew that he'd escape the plague sooner or later. Of course, sunshine always follows a night. So he kept believing that the sun will rise tomorrow.

In that instant, Iqbal decided that he'd had enough from his cruel empathic master. He and his friends took the chance to run away when Ghullah wasn't there.

Then the sun slowly hid her face behind the mountain. The weather was beautiful. Some boys were playing football when Iqbal with the other children came across them in the field. It interested them to join in exclusion of Iqbal who doesn't seem to have an interest.

'Do you want to play?' One of the players asked.

The boys smiled modestly. And Faaiz answered them; 'Yea, we'd love to play.'

'Come to our team!' The two teams cried out. Within a few minutes, the boys chose their ends and the game started. They played all day without worrying about what awaited them. Not even the crack of a whip nor death.

Faaiz's team were playing excellently well against the other. The other team were like bulls on the field. And they hadn't any sporting spirit. And that's why the other team is winning.

The first fifteen minutes of the match were smooth. After that things started happening. It all began with the great scores by the Faaiz's team. From then on, the playing ground turned to a battlefield.

The other team played with the core principle of "Don't miss the leg if you missed the ball." So whenever they couldn't get hold of the ball, they sought the legs of their opponents with the ball.

Several ugly clashes occurred and Faaiz's team fell victims. This could be one of the reasons behind Iqbal's disinterest in football sport.

Cheers went high as Faaiz raced with the ball, dribbled and penetrated through the back defenders and now had only the goalkeeper to beat.

The boys in the other team cried out in despair. Some raised hands to their heads praying within for the ball to fly above the post. While the goalkeeper kept his eyes fixed and ready to hold down the ball from rolling into the post.

Like the wave of a wand, the ball went in in spite that the goalkeeper dived to stop it. Eighteen minutes later, the match ended three one. A cloud of jubilation rose.

Some went home with cheers and others with tears. And that's the sweetness of the sport!

The patches of the sky grew dark. The night was fast approaching. Everyone had left. The poor children were loitering around for a place to pass the night.

They hunted the entire woodland in search of food and water for they were starved and thirsty. While they were in the heart of the grove, they fed on wild fruits and drank from a running river.

All manners of animals were making some appalling sounds - the bats. Owl. Crickets. The children heard a sound at a close distance. It was the grunts of a wild pig scavenging for pasture.

Fear swept them off balance. Could it be some Jinns? They mumbled a prayer of protection. "Audhu billahi min-ash shaytanir Jim."

The straws among the children cowered in dismay while Iqbal and one of the boys, Huzaifa went after the pig with a rock and a wood.

A mere sight can not successfully give out Huzaifa's identity because he cut cloth from both Pakistan and India. He was such a charming boy with so many attractive features - good height, dark skin, slim frame, small nose and thick hair.

And in the heart of the night, the children crashed in an alley by the side of a shop. The night was cruel to the uncovered children.

In the following morning, Ghullah came to their homes to get them. He grew furious and beat the boys with a carpet fork or whatever is within reach.

Then he shackled them on chains like animals in an abattoir waiting to be slaughtered. And they were released on the second day like birds from a cage.