Rabia, I'm Home - By Sana Qureshi

Written By: Sana Qureshi

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Sana Qureshi presents "Rabia, I'm Home," a poignant short story that delves into the themes of love, loss, and the lingering memories of a beloved partner. In this evocative narrative, Qureshi captures the essence of a home once filled with life and laughter, now echoing with the silence of absence. Her story is a touching exploration of the void left by a loved one's departure and the enduring presence of their memory.

About the Work

"Rabia, I'm Home" is a heartfelt reflection on the enduring bond between a husband and his late wife. Through vivid imagery and emotive language, Qureshi paints a picture of a home that feels hollow without Rabia's presence. The story explores themes of love, memory, and the passage of time, evoking a sense of nostalgia and longing. The narrative's mood is both melancholic and tender, inviting readers to ponder the impact of loss on the human soul.

Rabia, I’m home

Original Submission by Sana Qureshi

Rabia, I’m home

Short story

Sana Qureshi

The door unlocks and swings open.

"Rabia, I'm ho-" I say.

The words catch in my throat, eager to escape, but I hold them tighter.

She's not here anymore.

Every piece of furniture seems to hold its breath. It's called the living room, yet it lacks any life. The walls stare at me, pale and pitiful. They stretch away from me, far and wide. The corridor, a long dark tunnel, expands into a deep abyss.

The reading lamp casts a small beam of light onto the couch. Pillows are arranged uniformly, just as she left them.

It's cushions, not pillows, Hamad. Rabia would correct me. Her voice echoes in every room.

Rabia, my zauja (wife), loved correcting every syllable I uttered. But it was the type of correction I melted into. It was her love, from perfecting the angles of wall frames to the flavors of dinner spices, to knotting my shirt's tie. I used to tell the kids she was my other half, but now I realize she was more than that. She was the whole.

My walker stick pierces through the Turkish rug we bought from the second-hand store. I grunt as I lower myself onto the couch. I can almost see Rabia on the other side, the sunlight lighting up her dark hair in fiery browns. Behind her red-rimmed glasses, she would squint her eyes while tapping away on the iPad, showing me pictures of Ali during his college days, our son who often forgot to call me most weeks, and our daughter who was always caught up with her own family.

"Stop complaining," she would snap, even when Aisha's little ones were laughing too loudly in the hallway, smashing toys or jamming tiny electric cars.

Rabia adored noise-called it family.

I cherished peace-called it sanity.

I gaze at sanity now, but it doesn't embrace me. It scoops out my soul and leaves me empty, a discarded box of nothingness. The echoes of laughter fade. I limp my way to the corridor. The distance from the hall to the bedroom has never felt so long. The distance from life to death has never felt so vast.

The kitchen no longer carries the lingering scent of spices. Laughter no longer echoes off the walls. The TV doesn't play in the background, and the telephone doesn't ring. Her voice doesn't echo the hallway. She has taken away the home from the house.

Our bedroom is devoid of her presence. The bed is without creases, and the pillows are in place. Her side table is clear of books and hand creams. Aisha took them away, hoping it would help. But even if you take the soul from the body, the body will always belong to the soul. It will always have its name, until it's nothing.

An old man with wrinkled and tired eyes watches me from the mirror. He sees Rabia combing her dark hair and discussing her gardening. He nods at her stories while lost in her smile.

I open the drawer and rummage through the medicine packets. "Jeez, you collect them like candies," she'd laugh. I pop a few open, tossing them into my mouth.

"The only candies that help me live longer," I'd reply.

The mirror is empty; she is no longer there. It's just a frail old man again. Guess I was right. "I lived longer." I sigh, rubbing a palm over my face.

A tiredness washes over me. The man in the mirror crumbles. Several storms pass across the shadows on his face, but not a tear falls. He swallows it all. A tsunami rages within him. He stands motionless.

You should take a rest, hayati. Her honey voice floats in the air.

I ease my joints onto the bed, leaving the stick in one corner. Turning to Rabia's side out of habit. She's lived so many lives beside me. I see them all.

Her younger self engrossed in a crime novel under the lamp.

Her sleepless nights soothing baby Ali and later Aisha.

Her moody self with muttered anger and turned back.

Her starry eyes enticed me to sleep.

Her nights of storytelling, when she wouldn't stop talking.

Her comforting hugs when I lost myself.

Her lavender scent and gentle gaze, making the world bearable for another day.

Her strong will to smile even as her sickness took over.

Her head on my shoulder as we watched her favorite dramas. Her ladder-step laughter as I tickled her sides. Her giggles fade into echoes, leaving me here by myself.

This vast room is too spacious for an old man. I need something smaller. I need my grave.

To wake up next to her one more night, I need to sleep. The vast numbness of sleep lingers heavy on my lids. I fold my glasses and place them on the nightstand.

I am wrapped in white shroud. Numb and lifeless I am lowered to the ground. Warm and welcoming.

The footsteps fade from above. The questions are answered. Heaviness has vapourized.

A door opens to light. My heart becomes whole as I say it this time.

Rabia, I'm home.

* Sana Qureshi

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a celebrated platform for writers to showcase their creativity and literary talent. This prestigious competition invites participants from around the world to share their poetic and narrative works, offering a space for diverse voices and stories. It serves as a testament to the power of the written word in capturing the human experience.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Sana Qureshi for sharing "Rabia, I'm Home" with us. Her contribution to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 is a profound reminder of the power of love and memory. Thank you, Sana, for allowing us to reflect on the beauty and fragility of life through your poignant storytelling.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.