20-04-2025, 03:52 PM
Based on true events.
This is not just a story—it's a piece of my soul.
I've done my best to be as honest and raw as possible in every word I've written. This is my very first attempt at putting my feelings into words, so I ask for your understanding if you come across any flaws or imperfections.
I'm not trying to craft a perfect narrative. I’m simply pouring my heart out—just the way I felt it, the way I lived it.While the emotions and experiences shared here are real, the names of people and places have been changed.
===================
The dough rested under a muslin cloth on the counter, its surface smooth and still as if sleeping, while the last flicker of flame on the stove gave one final sigh before going out. The warmth of the kitchen lingered in the air, a mixture of cardamom, onions, and freshly kneaded flour. I had just turned the knob off and was reaching for the towel when his voice cut through the hush.
"Nabila!"
It was jarring—sharp and thunderous. The kind of tone that didn’t just travel through walls, but wedged itself into your spine.
My breath hitched. The serenity of the kitchen collapsed like a house of cards. I stood frozen for a moment, the rhythm of my evening shattered. Then slowly, methodically, I wiped my damp hands on the edge of the towel hanging by the sink.
The cloth felt rougher than usual, or maybe it was my skin, suddenly sensitive with tension. I swallowed hard, my shoulders tensing, my body already anticipating the storm that would follow. I didn’t reply. Not yet. I needed one more breath.
One more quiet moment before I walked into the fire.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment before answering, trying to still the sudden rush of dread in my chest.
"Kya hua?" I called back, trying to sound even.
But he didn’t respond with words—he stormed into the kitchen, phone clenched in his hand, his face already tense.
"Mummy ne bataya—tumne apni maa ko bula liya party mein?" he snapped.
I turned slowly to face him, my hands already dry from moments earlier, now nervously clasped in front of me. My voice stayed calm.
"Haan. Adnan unhe miss karta hai. Roz unka naam leta hai. Birthday pe unka hona zaroori tha."
He scoffed and stepped closer. "Miss karta hai? Toh main kya hoon? Main uska baap hoon, Nabila! Aur main keh raha hoon ke woh is ghar mein nahi aayengi."
I met his eyes squarely. "Tum yeh sirf isliye keh rahe ho kyunki tumhari maa unse baat nahi karti. Woh meri maa hain. Aur jab Papa guzre the, unhone hi mujhe sambhala tha. Mere liye woh sirf maa nahi, mera sahara hain, Asif. Main duniya ke liye kisi bhi rishte se samjhauta kar sakti hoon—lekin apni maa se nahi."
His jaw tightened. "Mujhe ghanta farak nahi padta. Mujhe yeh drama nahi chahiye. Abhi phone uthao. Unhe call karke mana karo."
I stared at him in disbelief. "Aaj? Adnan ke birthday wale din? Bina kisi wajah ke? Sirf kyunki tumhari maa ko problem hai?"
He stepped in closer, close enough that I could smell the sharp sting of his cologne mixed with bitterness.
"Tu har baat mein meri maa ke saamne jaane lagi hai. Tujhme itni himmat kaise aayi?"
My fists clenched at my sides. "Main kisi ke saamne nahi jaa rahi. Main sirf itna keh rahi hoon ke meri maa mere liye important hain. Main unka apmaan nahi kar sakti."
He slammed his palm on the counter, the noise cracking through the kitchen and making a spoon clatter to the floor.
"Phone uthao, Nabila. Abhi. Warna main party mein kadam bhi nahi rakhunga."
My throat tightened. "Tumhe zara si bhi sharam nahi aati, Asif? Aaj tumhare bete ka birthday hai. Ek din bhi… ek din bhi tum normal behave nahi kar sakte?"
His nostrils flared. "Main kisi natak ka hissa nahi banunga."
"Asif, please," I said, trying to soften my tone. "Chhoti si baat hai. Main manage kar loongi. Tum bas—"
He was already grabbing his keys off the fridge.
"Main keh raha hoon, agar woh aayi toh main nahi aayega. Samajh gayi na?"
I followed him to the door, reaching for his arm. "Asif, ruk jao. Adnan pura din tumhara intezaar karega. Woh poochega tum kahan ho."
He shrugged my hand off as if I were a stranger. His face was cold.
"Tumhari maa se problem tumhari hai. Tum suljhao. Main nahi aa raha."
And then, with a final glance that held no emotion, he opened the door and slammed it shut.
The sound echoed. Long after he left.
I stood frozen, hand still half-raised, staring at the empty space he’d just walked out of.
My hands were clean. But inside… I felt covered in ash.
The kitchen felt like a void now—no longer warm with the scent of spices, but hollow with silence. I leaned back against the counter, arms folded tightly across my chest, as if trying to hold myself together.
I thought of Ammi—her gentle voice, her steady presence, the way she never raised her tone even in the worst of times. She had always been my rock. Ever since Papa’s illness, she had stood by me, unshaken, even when the rest of the world slipped away.
But for Asif’s mother, that kindness was never enough. From the very beginning, there was a quiet wariness—an unspoken discomfort that only grew over time. She was narrow-minded, deeply conservative, and prided herself on traditional values that left no room for a woman like me. She didn’t like how close I was to my own mother, didn’t like how much I relied on her advice, and certainly didn’t approve of the fact that I chose to work.
She made cutting remarks under the guise of casual conversation—“Humare yahan bahu ghar sambhalti hai, naukri nahi karti,” or “Teri maa ne tujhe kuch zyada hi azadi de rakhi hai.” To her, my education, my independence, my opinions—all of it was a threat.
Ammi’s poise, her calm intellect, her quiet refusal to bow down to anyone—it unsettled her. She preferred silence, obedience, control. And I, raised by a woman who taught me to stand for myself, didn’t fit that mold.
What she really wanted was another version of herself—a silent, pliable shadow. But I had a voice. And worse, I used it.
The breaking point came one winter evening, a few months into our marriage. Asif and I had a terrible fight—one of those soul-cutting ones that leave you in tears long after the words have stopped. I’d called Ammi, unable to hold it in. She didn’t ask questions. She came straight to pick me up. When Asif’s mother came home and found I had left without her permission, she called Ammi names over the phone—accused her of meddling in her son’s marriage.
Ammi, who had swallowed so many insults before for my sake, didn’t that day. She quietly said, "Apni beti ka saath dena agar galat hai, toh haan, main galat hoon."
Since then, the two women hadn’t exchanged a single word.
And Asif? He never questioned it. He never stood up. In fact, with every passing year, he began to mirror her more. He stopped listening to me, started second-guessing everything I did, because "Mummy ne kaha hai…" He had become her voice, her will, her echo. My husband in name, but her son in loyalty.
And in the past few months, he’d become colder—distant glances, irritation at the smallest things, as if my very presence agitated him. No affection, no warmth. Just a running tally of disappointments I had somehow caused.
And now, this… this explosion over a simple invitation to my mother.
It wasn’t just about today. It was everything that had led to today.
We had been married for six years. I was barely twenty-one when I became his wife—young, hopeful, still trying to understand what love was supposed to feel like. He was thirty-two then, mature on paper but already too tied to the apron strings of a mother who had no room in her world for another woman in his life.
Now I was twenty-seven, a mother myself. And our son—our sweet, gentle Adnan—was old enough and already too familiar with tension hanging in the air like an extra piece of furniture.
The age gap between Asif and me had once seemed insignificant. Now it felt like a canyon filled with years of silence, control, and missed chances to meet in the middle.
And now, years of tension had boiled over into this—on my child’s birthday.
I looked at the dough on the counter. Still resting, still patient. Everything else had turned cold.
I stood there, alone—not just in the kitchen, but in the marriage.
From the living room, I heard a tiny, chirpy voice rise above the silence—
"Mumma… meri car kahan hai?"
It felt like the first sound of sunlight after a storm.
I stepped out of the kitchen, forcing a smile to my lips, though it stretched across my face like fabric too tight across a wound. "Drawer mein dekho, beta. Neeche waala," I replied gently, my voice soft enough to not tremble.
Adnan didn’t even look up. He nodded distractedly and scurried across the room, digging through the drawer with the urgent focus only a child can have. He was humming to himself, already drifting away from the question he had just asked.
I paused in the doorway, watching him quietly.
He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, toys scattered around him like confetti—plastic action figures, building blocks and what not. He roamed a blue race car across the floor.
The way he laughed—freely, wildly, like the world was made only of joy and nothing else—was enough to both warm and shatter me.
He didn’t know.
He didn’t know that his father had just walked out the door. He didn’t know about the tension, the slammed words, the cracked walls of our fragile home. He didn’t see the heaviness in my eyes or feel the weight I carried in my chest.
And thank God for that.
His innocence was a fragile, glowing thing—untouched by ego, bitterness, or the bruises elders pass down without meaning to. For a moment, I just stood there, soaking in his laughter, letting it wrap around my heart like a warm bandage.
Maybe, for today, he didn’t need to know what had broken. Maybe, for today, I could hold it all together just long enough for him to believe everything was okay.
Just one more day of pretending. Just one more day of being strong.
For him.
This is not just a story—it's a piece of my soul.
I've done my best to be as honest and raw as possible in every word I've written. This is my very first attempt at putting my feelings into words, so I ask for your understanding if you come across any flaws or imperfections.
I'm not trying to craft a perfect narrative. I’m simply pouring my heart out—just the way I felt it, the way I lived it.While the emotions and experiences shared here are real, the names of people and places have been changed.
===================
The dough rested under a muslin cloth on the counter, its surface smooth and still as if sleeping, while the last flicker of flame on the stove gave one final sigh before going out. The warmth of the kitchen lingered in the air, a mixture of cardamom, onions, and freshly kneaded flour. I had just turned the knob off and was reaching for the towel when his voice cut through the hush.
"Nabila!"
It was jarring—sharp and thunderous. The kind of tone that didn’t just travel through walls, but wedged itself into your spine.
My breath hitched. The serenity of the kitchen collapsed like a house of cards. I stood frozen for a moment, the rhythm of my evening shattered. Then slowly, methodically, I wiped my damp hands on the edge of the towel hanging by the sink.
The cloth felt rougher than usual, or maybe it was my skin, suddenly sensitive with tension. I swallowed hard, my shoulders tensing, my body already anticipating the storm that would follow. I didn’t reply. Not yet. I needed one more breath.
One more quiet moment before I walked into the fire.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment before answering, trying to still the sudden rush of dread in my chest.
"Kya hua?" I called back, trying to sound even.
But he didn’t respond with words—he stormed into the kitchen, phone clenched in his hand, his face already tense.
"Mummy ne bataya—tumne apni maa ko bula liya party mein?" he snapped.
I turned slowly to face him, my hands already dry from moments earlier, now nervously clasped in front of me. My voice stayed calm.
"Haan. Adnan unhe miss karta hai. Roz unka naam leta hai. Birthday pe unka hona zaroori tha."
He scoffed and stepped closer. "Miss karta hai? Toh main kya hoon? Main uska baap hoon, Nabila! Aur main keh raha hoon ke woh is ghar mein nahi aayengi."
I met his eyes squarely. "Tum yeh sirf isliye keh rahe ho kyunki tumhari maa unse baat nahi karti. Woh meri maa hain. Aur jab Papa guzre the, unhone hi mujhe sambhala tha. Mere liye woh sirf maa nahi, mera sahara hain, Asif. Main duniya ke liye kisi bhi rishte se samjhauta kar sakti hoon—lekin apni maa se nahi."
His jaw tightened. "Mujhe ghanta farak nahi padta. Mujhe yeh drama nahi chahiye. Abhi phone uthao. Unhe call karke mana karo."
I stared at him in disbelief. "Aaj? Adnan ke birthday wale din? Bina kisi wajah ke? Sirf kyunki tumhari maa ko problem hai?"
He stepped in closer, close enough that I could smell the sharp sting of his cologne mixed with bitterness.
"Tu har baat mein meri maa ke saamne jaane lagi hai. Tujhme itni himmat kaise aayi?"
My fists clenched at my sides. "Main kisi ke saamne nahi jaa rahi. Main sirf itna keh rahi hoon ke meri maa mere liye important hain. Main unka apmaan nahi kar sakti."
He slammed his palm on the counter, the noise cracking through the kitchen and making a spoon clatter to the floor.
"Phone uthao, Nabila. Abhi. Warna main party mein kadam bhi nahi rakhunga."
My throat tightened. "Tumhe zara si bhi sharam nahi aati, Asif? Aaj tumhare bete ka birthday hai. Ek din bhi… ek din bhi tum normal behave nahi kar sakte?"
His nostrils flared. "Main kisi natak ka hissa nahi banunga."
"Asif, please," I said, trying to soften my tone. "Chhoti si baat hai. Main manage kar loongi. Tum bas—"
He was already grabbing his keys off the fridge.
"Main keh raha hoon, agar woh aayi toh main nahi aayega. Samajh gayi na?"
I followed him to the door, reaching for his arm. "Asif, ruk jao. Adnan pura din tumhara intezaar karega. Woh poochega tum kahan ho."
He shrugged my hand off as if I were a stranger. His face was cold.
"Tumhari maa se problem tumhari hai. Tum suljhao. Main nahi aa raha."
And then, with a final glance that held no emotion, he opened the door and slammed it shut.
The sound echoed. Long after he left.
I stood frozen, hand still half-raised, staring at the empty space he’d just walked out of.
My hands were clean. But inside… I felt covered in ash.
The kitchen felt like a void now—no longer warm with the scent of spices, but hollow with silence. I leaned back against the counter, arms folded tightly across my chest, as if trying to hold myself together.
I thought of Ammi—her gentle voice, her steady presence, the way she never raised her tone even in the worst of times. She had always been my rock. Ever since Papa’s illness, she had stood by me, unshaken, even when the rest of the world slipped away.
But for Asif’s mother, that kindness was never enough. From the very beginning, there was a quiet wariness—an unspoken discomfort that only grew over time. She was narrow-minded, deeply conservative, and prided herself on traditional values that left no room for a woman like me. She didn’t like how close I was to my own mother, didn’t like how much I relied on her advice, and certainly didn’t approve of the fact that I chose to work.
She made cutting remarks under the guise of casual conversation—“Humare yahan bahu ghar sambhalti hai, naukri nahi karti,” or “Teri maa ne tujhe kuch zyada hi azadi de rakhi hai.” To her, my education, my independence, my opinions—all of it was a threat.
Ammi’s poise, her calm intellect, her quiet refusal to bow down to anyone—it unsettled her. She preferred silence, obedience, control. And I, raised by a woman who taught me to stand for myself, didn’t fit that mold.
What she really wanted was another version of herself—a silent, pliable shadow. But I had a voice. And worse, I used it.
The breaking point came one winter evening, a few months into our marriage. Asif and I had a terrible fight—one of those soul-cutting ones that leave you in tears long after the words have stopped. I’d called Ammi, unable to hold it in. She didn’t ask questions. She came straight to pick me up. When Asif’s mother came home and found I had left without her permission, she called Ammi names over the phone—accused her of meddling in her son’s marriage.
Ammi, who had swallowed so many insults before for my sake, didn’t that day. She quietly said, "Apni beti ka saath dena agar galat hai, toh haan, main galat hoon."
Since then, the two women hadn’t exchanged a single word.
And Asif? He never questioned it. He never stood up. In fact, with every passing year, he began to mirror her more. He stopped listening to me, started second-guessing everything I did, because "Mummy ne kaha hai…" He had become her voice, her will, her echo. My husband in name, but her son in loyalty.
And in the past few months, he’d become colder—distant glances, irritation at the smallest things, as if my very presence agitated him. No affection, no warmth. Just a running tally of disappointments I had somehow caused.
And now, this… this explosion over a simple invitation to my mother.
It wasn’t just about today. It was everything that had led to today.
We had been married for six years. I was barely twenty-one when I became his wife—young, hopeful, still trying to understand what love was supposed to feel like. He was thirty-two then, mature on paper but already too tied to the apron strings of a mother who had no room in her world for another woman in his life.
Now I was twenty-seven, a mother myself. And our son—our sweet, gentle Adnan—was old enough and already too familiar with tension hanging in the air like an extra piece of furniture.
The age gap between Asif and me had once seemed insignificant. Now it felt like a canyon filled with years of silence, control, and missed chances to meet in the middle.
And now, years of tension had boiled over into this—on my child’s birthday.
I looked at the dough on the counter. Still resting, still patient. Everything else had turned cold.
I stood there, alone—not just in the kitchen, but in the marriage.
From the living room, I heard a tiny, chirpy voice rise above the silence—
"Mumma… meri car kahan hai?"
It felt like the first sound of sunlight after a storm.
I stepped out of the kitchen, forcing a smile to my lips, though it stretched across my face like fabric too tight across a wound. "Drawer mein dekho, beta. Neeche waala," I replied gently, my voice soft enough to not tremble.
Adnan didn’t even look up. He nodded distractedly and scurried across the room, digging through the drawer with the urgent focus only a child can have. He was humming to himself, already drifting away from the question he had just asked.
I paused in the doorway, watching him quietly.
He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, toys scattered around him like confetti—plastic action figures, building blocks and what not. He roamed a blue race car across the floor.
The way he laughed—freely, wildly, like the world was made only of joy and nothing else—was enough to both warm and shatter me.
He didn’t know.
He didn’t know that his father had just walked out the door. He didn’t know about the tension, the slammed words, the cracked walls of our fragile home. He didn’t see the heaviness in my eyes or feel the weight I carried in my chest.
And thank God for that.
His innocence was a fragile, glowing thing—untouched by ego, bitterness, or the bruises elders pass down without meaning to. For a moment, I just stood there, soaking in his laughter, letting it wrap around my heart like a warm bandage.
Maybe, for today, he didn’t need to know what had broken. Maybe, for today, I could hold it all together just long enough for him to believe everything was okay.
Just one more day of pretending. Just one more day of being strong.
For him.
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