We met in Lahore. It was October, the time of year that, in this eternal city, is like March, always balmy and fragrant. I was a strapping young officer and she a petite medical student. Our chemistry matched perfectly. Soon we were engaged but just then the 1971 civil war broke out and I had to leave for East Pakistan. She was crestfallen, with dark fears and premonitions. I became a prisoner of war while my elder brother was killed fighting in Sialkot sector. We had no means to communicate and the only thing I was left with was her photograph and our engagement ring. These two objects became my most priceless possessions in the Indian prisoner of war (PoW) camps; to keep them I risked everything. The Indian authorities finally realised their significance but let them remain with me. I read her first letter, which reached after nearly a year courtesy the ICRC, hundreds of times including the post office markings and address. Never mind the prying eyes of the military censor’s department reading it as just another letter to a PoW. One has to be completely committed to really sense the meaning and impact of each word. Her resoluteness in the face of mounting uncertainty about our future in the camps was remarkable. She must have endured 1,000 cuts in those years. On my repatriation we were married. That was 40 years ago. She is a complete oriental woman in every sense of the word. Deeply attached and possessive, sensitive, dependent, trusting to a fault and adorably vulnerable; a being one always wants by one’s side and would give anything to protect. She is like a Saadiqain masterpiece, held tightly with both hands, very close for fear of dropping it. To care for her and our children has been a delight; to be with her and to have been waited for has been a pleasure worth the galaxy, many times over. Years went by in bliss and blight together, we aged and our two children grew up into a wonderful looking man and woman. In them, I prayed and looked for reflections of their mother’s qualities of mind and heart, appearance, presence and grace. I continue to marvel at her tremendous sense of duty and ready humanity, her instinctive natural sense of another’s moral worth. She has an inexhaustible store of hospitality and capacity, to withstand pressures yet stay the course when many would have veered. On one occasion, during winter, our servant counted 27 pairs of shoes outside our lobby, of which 22 belonged to guests from Quetta and their children. Having served our guests, at night she would take our children to the storeroom, the only one free of guests, and help them do their homework for the next day. Not a whimper or a whine; a homemaker indeed. One score where she switches off her radar is religion and those who peddle this commodity. She has an inseparable bond with faith stitched entirely by her. Mercifully, no intrusive al Huda missionaries or the like have intervened to spoil her pleasure in prayers and the music of our life. That is the reason her devotion is so mellow, free of bias and any residual malice. Many a time have I seen her literally whispering into God’s ears, with tears running down her cheeks particularly after our daughter’s marriage failed so soon. At times, I would overhear her intimate way of beseeching Him. She would even pray softly to the holy Prophet (PBUH) to intercede with God on her behalf. I have never seen devotion so pure, innocent and complete. To seek a humane and workable remedy to the cold tyranny of Fiqh, and the insensitivity of law inflicted upon our daughter and grandson, we knocked at every door; from muftis to judges, ornate mosques to the Supreme Court but none of the holy custodians of faith or the mighty dispensers of justice in this country had the heart or moral courage to confront the hide bound mullah or the irrational Family Law with the deeply humanitarian issue we presented. En masse they recoiled and hid behind procedure, privilege and arrogance, shaking under the impact of the moral questions posed. We were mistaken. Justice in our country expired long ago. What are left are empty judgments and hollow judicial theatrics to deflect public attention from putrid corruption, lobbying, bias and incompetence. She is showing unmistakable signs of deep fatigue and hurt after the undeserved break-up of our only daughter’s marriage. I often see her praying in the dead of night with her exquisite forehead on the prayer rug for hours, without daring to disrupt or console for the fear of disturbing her rare, solitary communion. I know she is slowly dissolving with grief and pity over the sad plight of our daughter and little grandson, a slide that I am powerless to prevent but will follow wherever she is going. We were in Murree after a particularly heavy snowfall when she slipped on a patch of frozen ice while playing with our grandson. I could see her land on her right knee awkwardly. She got up quickly but the knee was hurt. What was then not known was that it also delivered a nasty jerk to her backbone. It has been many years now since both her knee and back were badly hurt, preventing her from bending forward or negotiating a step more than a few inches high. Her determination is magnificent, despite the excruciating pain. We have collected physiotherapy gadgets from all over the world, including potions and balms of every description, for her. Most reluctantly, she agreed to let me do the laundry, help wash her feet as she cannot bend, and bandage her knee as her backache prevents it. Her health appears to be eroding though she suffers in silence and with great dignity. I know it is not the bad knee or an aching back but that lovely grandson growing up without his father and the unyielding sorrow of our equally radiant daughter’s loneliness that are mercilessly consuming her. She wants us to be there, and we will, till our grandson grows into a man able to look after himself. Meanwhile she becomes more and more fragile as we travel towards the twilight of our lives. It is utterly unimaginable to go, leaving her alone, or to be left without her. I quietly pray that when it is time, we go together. The writer is a retired brigadier of the Pakistan army and can be reached at clay.potter@hotmail.com