Mire of Madness

By Nasiruddin Hamid

The mud clung to his legs like the hands of the dead. Each movement dragged him deeper into the swamp's cold, sucking belly. He gasped, thrashed, reached for a branch that broke, for a rock that slipped. There was no one. Just the gloomy sky, the croaking silence, and the slow, hungry pull of the mire creeping up to devour him.  At first, he praised God and pleaded for deliverance—crying out for mercy, rescue, or even a sign. His voice trembled with desperation.

"God! Help me! Save me! Deliver me!" he screamed, his eyes searching the empty sky.Then came silence—long, heavy, crushing.

"I know you're not there!" he growled, in cracked voice. "I know there is no God!"

Then louder, like a wounded animal he screamed.

 “No one can save me, not God, not man, no one.”

He cursed Him, spat skyward. He screamed at fate, shouted. He blamed his parents for birthing him, for raising him to be weak, for not warning him of the hard truth of life and death and loneliness. He screamed meaningless things in a state of delusion, misery and dilemma.

The hours passed. His whole body ached and trembled. The mud had reached his chest. His voice broke. Rage turned into quiet groans. Then nothing. Only stillness. And then, he became silent and reflected on his thoughts.

He listened—to birds, to wind, to insects over the water. A strange peace grew within.

And suddenly, beautiful memories surged to his mind, sharp and so vivid that he could see them.

He saw his son’s smile—crooked, toothless, and full of life. The way his daughters ran to him every evening, arms flung wide, as if he were the whole world to them. He heard their laughter again, echoing all across the fields of marigold. He smelled the oil in their hair, remembered the way they curled up beside him during storms.

Then—her. His wife. The woman who never gave up on him, even when he had given up on himself. Her warm voice. Her tired, kind eyes. The way she prayed silently for him, believing in him when he couldn’t.And yet… he had never spoken to her sweetly. Not once. Not the way she deserved. Always distant, always burdened. And still, she stayed. Still, she loved him—quietly, patiently, unconditionally.

A sob of sorrow and resentment escaped his lips.

“Forgive me,” he whispered to them in his heart. “My love… my children. I should’ve been better. I should’ve been there more. If these are my last moments… remember I loved you more than I ever said or showed.”

And then, with trembling lips, he lifted his eyes to the gloomy sky above and said:

“Forgive me, my Lord… for I know Thou art Merciful, and Thou art the Creator of all things. Thou art the beacon of my life. I surrender my life unto Thee, and place my family in Thy protection. Forgive me and except me as your beloved child.”

He gave up and closed his eyes for his final journey. He accepted death—not as punishment, but as part of destiny and fate. And just when the darkness seemed final—He felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

By Nasiruddin Hamid