The Last Midnight Miracle: Fiction, #1

By Hina Jaan

"A mother understands what a child does not say." 

 

We all have Mom's who love us a lot and take care of us always, but, sometimes we as a children misunderstand these mothers and their care, we misunderstand them when they try to put positive limits on our negative acts. I am Hina Jaan, an 11 year old girl and a student of class 8th from Jammu & Kashmir and I got lost in the world of imagination and came back with the book "The Last Midnight Miracle". This book is actually a story about a girl "Anih" ( The reciprocal of my name) whose mother hates her a lot and she tries to find the reason of this hatred. To find the reason the girl wents deep into the forests and there she confronts different adventures and miracles and lastly finds the reason of this hatred. This story actually reflects how every child especially girls misunderstand their Mom's but actually what lies in the limits and Anger of their Mom's. 

 

Best of Luck.       

Hina Jaan

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hina Jaan
• Release date: Jul 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201143848

Book preview

1

The Soothing Touch...

At this point, I could not resist the temptation of going outside and enjoying the rain. It was Sunday, so I was at home enjoying the monsoon Sunday rain. I requested my mom to let me go out so that I can enjoy the shower of cool and sparkling diamond shaped drops of rain, but she refused and I held my tongue at once. I was born in Sedona, a small town of America and I was christened as Anih. There was always a mystical talk about me that I was born with my fingers crossed forming the sign of hope.

I THINK THE TALK IS true, because I am always in a hope to find the love which I have lost, the love which no one gives me, but I still keep on finding. My mom is a retired headmistress and she has been always a young angry lady, not for everyone, but only for me. She never even talked with me holding a smiling face, whenever she used to talk with me, she might

sink in deep annoyance with furrows of irritation on her forehead and her pinched nose accompanied with one raised eyebrow and a mouth with the mirror image of smile. Whenever I used to talk her, I looked at her with moist pity eyes, waiting for her faint smile, but all my tricks of trait used to fail every time. I never knew what is the reason hiding behind this hatred which mom carried for me in the sack of her heart. Whenever I went to school I saw every girl looking at their parents, smiling and beckoning their wavy hands with an expectation that their parents will come back with an ice cream in their hands and will take them to their home sweet home. Then I  looked at myself and then at the sky believing that God is looking at me and smiling and I used to say " I know that you have an eye on me, this is my exam and I promise I will answer all the questions and pass all the hurdles with patience and courage.

I am sixteen years old and from last sixteen years my father has been missing, people say, when I was born, my father went to jungles to get the most beautiful flower Tintalia for me. The forests circumjacent to our village was famous for this flower because it grew once in 101 years and it had a magical power that it’s single drop could cure every disease and the one who is fit, gets immense natural power to control all the elements of nature. There has been a prolonged battles between the villages in our surroundings on this flower. My father didn’t wanted the flower with a greed to make me powerful, but he wanted to heal me because before my birth, that doctor had told my parents that I will be a blind child. I don’t think my mom has a heart, because she never smiled, never smiled at my birth. She is like a black diamond, which doesn’t shines, but is too much hard. I think she hates me because for her I am a wretched child as my birth cost my father’s life: but, she never told this to me. We not even slept in the same room.

My home seemed like a prison for me. In the essay competitions of my school, I have never got any position because the topics were always either on mother, father, friend, sister or on home sweet home. I failed because I never had anything to write about it, I never had a friend, a sister, a father, a sweet home, nor I ever had a mother, because her existence was equivalent to a big No for me. One day, when I was asked to write about home sweet home, I got frozen because I had nothing to write about it, I was silent looking at the parent holding the pen so tightly and nervously in my hand that it was at the verge of breaking. The teacher scolded me to write, I didn’t, she shouted, I didn’t, she punished me, I didn’t, because anything I had to write about my home was only a story of suffocation. But honestly, I never wanted the world to know about it because I knew, everything happens for a reason and without finding that reason I will never ever take a step. My mam took me to the principal, the