The Echoes of a Broken Past

Every human’s life is a story, and when the pain of passing time begins to ache in the chest, tears spill over. At such moments, the heart wishes to lighten its burden by sharing this story with someone. My childhood was spent in orphanhood. My mother bore every hardship that a grieving widow could endure, but she couldn’t fill the void of a father. So, a sense of deprivation stayed with me always, and youth crept in quietly. After matriculation, I stayed home.

My mother thought it was time to relieve herself of her responsibilities. There were many marriage proposals, but none accepted me. The reason was that my mother was a widow, I was an orphan, and we lived with my maternal uncle, Mamu. In those days, life felt like a colorless scene to me. I was among those unfortunate girls who never received anyone’s affection. Time passed silently. Days dragged on tediously until one day, Mamu’s friend brought a wedding invitation for his son.

I was happy to see the card, thinking it would break the monotony. Some of my friends and Khalah Jan (Aunt Khalah) — who was the neighbor of the bride’s family — were also attending. We went to the wedding. Shortly after, Khalah Jan arrived. She was my mother’s cousin, and my marriage to her son, Bakhtiar, was under discussion. I longed to see him. Everyone called Bakhtiar affectionately. When we entered the courtyard, someone passed by me. He was strikingly handsome, though I didn’t recognize him. His personality was magnetic. I wondered if this was Bakhtiar. Seeing two brothers standing near the food stalls, I asked Khalah’s younger daughter, “Which one is he?” She pointed to the one in the gray suit. I lowered my gaze — it was him.

At the bride’s house, my eyes kept searching for him. He was watching me too. His sister, Fauzia, brought a camera and started taking photos. I didn’t want Bakhtiar to take my pictures and tried hiding, but ended up colliding with him. My heart raced. I returned home with a sweet memory. Days later, I insisted my mother request the wedding video from Khalah’s house. She said we’d have to call them.

I went to a friend’s house to call. When I dialed, someone answered, “Hello.” I asked, “Who is this?” The reply: “Bakhtiar!” Happily, I asked for the video, which wasn’t ready yet. We chatted briefly, and I felt overjoyed. When I told my cousin Hina about talking to Bakhtiar, she stayed quiet. The next day, Bakhtiar called again through his sister. Since Mamu kept his phone locked, we couldn’t make outgoing calls. We talked for hours.

The following day, Hina lied about visiting her aunt and hid in the room. I took the keys from Mumani (aunt) and called Bakhtiar’s house. He answered, and we spoke for an hour. When I hung up, Hina emerged, threatening to tell Mamu everything. Despite my pleas, she exposed our conversations. Mamu erupted in anger, blaming my mother: “Your beloved daughter has shamed us before the proposal is even finalized! This marriage won’t happen.” The hatred I faced afterward was unbearable. I became a living corpse, indifferent to food or drink, as Mamu’s decision crushed my hopes. My family humiliated me deeply. Hina, inexplicably, turned into my enemy.

My mother resigned to fate, awaiting another proposal. Meanwhile, a distant relative, Zubair, visited from Karachi. His charm enchanted my mother and Mamu. She prayed for him to become her son-in-law. Before leaving, Zubair promised to marry me and send his parents for formalities. After he left, gloom settled over me. Later, I learned his parents arranged his marriage to a cousin. Devastated, I protested when my mother accepted another proposal I disliked. Not wanting to disobey, I submitted to her and God’s will, marrying a stranger.

My husband was decent, but his family was traditional. Within months, my sisters-in-law made life hell. I withered away, crying endlessly. I became a mother to a son and daughter, but circumstances worsened. My husband grew distant, consumed first by work, then by vices. Amid household chores and childcare, I received news of my mother’s death. She left silently, abandoning me to loneliness.

Years passed. The children grew, and my husband remarried. I protested fiercely, but my in-laws supported me, vowing his second wife wouldn’t live with us. Their “mercy” became my only refuge, as I had no one else. My husband severed all ties, leaving me reliant on my in-laws.

One day, a shopkeeper named Waqas noticed me. Aware of my plight, he began sending flowers and letters. I avoided him until my son needed school supplies. At his shop, vulnerability led me to listen. He proposed marriage, urging me to seek khula (divorce). I met him in a secluded park, where he promised to care for my children. Though conflicted, I refused, fearing my in-laws’ wrath.

Waqas persisted. When he fell ill, I visited him in the hospital and later his home, where only his elderly mother and widowed sister lived. He pleaded again: “Leave this life. I’ll marry you.” Tormented, I vowed to cut ties. But he called months later, pressuring me to file for khula. During a secret meeting, a relative spotted us and informed my husband. He returned after years, silent but cold. Soon after, thugs beat Waqas brutally, breaking his legs. Months later, after surgery, he vanished — likely my husband’s revenge.

His family still searches for him, weeping blood-soaked tears. My husband never returned, indifferent to our children’s needs. Yet society insists I remain his wife, bound to this hollow life. If not for my in-laws, I’d be destitute. I pray God guides husbands who trample wives’ rights.