An Unfinished Task

Human beings are very difficult to understand, yet human behavior can sometimes bewilder even the sharpest mind. At times, the greatest sorrow fails to harm a person, while at other times, even a small happiness becomes unbearable and the heart simply gives up. Something similar happened to me, leaving me stunned by the strange mixture of cruelty and extreme obedience I witnessed. What name should truly be given to such behavior—that judgment I leave to you.

It happened like this.

I was resting at home when I received a call from Ghulam Qadir, my childhood friend and the local feudal lord of his area. He said, “Tomorrow is Sunday and you’re off. Come with me to the village. I want to show you the new lands I’ve bought.”

At first, I wasn’t in the mood. But he insisted so much that I finally agreed—on the condition that he would send me back to the city the same night, since I had office the next day. With a new job, getting leave was nearly impossible. Ghulam Qadir promised, and early Sunday morning, after the dawn prayer, we set off for the village.

We stopped for breakfast on the way, and after a long, exhausting journey, we finally arrived.

“Jamal, you must be tired. Rest for a while. After lunch, I’ll take you to see my agricultural lands,” he said.

My back had truly stiffened from the long drive, so the offer felt like a blessing. After resting for an hour, I bathed, prayed, and soon a servant brought hot food.

“Where is your master?” I asked.

“He’s coming. Please start,” the servant replied. Moments later, Ghulam Qadir joined me.

We ate heartily—chicken karahi cooked in desi ghee, corn bread, mustard greens, and a jug full of lassi. Afterward, Ghulam Qadir seated me in the car and went inside. I sat there, admiring the vast green fields stretching far into the distance. Soon, he returned, holding a thin boy of about twelve or thirteen close to him.

“Jamal, meet my son, Ghulam Muhammad.”

The boy greeted me politely. I shook his hand and placed my palm on his head in prayer. He looked exactly like his father but appeared far more serious and quiet than his age suggested.

“Jamal,” Ghulam Qadir said lovingly, “he is my only son, and everything I own belongs to him.”

I noticed the deep calm in the boy’s dark, shining eyes.

“I teach my son only one thing,” Ghulam Qadir continued. “Never leave any task unfinished. Don’t waste time. People leave this world, but their work remains behind.”

“That’s absolutely true,” I said, patting the boy’s head. He smiled faintly and stood closer to his father.

We then drove toward the lands. The region was lush and fertile. After some distance, the car stopped, and we got out.

“As far as your eyes can see, all of this is mine—fields, orchards, forests, animals. Nothing moves here without my permission,” Ghulam Qadir said proudly.

He explained how he had expanded these lands after his father’s death and how his son would one day inherit everything.

Suddenly, gunshots echoed from an unknown direction. I was terrified. The guards jumped out and took positions while we hid behind the vehicle.

“Don’t worry, Jamal. This happens here,” Ghulam Qadir said calmly. His composure—and that of his son—made me even more uneasy.

The guards fired back. Ghulam Qadir explained arrogantly that thieves had been trying to steal harvested crops and that they were waiting for the criminal’s bullets to run out.

Then, something unimaginable happened.

A stray bullet struck Ghulam Qadir’s head. He collapsed face-first onto the ground. My eyes froze in horror. I had never even seen a gun up close—and now my friend lay lifeless before me.

Ghulam Muhammad clung to his father’s body, crying. Shortly after, the guards dragged in another corpse—the man who had been firing.

The boy lifted his head, wiped his tears, stared at the body for a moment, and said calmly, “This is the accountant of the neighboring landlord.”

I wanted to hug him, to comfort that innocent child. But then he looked at me and said words that jolted me like an electric shock:

“Come, Uncle Jamal… let me show you the rest of the land. Take father home. I’ll come after finishing the work.”