Before the stroke, Mr. Farid was a man carved from quiet sacrifice and unrelenting discipline. A civil engineer by profession and a perfectionist by nature, he lived not for personal comfort but for the future of his children. Two jobs, long hours, faded shirts, and resoled shoes were his silent sacrifices. He lived modestly so that his children could live with dignity.
From the earliest days of his adulthood, Farid’s path was molded not only by responsibility but also by tragedy and tradition. His elder sister, Nasira, was more of a mother to him than their own biological parent. Her marriage had collapsed due to a traditional exchange-marriage arrangement—she was married to a man whose sister, in turn, was married to Farid. When Nasira’s marriage crumbled under abuse and neglect, the elders pressured Farid to end his own, blaming his wife to balance the familial equation. Heartbroken and confused, Farid gave in.
His wife, Shabana, whom he had loved quietly and loyally, left with tears in her eyes. Their only daughter went with her. Farid was left with guilt, which burrowed into him like a parasite. For years, he lived alone, pouring himself into his work and keeping his emotions locked behind the dam of duty.
He vowed never to remarry, but tradition and his sister’s persuasive insistence overrode his resolve.
“You need a home,” she said. “A man cannot live like a ghost.”
And so Lubna entered his life through a matchmaker. Beautiful and elusive, she came from a troubled background. Her mother, a single parent drowning in shame, was desperate to marry her off. Lubna had a past—a trail of lies, flirtations, and hidden encounters cloaked in mehndi appointments and false errands. Farid, fifteen years her senior, was respectable, stable, and unaware of the full truth. Their marriage was arranged and sealed in haste.
When Farid’s proposal came, the age gap sparked whispers, but knowing Lubna’s character, her mother accepted quickly. The marriage was finalized within a month. While neighbors gossiped about the age difference, Lubna’s mother finally sighed in relief. She feared Lubna’s behavior would soon bring disgrace and warned her sternly: if anything went wrong, she would never be accepted back. Her brothers would not allow it. Lubna had no choice but to think about how to make this marriage work.
As per tradition in India and Pakistan, an elderly woman from the bride’s side stays the wedding night at the groom’s house. Lubna’s maternal aunt accompanied her. That night, Farid discovered that Lubna was not a virgin. He had two choices—confront or conceal. He chose dignity.
“What happened in this room stays between us,” he told her gently. “If anyone asks, we’ll say it’s a private matter.”
In doing so, he protected her honor and expected loyalty in return.
Within three years, they had two children—a boy and a girl. Outwardly, they were a family. But inwardly, Lubna remained restless. She wanted more. She had no pity for Farid, who worked two jobs to provide comfort.
She flirted with neighbors, chatted with strangers, and resumed her old ways under the guise of visiting relatives. Her reputation spread in whispers and knowing glances. The final scandal was devastating: she seduced her own nephew—her sister’s son—during one of her extended stays at her maternal home.
He was barely twenty, newly married, and vulnerable. Lubna offered emotional support, then lured him into a full-blown affair. They were discovered in a compromising position by her sister, who was shattered by the betrayal. The young wife of the nephew attempted suicide from shame and heartbreak. The entire family was dragged through the mud.
And once again, Farid bore the brunt of the humiliation.
But he did not scream. He did not abandon. He quietly moved the family to a new neighborhood, hoping distance would dilute Lubna’s impulses.
It didn’t.
Her brazenness only grew. She mocked Farid openly—his simplicity, his aging body. She compared him to younger, wealthier men. She flirted with hawkers, car mechanics, tuition teachers—even young relatives. Once, he caught her texting a boy who could have been their son’s friend. When confronted, she deflected, twisted the truth, and called him insecure and controlling.
Farid wasn’t affectionate in the traditional sense—no hugs or poetic declarations—but he was deeply devoted. He ruled his home with firm values: prayers, discipline, and respect. He cooked when needed, helped with the children’s studies, and prayed quietly for guidance.
Then came the stroke.
The collapse was sudden. His son found him curled near the staircase, his face drooping, his speech slurred. The hospital machines beeped, but no one registered the deeper hemorrhage—the one that had begun long ago, through tiny, invisible emotional incisions.
Lubna’s care was minimal—just enough to avoid blame. She sighed loudly when handing him water, complained about his weight, his clothes, his neediness. She mocked him behind closed doors.
To the world, she was the noble wife of a paranoid old man.
“He accuses me of cheating,” she told neighbors. “Tracks my movements. He’s impossible to live with.”
Few questioned her.
The man who built bridges and towers was now broken—betrayed by the very home he constructed.
Farid watched his daughter adopt her mother’s habits, her tone, her disregard. His son, once his hope, turned insolent—careless and cold.
Lubna, meanwhile, lived her double life. She laughed with friends, painted her lips, sent pictures to strangers. To outsiders, she was the burdened wife. Inside, she mocked Farid, rolled her eyes, cursed the day they married.
He once heard her on the phone say,
“Aik martay hue aadmi ke saath zindagi barbaad kar di.”
(“I’ve ruined my life with a dying man.”)
That night, he cried for the last time since his stroke. Quietly, as always.
The end came on a rainy Thursday. Farid passed away in his sleep.
Official cause: Cardiac arrest.
The truth: Death by a thousand emotional cuts.
At the funeral, Lubna wept dramatically. She wore white, wailed louder than anyone, and spoke of how hard his final days had been—for her.
Farid’s children stood in silence, watching the spectacle. They said their prayers. They buried him with trembling hands.
Farid wasn’t killed by illness.
He was murdered—by humiliation, neglect, and the disloyalty of a woman he tried so hard to redeem.
A silent murder, committed without a blade.
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