Holding On While Living On

Six years ago, Zubeida’s eldest son Altaf left their village near Lucknow to work in Mumbai. For two years he called every Sunday and sent money every month. Then the calls stopped. His phone was switched off. The address he had given turned out to be a lodge, and nobody there remembered him. The police filed a report, but nothing came of it.

Hope that keeps changing

In the first year, Zubeida hoped every day that Altaf would walk in through the door. She kept his bed made and his plate ready. In the second year, she hoped that he was safe somewhere and would call. By the fourth year, she hoped that she would at least find out what had happened to him.

Each time a hope faded, Zubeida felt she was betraying her son. Then a woman at the local women’s group, whose own husband had disappeared, told her something that helped. “You are not giving up on him,” she said. “You are changing your hope into one you can live with. That is not betrayal. That is how a mother survives.”

Hope does not have to be all or nothing. Over time, it can be reshaped. The new hope is usually smaller and less fair than the old one. But it is a hope that can actually be lived, and that matters.

Keeping the bond

People sometimes told Zubeida that she should “let go” of Altaf and move on. She found this unbearable. How could a mother let go of her son? The answer she found was that she did not have to. She could keep loving him and keep a place for him in her heart. She could still live her life, care for her other children and plan for the future.

Pauline Boss describes this as reshaping the bond rather than breaking it. The love stays. What changes is how much of daily life it is allowed to fill. Zubeida stopped keeping Altaf’s plate ready at every meal. But she kept his photograph by her bed, and she still says a prayer for him every night.

Festivals with a place for him

Eid was the hardest day of the year. For three years, Zubeida did not celebrate at all, and the whole family felt the gloom. In the fourth year, her daughter suggested a change. They would celebrate Eid, and they would keep a place for Altaf at the table, with a lamp and a bowl of the sheer khurma he loved.

The younger children were glad to have Eid back. Zubeida cried at the table, and she also laughed when her grandson spilled his sherbet. Both things happened on the same day, and that was all right.

What would he tell you?

On a hard night, the woman from the group asked Zubeida a question. “If Altaf could see you now, what would he tell you to do?” Zubeida thought for a long time. Then she said, “He would tell me to eat properly and stop crying. He always teased me for crying.” The next morning she ate a proper breakfast for the first time in weeks.

The people we love stay with us in our minds, even when they are far away. We can still ask them for advice, and their imagined answers can be a real comfort.

How it is now for Zubeida

Zubeida still does not know where Altaf is. She has accepted that she may never know. She now helps other mothers at the women’s group file police reports and search hospital records. She says that she has two jobs: keeping Altaf in her heart, and living her life for the children who are with her.