My Friend’s Sister, My Love

My Friend’s Sister, My Love

Short Story – Part One

Write By: Said Idrees Sadat

Translate to english: Chat gpt

story right langeuage: Pashto

Henry and I were the best of friends. Every evening during Ramadan, we’d leave our houses together and return home late at night. Sometimes Henry would sleep over at my house, and sometimes I stayed at his. Our friendship felt unbreakable — like nothing in the world could come between us.

Even our fathers had become close friends because of us. They would go out together just like we did. Soon, both our families started visiting each other regularly. The women from our home would visit theirs, and their women would visit ours.

Our family was considered one of the most respected in the area. But Henry’s family — they were even more famous among their relatives. While our family was full of writers, poets, and lovers of literature, Henry’s family were all doctors. Still, we all lived modestly, thankful for God’s blessings.

Our parents often prayed, “May the love between our families last until the Day of Judgment.” And they would always recite:

“These days and nights, this bond of love—

May no distance ever tear us apart.”

On one Eid, we planned a trip to Kama to enjoy the famous local ice cream. The road was crowded with traffic, and while driving, a man in a Corolla shouted insults at Henry. Henry was driving, and I immediately got angry.

“Don’t let him get away,” I said. “Step on it!”

Henry hit the gas and chased him. We caught up, but the Corolla sped up again. The chase turned aggressive. We tried everything, but couldn’t pass him. Henry was furious.

He pulled over and hit the steering wheel hard. “Forget it,” I told him. “It’s not worth it.”

Just then, the Corolla came back toward us. The driver shouted, “Park that junk somewhere else, kid. You’re no match for me!”

Henry’s anger exploded. He slammed the handbrake, shifted into high gear, and raced ahead. Just as he overtook the Corolla, a truck was coming from the other side. With no way out, Henry swerved and hit the Corolla. It flew off the road and rolled over multiple times.

Henry’s face had slammed into the steering wheel. The Corolla driver died on the spot.

Henry got out, trembling. Soldiers from a nearby checkpoint quickly arrived. I rushed to him and whispered, “Run, Henry. You killed someone!”

But Henry was frozen with fear.

A soldier asked, “Who was driving?”

“I was,” I said.

Henry looked at me with shock and pulled the car documents from his pocket. “Whose papers are these? What’s the car color?” he asked.

I repeated, “I was the driver.”

Henry shouted, “He’s lying!”

The soldiers handcuffed Henry and told me, “Answer these questions in court.” They seized the car and took Henry away.

In court, members of all three families were present — ours, Henry’s, and the victim’s. The judge said:

“If you don’t reach a settlement yourselves, the law will apply. And that means Henry faces the death penalty.”

Our elders begged the victim’s family for forgiveness, but they were angry. “He killed our son on purpose,” they said. “Why should the killer live when our boy is dead?”

Both sides agreed to bring the case to a tribal council (jirga). The jirga decided each family must pay 1 million rupees to the victim’s family. If anyone backed out, their money would be burned. The final decision would be binding.

Days later, word spread in our village that Henry had been released. I ran to his house. He stepped out and I asked, “How did you get out, man?”

He said, “I don’t really know. People are saying the jirga settled it.”

“So what did they offer in return?” I asked.

Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. Forget it. Let’s go out. I need to clear my head.”

I reminded him, “You know I told the police I was driving, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I couldn’t let you take the blame for my mistake.”

He paused, then added, “That crash still haunts me. I’ll never forget the moment that man died.”

Just then, a girl ran toward us, her long black scarf flying behind her. She was beautiful, glowing like a star. She ran straight to Henry.

Through tears, she said, “Brother, I’ll pay for your freedom. I’ll sacrifice my future, my dreams, everything.”

Henry was stunned. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “Why are you even outside like this?”

His sister, Maryam, sobbed, “The jirga decided I must marry the victim’s father. It’s their condition to drop the charges.”

Henry looked at me with pain in his eyes. I held his shoulder and said, “We have to do something, Henry. We can’t let this happen.”

That night, Henry came to me with his sister — this time covered with a proper veil.

He said, “Brother, once you told me that if I ever faced hard times, you’d stand by me.”

“Well, that time is now,” he said, his voice trembling. “I only have one sister. I can’t let them destroy her life.”

“What can I do?” I asked.

“First, break your phone,” he said.

I looked at him, confused.

“Trust me,” he said. I smashed my phone between two rocks. Then he said, “Break the SIM cards too.” I hesitated, but did it.

At 4 a.m., we sneaked out through the forest. The cold night surrounded us, and the only sounds were the cries of night animals. We walked quickly through the woods, away from the village.

After an hour, we reached a road deep in the forest. We waited until a vehicle appeared and flagged it down.

We left for Kabul.

In the city, Henry took me and his sister to a mosque. There, he turned to me and said:

“I have only one sister in this world, and I can’t let her life be ruined.”

“I want you to marry her and take her far from here. Smuggle yourselves abroad if you must, but keep her safe.”