A Short Story by Faraz Parvez (Pen Name of Dr. Arshad Afzal)
In a quiet neighborhood of Lahore, where the scent of damp earth mixed with the aroma of freshly brewed chai, Amna sat on the verandah, running her fingers over the unfinished embroidery of a deep maroon saree. The needle had been left mid-stitch, as if someone had been interrupted.
The saree belonged to her sister, Saira, who had left the house six months ago with a suitcase and a promise never to return. Their mother, Jameela Begum, still lit an oil lamp for her at Maghrib, though she never spoke her name anymore. Their father, Rafiq Sahib, kept the front door locked even during the day, as if fearing that shame could slip in through the cracks.
That evening, Kashif, Saira’s childhood friend and once-secret admirer, arrived at the house. His presence was unexpected, though Amna had anticipated it for weeks. He stood awkwardly at the gate, adjusting his cufflinks. “May I come in?”
Rafiq Sahib, sitting inside on his prayer mat, didn’t answer. Jameela Begum wiped her hands on her dupatta, unsure whether to acknowledge him.
“She called,” Kashif said finally. “Saira. She’s in Delhi.”
A sharp intake of breath from Jameela Begum. Amna’s hands tightened around the saree.
“She’s fine,” Kashif continued. “She’s teaching at a school. She asked me to bring this.” He pulled out a small envelope, its edges frayed.
Amna took it hesitantly. Inside was a single folded note. It read:
“I couldn’t finish my saree, but I finished my life the way I wanted. I hope you do too.”
Amna swallowed the lump in her throat. She looked at her mother, expecting tears, but there were none. Jameela Begum simply walked inside and lit the oil lamp again, just as she did every evening.
Outside, the street was silent except for the rustling of leaves. Kashif turned to leave, but Amna called after him. “Stay,” she said. “At least for tea.”
For the first time in months, the front door remained unlocked.
Faraz Parvez (Pen Name of Dr. Arshad Afzal)
Author | Professor | Blogger
