Death is better than unemployment

Sometimes, a lie feeds the family better than the truth.

⸻

The alarm rang at six, as it had every day for the last fifteen years.

Arif rose quietly from bed, careful not to wake his wife. The winter air bit through the thin curtains of their small apartment. He put on his old office shirt, pressed neatly the night before, and tied the same blue tie that had faded from navy to sky.

He glanced in the mirror. The tie looked fine. The man inside it didn’t.

He picked up his worn leather briefcase — empty except for an old newspaper and a broken pen — and stepped outside. His wife called softly from the kitchen, “Don’t forget your lunch.”

He smiled back, “Of course not.”

She didn’t know that for the past three months, he had no office to go to.

⸻

The factory had closed suddenly. Layoffs, management said. Nothing personal.

At first, Arif thought it was temporary. He told his wife, “A few weeks, that’s all.”

Then the savings began to thin, like soup stretched with water.

He couldn’t bear to tell her the truth — not when she still believed in him, not when his children still ran to the door every evening shouting, “Abbu’s home!”

So every morning, he dressed as always, left the house, and walked.

Sometimes he sat in the park with other invisible men — the jobless who pretended to be busy. They shared silent cigarettes and newspapers filled with false hope. Sometimes he lingered near his old factory gate, half-expecting someone to call him back inside.

By noon, he would eat his lunch — a simple roti and tea — on a park bench, watching workers hurry by with their ID cards and purpose.

At five, he’d return home with a tired smile and the illusion of another “normal” day.

⸻

But the lies grew heavier with time.

The rent was late. His wife started cutting back on groceries, pretending she didn’t notice. His daughter’s school fees were overdue. His youngest asked for a new pair of shoes — Arif promised “next month.”

Each word tasted like poison.

One evening, his wife handed him an envelope.

“It’s from the landlord,” she said quietly.

Arif opened it. The eviction notice felt heavier than bricks.

He nodded, folded the paper neatly, and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

But that night, he couldn’t sleep. The walls of their room felt smaller than ever. His wife’s soft breathing beside him sounded like guilt.

⸻

The next morning, Arif walked to the old factory again. It was still silent, its gates locked, windows dusted with memories. A security guard he knew from before recognized him and waved.

“No luck yet?” the guard asked kindly.

Arif smiled weakly. “Not yet.”

He sat on the curb and thought about his father — a man who had died with nothing but dignity. “Never let your family see you defeated,” his father had once said.

But what if hiding defeat is the defeat?

A light drizzle began to fall. The sky looked tired, like him.

He walked aimlessly until evening, through streets where people hurried to catch buses home. They all had somewhere to go. He had nowhere left that was real.

When he reached his apartment, he paused at the door. From inside, he heard laughter — his wife telling their children to wash before dinner. The smell of lentils filled the air. Warmth, life, love — all the things he no longer felt he deserved.

He couldn’t step inside. Not yet.

Instead, he walked past his own home and kept going, down to the riverbank where the city lights flickered like distant promises.

He sat there for hours, staring at the black water.

He imagined how peaceful it would be to stop pretending — to let the world forget him.

Then he saw a small shape moving near the river: a boy, no more than ten, picking through trash with a stick.

The boy whistled as he worked, humming to himself, smiling each time he found a scrap of metal.

Arif watched him in silence.

That boy had nothing — no job, no roof, no clean shirt — and yet he still smiled.

And in that moment, something inside Arif broke and healed at the same time.

He realized death wasn’t the answer. But lying about life wasn’t living either.

⸻

The next morning, Arif didn’t wear his tie.

He sat his wife down and told her everything — the factory, the lies, the shame, the long walks. He expected anger, maybe tears. But she only took his hand.

“Arif,” she said softly, “we lost the job, not you.”

For the first time in months, he cried — not from weakness, but from relief.

That day, he went to the market and helped a street vendor sell fruit. It wasn’t a real job — just a few coins, a few hours. But it was honest. The first real work he’d done in months.

When he returned home that evening, his daughter still ran to the door shouting, “Abbu’s home!”

This time, he smiled for real.

⸻

Moral:

Dignity isn’t in the job.

It’s in the courage to keep standing — even when the world stops seeing your worth.