Western
Kyiv Government Building Hit for First Time as Russia Launches Record 800 Missile and Drone Strikes Across Ukraine
vernment Building Hit for First Time as Russia Launches Record 800 Missile and Drone Strikes Across Ukraine Ukrainian Prime Minister Yulia Svyrydenko has said that for the first time during the war with Russia, Kyiv’s central government building has been targeted. Yulia Svyrydenko stated that the roof and upper floors of the building were badly damaged, and a fire broke out as a result of the strike. Nationwide attacks killed at least four people, including a child and a young woman who died when a nine-story residential building in Kyiv’s Sviatoshynskyi district was hit. Ukraine’s Air Force claimed that in the latest overnight assault, Russia launched a record number of drones and missiles, with the total exceeding 800. According to the Air Force, nine missiles and 56 drones hit 37 sites, with debris damage reported at eight of them. President Volodymyr Zelenskyy said that the strikes also caused destruction in the cities of Zaporizhzhia, Kryvyi Rih, and Odesa, as well as in the regions of Sumy and Chernihiv. On social media, Zelenskyy wrote: “Such killings now, when genuine diplomacy could have started long ago, are a deliberate crime and an attempt to prolong the war.” He urged world leaders to show a clear political will to stop these attacks. The Russian Ministry of Defense claimed it had struck Ukraine’s military and industrial facilities and transport infrastructure, damaging arms and equipment depots. The government building in Kyiv that was hit is also known as the Cabinet of Ministers building, as it houses the offices of key Ukrainian ministers. Although details on Sunday were unclear, Kyiv Mayor Vitali Klitschko suggested that during the interception of a drone, it may have accidentally crashed into the Cabinet building. He wrote on Telegram: “A fire broke out in a government building in the Pechersk district, possibly as a result of downing a UAV.” This marks a new and significant turn in Russia’s war on Ukraine. Until now, no government building had been struck in central Kyiv, which has been heavily fortified since the beginning of the war. The incident is likely to cause fear and concern among the population. It is also a symbolic strike, showing that Russian President Vladimir Putin’s statements about being ready for peace are merely a façade. He is not stopping; instead, Russia is intensifying its attacks. On Sunday morning, people saw smoke rising into the sky from just behind Independence Square. Later, a video posted on social media showed two Russian cruise missiles moving at high speed, followed by another powerful explosion. In Kyiv, a residential building strike shattered the windows of Valentyna’s home, and glass rained down on her. At the time of the attack, Valentyna and her husband were sleeping. “At least we’re alive,” she said. One of her young neighbors and the neighbor’s child were killed. Neighbors said the family had only recently moved into the apartment, and the woman’s husband was severely injured and hospitalized. Ukrainian footballer Heorhiy Sudakov’s Kyiv apartment was also damaged in a Russian drone strike. The 23-year-old player wrote on Instagram that his wife and child were inside during the attack. Sudakov is currently away on an international tour but posted photos and videos after the strike. It remains unclear whether his family was injured. Kyiv officials reported that in the Sviatoshynskyi and Darnytskyi districts, several multi-story residential buildings were directly hit and partially destroyed. In other parts of Ukraine, such as the city of Zaporizhzhia, 17 people were injured in a strike. According to regional head Ivan Fedorov, multiple homes, buildings, and a nursery were damaged. Fedorov added that in the village of Novopavlivka outside the city, a Russian glide bomb killed one woman and left another person missing. According to President Zelenskyy, one person was killed in Safonivka in the Sumy region, and another was killed in the Chernihiv region. Russia also struck a central Ukrainian city, which is Zelenskyy’s hometown. Three infrastructure sites were damaged there. Air raid sirens sounded throughout the night across the country. Ukraine also launched retaliatory strikes. Russia’s Ministry of Defense said its air defenses intercepted or destroyed 69 Ukrainian drones over several Russian regions. Vyacheslav Gladkov, governor of the Belgorod region, reported on Sunday that at least three civilians were killed and buildings destroyed. Robert Brovdi, commander of Ukraine’s unmanned aerial forces, said Ukrainian drones targeted a major Russian oil pipeline, striking a pumping station in the Bryansk region. Earlier this week, Putin rejected proposals for the deployment of Western forces in Ukraine immediately after any ceasefire. British Prime Minister Keir Starmer condemned Sunday’s strikes, saying they showed that “Putin believes he can act with impunity” and that he is “not serious about peace.” French President Emmanuel Macron said that 26 of Ukraine’s allies have formally pledged to deploy forces by land, sea, or air once the war ends, in order to provide security. He gave no further details. Putin warned that any troops deployed in Ukraine would be considered “legitimate targets.”
By Real contentabout a year ago in Chapters
MY CRUEL LOVE, CHAPTER 3
My Cruel Love That same night, with her mind still reeling from the club owner's words, Maya stood before the towering gates of the Shahriyar estate.. Maya stepped out of the local taxi. and stood before the towering iron gate of the Shahriyar estate. This was the house she was meant to enter as a bride. Instead, she was arriving as something else — a woman bought and delivered. After the wedding, Arman had never brought her here. The ceremony had taken place at her father's modest home. He had uttered the words "I accept" and vanished. Just like that. He went straight back to his upscale flat and left a final warning — if she ever stepped foot in his family home, he'd leave the country and never return. Arman's mother, unwilling to risk losing her only son, had left Maya at her father's doorstep. Maya had been devastated, but she had held herself together. For her father. He was all she had left in this world. Now, standing at the entrance of a home that had once symbolized a dream, she called out to the guard. When he asked who she was, she hesitated. What could she say? After a pause, she finally managed, "Mr. Arman asked me to come. He wants to talk. The guard made a call, and after a brief exchange with the housemaid, the gate opened. Maya walked in. The sight before her was surreal — like something from a movie. A royal-style duplex mansion bathed in warm lights, surrounded by a manicured garden and stone pathways leading in different directions. In the center, a marble fountain sparkled under the night sky. The garden trees were strung with fairy lights, lighting up the night like daylight. For a moment, Maya forgot why she was here. As she neared the main door, the weight of reality returned. Her fingers trembled as she pressed the bell. Inside, Arman sat on a plush sofa in his bedroom, head tilted back, eyes shut, one hand resting on his forehead. His thoughts were a chaotic mess. After leaving the club, he'd gone to his office but couldn't focus. Maya's voice kept echoing in his mind. Her words. her attitude. the way she said she'd moved on. He couldn't believe it. The same woman who had returned his money and handed him divorce papers — was now selling herself? Willingly? He knew she hadn't been with anyone before. The bloodstains on the bed told him everything. And yet, she had lied — claimed she wasn't a virgin. Why? Why would she make herself look cheap in his eyes? Restless and furious, he'd made a call. One call to the club owner, and he'd bought Maya. For a month. She should be arriving any minute now. Arman leaned back, annoyed with himself. Why had he done this? Why had he dragged her back into his life? This wasn't about love anymore. Or was it? He tried to clear his head. He had divorced Maya for one reason: Maisha. His first and only love. The woman who had vanished without a trace. Where was she? Was she even alive? He shook the thought away. No — she had to be alive. He'd find her. One day. A knock broke his chain of thought. "Come in," he said. Ruby, his personal maid, entered. She was in her mid-twenties and took care of everything in the house — cooking, laundry, cleaning. Everything. "Sir, the girl you were expecting has arrived," she said politely. Arman didn't need to ask who. He nodded. "Send her to my room. And if I need anything, I'll call. "Yes, sir. Ruby left, and moments later, another knock came. This time, it was Maya. "Come in," Arman said. She stepped in slowly. Her eyes immediately found him sitting there, calm and cold. Arman didn't look at her. "So. you finally made it. Took your sweet time. Maya gave him a crooked smile. Well, according to my manager, you rented me for a full month, Mr. Arman Shahriyar. I didn't realize my services were that impressive. Because of you, my other clients were disappointed tonight. I had someone else scheduled, actually. Got ready and everything. But when I reached the club, they said I had to come to you. So. here I am. Every word was a calculated jab. Arman stood up, clenching his fists, scanning her from head to toe. "This is what you wore for someone else?" he asked, voice laced with sarcasm. "She was dressed modestly — in ethnic wear, her hair partially covered with a long scarf. "I was going to change at the hotel," she said, stammering slightly. "You can't walk around in a sexy outfit on the street. Arman let out a dry laugh. "So, you're ashamed of the job, but not ashamed to sell yourself? And still have the decency to care about public decency? That's rich. Maya's heart twisted, but she didn't flinch. "Let's just get this over with, shall we? I'd like to finish what I'm here for and leave. Arman's eyes darkened. "You're in such a rush? Fine. Make me dinner. And I want it from you — not a maid. And I don't want a maid touching it. I want you to cook it. With your own hands. Maya blinked, stunned. "I'm sorry — what did you just say? "You heard me," Arman said, stepping closer. "I said cook. Maya frowned. "Do I look like your maid? That's not what I was brought here for. You know exactly why I'm here — and it's not to be your personal chef. Arman leaned in, his voice dangerously soft, brushing past her ear." I've paid for your time. For one month. From now on, you're mine — and mine alone. Your job is to satisfy me. In every way. You'll do exactly as I say. No questions. No attitude. No other men. Got it? Maya stepped back, chilled to her core. "Yes, Yes, you paid for my time—but not to be your servant. We both know what this deal was supposed to be. The rest? That's not in the deal. Arman raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you read the contract before signing? It clearly says — for thirty days, you follow all my instructions. Whether it's cooking, cleaning, or anything else — you do it. Maya's face twisted in confusion. "What contract? I didn't see anything like that. "Really?" he challenged. "Didn't your boss give you a file before you left the club? Didn't he ask you to sign it? And just like that — the memory came crashing back. Before she left the lounge, her manager had stopped her. Handed her a document and said it was just routine paperwork for all employees. Without thinking much, she had signed it. He had also given her a file to deliver to Arman. She quickly reached into her bag and pulled it out. There it was. A legal-looking contract — signed by her. As her eyes scanned the terms, her entire world crumbled. To be continued.
By Story writesabout a year ago in Chapters
MY CRUEL LOVE,CHAPTER 2
My Cruel Love That same night, after Maya agreed to Arman's cruel deal, He kissed her with a brutal hunger, leaving her lips torn. It wasn't passion—it was punishment. A cruel release of the rage he had bottled up inside him. But Maya didn't fight it. She just. took it. Silent. Still. Broken. What followed was primitive, carnal—but completely loveless. Just Arman's fury, unleashed on her like poison, draining what little strength she had left. And still, Maya smiled. She bore it all without flinching, hiding her agony behind a practiced calm. Arman stayed the entire night. Morning. Arman stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp, shirt buttoned, face emotionless. Maya went in next and locked the door. As soon as she turned the tap, the tears began. Hot. Heavy. Endless. Covering her mouth with one hand, she sobbed quietly under the running water. Red and blue bruises lined her skin—proof of Arman's cruelty. Her body ached. But her heart. that hurt more. When she finally emerged, her pain still radiated from her fragile frame. Arman was already dressed, ready to leave. Without a word, he pulled a check from his coat pocket and tossed it at her. "Here," he said, tossing a check without emotion. "For your time. Maya bent down and picked up the check. Not a flicker of shame. Only a bitter smile as she read the amount. She looked up and said softly, "Thank you, sir. I hope the performance was satisfactory—just like any business transaction. Feel free to call again. Arman's jaw clenched. He stormed toward her, grabbed her hair, and yanked her close. She gasped but didn't resist. His eyes burned into hers. "Never," he spat. "Arman Shahriar doesn't sleep with the same woman twice. Feigning mild disappointment, Maya shrugged. "Oh, really? "I suppose I'll just take on someone else. This city never runs out of men with money and egos. Anyway, I have an appointment tonight. Need to shop, dress up, be ready. So if you'll excuse me. Clutching the check, she walked out with a toss of her hair. Arman stood there, stunned. Another appointment tonight? His chest tightened. A wave of unfamiliar rage surged through him. She can sleep with the whole damn city for all I care, he told himself. What is she to me? And with that thought, he walked out. Later. At the hospital. Maya's phone had blown up with missed calls. She rushed in and entered a doctor's cabin. "There you are!" the doctor exclaimed. "We've been calling all night. Why didn't you answer? "I'm so sorry," Maya said, trying to catch her breath. "I was.caught up. How is he? The doctor's face turned somber. "He got worse last night. He kept asking for you. That's why we tried so many times. Maya's heart sank. "How is he now?" she whispered. "He's stable. For now. Chemotherapy has started, but. it's the final stage. We're trying a new treatment, but the odds—frankly—aren't good. Are you sure you want to keep spending so much money? Maya's eyes filled with tears. "What are you saying, doctor? He's my whole world. I can't lose him—not yet. The doctor nodded gently. "Then be strong. We've started the chemo. Please make sure the bills are cleared—the meds are very expensive. "I'll manage," Maya said softly. "Just keep the treatment going." She entered the hospital ward quietly. The man on the bed looked like a shadow of his former self—skin stretched thin over bones, most of his hair gone, breath shallow. Her father. Maya smiled through her heartbreak and sat beside him. When he saw her, his eyes lit up. His frail hand trembled as he reached out to her. "Dad" Maya whispered, taking his hand. "How are you feeling? I spoke to the doctor—he says you'll be up and dancing again soon. Just wait. Ashraf Talukder knew better. He wasn't afraid of dying. He was afraid for her. She was his daughter—his only one. Beautiful. Pure. And alone. He remembered how their families had once planned her marriage with Arman Shahriar, a childhood pact between two old friends. The wedding had happened, but Arman had never accepted her. He'd refused to even take her home. Arman's grandfather had believed Maya was the only woman who could handle him. But after his death, Arman shut her out completely. Back in the ward, Ashraf looked at his daughter and said weakly, "Don't give me false hope, sweet girl. I know what's coming. I'm not afraid of death—I'm afraid for you. This hospital. it's expensive. How are you affording this? "Dad, please." Maya interrupted quickly. "Don't say things like that. You'll recover. The doctor said the treatment's working. He pressed again, "Maya. where's this money coming from? You're not doing anything wrong, are you? Before he could finish, Maya said with a smile, "No, dad. I got a job. A multinational. Took a loan. Everything's legal. I promise. Ashraf frowned slightly, but Maya held his hand tighter. "You know how much I love you, right? I won't let anything happen to you. He stroked her hair gently. As she sat beside him, Maya's heart bled silently. Her mother had died when she was little. Her marriage had shattered. Now her father was the only person she had left. And even he was slipping away. She thought to herself: "I'm sorry, dad. I wish I could tell you the truth. But I can't. To keep you alive, I've crossed lines I never thought I would. I may not recognize myself anymore. But I can't watch you die. Please forgive me. That night. After feeding her father and giving him his medicine, Maya returned home. She popped a painkiller—her body still ached from Arman's cruelty. She forced herself to eat a little, then collapsed into bed, stifling a cry as pain rippled through her. Later, she arrived at the club. The owner called her over immediately. "Maya! Just in time. I sent you an address—check your phone. You've got a new client tonight. She checked. Her eyes widened. "Shahriar Mansion? The owner grinned. "Yep. What Arman told himself was simple: "She's a liar. A player. But I won't let her go that easy—not until I break her mask." So he made the call. Booked her—for a month. Looks like luck's finally on your side, Maya. Maya froze. A whole month. with Arman? She whispered, "Sir. a whole month? Isn't that.too much? He scoffed. "Too much? Girls line up for offers like this! You should be thankful. I've already taken the advance. You're going. Maya nodded silently. She had no choice. The money was too important. I don't know what more fate has in store for me, she thought bitterly. To be continued
By Story writesabout a year ago in Chapters
Mah-e-Muhabat -part=3
Episode=3 Hanam silently followed Rashida to the room, unaware of the reason for her punishment. Her innocent heart was filled with fear, and she felt pain on her cheeks where marks had appeared. Would fate teach her the meaning of "Vani" or would she create a new history?
By Bilal Muhammadabout a year ago in Chapters
The Stranger in Apartment 6B
*Some people enter your life for a reason you don’t understand… until it’s too late.* It was the beginning of winter when Zara moved into the old apartment building on Maple Street. She was starting over—new city, new job, new life. Her past was something she didn’t talk about. She just wanted peace, silence, and a fresh start.The building was quiet, filled with older people and a few young families. Her apartment was 6A, on the sixth floor. Right across the hall was apartment 6B.She never saw who lived there. The door was always shut. The lights were off. No one came or left. Just a small wooden sign hung on the door with a name: "Rehan."
By ArshNaya Writesabout a year ago in Chapters
My cruel love
My Cruel Love I'm buying you—for an entire month. Starting today, for the next thirty days, you'll be mine. Only mine. Your only job will be to please me. You won't even look at another man. Arman Shahriar's voice was low, smooth, and laced with danger—his breath brushing against Maya's ear. A chill ran down her spine. Earlier that evening. In a luxurious private lounge, a group of women stood in a line—each one stunning, dressed to seduce. Laughter echoed faintly in the background, but the tension in the room was palpable. In front of them sat a sharply dressed man, casually lounging on a single sofa. Arman Shahriar. Twenty-eight years old. Cold, charismatic, and devastatingly handsome. With a sculpted physique and dark, unreadable eyes, he was the kind of man women wanted and men feared. But Arman didn't care for emotions. He believed love was a myth—an unnecessary weakness. Power, wealth, fame, control. That's all that mattered. His business partner leaned in with a grin. "These are our club's best performers. For tonight's celebration, take your pick. Consider it a gift to mark the start of our partnership. Arman swirled the wine in his glass, unimpressed. He scanned the line of women, each one hoping—begging—to be chosen. Not one stirred even the faintest spark of interest. He scoffed. "They're all the same. Dull. Recycled. Got anything new? The rejection stung, though none dared protest. The partner chuckled awkwardly. "No worries. I've saved the best for last. The newest recruits—untouched and eager to impress. He snapped his fingers at a guard. "Bring the fresh ones. Five minutes. In another room, a small group of women were being prepped to meet the club's most powerful guest. The air was thick with hairspray and nervous excitement. One name changed the room's energy instantly: Arman Shahriar. Everyone looked thrilled—except for one woman in the corner. Maya froze. Her pulse quickened. She never thought she'd hear that name again—not here. A few minutes later, the new group entered the lounge. Arman sat up straighter as his eyes swept across them—then stopped. There she was. In a deep red gown, standing still and silent, her face unreadable. Maya Akhter. His ex-wife. No one in the room knew. Theirs had been a secret marriage—forced by family, short-lived, and left in silence. The partner beamed. "These girls just joined today. It's their lucky night, starting their career in the company of a man like you. Arman didn't respond. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Maya kept her gaze down, expression blank. But Arman rose, set down his glass, and walked toward her—ignoring every other woman. The room watched, stunned, as he stopped in front of her, took her wrist, and pulled her toward him. With his other hand, he gripped her waist. Maya stumbled slightly, clutching his shirt to steady herself, still refusing to meet his eyes. "I want this one," he said coldly. Gasps echoed behind him. His partner stammered, "Of course, of course! She's brand new. A rare find. Arman didn't respond. His stare remained locked on Maya—intense, unreadable. The girls were dismissed. The room cleared. Alone now, Arman's expression hardened. He tightened his grip. "So, when did you start selling yourself? His words were sharp, meant to cut. And they did. Maya flinched inwardly, but kept her voice steady. She had once loved this man—with everything she had. She'd married him with hope, only to be discarded like nothing. He'd never let her in, never gave her a chance. Just divorce papers and a wad of money she returned without a word. But now, she wouldn't let him see her broken. Her eyes finally met his. Calm. Cold. "I got tired of being poor. Dreams cost money. My husband left me, so I found a way to survive. Arman's jaw tightened. "You? Dreams?" he sneered. "So this is how you chase them? Selling your body to strangers? He leaned in, voice laced with disgust. "You never deserved to be my wife. Maya didn't flinch. Instead, she offered a slow, provocative smile. Her hand trailed around his neck. "Then let's strike a deal," she whispered. "You pay. I perform. No emotions. Just business. I've been waiting for a rich client like you. His eyes flared. "Client? How many? Maya shrugged. "Do you count your conquests, Mr. Shahriar? This is work. I don't keep souvenirs. Fury burned in his eyes. He grabbed her chin roughly. She winced but didn't break. "I thought you had dignity," he growled. "When you returned the money, I felt guilt—like maybe I ruined a good woman's life. But now I see the truth. You're exactly what I always feared. Maya smiled, eyes hollow. "Then I guess we're finally honest with each other. To be continued..
By Story writesabout a year ago in Chapters
Every Day Is Theirs: A Heart’s Tribute to Our Parents Beyond One Day
✍️ By: Umair Ali Shah Yousafzai --- 🌸 Introduction: The Problem with “One Day” In an age where love has been reduced to emojis and celebrations are confined to trending hashtags, it’s become common to see people dedicate just one day a year to their parents — usually in the form of a well-edited photo, a generic social media caption, or a short video clip. "Happy Parents’ Day!" they declare, and with that, consider their duty fulfilled. But can one day capture the essence of lifelong sacrifice? Can a Facebook status outweigh a mother’s sleepless nights? Can an Instagram reel compensate for a father’s decades of toil? The answer — spoken by the heart — is a resounding no. Parents are not a seasonal celebration. They are the soul of our lives. They do not deserve a day; they deserve our every day, our every breath, our every success, our every prayer. --- 🕊️ A Love Beyond Comprehension Parental love is not poetic — it is prophetic. The mother’s womb becomes a sanctuary before we even open our eyes. Her body breaks to give us life. Her nights shatter so our dreams can form. Her meals go cold so ours stay warm. She becomes our shadow, our comfort, our shield. And the father? He becomes the silent mountain who absorbs the storm before it reaches us. He ages behind the curtain so we can grow on stage. His shoes wear thin so ours stay new. His pockets empty so our dreams can fill. His hands become rough while ours remain soft. Such love cannot be compared. It cannot be counted, priced, or postponed. It is as eternal as the sky — silent but all-encompassing. --- 🏠 From Cradle to Grave: They Gave Us Everything The truth is simple and painful: the very people who gave us everything, we give them the least. They carried us when we were weak. They taught us to walk, to speak, to eat. They encouraged our smallest achievements and bore our greatest failures. They forgave our rebellion, our rudeness, our rejection. They kept loving even when we didn’t love back. And what did they ask for in return? Nothing — except a little time. A little respect. A little remembrance. And yet, many of us fail even in that. --- 📅 One Day is Not Enough — It’s Almost Insulting Designating one day for parents is, in many ways, an insult wrapped in sentimentality. It suggests that gratitude can be scheduled, that love can be timed, that sacrifice can be acknowledged only when it's convenient. Do parents love only once a year? Do they support us only on Sundays? Do they pray for us only during exam season? No. Their love is relentless, their loyalty unconditional, their prayers eternal. Then how dare we give them just a day? --- 🕯️ Real-Life Reflections: Forgotten Candles of Our Lives Visit an old age home and you will see forgotten candles flickering dimly, waiting for someone to relight their flames. Mothers who once carried their children now carry loneliness. Fathers who once stood tall now sit silently by windows, hoping someone might knock on the door. "I gave him everything," says one mother, staring into her fading memories. "And now he sends money, but not himself." What do we owe them? Not riches. Not luxury. We owe them presence. We owe them honor. We owe them time. And if we fail to pay that debt in life, we will spend the rest of our lives repaying it in guilt. --- 🌙 The Islamic Perspective: A Duty, Not a Favor In Islam, honoring one's parents is not optional. It is second only to worshipping Allah. The Qur’an places “being good to parents” immediately after “worship none but Allah” (Surah Al-Isra, 17:23). > “And lower to them the wing of humility out of mercy and say: ‘My Lord, have mercy upon them as they brought me up [when I was] small.’” — (Qur’an 17:24) The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said: > “Paradise lies beneath the feet of your mother.” “The pleasure of Allah is in the pleasure of the father.” In a world that celebrates freedom, Islam reminds us: you are never free from the duty of loving and serving your parents. --- 💔 The Western Dilemma: Celebration Without Connection In many modern societies, holidays like "Mother's Day" and "Father's Day" are celebrated with great pomp. But beneath the flowers and fancy cards lies a bitter reality — many parents live alone, neglected. The market profits from emotional neglect. Capitalism sells love, but doesn't practice it. You buy a card, send flowers, click "like" on a photo — and you're done. But love is not a transaction. True love is in changing your schedule to be with your aging parents. True respect is in asking about their health — not for politeness, but from the heart. True honor is in making them feel needed, not obsolete. --- 📖 Stories That Break the Heart A man once left his father at a senior facility, promising to return in two weeks. The weeks turned into months. The father finally said, “I don’t need your money. I need the child who once clung to my finger.” Another story tells of a woman whose son lives abroad. He sends money monthly, but hasn’t visited in five years. She keeps his childhood toys clean, thinking he may come home any day. The question isn’t whether these parents are physically alone. The question is: Why are their children emotionally absent? --- 💡 What Can We Do, Starting Today? Let’s stop thinking in hashtags and start living in actions. Here are real, practical ways to honor your parents — not just once a year, but daily: 1. Call them. Not just when you're free — call them often. 2. Visit them. Your presence matters more than gifts. 3. Sit in silence. Let them feel your calm. 4. Ask their opinions. Make them feel heard, respected, and needed. 5. Pray for them. Every prayer, every day. 6. Serve them. Bring water, massage their feet, feed them with your hands. 7. Share your life. Tell them about your joys and struggles. Let them be part of your world. --- 🌹 To the Fortunate Ones: Don’t Wait Until It’s Too Late If your parents are still alive, know this: you are living in a blessed time. You still have the opportunity to make them smile, to ease their aches, to sit beside them and just… be. Don’t wait for their graves to remember their value. Don’t take their presence for granted. If you must celebrate something, celebrate their hands that held you. Celebrate their words that guided you. Celebrate their love that never expired. 🌿 Closing Prayers: Words from the Heart to the Heavens As we close this column, we do not end with logic or poetry — we end with prayer, because only prayer carries the weight of what parents deserve. > Allah! Bless my mother with health, happiness, and peace. Forgive her mistakes and elevate her status. Place light in her grave, if she is gone, and joy in her heart, if she is alive. > Allah! Grant my father strength and serenity. Forgive him, reward him, and make his sacrifices a means of his success in both worlds. > Allah of the worlds! If I have ever disobeyed or hurt them, forgive me. And if I have ever pleased them, accept it as a seed of paradise. > The Most Merciful Allah! Keep my parents close to me in this life — and reunite me with them under Your shade in the next. Ameen. 🖋️ Final Word: Love is Measured in Time, Not Days Remember: You don’t need a “Parents’ Day” to honor your parents. You need a sincere heart, an open schedule, a little humility — and consistent action. Let us reclaim the lost beauty of honoring parents not with once-a-year posts, but with daily devotion. Let us teach the world that love is not in celebrating one day, but in cherishing every moment. Because in truth — Every day is their day. Every moment is a chance to love. And every breath we take… is because of them.
By Umair Ali Shah about a year ago in Chapters
