changing these sects because I wanted to be with them all my life and I was happy with my dhamal.”
Next morning I took him to the hospital. Doctors told me he was suffering from pneumonia and they admitted him. The few days he was to remain in the hospital turned into weeks, and Dewaia was not getting better. I visited him every day.
One cold evening when I went to visit him, he was silent but not speechless; he was speaking with the sad expression of curiosity in his eyes. One could only find this curiosity in a man’ s eyes when he is born. He was looking outside and I noticed white fog coming into the window. In the street, the thick fog rolled between big and small brick houses, and the street lamps loomed like dark and shapeless blurs.
“ Are you alright, Dewaia?” But he remained silent and shook his head. I knew something was wrong. Dewia was unable to speak. I went close to him and asked again. He replied in a weak voice,“ Watni, please take me to my village.”“ Yes, Dewaia, we will go to the village. We will go tomorrow morning if you promise to get well tonight.”“ Watni, why is God silent? Does he not understand my language? Our village people say that to get close to God we should learn Arabic. Is that right? I don’ t know Arabic.”“ Oh no, Dewaia, languages are for men. God does not rely on languages.” His eyes sparkled with hope for a moment. He pressed my hand softly and said,“ I am begging God. My mother named me Allah Dewaia, meaning God given. So why doesn’ t God answer? People say that after death man meets God. Why not in life?”“ Dewaia, don’ t worry. You’ ll meet God in your life.” But he was confused. The brightness of his eyes disappeared. Nothing seemed to calm his anxiety and his mute lips seemed to be longing to say something. That evening, I returned home with a heavy heart.
Early in the morning, I received a call from the hospital. They told me Dewaia was dying and he had called for me. By the time I reached the hospital Dewaia had already taken his last breath. His salvation had arrived finally. He was dead but his eyes were still open looking at the door and talking to me. Watni, if you knew how peaceful this is, you wouldn ' t be worried about dying. I did not reply and silently closed his eyelids. I took him to his village. After a two-hour journey, we reached the black rocks at whose foot our village lay. He always loved those mountains and now the silent and sombre hills were ready to pull him into their warm embrace.
Before going home, I stopped at the mosque of the village and requested the cleric to announce the death of Dewaia on the loudspeaker. After all, he spent his whole life serving and entertaining the people. I thought the villagers would gather and mourn the death of Dewaia, but no one came. I returned home with his dead body. After an hour, there was a knock on the door. I went out and saw a group of people. They all were gazing at me with their eyes full of hatred and I burned with anguish and anger. One angry man spoke.“ Where will you bury this Kafir. This infidel?” I replied with a compassionate request.“ Kafir? He was not a Kafir. He served all the religions and by all those sacred religions, I ask you to be merciful.”
“ He was a man without religion, and we are telling you we cannot allow you to bury him in our graveyard.”
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