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Aainay k Us Paar
Syed Shayan Gilani
Daastan Publishing 2025
First Published in Pakistan by Daastan PVT LTD
House # A-41, Madni Street, Lala Rukh, Wah Cantt, Punjab 47040
Text copyrights © Syed Shayan Gilani
Book Design copyright © Anum Ameer
The moral rights of the writer, illustrator, and editor have been asserted.
All rights reserved
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN 978-969-696-995-2
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Dedication
To the voices that found me when I wasn’t looking, slipping into the quiet with stories that needed a home. And to my family, who gave me the strength to carry them and the heart to listen with love. This book holds a piece of all of you.
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About Author
Shah is the literary soul of Dr. Shayan, a seeker who moves between healing and revelation, where the language of the heart meets the silence of the soul. His writing emerges from sacred spaces where the unseen stirs, and the eternal dance of light and shadow unfolds. Rooted in the mystical current of Sufi thought, Shah explores the delicate threads that connect us to each other, to the Divine, and to the quiet truths that dwell just beneath the surface.
In this anthology, he offers fragments of his journey—stories of love, longing, and the gentle revelations that arise when one learns to truly listen. Each piece is both a prayer and a mirror, inviting the reader to look inward and walk with deeper awareness through the unfolding mystery of life.
Outside the world of words, Dr. Shayan is a healer, a devoted student of the soul, and a man grounded in family and faith. Through his writing, he hopes to light the way for those who are ready to hear what lives in silence and remember what is already known within.
Instagram: _shahyar_
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Table of Contents
Dupatta Ki Saye Mein Dard_ 344
*****
Muqaddimah
In these pages, we invite you to witness lives that have long been relegated to the margins, voices too often silenced by society’s relentless rush toward the extraordinary. This anthology does not sugar-coat despair or cloak hardship in euphemism. Instead, it lays bare the raw, unfiltered truth of existence on the fringes: the silent struggles, the quiet defiance, and the understated dignity of those who live in the shadows of neglect.
Each narrative here is a candid confession, a testament to the indomitable spirit that persists amid systemic indifference. These stories are not merely accounts of survival but clarion calls urging us to confront the uncomfortable realities of inequality and exclusion. They remind us that behind every whispered plea and every furtive glance lies a humanity that refuses to be erased and demands recognition, compassion, and transformative action.
Let this anthology serve as both a mirror and a challenge: a mirror reflecting our collective complicity and a challenge to reimagine a world where every life is valued. Step into these stories without pretense, with the resolve to listen, learn, and act. The truth unfolds here, unadorned and unyielding, a truth that is as necessary as it is unvarnished.
****
Insaniyat ki Bheek
Ruksana had always watched her mother from the corners of her memory, an ethereal figure who moved through the streets of Lahore with a quiet desperation. As a child, she stood at the edge of their small home, peering out with wide, innocent eyes that reflected both wonder and a hint of longing. Her mother, a beggar, had taught her the unspoken rules of survival, yet Ruksana had always believed she was different. The hope that she might escape this life clung to her like a stubborn shadow, even as reality crept closer.
The first time she stepped out to beg, it was as if the world had split open beneath her feet. She was only eight years old, her small frame trembling as she approached the traffic signal near Shaikh Zayed Hospital. The sun bore down mercilessly, and the vibrant chaos of the city swirled around her like a storm. Ruksana felt a flutter of hope mixed with fear as if her fate was still undecided, still negotiable.
“Ammi, kyun keh rahi ho ke mujhe yahan khada hona chahiye?” she had asked, clutching the tattered dupatta that had once belonged to her mother, her voice barely audible over the noise of the street.
“Yahan log zyada paise dete hain,” her mother replied, her voice flat, devoid of warmth. The indifference in her words stung, though Ruksana didn’t fully understand why. “Bas kehna Allah ke naam pe dedo. Log sunte hain.”
She wanted to believe the lie that money would bring her something better. Standing at the corner, her heart pounding, she watched the cars whiz by. Her palms were sweaty, and her mouth was dry. The first car, a shiny black SUV, came to a halt. She hesitated, unsure how to begin, her small hand trembling as she gently knocked on the window.
“Allah ke naam pe dedo,” she whispered, barely rising above the cacophony of honks and shouts.
The man inside glanced at her briefly, then quickly looked away. The light turned green as he sped off, leaving her standing there, her hand still raised, her voice silenced. The rejection felt like a physical blow. The world around her seemed to move on without her notice, indifferent and distant. It was as if she had become invisible.
Days turned into weeks, and as Ruksana’s innocence crumbled, the city’s jeers and taunts became her constant companion. “Faltu insaan, kuch kaam kaaj karo, apni izzat pyari nahi hai?” someone shouted once, their laughter ringing in her ears, searing through her skin. Every insult was like a whip, lashing at the fragile girl inside her, stripping away her childhood layer by layer. She no longer felt like the little girl who had watched her mother from the shadows; now, she was the shadow.
“Ammi, kyun log aisa keh rahe hain?” she would ask in the evenings, her voice small and cracked, weighed down by the burden of words too heavy for her young heart.
“Waisa hi hota hai, beta. Is duniya mein koi nahi sochta,” her mother would reply, her eyes dull and lifeless, like broken glass. “Tu seekh ja. Bas bheek maangte rehna.”
Once comforting in their predictability, her mother’s words began to feel like shackles. Ruksana learned to smile through the humiliation, to weave her pleas into the symphony of noise that filled the streets. She became adept at reading the faces of the people who passed her by, the fleeting sympathy in a mother’s eyes, the disdain in a businessman’s glare, the apathy of teenagers absorbed in their world. She no longer hoped for kindness; instead, she learned to exploit it, lying through her teeth with tales that twisted her pain into currency.
“Ammi beemar hai,” she would say, her voice trembling with practised desperation. “Bahut beemar hai. Kuch madad kardein, Allah apko ajar dega.”
The lies tasted bitter on her tongue, but they were necessary. They kept her and her mother alive, if barely. But with each coin that clinked into her hand, a piece of Ruksana’s soul crumbled, lost forever to the relentless grind of survival.
By the time she was twelve, her wide eyes had dulled into a lifeless grey, mirroring the grime of the streets she inhabited. They no longer sparkled with curiosity; instead, they had become void of hope, reflecting the indifference of a city that had forgotten her. She learned to move through the world with a practised numbness, her heart hardened by rejection and neglect. She no longer flinched at the cruel words thrown her way and cared when people crossed the street to avoid her. She had become part of the background, just another beggar girl blending into the dirt and noise of Lahore.
But it wasn’t just the harsh words that made her feel unsafe; it was the eyes, the eyes of men who lingered too long, their gaze heavy and predatory, making her skin crawl. She was still a child, but the world had already begun to strip that from her.
“Kya chahiye, choti?” a man in a white car had asked one evening, his smile unsettling as he leaned out of the window, his gaze lingering on her too long. “Thodi si madad kar doon? Tum mujhe khush karo main tumhe khush karta hoon”.
Ruksana felt a jolt of fear. She had seen that look on other men’s faces, directed at older girls who stood by the traffic signal, girls who had disappeared. Her heart raced, and her mouth went dry as she shook her head.
“Mujhe kuch nahi chahiye,” she replied, stepping back. But the man didn’t leave. He leaned closer, his smile widening, and for a moment, Ruksana wondered if she would ever feel safe again.
“Tumhari madad kar sakta hoon,” the man persisted, his tone soft, almost coaxing. He reached out as if to touch her, and Ruksana flinched, stepping back further, her pulse pounding in her ears.
“Main yahan sirf bheek maangne aayi hoon,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She felt like a cornered animal, trapped between the man’s gaze and the indifferent city surrounding her.
Finally, the light turned green, and the man’s car sped off, leaving Ruksana with fear and disgust. But even as the car disappeared into the distance, the feeling of being watched and hunting clung to her like a second skin. The city was no longer just indifferent; it was dangerous, and she was alone.
By sixteen, Ruksana had become a ghost in the city’s bustling streets. She wandered through life, invisible to the world around her, a mere shadow of the girl she had once been. The sun bore down mercilessly, and the traffic whizzed by, but none of it mattered. She had become numb to the heat, to the noise, to the pain. Her life was a continuous blur of days spent begging, her voice growing weaker with each passing year.
She no longer cared about the looks of pity or disgust thrown her way. The men who leered at her, the mothers who clutched their children tighter as they passed, none of it touched her anymore. She had built walls around herself, thick and impenetrable, so high that even she could no longer see over them.
One scorching afternoon at Barkat Market, Ruksana found herself crouched by the roadside, watching the world pass by. She had been begging since dawn, but the day had yielded little more than a few coins. She was hungry, her stomach growling in protest, but there was no food, no hope.
As the sun blazed above, casting long shadows across the bustling market, Ruksana crouched in the dust, her body folded into itself as if trying to disappear. She watched the world pass her by in an endless stream of people with purpose, with places to be and live to live, their laughter and chatter blending into dull hum in her ears. She felt invisible, a ghost in a world that had long stopped caring whether she existed.
She watched as three doctors in pristine white coats sat in an air-conditioned car parked just across from where she begged. They laughed, passing around food wrapped in crisp paper, their smiles glowing with ease and comfort. The contrast between their world and hers stung, not in a sharp, immediate way, but in the dull, aching way of a wound left untreated for too long.
“Yeh log kitne khush hain,” she thought bitterly, her throat tightening as she swallowed down the lump of resentment that had grown over the years. Why did they get to be so comfortable? So secure in their lives?
She tried to remember the last time she had laughed like that, the last time her stomach had been full, but the memory eluded her, slipping away like water through her fingers. It had been too long.
Her gaze shifted to a small, murky, debris-filled puddle of stagnant water by her feet. She leaned closer, drawn to the faint reflection staring back at her. For a moment, she didn’t recognise the face that looked up from the puddle of dirt, the hollowed cheeks, the sunken eyes devoid of light.
The eyes were the worst. They used to be full of wonder and curiosity, bright with the dreams of a little girl who had once believed in a better future. Now, they were empty and cold, as if the soul behind them had long departed, leaving only a shell in its place. Trembling her fingers, she reached up and traced the outline of her face in the reflection.
The beggar girl staring back at her was a stranger.
A tear slipped down her cheek, but Ruksana didn’t bother to wipe it away. What difference did it make? She had cried so much over the years that her tears had lost their meaning, just like her life had lost its purpose. I am nothing. The words echoed in her mind, cold and final, as if her soul had finally accepted what her body had known for years.
“Main sirf ek bhikhari hoon,” she whispered, barely audible. That’s all I am now. That’s all I’ll ever be.
The realisation felt like a lead weight in her chest, pressing down on her heart until it was hard to breathe. The last flicker of hope she had clung to for so long had finally been snuffed out, leaving only emptiness behind. She thought back to her mother, the days she had watched her from the shadows, wide-eyed and curious, believing she would somehow escape this life. But now, standing at the same traffic light, begging the same indifferent city for mercy, she understood.
Her mother had never escaped. And neither would she.
As the day wore on and the sun began to sink below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and purple, Ruksana remained crouched by the roadside, watching as the last of the market’s vendors packed up and headed home. The doctors in the car had long since driven off, leaving only the memory of their laughter to haunt her.
This is all there is. The thought settled deep in her bones, as heavy as the air that hung thick with dust and the smell of the city. No salvation or miracle would lift her out of the gutter. She was destined to live and die here, on these streets, just as her mother had.
“Ammi theek kehti thi,” she murmured to herself, her voice hollow, “is duniya mein koi humari parwaah nahi karta.”
As she sat there, a silent sentinel at the world's edge, she knew that her story, like her mother's, would fade into the shadows, unnoticed and unloved, forever lost in the darkness of survival.
****
Majboori Ka Libaas
Riaz stood at the edge of the fields in Layyah, watching as the setting sunbathed the barren land in a soft, golden glow. Once calloused from years of working alongside his father, his hands now rested limply at his sides. There was nothing left for them to do here. Once prosperous and promising, the soil had long since turned to dust. The drought had swallowed everything: his family’s crops, hopes, and future.
“Riaz, beta, it’s time,” his mother called softly from behind him, her voice filled with a quiet desperation that he couldn’t bear to face.
He turned, looking at her frail figure framed by the fading light. Her once vibrant eyes had dimmed over the years, her face lined with worry and exhaustion. She had aged beyond her years, weighed down by the endless struggles of keeping their family afloat. He hated how she looked at him now as if he were the last lifeline she had left to grasp.
He nodded, unable to find words, and walked toward the small muddy house that had been their home for generations. Inside, his father sat silently on a worn chair, his head bowed as he twisted the beads of a tasbih between his fingers. The silence in the room was suffocating.
“We don’t have much to send you with,” his father said, his voice rough from years of shouting across fields that had long since stopped answering. “But this… this is all we have.”
He handed Riaz a small bundle wrapped in faded cloth. Inside, he found a few hundred rupees and a crumpled family photograph. His mother insisted on adding the picture, saying it would remind him of home and why he had to succeed.
Riaz took the bundle and slipped it into his worn satchel. It seemed far heavier than it was.
“I will look after your mother, you go to the city and earn money,” his father said, not looking up. “And don’t forget us.”
His mother stepped forward, her hands trembling as she adjusted the collar of his shalwar kameez. “Do something, Riaz. We’re drowning.”
Her words echoed in his mind as he boarded the bus to Lahore later that evening. The vehicle was packed with men like him, faces etched with the same desperation and flickering hope that the city would offer salvation. He sat by the window, staring at the vast stretches of barren land that stretched endlessly before him, wondering if the town would be any different.
The bus rattled down the road, its engine groaning under the weight of the passengers and their collective dreams. The man beside Riaz, an older gentleman with a white beard and tired eyes, started a conversation.
“First time going to Lahore?” the man asked, his voice carrying the wisdom of someone who had seen too much.
Riaz nodded, unsure if he wanted to engage. “Yes.”
The man chuckled softly. “It’s a tough city. It chews you up if you’re not careful. But for some, it’s the only choice.”
Riaz felt a lump rise in his throat. He didn’t want to hear this. He wanted to believe that he would be different, that his story would be one of success, not failure. But as the man continued to speak of missed opportunities and lost hope, the reality of what lay ahead began to sink in.
By the time the bus reached Lahore, the sun had long since set. The city, bathed in artificial light, stretched a sprawling mass of concrete and chaos before them. Riaz stepped off the bus, clutching his satchel tightly, his heart pounding. This was his new life.
He had a distant cousin in Lahore who had promised to help him find a place to stay. After a few phone calls and awkward introductions, Riaz stood in front of the building in the city's heart. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
The room he was to share was barely more than a box, with cracked walls and a single window that let in little more than noise from the street below. Ten other men lived there, all crammed together on the floor, each with his thin mattress spread out in the small space. There was no privacy, no escape from the suffocating heat, but Riaz told himself it didn’t matter. This was temporary.
The men greeted him with tired nods, too exhausted from their struggles to offer more than a few words of advice. “Get up early,” one muttered as he lay down for the night. “If you’re not first at the contractor sites, you won’t get picked.”
Riaz nodded, though he barely understood. His mind was a whirlwind of uncertainty. As he lay down on his borrowed mattress, he stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. His mother’s voice echoed in his ears. “Do something, Riaz. We’re drowning.”
The days passed in a blur of early mornings and endless waiting. Riaz would rise before dawn, joining the throngs of men who gathered at the labour contractor sites, hoping to be picked for a day’s work. But each day, he returned empty-handed. There were too many men and too few jobs.
The money his family had given him dwindled quickly. He barely had enough to eat, let alone send anything back home. Letters from his father arrived regularly, each one more desperate than the last. His mother’s health was failing, the bills were piling up, and the land they had managed to hold onto was in danger of being sold.
Riaz felt the walls closing in on him. He had come to Lahore with dreams of saving his family, but the city had shown him no mercy. He was just another nameless face among thousands struggling to survive.
One evening, after another day of fruitless waiting, Riaz returned to the cramped room he shared with the other men. As he stepped inside, he noticed that one of his roommates, Akram, had returned after being gone for several days.
Akram was a quiet man, often keeping to himself, but tonight, there was something different about him. He sat in the corner, counting a wad of cash.
Riaz’s stomach clenched. “How did you get that?” he asked, unable to hide the envy in his voice.
Akram looked up, his expression unreadable. “I made it. That’s all you need to know.”
Riaz frowned but didn’t press further. He was too exhausted, too defeated to care. But as the days passed, and Akram continued to return with money, Riaz couldn’t help but wonder. How was he doing it?
One night, unable to bear curiosity any longer, Riaz approached him. “Tell me”, he said, his voice low and urgent. “How are you making money?”
Akram hesitated, glancing around the room to ensure no one else was listening. Then, he leaned in close and whispered, “I beg.”
Riaz recoiled in shock. “Begging? That’s how you’re making money?”
Akram shook his head. “Not just begging. I dress up as a hijra. People give more when they think you’re… one of them.”
Riaz’s mind reeled. A hijra? He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Akram, the quiet, reserved man with whom he had shared a room for weeks, was pretending to be a hijra to beg for money.
“That’s not… That’s not something a man does,” Riaz stammered, his voice thick with disgust.
Akram shrugged. “You do what you have to do to survive.”
Riaz walked away, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe it. Akram had given up his dignity and manhood for a few coins and bills. Riaz vowed he would never stoop so low.
But then the letter came.
His mother was dying. The doctors had said she needed expensive medicine that they couldn’t afford. If Riaz didn’t send money soon, she wouldn’t make it.
Panic gripped him. He had no money, prospects, or way of helping his family. Desperation clawed at him, threatening to swallow him whole. He thought about Akram’s words, about the money he had seen in his hands.
No. He couldn’t do it. He was a man. He had his pride.
But as the days dragged on and his mother’s condition worsened, Riaz found himself outside the alley where Akram had taken him. In his hand was a bright, garish dupatta, and in his chest was a heart hollowed out by desperation.
He draped the fabric over his head, feeling its weight settle on his shoulders like a shroud. He didn’t recognise the man staring back at him from the cracked mirror. This wasn’t Riaz. This was someone else who had given up everything he believed in for survival.
But he had no choice. He had to do this for his mother.
The streets were crowded with people, their faces blurring together as Riaz walked among them, his heart pounding. He felt their eyes on him, their judgment, their pity. But a strange numbness washed over him when the first coin dropped into his outstretched hand. He wasn’t Riaz anymore. He was just another figure in the crowd, begging for survival.
By the end of the day, his pockets were full.
When Riaz returned to his room that night, he sat on his mattress, staring at the money in his hands. It didn’t feel real. He had done it. He had made enough to send home. But it didn’t feel like a victory. Each coin seemed to weigh more than it should, heavy with the shame and guilt that now coursed through his veins. He had become something he never thought he would be, and it was tearing him apart from the inside.
Akram glanced at him from across the room, noticing the bundle of cash in Riaz’s hands. “I told you,” he said softly, almost apologetically. “This city doesn’t care who you are. It only cares about what you’ll do to survive.”
Riaz didn’t reply. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight, his mind too full of noise. He wanted to scream and shout to break something, but nothing was left to break, not even himself. He had already shattered.
The next day, Riaz stood outside the post office, staring at the envelope in his hands. Inside were the rupees he had earned, enough to pay for his mother’s medicine. He should have felt relief, even pride. He had done what needed to be done. He had saved his family.
But all he could feel was the weight of the dupatta still folded in his pocket, a reminder of the price he had paid.
He slipped the envelope through the slot and turned away, his stomach churning. His hands trembled as he walked back through the crowded streets, his eyes unfocused. The city, with all its noise and chaos, felt distant now. It was as if he were walking through a fog, disconnected from everything around him.
When he returned to the rented room, Akram sat on the floor, counting another day’s earnings. “You did it,” Akram said, glancing up with a small, knowing smile. “You helped your family.”
Riaz nodded, but the words caught in his throat. “But what have I become?” he whispered, more to himself than to Akram.
Akram sighed, his eyes darkening. “We all lose something here, Riaz. Do you think I wanted this? Do you think any of us did? But when your family is starving, the only thing standing between life and death is your pride... You learn to let it go.”
Riaz collapsed onto his mattress, the thin fabric doing little to cushion the weight of his exhaustion. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was his mother’s face, her frail body curled up on the charpoy, her lips cracked and dry, her eyes pleading for him to save her. He had done that, hadn’t he? He had saved her.
But the man who had left Layyah wasn’t the one who had sent that money home. That man had been left behind somewhere in the crowded streets of Lahore, buried beneath layers of shame, guilt, and survival.
As weeks passed, Riaz continued to dress as a hijra, slipping into the role more quickly than he cared to admit. The shame that had once gnawed at him had dulled, replaced by a cold acceptance. He no longer flinched when people tossed coins at him or spat at his feet. He no longer felt the sting of their words.
Each day, he would stand in the same corner, his outstretched hands as empty as his heart. He had learned to mimic the exaggerated gestures of the hijras, clapping his hands together and blessing the people who passed by, their faces a blur of indifference.
But there were fleeting, painful moments when Riaz would catch his reflection in a shop window or a puddle on the street, and for a brief second, he would see himself again. The man he had once been, standing in the fields of Layyah, his hands rough with the honest work of a farmer’s son. The image would shift, distorted by the garish colours of the dupatta draped over his head, and the hollow eyes staring back at him would remind him of who he had become.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the streets, Riaz found himself at a familiar corner. A car pulled up, its windows rolled down just enough for him to see the occupants, three young men, and doctors by the look of their crisp white coats and expensive watches. They were laughing, eating from takeaway containers, oblivious to the world outside their air-conditioned bubble.
Riaz’s stomach twisted with envy and resentment. These men had everything: status, wealth, and respect. They had never known hunger and never had to sacrifice their dignity for survival. They were everything Riaz had wanted to be, everything he had lost.
As they laughed and joked, one glanced at Riaz and tossed a few coins out the window, barely looking at him. The coins clinked against the pavement, rolling to a stop at his feet.
Riaz stared at them, his fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to scream at them, telling them he wasn’t what they thought he was. He wasn’t a beggar, a hijra, a nobody. He was Riaz. He was a man.
But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he bent down and picked up the coins, his heart heavy with the weight of his silence.
As the car drove away, Riaz stood there, staring at his reflection in a puddle on the street. The water was murky, distorted by the city’s oil and grime, but he could still see himself, his face gaunt, his eyes hollow, his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of the dupatta.
The man who had left Layyah was gone. All that remained was a shell, a ghost of whom he had once been.
Months passed, and Riaz sent money home to keep his family afloat. His mother’s health improved, and the debt slowly chipped away. His father’s letters became less desperate and more hopeful.
But with each passing day, Riaz felt himself slipping further away from the person he had been. The city had swallowed him whole, and he wasn’t sure anything was left to save.
One evening, as he sat in the rented room, counting the day’s earnings, a letter arrived from Layyah. It was from his mother.
“Riaz, beta,” it began, her familiar handwriting shaky but clear. “Your father tells me you’ve been sending us money, and for that, I am grateful. But I know you, my son. I know something is wrong. I can feel it in my heart. Come home, Riaz. We don’t need the money anymore. We need you.”
The words blurred before his eyes as tears grew unbidden and uncontrollable. He hadn’t cried in months, not since he had first draped the dupatta over his head. But now, the dam had broken, and he was drowning in the flood of emotions he had tried to suppress.
He wiped his eyes, folded the letter carefully, and placed it in his satchel alongside the crumpled photograph of his family. The picture was worn now; the edges frayed from being handled too many times. But as he looked at it, he felt a warmth he hadn’t felt in months, a faint, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, he could still find his way back.
The following day, Riaz packed his belongings and left the rented room. As he walked through the crowded streets of Lahore one last time, he felt a strange sense of detachment, as if he were a ghost passing through a world that no longer belonged to him.
He boarded the bus to Layyah, the same bus he had taken months ago, but everything was different now. The man who had left Layyah full of hope and determination was not the man returning.
As the bus rattled down the road, Riaz stared out at the barren fields, his heart heavy with the weight of all he had lost. But for the first time in a long time, there was a tiny spark of something else he hadn’t felt in months.
Maybe it was hope. It could be something more. He wasn’t sure. But as the bus pulled into Layyah, and he saw the familiar fields stretching out before him, Riaz knew one thing for sure:
He was going home.
Riaz stepped off the bus and felt the familiar heat of Layyah wash over him, wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. The scent of the dry and sunbaked soil was sharp in his nostrils, and for a moment, he simply stood there, taking it all in. He had dreamed of this moment countless times while trapped in the chaos of Lahore, but now that he was here, it felt surreal, like he was watching it all unfold from a distance, still removed from the man he used to be.
He walked down the dirt path to his home, his feet dragging with every step. He imagined his mother waiting for him, sitting on the charpoy under the neem tree like she always did, a thin shawl draped over her shoulders. Her frail body was a testament to the years of hardship she had endured. He imagined her voice calling his name, the warmth of her embrace, and the comfort of knowing he was no longer alone in the world.
But as he neared the small mud house, he hesitated, his heart pounding. What would they say when they saw him? What would they think of the man he had become? Would they see through the mask he had worn for so long, the façade of strength and resolve, and recognise the broken man beneath?
The door to the house creaked open, and there she was, his mother, standing in the doorway, her eyes squinting against the sunlight as she tried to make out his figure. Her face lit up with recognition, and she let out a soft cry of joy, her arms outstretched toward him.
“Riaz, beta!” she called, her voice trembling with emotion.
Without thinking, Riaz dropped his satchel and rushed toward her, falling into her arms. She held him tightly, her frail body shaking with the effort, but she didn’t let go. For the first time in months, Riaz allowed himself to let go. He buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of her skin, and sobbed. The weight of everything he had been carrying, the shame, the guilt, the fear, poured out of him, and in his mother’s arms, he felt, for the briefest of moments, that it was okay.
When he finally pulled away, his mother cupped his face, eyes scanning his features. She looked older, more fragile than he remembered, but her eyes still held the same fierce love that had always been there.
“You’ve lost weight,” she murmured, her brow furrowing with concern. “You’ve been working too hard.”
Riaz forced a smile. “It’s been a long few months, Ammi.”
His mother nodded as if she understood more than he could ever put into words. She didn’t press him for details or ask the questions that had been swirling in her mind since he’d left. She just took his hand and led him inside, her grip gentle but firm.
The house was small and simple but filled with the warmth of home, as he remembered it. His father sat on a stool in the corner, his back bent with age and the weight of years spent toiling in the fields. When he saw Riaz, his weathered face broke into a wide smile.
“Riaz!” he exclaimed, struggling to stand up. “You’re back!”
Riaz went to him, kneeling by his side and taking his hand. “I’m back, Abba.”
His father patted his shoulder, his eyes misty with emotion. “You’ve done well, my son. You’ve taken care of your family, just like you promised.”
The words cut through Riaz like a knife, sharp and painful. He had taken care of them, yes, but at what cost? What would they think if they knew the truth? If they knew what he had done to send that money home?
That night, as they sat together eating a simple meal of daal and roti, Riaz felt the familiar sense of comfort only home could provide. His mother fussed over him, ensuring he had enough to eat, while his father talked about the crops and the village news. It was as if nothing had changed, as if the months he had spent in Lahore were nothing more than a bad dream.
But as the night wore on and the house grew quiet, Riaz found himself lying awake, staring at the starry sky. Layyah’s silence was different from Lahore’s constant noise in that silence; his thoughts were louder than ever.
He couldn’t escape the memories of Lahore, the streets, the people, and the dupatta he had worn like a mask. It had all felt so far away when he had first arrived, but now it was creeping back into his mind, refusing to let him rest.
His mother’s words echoed in his head. “We don’t need the money anymore. We need you.”
What did that even mean? He had given them everything he could: his time, energy, and pride. But the man who had returned to Layyah wasn’t the same son who had left. He had become something else; he wasn’t sure they would understand.
And yet, as he lay there in the dark, listening to the soft sound of his mother’s breathing in the next room, he realised that maybe it didn’t matter. Perhaps it wasn’t about who he had been or what he had done. Maybe it was about who he could be now, in this moment, with his family by his side.
Over the next few days, Riaz settled back into life in the village. He helped his father in the fields, repairing fences, tending to the crops, and doing everything he had done before. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, that a part of him had been left behind in the city.
The villagers were kind, welcoming him back as if he had never left, but Riaz could see the questions in their eyes, the curiosity about what he had been doing in Lahore. As he passed, he heard the whispers and speculations about how he had made his money, but no one dared ask him directly.
One evening, as he sat by the well, staring at the fields, his father joined him. They sat in comfortable silence for a while before his father spoke.
“You’ve been quiet since you came back,” he said, his voice gentle.
Riaz sighed, running a hand through his hair. “There’s a lot on my mind, Abba.”
His father nodded as if he understood. “Lahore can change a man. It’s not like Layyah. It’s a different world.”
Riaz didn’t respond. His father was right, Lahore had changed him. But it wasn’t the city that had done it. It was what he had done in the town, the choices he had made of desperation.
After a long pause, Riaz finally spoke. “Abba… there are things I did in Lahore. Things I’m not proud of.”
His father turned to look at him, his eyes filled with concern. “What do you mean, beta?”
Riaz swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to tell his father the truth, to unburden himself of the shame he had been carrying for so long. But the words wouldn’t come. How could he tell his father he had dressed as a hijra and begged in the streets to survive? How could he make him understand?
“I did what I had to do,” Riaz said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
His father reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “We all do what we must do, Riaz. Life isn’t easy, especially for people like us. But what matters is that you’re here now. You’re home.”
Riaz looked into his father’s eyes, searching for judgment, for disappointment. All he saw was love and understanding.
At that moment, Riaz realised that maybe it didn’t matter what he had done in Lahore. Maybe his father was right; what mattered was that he had come home. He had survived.
As they watched the sunset, Riaz felt a strange sense of peace. It wasn’t the peace of absolution but the peace that comes with acceptance that life was far more complicated than he had ever imagined and couldn’t undo the past. He had made his choices, and they had brought him back to this moment, to the people who loved him despite it all.
Over the next few weeks, Riaz settled into a new routine. He worked in the fields with his father, helped his mother with chores, and slowly began reconnecting with the life he had left behind. There were still moments when the memories of Lahore would haunt him, but with each passing day, they seemed to lose their grip on him. The villagers stopped whispering, and life in Layyah, with its predictable rhythms and quiet beauty, started to feel normal again.
Yet, there was still a part of Riaz that felt incomplete. Every night, as he lay in bed, the same thought gnawed at him: Had he returned as the same man who had left? Or had Lahore changed him in a way that could never be undone?
****
RKB: Meri Pehchaan
Azaan sat in the studio, the brilliant lights contrasting starkly with the deep shadows of his past. The host’s gentle, encouraging smile reminded him that today was not about dwelling on pain alone but showing that even the deepest wounds could give way to hope. This interview was his chance to share a story that was as much about redemption as it was about survival, a story of a business born from childhood trauma and relentless loss that would ultimately redefine dignity for those who had long been forgotten.
“Jab main ne faisla kiya ke mujhe kuch karna hai, to sabse pehle mujhe ek aisi jagah chahiye thi jahan log khush hote hain. Maine apne dil se socha, agar khana unhein khush kar sakta hai, to mere liye bhi yeh ek naya aaghaz ho sakta hai,” Azaan began, his voice firm and measured as he recalled the spark of determination that had ignited his journey. His words had a quiet power, a belief that joy, however fleeting, could be recreated and shared even amid despair.
He paused momentarily, collecting memories of a past as bitter as it was formative. “Lekin sab kuch aasaan nahi tha. Paise chahiye the, aur mere paas kuch bhi nahi tha.” Those words carried the weight of countless nights spent wondering if survival was even possible. In those early days, every rupee counted, and every decision was a leap of faith into an uncertain future. “Mujhe ek dost se madad maangni padi. Usne paisa diya, lekin usne saath hi kaha, ‘Yaar, yeh paisa meri zindagi ki jama poonji hai, is se kuch achha kar.’” Even then, Azaan understood that even the slightest support came with an unspoken expectation, a reminder that nothing was ever given freely, and every resource had to be transformed into something more significant.
He went on to describe those first tentative steps. “Tab mujhe samajh aaya ke agar mujhe yeh karna hai, toh har choti baat ka khayal rakhna hoga. Main soch raha tha ke ek chota sa café kholna hai, jahan main sab kuch khud sambhal sakun, kyunki us waqt bharosa kisi par nahi kar sakta tha.” Every detail mattered then: selecting a modest location, carefully purchasing a few chairs, and creating a space where hope could somehow be kindled over a simple meal.
Azaan recalled how he had chosen his location, which was nothing grand, just a tiny rooftop space that overlooked a busy street. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was accessible. “Meri mehnat ka raaz yeh tha ke main sirf khana nahi bechta tha; main apna dil bechta tha,” he explained, his eyes alight with the memory of countless hours spent perfecting recipes that carried the taste of home and healing. “Jab log mere haath ka bana khana khate, unhein meri maa ke pyaar ka ziaqa ata tha. Woh khushi, jo kabhi unke chehron par chamakti thi, ab mere dard ka hissa ban gayi.” Every plate served was an offering, a small token of love to soothe wounds that ran more profound than the eye could see.
Yet, it wasn’t just about the food. In those long, uncertain days, Azaan’s struggle was interwoven with his internal battles. He would sit for hours after closing, re-reading old letters and photographs of his childhood, when laughter was still possible, even in fragments. The memories of his mother, whose love had been the guiding force of his life, were both a comfort and a curse. “Lekin sabse pehle maine us dard ko mehsoos kiya meri maa ka dard,” he recalled, his voice catching at the mention. “Ek din, jab main dekh raha tha ke kuch logon ne usko uske haq se mehroom kar diya, mujhe yaad dilaya gaya ke woh apni zindagi ke liye kis qeemat par lad rahi thi. Main baar-baar sochta raha, ‘Kyun humein hamesha yun hi tod diya jata hai?’”
That question echoed in the silent hours of the night, when the only sound was the clatter of dishes and his racing heartbeat. In these moments, the café wasn’t just a business but an altar where grief met determination. Every ingredient and spice was imbued with his yearning for a better world where dignity wasn’t a luxury reserved for the few.
Wiping away a solitary tear, he recounted the turning point that had forever altered the course of his life. “Us din ke baad maine vada kiya, ‘Main kuch kar ke dikhauunga.’” The vow was made in the darkness of despair, yet it burned brighter than any hope he’d known before. He began with a humble stall, a cramped, dimly lit corner where only a handful of loyal friends gathered to share a meal and, more importantly, a dream. “Har roz, main sabziyon ko kat kar unhein zindagi deta, apne dard ko ummeed mein tabdeel karta. Shuruat mein, bas kuch dost hi aate the, lekin phir un logon ki sunayi hui kahaniyan aur us khaas khane ki mehak ne dheere-dheere logon ko apni taraf kheencha.”
As weeks turned into months, the modest stall began to evolve. The once empty chairs slowly filled with customers, each drawn by the comforting aroma of freshly prepared food and the warmth that radiated from Azaan’s smile. But amid this growing success, the sorrow of his past remained a constant companion, a reminder of the price he had paid and the promise he had yet to fulfill.
Azaan then recounted a particularly defining period that seemed to last an eternity and a fleeting moment. “Mujhe khushi hoti thi jab log khush hote, lekin maa ka dard hamesha mere saath rehta tha. Us din, jab unki zindagi mein ek lambi bimari ka pata chala, sab kuch badal gaya. Main ne khud se wada kiya, ‘Main apni maa ko wapas jeene ka mauka dunga, unhein woh izzat dunga jo unhein milni chahiye thi.’”
During these months, the weight of responsibility began to press upon him. Not only was he responsible for keeping his small enterprise afloat, but he also felt a deep obligation to honor the memory of his mother, a woman whose sacrifices had shaped his very being. In the middle of the struggle, he immersed himself in every aspect of the business. He spent long days negotiating with suppliers, fine-tuning recipes, and even designing a humble décor for the café that would remind every visitor of the value of resilience. Each table was meticulously arranged with a small, handwritten note that read, “Aaj se, hum sab ek nayi zindagi shuru karte hain.” Though small, these subtle details slowly transformed the café into a sanctuary of hope.
In this phase, Azaan began encountering individuals who, like him, had known loss too well. One rainy afternoon, as the city streets overflowed with water and people sought refuge under awnings, a middle-aged woman entered the café. Her eyes, red and weary from years of hardship, locked with his. She hesitated before taking a seat, her silence more eloquent than any words. She returned over the next few days, always ordering the same meal, a simple dish that reminded her of the home she had once lost.
Azaan soon learned that she had been estranged from her family for decades, forced into isolation by the stigma of poverty. After closing, she recounted memories of a better past in quiet, heartfelt conversations in the small kitchen. Moved by her story, Azaan began devoting extra hours to speak with other patrons, each with their tale of struggle. He listened intently and started incorporating their stories into the café’s narrative. With each conversation, he refined his vision: this was not merely about food but rebuilding a community where every scar had a story and every soul deserved respect.
One evening, as he sat with a group of regulars beneath the soft glow of vintage lights, Azaan shared a memory of his mother that had shaped his very core. “Meri maa ke haathon ki mithaas, uske ankho mein baste sapne yeh sab kuch mujhe yaad dilata hai ke hum sab mein kuch khaas hai. Usne hamesha kaha, ‘Beta, zindagi mein chahe kitni bhi mushkilein ho, dil se kabhi haar mat maano.’” Her words were not just a memory; they were the lifeblood of his resolve.
In that moment, surrounded by strangers who felt like family, he realized that his mission was more significant than his pain, giving others a chance to reclaim the dignity life had so often denied them.
But fate, as it often does, was not done testing him. Azaan vividly recalled the day that brought an almost unbearable surge of grief, a day that would etch itself into his memory forever. It was a late afternoon at the dhaba when a breathless and panic-stricken neighbor burst through the door. “Azaan, aapki maa…” she began, her voice trembling as if it carried the world's weight. Time slowed to a crawl. With a racing heart, Azaan dropped everything and rushed home. There, in a small, dimly lit room, he found his mother lying motionless. Her once-vibrant presence was now reduced to a frail figure draped in a faded shawl, her eyes closed as though in a final, sorrowful slumber.
Collapsing to his knees beside her, Azaan cradled her cold hand and whispered, “Maa, kahan chali gayi? Aap mujhe akela kyun chhod gayi?” In that agonizing silence, every unspoken word, every missed opportunity for a hug or a kind word, surged to the forefront of his mind. The loss was absolute, a chasm that threatened to swallow his soul. For weeks afterward, the café’s gentle hum was replaced by a pervasive stillness. Every empty chair and silent corner was a reminder of the void left behind. Yet even as grief threatened to overwhelm him, a spark of defiance took hold. He vowed, amid his sorrow, that her legacy would not be forgotten. “Maine us din samjha ke un logon ke liye ladna meri zimmedari hai un aurton ke liye jo apni izzat kho chuki hain. Aaj se, main is naam ko nayi pehchaan dunga: Randi Ka Bacha.” That promise, as raw as unyielding, became the cornerstone of his renewed purpose.
In the following weeks, as the wounds of loss were slowly clothed by a determination born of desperation, Azaan threw himself into the business with even greater intensity. He restructured the café, introducing small innovations that honored the memory of his mother. Every morning before opening, he would stand in the kitchen and recite the lessons she had taught him: lessons of resilience, compassion, and the value of every human life. He began hosting weekly “Gupshup” evenings, where customers and those in need could unite, share their stories, and find solace in a collective experience. These gatherings quickly became the heartbeat of the café. People from all walks of life, marginalized women, older people, and even local workers burdened by life’s relentless challenges found a space where they were heard, valued, and reminded that even in darkness, there was always a flicker of light.
During one such evening, a young woman named Farida, with eyes that had seen far too much sorrow, recounted how she had once been trapped in a cycle of abuse and isolation. “Azaan bhai, aapka café ne mujhe woh ehsaas diya ke main bhi kisi din apni zindagi ko badal sakti hoon,” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and hope. Her story's courage struck a deep chord in Azaan, reinforcing his commitment to offer more than just food. He began establishing small training sessions in the back of the café where these women could learn new skills, from basic computer literacy to financial management, empowering them to reclaim their lives. Over time, these classes grew into a full-fledged community initiative, a living tribute to every soul that had ever been downtrodden.
Amidst all this, Azaan faced another daunting challenge: the negotiations with unscrupulous intermediaries profiting from the despair of women like Farida. These agents had long exploited vulnerable lives, trading on promises of freedom that rarely materialized. “Mujhe pata tha ke agar unki zindagi badalni hai, toh mujhe in dalaalon se bhi ladna padega,” he said, recalling the tense meetings where every rupee negotiated was a battle against exploitation. He spent long hours, often well into the night, poring over contracts, consulting with community leaders, and sometimes even risking his savings to ensure those who came to him would be freed from the chains of oppression. His determination to challenge these systems of exploitation added a layer of defiance to every transaction, every conversation in the café.
Gradually, the tide began to turn through sheer perseverance and strategic alliances with local advocates. Women who had once been too afraid to step out into the light started showing up in droves. They no longer saw Azaan merely as the owner of a small eatery; they saw him as a beacon of change, a man who had turned his tragedy into a crusade for justice. One crisp morning, as golden light filtered through the café windows, a small group of women arrived together. Their smiles were tentative initially, unsure whether they belonged in this new chapter of their lives. But as they sat down to share a meal prepared with love and care, that hesitancy melted away into quiet determination.
It was on one such morning that Azaan’s transformation became apparent. While arranging the chairs and cleaning the tables, he paused to reflect on the journey that had brought him to that moment. His mind wandered back to the countless hours spent in solitude, sitting by the window with only his thoughts for company, when he had made the promise to his mother. Now, as he looked around at the faces of those gathered in his café, each carrying their burdens and scars, he felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility. He was not just a businessman but a custodian of dreams and a defender of dignity.
Even as success began to bloom, the memories of pain never entirely receded. Late at night, when the café was empty and the city slept under a blanket of silence, Azaan would find himself revisiting the darker chapters of his past. The bitter taste of regret and loss was interwoven with the sweet notes of hope, a paradox that both haunted and propelled him forward. He scribbled notes in a worn-out journal, detailing ideas for expanding the community center and drafting plans for an initiative to support the mental health of those affected by systemic exploitation. Every word and thought was a step toward a future where no one would be allowed to fade into obscurity without a fight.
The transformation of the café was more than just physical; it was emotional and communal. Slowly, the place evolved into a melting pot of experiences: a sanctuary where the broken could rebuild, every scar had a story, and every tear contributed to the mosaic of resilience. Customers who once visited solely for a meal now came for the conversations and shared moments of vulnerability and strength. The café walls were soon adorned with photographs and handwritten notes from people who had found solace within its embrace, which were testaments to the quiet revolution within those modest confines.
As the days turned into years, Azaan’s vision grew even more ambitious. He began to dream of scaling the model, of taking the message of hope and dignity to other neighborhoods and cities. His café had become a prototype for a new community enterprise, where business and benevolence coexisted and profit was measured in rupees and transforming lives. The journey had taught him that every success story was built on countless acts of kindness, and every setback was merely a prelude to a more significant comeback.
On one particularly vibrant evening, during a community celebration held right in the heart of the café, Azaan addressed a small crowd. “Aaj hum yahan sirf khana khane nahi aaye hain. Hum yahan ek nayi shuruaat ke liye aaye hain. Yeh dukan, yeh khandaan, hum sab ki jeet hai ek jeet jo humne mil kar haasil ki hai.” His words, imbued with passion and conviction, resonated deeply with everyone present. In that moment, as laughter mingled with tears and hope filled the air, it was clear that the café had transcended its humble beginnings to become a symbol of collective strength.
Yet, even as he celebrated these victories, Azaan never forgot the quiet promise he had made on that fateful day when he lost his mother. Every act of kindness, every small success, was dedicated to her memory. “Haan, main randi ka bacha hoon,” he would sometimes murmur to himself as he closed the café at the end of a long day. “Lekin ab main samajhta hoon ke izzat sirf ek naam nahi, balki un logon ki kahaniyan hain jo mere dil ke kareeb hain.” With every challenge he overcame, every life he touched, he was honoring the legacy of the woman who had given him everything, even when the world had taken so much away.
Over the years, the café grew as a business and a movement. It attracted the attention of local community leaders, social workers, and even media outlets that were moved by its powerful narrative. Azaan’s model of integrating empathy into enterprise began to inspire others. Workshops, cultural events, and even small-scale festivals were organized in the space once known only as a humble eatery. Each event celebrated the unique journeys of its participants and reinforced the belief that even the most shattered lives could be pieced back together through collective effort and compassion.
Standing at the threshold of his now-thriving enterprise, Azaan could hardly believe the transformation that had taken place. From a lone man fighting his demons, he had built an oasis of hope in which every person, regardless of their past, could look forward to a better future. And while the journey was far from over, the echoes of his mother’s voice, urging him never to give up, continued to guide him.
As the interview reached its end, the host, visibly moved, asked one final question: “Azaan, aapki kahani ne humein yeh sikhaya hai ke zindagi mein kitni bhi andhera ho, hamesha ek ujala hota hai. Aapke agle kadam kya hain?” Azaan’s eyes, reflecting both past sorrows and future dreams, shone with quiet resolve. “Meri kahani abhi khatam nahi hui hai. Aaj, main sirf ek restaurant nahi, balki ek nayi soch ka nishan khada karne aaya hoon. Main un logon ke liye lad raha hoon jo kabhi apni pehchaan nahi paaye, aur main chahta hoon ke hum sab mil kar ek aisa mustaqbil banayein jahan har insaan ko uski izzat aur pyaar mil sake.”
In that moment, as the studio lights dimmed and the applause echoed in the space, Azaan knew that his journey had just taken a new turn. The café was no longer just a business; it was a revolution of the heart, a testament to the power of human resilience and the belief that every person deserved a second chance.
Walking out into the cool embrace of the night, Azaan lit a cigarette and gazed up at the starry sky. Each star seemed to whisper a promise of new beginnings, of dreams yet to be fulfilled. “Haan, main randi ka bacha hoon,” he murmured with a mix of defiance and tender acceptance. “Lekin ab main samajhta hoon ke izzat sirf ek naam nahi, balki un logon ki kahaniyan hain jo mere dil ke kareeb hain.” With that final, resolute declaration, he stepped into the darkness that now promised not to despair but the strength to light up lives, one meal, one story, and one shared dream at a time.
In the following years, Azaan expanded his vision further. His once-small café transformed into a network of community centers that provided nourishment, education, and vocational training for those abandoned by society. Every new center opened was celebrated with a community festival, where local talent was showcased, and success stories were shared with the pride of a family reunited. His model, blending entrepreneurship with heartfelt service, influenced other neighborhoods. Soon, neighboring towns saw the emergence of similar initiatives, each inspired by the indomitable spirit of a man who had once stood alone against the tide of neglect.
Azaan’s journey was not without setbacks. There were nights when the weight of responsibility threatened to break him, when memories of loss came crashing back like relentless waves. In those moments, he would retreat to a quiet corner of his office, pore over old photographs, and write in his journal each word a small step toward healing. He often recalled the gentle hum of the kitchen at dawn, when the first rays of sunlight mixed with the aroma of freshly cut vegetables and simmering spices. He found solace and the strength to continue fighting in those early hours.
His story, woven through with heartbreak and hope, became a beacon for many. Community leaders began to recognize that his approach was not merely an act of charity but a sustainable model for social change. Local authorities partnered with him, helping secure funds for vocational training programs and health services. Even though the journey had been wrought with challenges, Azaan never lost sight of the one constant that guided him, his mother’s unwavering belief in the dignity of every human soul.
Now, as the legacy of his work began to take shape across multiple centers, Azaan’s voice reached far beyond the walls of his original café. He was invited to speak at local schools, community gatherings, and even on regional television. With each appearance, he reiterated the simple yet powerful message: that every individual, regardless of their past, had the right to reclaim their life with honor and dignity.
Standing at the forefront of this movement, Azaan looked back on the long, winding road that had brought him here. It was a road marked by struggle, sacrifice, and the unyielding desire to make a difference. As he continued to light the path for others, he carried with him the memory of every tear shed, every battle fought, and every victory, however small, that had defined his journey.
In the final moments of the interview, when the studio lights began to fade and the echoes of the audience’s applause still lingered in the air, Azaan summed up his legacy with quiet certainty: “Yeh kahani sirf meri nahi, un sab ki hai jinhone apni izzat kho di. Aaj se, main unki awaaz ban kar, ek nayi pehchaan dunga. Main un logon ke liye khada hoon, jo akeli mehsoos karte the, aur main chahta hoon ke unki zindagi badle.” With these words, he stepped off the stage, leaving behind a story and a promise of a brighter tomorrow where every person’s life was a testament to the transformative power of love, resilience, and unwavering commitment.
****
Aks-e-Khamosh
Gul e Zahra’s fingers brushed against the coarse fabric of her wedding dress, now tucked away in a corner of her trunk. She remembered how proud her mother had looked the day of the wedding, the way she smiled as if every hardship had led to that moment. “Meri beti ki kismet ab achi hogi,” she had said, her words heavy with hope.
Gul, too, had hoped. Her education had been a source of pride, not just for her but also for her family. She was known as the girl who went to university in the dusty village streets. She excelled in her studies, and her BA degree proved that she was capable of more than the life her family had lived. But the reality of her situation didn’t change; education did not mean wealth or choice.
When her cousin Arif secured a job in Dubai, their families saw it as an opportunity. “Arif ka maamla set hai,” her father had said. “Usko Dubai mein kaam mil gaya hai. Ab tumhari shaadi ussi se hogi.” The decision wasn’t hers, and she agreed like any dutiful daughter.
The marriage was simple, a modest affair reflecting their humble status. Arif was quiet during the wedding ceremonies, distant even. Gul had thought it was nerves or perhaps the weight of responsibility. She hoped that once they were alone, away from the village's eyes, he would speak to her with tenderness and treat her with love. But that moment never came.
Two days after the wedding, he left for Dubai.
Gul was left behind in her in-law’s home. At first, the days passed slowly, but they weren’t unbearable. Her mother-in-law was kind enough, though distant. Her father-in-law kept to himself, rarely speaking unless necessary. The house was quiet, and Gul waited for Arif’s phone calls in the calm.
When the first call came, she felt a flutter of excitement. But Arif’s words were sharp and without warmth.
“Khaana theek se bana leti ho na? Mere maa baap ka khayal rakhti ho ya nahi?” His tone wasn’t that of a husband speaking to his wife; it was as if he were checking off a list of responsibilities.
“Ji, sab theek hai,” she had replied, masking her disappointment. She waited for him to ask her about her day and how things were in Pakistan, but the conversation never turned personal.
After that, phone calls became more sporadic. When Arif did call, he would ask about the house, his parents, and what chores she had done. He never asked about her, never showed concern for the loneliness that crept into her heart. Every word he spoke was a command, an expectation that she would fulfil her duties without question.
Months turned into nearly a year. Arif’s visits were infrequent, and Gul hoped he would stay longer each time he returned, perhaps seeing her differently. But when he did come, it was only for a few days. He would barely speak to her, and when he did, his words were cold and dismissive. When he touched her, it was rough, more of a duty than an expression of love. He didn’t see her or understand the depths of her longing for connection.
“Tumhein kya samajh nahi aata?” he would say when she tried to talk to him about her feelings. “Mera kaam wahan kitna mushkil hai. Tumhare yeh fazool baatein sunne ka waqt nahi hai.”
More than once, she had tried to open up to him, to share her loneliness. But he always shut her down, too tired or uninterested to listen. Over time, she stopped trying. What was the point?
The village had grown stifling, and the tiny house had become even smaller with the weight of her unspoken thoughts. One day, Gul finally mustered the courage to ask Arif for something for herself.
“Main soch rahi thi ke agar hum sheher mein ghar le lein toh acha hoga. Yahan gaon mein rehna kaafi mushkil hota ja raha hai. Sheher mein zindagi zyada aasan hogi.” Her voice had trembled, unsure how he would react.
Arif paused on the other end of the line. “Sheher mein rehne se kya farq padega? Wahan bhi toh akeli hi rahogi.”
“Wahan zyada sukoon hoga. Kam az kam sheher mein kuch karne ko toh hoga,” she had pleaded.
There was a long silence before Arif finally agreed. “Theek hai. Ghar ka intezam main karwa deta hoon. Par yeh yaad rakho ke meri waapsi ka koi time nahi hota.”
Gul didn’t care. Even if she were alone, a house in the city would be a change, a chance for something different. A part of her had hoped that perhaps a new environment would bring them closer, and the space would allow them to rebuild their relationship.
But the city brought no such solace.
The house was small, but it was hers. For the first time, Gul had a place where she could be alone, without the eyes of her in-laws constantly watching her. But the silence in the house was heavier than ever. Arif’s visits remained rare, and when he did come, he was still the same man, distant, rough, and uninterested in anything beyond his own needs.
When he spoke, it was only to give her orders and remind her of her duties. His touch was mechanical, leaving her feeling emptier than fulfilled. She had once tried to express her feelings, to tell him how much his indifference hurt her, but his response had been the same.
“Tumhein samajh nahi aata, Gul? Main wahan din raat kaam karta hoon. Yeh tumhari fazool baatein sunne ka waqt nahi hai.”
Days stretched into weeks, and Gul found herself sinking deeper into loneliness. The city offered her no companionship, no respite from the emptiness that filled her home. She tried to keep herself busy, cleaning the house and cooking meals, but there was no one to share them with.
Then came the day that would change everything.
It was an ordinary day when Arif sent her the message. She had just finished making tea when her phone buzzed. Wiping her hands on her apron, she checked the screen.
“Faraz aa raha hai. Woh kuch din tumhare saath rahega.”
Gul’s heart skipped a beat. Faraz, Arif’s younger brother, was coming to stay with her. She felt a wave of unease wash over her. The idea of being alone in the house with another man, even if it was her brother-in-law, made her uncomfortable. But she knew better than to question Arif’s decision.
When Faraz arrived, Gul was taken aback by how much he resembled Arif. They shared the same strong features and sharp eyes, but there was something different about Faraz, which was something softer. He was more refined and thoughtful in his mannerisms.
"Assalamualaikum, bhabhi," he greeted her warmly as he entered the house.
"Walaikumassalam," she replied, trying to hide her discomfort.
At first, Gul kept her distance. She was polite but cautious. But Faraz was different from Arif in ways that began to make her feel at ease. He didn’t bark orders at her or treat her as if she were invisible. Instead, he asked her how she was, listened when she spoke, and seemed genuinely interested in her life.
As the days passed, their conversations grew longer. Faraz would sit with her in the evenings, discussing his experiences and asking her about her studies and dreams, which Arif had never asked about. Something calming about his presence made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.
One evening, as they sat on the porch watching the sunset, Gul shared more than she had ever shared with anyone.
"Main kabhi sochti hoon ke shaadi ke baad zindagi mein koi humsafar ho," she began, her voice soft. "Ke mian pyaar se baat karega, meri baatein sunega. Par Arif... woh kabhi sunta hi nahi."
Faraz looked at her with understanding in his eyes. "Main samajhta hoon, bhabhi. Shayad uska kaam usay thaka deta hai. Lekin aap ki baatein sunna zaroori hai."
It was the first time anyone had validated her feelings, and in that moment, something shifted inside her.
Days turned into weeks, and Gul found herself drawn to Faraz in ways she hadn’t anticipated. She had longed for his kindness, attentiveness, and everything about him in Arif. The connection between them deepened, though it remained unspoken. They never crossed any lines, but the tension between them was undeniable.
Then came the message from Arif.
"Ek mahine mein aa raha hoon. Do hafton ke liye rukunga."
Gul’s heart sank as she read the words. Unsure of what would happen next, she shared the news with Faraz.
"Main do hafton ke liye chala jaunga," Faraz offered, his voice calm. "Jab Arif chala jayega, main wapas aa jaunga."
Gul nodded, grateful that Faraz’s offer to leave for two weeks comforted Gul. The thought of being alone with Arif again unsettled her, but she knew Faraz’s absence would be necessary. Their bond had grown in ways she couldn’t explain, and while they had never crossed any noticeable lines, the intimacy of their conversations weighed heavily on her heart.
As the weeks passed and Arif’s return loomed closer, Gul filled herself with anticipation and dread. What if he noticed the change in her? What if he sensed that she had grown distant, that her longing for something more had replaced her feelings for him?
The day finally arrived. Gul stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her dupatta nervously. She had prepared everything for Arif’s arrival. The house was spotless, the meals were ready, and Gul had even put on the dress he liked, hoping to stir some tenderness in him. But deep down, she knew it wouldn’t make a difference.
When the doorbell rang, she felt her heart race. She opened the door to find Arif standing there, a small bag in one hand, looking tired but sharper than before. His presence filled the doorway, and for a moment, Gul couldn’t read his expression. Was there a trace of longing in his eyes? Or was it just fatigue from his journey?
"Assalamualaikum," Arif said in his usual clipped tone.
"Walaikumassalam," she replied softly, stepping aside to let him in.
He walked past her, barely glancing at her before heading straight for the bedroom. Gul closed the door, her heart sinking. She had known not to expect much, but part of her had still hoped for warmth and recognition of the months they had spent apart.
That night, as they sat across from each other at dinner, the silence between them was palpable. Arif ate quickly, barely acknowledging her attempts to make conversation.
"Kaam kaisa chal raha hai?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
"Busy. Wahan har roz kaam hota hai. Tumhein samajh nahi aata, kya?" Arif’s response was brusque, as if her question was an intrusion.
Gul nodded, swallowing her disappointment. She had gotten used to his indifference, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear.
Later, in the bedroom, Arif’s touch was as rough and mechanical as ever. He didn’t look at or speak to her except to give curt instructions. His hands moved over her body with the same cold efficiency as always, and when it was over, he turned away from her, falling asleep without a word.
Gul lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, feeling more alone than ever. She longed for his return, hoping this time would be different. But it wasn’t. It never was.
The following day, Arif left early, saying he had to meet some friends. Gul watched him go, a knot forming in her stomach. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between them, that the distance between them had grown too vast to bridge. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to confront him, to tell him how much his indifference hurt her. She had tried before, and it had only led to arguments, to him dismissing her feelings as “fazool baatein.”
Days passed similarly. Arif would leave early, spend the day out, and return late at night, expecting Gul to cater to his needs without complaint. Their interactions were cold, and there was no sense of connection or understanding. They lived like strangers, sharing the same space, bound by duty but separated by an emotional chasm.
One evening, Gul mustered the courage to confront him.
"Arif, kya tumhe kabhi lagta hai ke humare darmiyan kuch kam reh gaya hai?" she asked hesitantly as they sat at the dinner table.
Arif looked up from his plate, frowning. "Kya bakwas kar rahi ho? Main wahan din raat kaam karta hoon, aur tum yeh fazool baatein leke baithi ho?"
Gul felt a surge of frustration rise within her. "Yeh fazool baatein nahi hain, Arif. Main sirf yeh keh rahi hoon ke hum dono ke darmiyan woh rishta nahi hai jo shaadi ke baad hona chahiye. Tum hamesha itne rude kyun hote ho? Tum mujhe kabhi sunte kyun nahi?"
Arif’s expression darkened. "Main wahan mehnat kar raha hoon taake tumhe sukoon se zindagi mile, aur tum yeh behuda baatein kar rahi ho. Tumhein samajh nahi aata ke mera kaam kitna mushkil hai? Tumhari yeh baatein sunne ka waqt nahi hai."
"Arif, main sirf yeh chahti hoon ke tum thoda samajhdari se pesh aao, thoda pyar se," she pleaded, her voice trembling.
But Arif wasn’t listening. His patience had worn thin. He stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back with a scrape that echoed through the room.
"Main yeh bakwaas sunne ke liye nahi aaya hoon," he said coldly, grabbing his coat. "Mujhe jaana hai."
With that, he stormed out of the house, leaving Gul alone in the kitchen, her heart pounding.
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