Men Can Be Good Too

Twelve years ago, a girl came to me. She was very ill—weak, fragile, and pale.

I examined her. She was stunningly beautiful… those blue eyes of hers could captivate anyone.

I don’t know what happened to me, but in that very first glance, I lost my heart to her.

Yet, I stayed silent. Her treatment continued, and eventually, she recovered completely.

When she came to see me for the last time, I gathered courage and asked softly,

“Could you give me your number?”

It was against my profession, but I was young, naïve, and in love.

She looked at me for a moment, then quietly wrote her number down.

She was so beautiful that words fail me—her deep blue eyes, her wheatish complexion, her dimples when she smiled, her soft, flowing hair…

That night, I called her.

She instantly recognized me, “Yes, Doctor Sahib, I knew you would call.”

I asked, “What were you doing?”

In a low voice she said, “Just fighting with life.”

I laughed lightly, “Fighting with life? What kind of battle is that?”

She changed the subject, “Doctor Sahib, leave it. Tell me, why did you really call me? Why did you even take my number?”

I smiled, “Because I know how beautifully Allah has made you. You are very precious.”

She fell silent. Then after a pause she said, “Doctor Sahib, what good is being beautiful when destiny itself is so cruel? If only fate was as kind as the mirror…”

I asked, “Why? What’s wrong with your fate?”

She grew quiet again and finally whispered, “Doctor Sahib, you only want to pass time with me…”

I wanted to reply, but a patient came in, so I ended the call.

Still, our conversations continued in the days after.

One day she said, “Doctor Sahib, I know how deep your love is for me. Tell me, when and where should I meet you?”

Her words made my body shiver.

I told her, “Don’t say such things. I’m not that kind of man.”

I asked about her family. She softly replied, “Only my mother… and two younger sisters. My father isn’t alive. I have no brothers either.”

I asked how the household ran. She stayed silent, then excused herself to offer the evening prayer.

She would only talk during the day, never at night.

Whenever I insisted she talk at night, she refused, “I sleep early. I cannot.”

A year passed.

By then, I had made up my mind—I wanted to marry her.

I respected her deeply. She prayed five times a day, and because of her, I too started praying regularly.

She cared for me. She would message me during meals, asking if I had eaten. If I delayed, she would scold me lovingly.

But she always said one thing:

“Doctor Abrar, you are a very good man. I always pray Allah grants you a righteous wife.”

I would reply, my heart aching, “Iman, you are the only one I want as my wife.”

She would laugh and say, “No, Doctor Sahib, I am not worthy of you.”

No matter how much I scolded or spoke harshly, she never got angry. She bore it all with patience.

Once, when she didn’t answer my call, I scolded her badly.

After listening silently, she softly said, “Doctor Sahib, I sacrifice myself for you. Be as angry as you like, I will still cling to your feet.”

Her love would melt my heart every time.

When marriage talks began in my family, I told my parents, “I love a girl. I want to marry her.”

They agreed, “Son, it’s your life. We are with you.”

I showed them her picture. Everyone admired her beauty.

I was ecstatic—soon we would send a proposal to her house.

I called her and said, “Iman, give me your address. My parents want to bring the proposal.”

She instantly cut the call.

Her number went dead for five days. I grew restless. She had never given me her address before.

I was broken, hopeless.

A friend invited me to his wedding in another city. I didn’t want to go, but he insisted, so I went.

There, my friends were excited, “Wait till you see tonight’s performance! We’ve brought in a top dancer.”

My heart was heavy with Iman’s absence. I wasn’t interested in any dancer.

The music began. Girls came on stage, dancing. Everyone was whistling, cheering.

And then… my world collapsed.

It was Iman.

She was dancing on stage.

My body shook, my breath stopped. The girl who had made me pray, the girl who taught me faith, was right there dancing in front of everyone.

Her eyes met mine. She froze mid-step.

I walked up to her, burning with rage and betrayal.

When she came down the stage, trying to speak, I slapped her hard.

She lowered her eyes, tears welling.

She tried again, and I slapped her once more.

Everyone was shocked, staring at us.

She sat down, burying her face in her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

I turned away and left.

At home, I was restless, broken, filled with anger and disgust.

For two days, I couldn’t work.

Then, while checking patients in the hospital, a young girl came and said softly,

“Doctor Sahib, please listen once. It’s about Iman.”

The mere mention of her name made me snap, “Don’t say her name!”

But the girl continued, “Doctor Sahib, she’s not bad… she’s just helpless. Please, go to her house once. You’ll understand.

She truly loves you but never thought she was worthy of you.

Her mother is a cancer patient. Her sisters are still in school.

She wanted to live with dignity, but society pushed her into the mud. She had no choice but to dance for survival.

Doctor Sahib, please save her… she’s tired of fighting life.”

That night, I wept.

The girl had given me her address. The next day, I went with my parents.

We knocked. Her younger sister opened the door.

Inside, her mother lay weak on a cot, coughing.

We introduced ourselves. “We have come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Iman was offering prayer. When she came out and saw me, her eyes widened in shock.

“Doctor… you here?”

I smiled faintly. I hadn’t told anyone about her secret.

She pleaded, “Abrar, I am not a good girl.”

I replied, “The girl who made me pray five times a day—how can she not be good? Circumstances forced you, but now I am here. From today, your honor is mine to protect.”

She broke down, crying uncontrollably.

We married soon after.

I never told anyone that she had once been a dancer. Why should I? Why stain her when it was her circumstances, not her character?

As she cried in my arms, she whispered, “Abrar… you are an angel among men. While others destroy women’s honor, you have become its protector. I never knew men could be this beautiful.”

I kissed her forehead and said,

“A true man is not the one who turns a modest woman into a fallen one…

A true man is the one who turns even a broken woman back into someone honorable.”

And as I sipped my tea, watching Iman smiling in the kitchen, I realized—

Yes, there are still such men in this world.