This short story by Dr. Samia Altaf was originally published in The Peshawar Review.Â
Samia Altaf is a physician specialising in Integrative Medicine. She is the author of So Much Aid, So Little Development: Stories from Pakistan (2011, 2015, 2025) and of tamasha-e ahley karam: aalami bank ki naakaam imdaad aur Pakistan ka nizaam-e sehat (2025).
Just as we finished breakfast â halwa-poori, cholay and cheese omelette washed down with mango lassi â on a bright Sunday morning, mother announced that from tomorrow, Monday morning â she did new things on Monday mornings â she would not live in the house anymore. She would live in the old jamun tree in the beautiful Bagh-e-Jinnah. There, from its top branches, she could observe the Mall Road, look through the windows of our second-floor lounge and see us as we lounged around, our faces in our phones. And she could hear us too, especially big brother as he did his daily riyaz. She loved the darbari bandish he was working on these days â anokha ladla-aaaa â and didnât want to miss out on.
Why?
She was tired of it all. This life. The government lying, the people dying, on land and in sea; people actually killing each other for praying this way or that; the useless, selfish leaders constantly yelling, only jostling for âkursi.â The begging, the begging, the constant begging for oil, for food, for electricity, water; and no one listening, caring, or paying attention. And the children! Sheâs heartbroken to see girls and boys, unable to read or write, especially the little girls, so tiny, so skinny with their heads covered, scarcely able to breathe. All this suffering, so unnecessary. Sure, life is difficult; as a doctor she had seen people die, authorities lie, and no one pay attention â remember the Covid days? But now it is too much. She was teary as she ate the piping hot puris that the cook placed on her plate. She was so tired, she said, of the need to be so alert all the goddamn time; to pay attention and yet be dragged into a deeper hole. She feels she is on a treadmill that goes faster and faster, its speed controlled by some sadistic demon. She needed âout.â Interrupting the trajectory of her fork, she recited:
What is this life, if full of care.
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
She had decided that instead of standing beneath the boughs, she would live amongst them. Continue reading Mother in the Jamun Tree

