Bitter Sugar
A Short Story
By Faraz Parvez (Pen Name of Dr. Arshad Afzal, Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA)
1
It was a typical winter evening in Lahore, the kind where the air smelled of burning coal and roasted peanuts. The neighborhood was alive with the sounds of rickshaws honking, children arguing over marbles, and the distant, melancholic call of a vendor selling dry fruits.
In a modest, two-bedroom house in Gulberg, Shakir Ahmed, a retired school teacher, sat on a worn-out charpai in the courtyard, stirring his chai absentmindedly. His wife, Razia, sat beside him, chopping vegetables with the precision of a woman who had done this a thousand times before.
“You should talk to Danish,” Razia said, slicing a tomato. “He’s been acting distant ever since that girl came into his life.”
Shakir sighed, lifting his gaze to his son, Danish, who sat on the rooftop, scrolling through his phone, lost in a world far away from this crumbling house and its quiet disappointments.
“I will,” Shakir muttered. “But you know how young people are these days… always chasing shadows.”
2
Danish wasn’t just in love. He was consumed. Alina, the girl from his university, was everything his mother wasn’t—bold, outspoken, modern. She lived in a high-rise apartment and talked about things like “self-worth” and “financial independence.” She made Danish feel important.
But love wasn’t simple in their world. Danish was the eldest son, the pillar of his struggling middle-class family. His younger brother, Tariq, was still in college, dependent on him. His married sister, Aasia, often came home with her two children, seeking shelter from her husband’s violent temper.
When Danish had first told Alina about his family, she had laughed, tossing her curls over her shoulder.
“You’re too sentimental, Danish. You can’t carry everyone on your back. You have your own life.”
Danish wanted to believe her. But at home, he saw his father’s tired hands, his mother’s silent sacrifices, Tariq’s eager eyes, and Aasia’s bruised wrists. Could he really leave them behind?
3
One evening, as Shakir walked past the tea stall at the corner of their street, he saw a familiar face—Naeem Bhai, his old friend and neighbor.
“You look worried,” Naeem observed, sipping his steaming cup of doodh patti.
Shakir sighed, sitting on the wooden bench. “It’s Danish. He wants to marry a girl who doesn’t fit into our world.”
Naeem chuckled. “Isn’t that how it always is? We think we shape our children, but in the end, they shape themselves.”
Shakir rubbed his temples. “I just want him to understand responsibility. Marriage isn’t just between two people. It’s between two families.”
Naeem nodded. “True. But sometimes, love doesn’t follow rules. Look at my daughter, Sonia. She married a man we didn’t approve of. It’s been four years, and now we are the ones visiting their home for tea.”
Shakir smiled faintly. But he knew his case was different. Danish wasn’t just marrying for love—he was choosing between his family and a woman who didn’t believe in obligations.
4
The inevitable confrontation happened that night.
“I’m marrying Alina, Baba,” Danish declared, standing in the middle of the living room. “She isn’t like the girls you know. She’s ambitious. She wants to move abroad. She has plans.”
“And where do we fit into those plans?” Razia asked, her voice calm but cold.
Danish hesitated. He looked at Tariq, at Aasia’s children playing with plastic toys in the corner, at his father’s hunched shoulders.
“I will still support you all,” he said weakly.
Shakir looked at his son with tired eyes. “Son, love is sweet. But have you ever tasted sugar when there’s no tea to dissolve it in? It turns bitter.”
Danish said nothing.
5
A week later, he met Alina at a coffee shop.
“I talked to my parents,” he said, stirring his black coffee. “They… they don’t understand.”
Alina exhaled loudly. “Danish, why does it always have to be about them? This is about us. We love each other.”
Danish stared at her. Love. Such a simple word. Yet in his world, it carried debts, responsibilities, and silent sacrifices.
He imagined Alina in their small, crowded house, sitting beside his mother as she rolled out parathas, or watching Tariq borrow his old shirts because they couldn’t afford new ones.
She wouldn’t stay.
She couldn’t.
And Danish… Danish wasn’t sure if he could leave.
6
Two months later, Alina got engaged to someone else.
Danish still walked past her apartment building sometimes. He saw her with her fiancé—a man in a crisp suit, driving a car that Danish would never afford.
At home, Razia continued chopping vegetables, Tariq prepared for his final exams, and Aasia still came home whenever her husband drank too much.
Life went on.
One evening, as he sat on the rooftop, sipping chai with his father, Shakir spoke softly.
“She wasn’t wrong, you know. People like us… we carry too much. That’s why we never run fast enough.”
Danish smiled sadly.
Maybe love was like sugar. Sweet, but only if it dissolved into something greater than itself.
