The Last Piece of Him!

Shah Khursheed

The world moved around her, but she was trapped in the echo of her own sorrow. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something precious had slipped through her fingers, something she could never retrieve. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many tears she shed, that piece of her father, that coin, would never be returned.

The streets of Srinagar were alive with the usual hustle—vendors shouting out their bargains, people weaving in and out of shops, and the wind carrying whispers of a life that felt, at least for a moment, normal. But for her, everything felt wrong. The chaos around her felt distant, like a world she no longer belonged to. She had walked through this marketplace countless times before, her heart light, her thoughts scattered across the day’s errands. But today, everything had shifted.

She had just bought a few hosiery items from a street vendor—insignificant things in the grand scheme of life. But then, as she reached into her purse to pay, her hand met an empty space. Panic surged through her. Her fingers fumbled in the bag again, and again, until the realization sank in. It was gone. Her pouch. The one she always kept close. The one that held so much more than just coins.

Inside, there had been two golden rings—gifts from her late father—but more than that, there had been a simple, small 5 rupees coin. She could still feel the weight of it in her hand. It wasn’t just a coin; it was the last gift her father had given her, the final piece of his love, placed into her palm as he lay dying. “No matter where life takes you, remember me with this. I’ll always be with you,” he had whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with love and finality. Those words had stayed with her, a constant reminder that her father would always be near, in her heart, in that coin.

But now, it was gone.

She sat down on a nearby bench, her heart racing, her mind spinning. She stared at her empty hands, unable to comprehend the loss. It wasn’t just a coin—it was him. His presence. His memory. The connection that kept him close even after his death. She felt as though a part of her had been ripped away. The coin wasn’t a thing; it was everything. The last tangible symbol of her father, and now it was lost to her.

“It’s just 5 rupees,” she tried to convince herself. But the words felt hollow. The emptiness inside her grew louder with each passing moment. Losing the coin was like losing him all over again. “I can’t lose him again,” she thought desperately, but the loss had already settled in her chest like a heavy stone.

The ache in her heart deepened, suffocating her. She could barely breathe as the tears streamed down her face. A thought crossed her mind, cold and terrifying. What if I just… ended it? The pain of losing him, of feeling this emptiness in her chest, seemed unbearable. The thought of never having to feel this hurt again tempted her. The loneliness of the loss, the overwhelming grief, seemed too much to endure.

But almost as quickly as the thought appeared, another followed, more painful still. I can’t do this. I can’t hurt him again. I can’t betray his memory like this. Islam forbids suicide, and yet, the pain made it so hard to care. Her father had always wanted her to live, to be strong. “He wouldn’t want this,” she thought. But it didn’t stop the crushing sorrow. It didn’t stop the emptiness that threatened to swallow her whole.

Her grief was overwhelming, consuming her thoughts, her breath. She stood up, her legs shaky, unsteady beneath her. She couldn’t stay still. She couldn’t sit with this pain any longer. She had to move, to get away from the reminder of what she had lost, but no matter where she went, the weight of it followed her. The streets seemed to blur as she walked, every step heavy with the realization that she could never undo the past.

She couldn’t find the pouch, and even if she did, it wouldn’t bring back what she had lost. It wouldn’t bring back her father, his love, or the last piece of him that had once meant everything to her. That tiny coin, now gone, was a symbol of everything that had been taken away, and the grief of it felt endless.

The pain didn’t fade. It lingered, sharp and relentless, like a wound that refused to heal. All she could do was sit with it, feel it, and let it consume her. The loss of the coin was the loss of him. And no matter what she did, that loss would remain, permanent and unyielding, in her heart forever.

The author can be reached at shahkhursheed918@gmail.com