The Roar That Tore Us Apart

The Roar That Tore Us Apart

“He Raised It with Love. It Repaid Him in Blood.”

By [Abdu Ul Hadi]

The first time Adeel saw the lion cub, it was shivering in a ditch at the edge of the forest, barely alive, its eyes too big for its small, fragile body. His father had warned him never to wander into the woods alone, but something about the weak growl he heard that morning made his feet disobey.

He named the cub Sheru. It was meant to be a secret, but secrets don’t last long in a small village. When his parents discovered the lion, they were terrified—but Adeel pleaded. His mother, though fearful, couldn't resist the sight of her son curled up next to the cub like they were born of the same blood. His father, reluctantly, agreed—so long as Sheru remained caged and trained.

But Sheru was not a dog. He grew fast. Stronger, wilder. By the time Adeel was fifteen, Sheru was nearly his size—then larger. Their bond deepened. Sheru would nuzzle his head against Adeel's chest, follow his voice, even guard the house. The village began to call him "the lion boy."

But nature, no matter how loved, cannot be rewritten.

It began with the chickens. Then a goat. Adeel found the bloodied remains in the backyard and brushed it off as wild dogs. But his father knew. "The lion you feed with love can still feed on you one day," he warned.

Adeel ignored the signs. He had raised Sheru from a cub. He trusted him with his life.

One rainy evening, thunder rolled across the sky as the power went out. Adeel’s younger sister, Amal, went outside to check the clothesline. A scream pierced the night. Adeel rushed out, heart racing.

He found her on the ground—alive, but scratched, her dress torn. Sheru stood over her, growling, confused, wild-eyed. Blood stained his paws.

Adeel stepped between them. “Sheru, no!” he cried.

The lion froze, breathing heavily, the rain matting his mane. His eyes met Adeel’s—not with guilt, not with recognition—but with something older. Something primal.

Sheru ran into the woods. That night, Adeel didn’t sleep. His sister survived, but fear had taken root in the household.

The villagers turned. Whispers became warnings. Someone would get killed, they said. It was only a matter of time.

A week later, the lion returned. Adeel saw him standing at the edge of the trees, watching the house. He didn’t know whether Sheru came back for food, for shelter—or for something else.

But Adeel made a choice.

He packed a bag with raw meat, a blanket, and the whistle Sheru had known since he was a cub. Then he walked into the forest alone.

He found Sheru waiting in a clearing, near the ruins of their old campsite where they'd trained together as boy and cub. The lion stepped forward. Adeel did too.

He reached out slowly. Sheru growled, low and deep.

“I loved you like a brother,” Adeel whispered. “But you were never mine to keep.”

Sheru lunged—but not with full force. His claws grazed Adeel's shoulder, sending him to the ground. He didn’t fight. He just lay there, bleeding slightly, eyes locked with the beast he once raised.

Sheru hovered above him, growling, but then stopped. Breathing hard, the lion stepped back. Then, with one last long look, he turned and disappeared into the trees.

Adeel didn’t chase him.

Now, years later, Adeel often walks to that same clearing, scars still etched across his shoulder, more on his heart. The villagers never saw Sheru again, though some claim they’ve heard roars echo through the hills on stormy nights.

Some say Adeel should be thankful he survived. Others say he was foolish to love something wild.

But Adeel knows the truth.

He didn’t lose Sheru because he raised a lion.

He lost Sheru because he tried to raise it like a boy.

And sometimes, love isn’t enough to tame what was never meant to be tamed.