THE FINAL JOURNEY by ARMAN AMROHVI is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License
Checking my email, I felt a sudden jolt—as if a mild earthquake had struck my town. But the internet connection was intact, which made me realise it wasn’t an earthquake. Usually, tremors disrupt services for a few seconds, linked somehow to the earth’s magnetic field. Instead, my email account flashed a reminder: my wife’s birthday on 28th September, now just 17 days away.
That date pulled me back in time—from 2001 to 1996, the year I was married, and then to 1997, when my daughter Sakina was born on the very same day. The date marked both my wedding anniversary and my daughter’s birthday. Amid these memories, I recalled the most important day of my life—when my wife Afreen told me she was expecting. In a few months, I would hold a life entrusted by the Almighty, a bond extending between us, transforming me from husband to father.
Feeling shy about sharing this soul-soothing news with my parents, I was still wondering how to tell them when a knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. My mother entered, saying, “No more late nights at the office. Be home on time. She—and the new life with her—need your presence more.” My father followed, smiling, “Thanks for adding a prefix to me.” Their awareness filled me with exuberance.
Suddenly, I said, “Afreen, something is burning,” and the traces of bygone days vanished. The smell was real. I stepped out of my cabin, its large window overlooking the city, into the office area. Morning attendance was still incomplete, but everyone agreed—something was burning. With a bang, the front door opened. My friend Michael, who worked on the 63rd floor of the same building, rushed in shouting, “The building is on fire—we’re all going to die!”
He was petrified, stumbling over words: “The plane hit our…” Panic spread. People ran. I stood frozen, then followed Michael back into my cabin. He leaned from the window: “Look, Arman, the fire is below us. This will…” I leaned too, staring at the flames. “Destiny is destined,” I whispered, and sat at my chair.
Opening my laptop, I looked at photographs of my family. Afreen’s voice echoed: “Our daughter wants you at the Parent-Teacher Meeting, unlike other fathers.” Tears rolled down my cheek. My mother’s words flashed: “Son, Sakina is growing. She needs you. Please don’t go.”
With courage, I opened the compose box and began typing: “Papa, Ammi, Afreen, and lovely Sakina. I came to this far-off land dreaming of an economically secure life. I made many friends in four years, all of whom cared for me.”
Michael shouted, “Arman, what a fool you are to write an email at this hour! We should move!” I shook my head silently, glued to the screen. He left, slamming the door.
I continued: “Coming here was a dream come true, but not a single day passed without missing you. Each night, I held the teddy beside me, personifying Sakina. At the store, I often heard Afreen’s voice: ‘Papa likes mixed fruit jam, not any other. Ammi needs caustic-free soap—she’s allergic. Sakina loves stuffed chocolates.”
Breathless, I pulled my chair to the window, laptop on my lap. Fresh air eased me for a moment. Childhood memories surfaced: “Papa, do you remember the day my twelfth standard results were declared? You said, ‘Son, I am proud of you for the distinction in all subjects.’ That day remains the most celebrated of my life.”
A puff of air brushed my ear—it felt like Sakina blowing gently. I turned, but the empty space reminded me I was alone.
“Ammi, I still don’t like half-cooked meat. The taste of your dish has haunted me for a year, since my last visit in December. I planned to eat it again this time—forever.”
Suffocation grew unbearable. I dampened my handkerchief, pressed it to my eyes, and wrote again: “Afreen, when Sakina was born, we argued about her future—you wanted her to be a doctor, I wanted her to be a lawyer. Doctor, it is. Please give me a cup of tea—it’s been long. Do you remember? Whenever I conceded to you, I asked for tea.”
The flames below intensified. I inhaled deeply, grabbed my laptop, and ran to the staircase. Smoke filled the air, but I reached the terrace and sat down to write: “Papa, you wanted me to be an IAS officer, but I chose differently. What I do now is for you four. This will become a record—the last mail of a dying man. Papa, you were right: ‘Death comes only once, and one should be ready.’ I am not afraid. Afreen, at home, I’ve bought gifts: a Barbie doll for Sakina, a foot massager for Ammi, and a Shaffer pen set for Papa. Afreen, now you must be me—for Sakina and my parents. I cannot escape eternity. I will fly from here to the ground. Ammi and Papa know I can bear pain, but not burning—it has been my weakness since childhood. Many happy returns of the day to you, Afreen and Sakina, on your coming birthday. Khuda Hafiz.”
I pressed send. Mail successfully delivered.
Standing, I looked at the sky, thanked the Almighty for all He had given me, and leapt from the burning Twin Tower—into eternity.
