The Honest Witness

Farhan was a man of the soil. His land was not just a piece of earth—it was his heritage, his pride, the lifeblood of his family. Passed down through generations, it held the memories of his ancestors, the sweat of their labor mixed into every grain of dirt. He tilled it with love, his calloused hands turning the soil with care, planting hope in every furrow. The golden fields swayed like waves in the wind, whispering stories of hard work, resilience, and an unbreakable bond with the land.

His wife, Fatima, and their son, Maqsood, lived peacefully in their small but warm home, nestled between the endless stretches of crops. Their life was simple, untouched by greed or luxury, yet filled with an unspoken contentment. Farhan would rise with the sun, working tirelessly from dawn until dusk, ensuring that his land thrived. At night, he would return home, covered in dust but smiling, as he sat down with his family to share a humble meal. It wasn’t a life of riches, but it was one of love, honesty, and dignity. His wife’s laughter, his son’s innocent chatter, and the scent of freshly baked bread made their home feel like the richest place in the world.

That morning was no different. The sun had barely risen when Farhan knelt in his field, whispering his usual prayers, his fingers pressing into the soil as if seeking strength from the earth itself. The cool morning air carried the scent of damp soil and ripe crops, filling him with a quiet sense of peace. But just as he finished his prayer and lifted his head, the deep hum of an approaching car disturbed the stillness. A luxurious black vehicle rolled up beside him, its tires crushing the soft earth beneath.

Farhan finished his prayer, dusted his hands, and walked toward the car. Frowning, he knocked on the driver’s window. "It’s a field. Don’t you know? You can’t park here."

The driver scoffed, barely sparing him a glance. "Can’t you see my master is taking a look at the land?" he retorted, his tone sharp with arrogance.

Farhan’s eyes followed the man stepping out of the car—a well-dressed figure in an expensive suit, sunglasses shielding his gaze, a smirk playing on his lips. He took slow, deliberate steps, his polished shoes sinking slightly into the soil.

"This land belongs to me," Farhan said firmly. "There’s nothing here for your master to see."

The man chuckled, glancing around as if inspecting something he already considered his. "Farhan, isn’t it?" he said smoothly. "I’ve heard a lot about you. A hardworking man, proud of his land." He gestured at the field. "It’s a good piece of earth. Fertile. Valuable. And wasted on a simple farmer like you."

Farhan’s jaw tightened. "Say what you’ve come to say and leave."

The man took off his sunglasses, revealing cold, calculating eyes. "I’m here to make an offer. Sell this land to me, and you will be paid more money than you can ever earn in a lifetime."

Farhan let out a sharp breath. "This land is not for sale."

The man’s smile faded. "Think carefully, farmer. I don’t like hearing ‘no.’"

Farhan met his gaze, unwavering. "And I don’t like selling what isn’t meant to be sold."

The man sighed, shaking his head. "You poor, stubborn people. Always clinging to the past." He signaled to his driver, who opened the car door. "I’ll give you time to reconsider. But be wise, Farhan. A good deal doesn’t stay on the table forever."

With that, he stepped back into his car, and the vehicle roared away, leaving a trail of dust in its wake.

Farhan clenched his fists. He knew men like him—people who thought money could buy anything, even a man’s legacy. But they were wrong.

He would never give up his land.

That evening, Farhan returned home earlier than usual. The sky was painted in hues of orange and pink, but his heart was heavy, darkened by the conversation that had unfolded in his field. As he stepped into their small home, Fatima looked up from where she was kneading dough, a warm smile forming on her lips. But the moment she met his eyes, the smile faded.

“You’re home early,” she said, wiping her hands on her shawl. “Is everything alright?”

Farhan sat down on the woven mat, running a tired hand over his face. “Something happened today,” he began, his voice low but steady. “A man came to the field. Rich, arrogant. He wants our land.”

Fatima stiffened, her hands gripping the edge of the wooden table. “What did you say?”

“I told him no.”

A breath of relief escaped her lips, but it was short-lived. “And?”

"He said he doesn’t like hearing ‘no.’”

The worry in her eyes deepened. She walked over and sat beside him, reaching for his hands. “Farhan… these men, they don’t ask twice. If they want something, they take it. I—” her voice faltered, thick with fear. “I don’t want to lose you.”

He cupped her hands in his, rough palms against her soft skin. “No one is taking anything from us, Fatima. This land is ours. It’s Maqsood’s future. I will not sell it—not for any amount of money.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “But at what cost? What if they—”

Before she could finish, a sharp knock echoed through the house, making them both freeze. The oil lamp flickered, casting long, wavering shadows on the walls.

Farhan glanced at the door, then at Fatima.

Someone was here.

And somehow, he already knew—this was just the beginning.