Naeem — A Silent Love

Naeem was no longer the caretaker of the storeroom.

He had become something else — a shadow moving quietly within the walls of our house.

Once, my mother never allowed him to step beyond the threshold, yet now, he could be seen every day — watering the plants, sweeping the courtyard, carrying trays to the veranda.

Baji Samina’s behavior toward him was strange.

At times she would scold him sharply, “Who asked you to come inside?”

And at other times, she would take a cup of tea from his trembling hands with a faint smile.

I was too young to understand the world, yet not too young to feel that something was changing. Questions began to cloud my mind — questions I could neither ask nor silence.

One afternoon, I came home early from school. As I entered the hallway, I froze.

Naeem stood motionless near the main door, holding my late mother’s old teacup set — the one she never allowed anyone to touch.

“How did you come in?” I asked, startled.

He stammered, “Baji told me… to wash it and keep it safe.”

His voice trembled as if caught between fear and guilt.

I said nothing, but a strange unease filled my chest — like a whisper of something forbidden stirring in the air.

Days turned into weeks.

By now, it was common to see Baji sitting in the courtyard at dusk, her dupatta wrapped lightly around her shoulders, and Naeem standing a few steps away — sometimes holding a cloth, sometimes a tray of tea.

Their words were few, yet their silence spoke volumes.

Father knew nothing.

He was buried deep in his business affairs, too distant to notice the quiet currents running through the house.

One evening, I noticed a glow on Baji’s face — a softness in her eyes I hadn’t seen since Mother passed away.

I teased her gently, “Baji, you seem happy. Have you started liking someone?”

She startled, then laughed nervously. “You’re too young to say such things.”

But her voice quivered, and that tremor etched a line of worry in my heart.

Rumors began to drift through the neighborhood like smoke.

Someone claimed to have seen a light in the storeroom late at night.

Someone else whispered that Naeem had grown bold — too bold.

The whispers reached Father’s ears.

One night, he came home unexpectedly early.

I hid behind the door and watched him walk straight toward the storeroom.

The door creaked open — a tense silence — and then a sharp, thunderous sound broke it.

I ran to my room, my heart racing.

Moments later, I heard Baji sobbing.

Naeem stood outside the door, head bowed.

Father’s face burned red with fury.

By morning, everything had changed.

Naeem was gone.

Father’s voice thundered through the house:

“He will never cross this threshold again.”

Baji’s face turned pale.

She locked herself in her room for the entire day, and that night, I heard her muffled cries through the walls.

I was still a child, but I understood — something had broken that could never be mended.

The house grew quieter after that.

It was as if silence had spread like mist, touching every corner.

Baji no longer smiled.

She spoke little, laughed less, and spent her evenings on the rooftop, staring at the endless sky.

Sometimes I would join her.

She would only whisper, “Everything feels like a dream… a dream that shattered too soon.”

Months later, Father announced his decision.

“It’s time to arrange your sister’s marriage,” he said firmly.

A respectable proposal had arrived — a wealthy trader’s son.

But Baji’s eyes dimmed. She lowered her gaze and replied softly,

“I am no longer worthy of anyone, Abba.”

Her words cut through the room like a blade.

That was the first time I saw Father’s eyes fill with tears.

Days turned to months, months to years.

Rumors said Naeem had left the city.

Some said he worked in a factory in Peshawar; others said he labored in Lahore.

But his presence — his shadow — was gone from our home forever.

I grew up, went to college, tried to live as life demanded.

Yet, from my rooftop, I could still see the old storeroom — silent, locked, rust growing on its door.

Sometimes I felt as if it still waited for someone — someone who had promised to return.

One autumn evening, Baji entered my room.

The air smelled of falling leaves, heavy and golden.

She held a folded piece of paper in her hand.

“This was lying outside near the storeroom,” she said quietly. “Perhaps someone dropped it.”

I unfolded it.

There were only two lines written in rough, faded ink:

“I committed no sin — I only loved.”

Below it, a single name: Naeem.

A chill ran through me.

When I looked up, Baji’s face was calm — too calm.

A faint smile touched her lips, as though an unfinished story had finally found its last line.

“See, little one,” she whispered. “He didn’t forget his promise.”

A few days later, she fell ill.

The doctors came and went; medicines filled the side table.

But the sadness that had settled in her heart could not be cured.

One night, she took my hand in hers.

Her voice was faint but steady.

“If Naeem ever returns,” she said,

“tell him… I never brought him shame.

Everything that happened was fate — nothing more.”

Tears blurred my vision.

She smiled gently, closed her eyes — and drifted into a sleep that never ended.

Father arranged the funeral in silence.

No wailing, no lamenting.

Only the scent of wilted flowers and the echo of an unfinished promise hanging in the air.

Years passed.

Life carried me far from that house.

I got married, had a home of my own, and yet, sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I would remember the sound of that storeroom door — how it used to creak, how it once whispered secrets.

One afternoon, while walking through the market with my husband, I froze.

There, across the street, stood a man — face lined with years, hair gray and thin, but the eyes… the eyes were unmistakable.

“Naeem?” I whispered.

He looked up slowly, surprise flickering in his gaze.

Then, with quiet humility, he said, “Yes… it’s me.”

My lips trembled. “Baji Samina…”

He smiled — a tired, broken smile.

“I know,” he said softly. “She’s gone.

But her prayers… they’ve never left me.”

Before I could say another word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow swallowed by the light.

I stood there for a long time, unable to move.

It felt as if life had come full circle — the story of Naeem and Baji, of love, silence, and separation, had reached its quiet end.

The storeroom still stands where it always did — empty, locked, rusted by time.

And yet, sometimes, on quiet nights, I imagine hearing a faint knock upon its door,

a whisper carried by the wind —

“I committed no sin…

I only loved.”