On Jinnah’s 72nd death anniversary, our follower Alishba Umer writes a heartfelt letter to him to show her devotion and respect. Scroll down to read:

Dear Quaid, 

I might have buried the art of playing with words and writing letters, but the thought of writing one to you, tugs right at my heartstrings. Today is the day, you and I parted ways. 

This morning, the sunrise is still ombré orange but your country tastes sweeter. The sun lowers soft flares of scorching heat across the ceiling, drinks all the ice-cream cones on the pavement and runs its honey glazed fingers through my hair. The honey in the air whispers sweet nothings into my ear and sticks on the roof of my tongue, the kind of sweetness that softly caresses your forehead but crumbles the insides of your gums, settles into your flesh and clings to your skin like the pinch of a forbidden apple. 

Jinnah, in the absence of you and your ways with wisdom, this country keeps growing into colours of mixed cherries in my backyard, its fingertips laced with dried plums like that of your Ravi’s. Perhaps, you never really leave us, do you?

Your motherland never knocks out its pretty lilies and orchids all at once, it plucks out one, each day. The lilies congregate themselves to seek God’s mercy and so they return to Him, one by one, every day; just the way you did. 

Of all the things my heart sets onto, confiding in you and your name have always been on the table. I pray your Pakistan could drown into rich waters of untouched wisdom, the way you did. And in times of need, your motherland could surrender into your words like one helplessly falls to his knees, during prayer.

Of all my desires, my heart dreadfully longs for your wisdom, your sincerity and your devotion. I pray, whenever your country’s heart loses a beat, your words could fly in spirals like divine fireflies around your motherland, leaving the air full of grace. I hope they could descend to the ground, walk their merciful lullabies to every door and worship every house-roof, until every breathing soul falls asleep. I pray, when the rain pours down and the skies cry their eyes out, your name would trickle down every window, soften the dry-parched soil and lay down endless grounds of hope and harmony. 

Quaid, you drew your breath into Pakistan, you must do it again. Our hearts cannot carry the burden of longing, anymore. I pray, your words leave a stain upon every pounding heart, crawl around the concrete walls and soak up all that comes in its path, until the whole land drenches in the scent of your words. 

I pray whenever my heart does not settle, I shall sink into the depth of your words like one yearns in his mother’s arms – always & forever.

A heart of your homeland,


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