A grandmother’s haunting tale of a mother’s love gone wrong—where silence, not cruelty, became the seed of tragedy
By Syed Majid Gilani
Growing up in the warm embrace of a tightly-knit community, I was fortunate to be surrounded by a circle of family members, neighbors, and relatives who deeply valued the timeless tradition of storytelling. In our home, stories were more than just entertainment—they were the threads that wove together our collective values, morals, and sense of identity. Each tale carried with it a lesson, a caution, or a celebration of virtues that shaped our understanding of right and wrong, of duty and love.
Among the many voices that brought these stories to life, none resonated more deeply with me than that of my grandmother, the late Syeda Sakina Gilani. An educated woman of profound wisdom and unwavering moral integrity, she was more than just a storyteller—she was a living example of the values she so eloquently passed on. Her stories, always reserved for the intimate setting of our family gatherings, were not only personal but deeply instructive. She believed that the oral tradition was sacred, and in her eyes, storytelling was not merely an act of recollection, but a responsibility—a way to pass down lived experience, cultural ethos, and ethical compass from one generation to the next.
One story in particular has haunted me ever since I first heard it from her lips. It was a parable of misplaced love, unchecked indulgence, and the catastrophic consequences of failing to set boundaries—a story she would recount with a solemn tone and a heavy heart.
In a quiet village tucked away from the bustle of the world, there lived a humble family: a hardworking father, a devoted but dangerously possessive mother, and their only son. The father, driven by duty and love, traveled frequently for work, enduring long journeys to provide a better life for his family. In his absence, the mother took full control of the household. Over time, her behavior grew increasingly toxic, her affection for the son transforming into a suffocating obsession. She showered him with attention, spoiling him without reserve, while systematically diminishing the father’s role in the child’s upbringing. To her, the son was an extension of herself—her pride, her project—while the father was reduced to a distant provider, barely acknowledged in matters of parenting.
As the boy grew and began attending school, subtle but troubling signs emerged. He mimicked his mother’s disdain for discipline and quickly adopted behaviors that defied norms. His father, though deeply troubled, remained distant—his attempts at correction drowned out by the mother’s indulgence. One day, the boy came home and casually confessed to taking a pencil from a classmate’s bag without permission. It was a small incident, but his mother’s response—or lack thereof—was telling. She met his confession with silence, neither correcting him nor offering any guidance. That silence, as my grandmother often stressed, was not neutral—it was an unspoken approval, a seed planted in fertile soil.
Emboldened by his mother’s unwavering defense, the boy’s misbehavior escalated. When he was caught fighting with a classmate, his mother marched into the school and blamed the other child for provoking her son. Again, rather than hold him accountable, she justified his actions, sending a clear message: he could do no wrong in her eyes. This dangerous loyalty only deepened his sense of invincibility.
As years passed, his defiance hardened. He was eventually caught smoking by his peers, who alerted the school authorities. But when summoned, his mother dismissed the concern outright. “At least he’s not gambling or committing worse sins,” she said, brushing aside the warning signs. With each incident, she normalized his behavior, and the boy learned that consequences were for others—not for him.
By the time he reached his teenage years, the boy had dropped out of school altogether. He turned to petty theft, honing his skills until he became known in the village as a burglar. All the while, his mother remained in denial, unwilling to confront the monster her unchecked affection had created. His father, now aging and unable to travel for work, stayed home and watched helplessly as his son spiraled into darkness.
Then came the night that would seal their fate. During a break-in gone wrong, the boy was confronted by a homeowner. In the scuffle that followed, he killed the man. The law moved swiftly. He was arrested, tried, and sentenced to death. As was customary, the condemned man was granted one final wish before his execution. His request stunned the kingdom: he asked that his mother be hanged alongside him.
When the King summoned him for an explanation, the boy recounted the long and painful path that had brought him to this point. He spoke of the stolen pencil, the dismissed warnings, the blind justifications—all the moments when his mother could have corrected him but chose not to. He described how her silence, her misplaced love, and her unwillingness to let him face consequences had taught him that wrongdoing was acceptable. His father had tried to instill discipline, but his mother’s indulgence had always prevailed.
The courtroom fell silent as he delivered his final words. “It was not my hand alone that committed this crime—it was shaped by her choices, her silence, her refusal to hold me accountable.”
His mother, devastated and filled with unbearable remorse, finally understood the true cost of her actions. Her love, untempered by discipline, had not saved her son—it had doomed him. The King, though moved by the tragic tale, was bound by tradition and honored the boy’s wish. On the day of execution, mother and son stood together at the gallows—a harrowing image of love gone astray and the consequences of parenting without boundaries.
As my grandmother would often remind us after telling this story, love is one of the most powerful forces in the world—but without accountability, it can become destructive. She taught us that raising a child requires more than affection; it demands the courage to say no, the strength to correct, and the wisdom to guide. Discipline, she believed, was not the enemy of love—it was its companion.
This story, passed down through generations in our family, remains etched in my memory as a powerful reminder of the delicate balance that parenting requires. In a world where indulgence is often mistaken for care, and silence for acceptance, the lessons my grandmother shared remain ever-relevant. Through her stories, she gave us more than memories—she gave us moral compasses to navigate life with clarity, compassion, and responsibility.
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