Humsafar: The Revenge of Khizar

I loved her like I'd never loved anyone before—Sara Ajmal, my cousin, who I met for the first time on my 7th birthday in the distinctly wealthy city of Karachi in Pakistan. 

When Sara walked in, she seemed like someone from another world, and I couldn't take my eyes off her.

Her hair was flawless, silky curls, bouncing as she moved. Her skin was smooth and glowing, with a soft, golden undertone that seemed to catch the dimmest of light. Her almond-shaped eyes were so dark, sparkled with mischief and framed by thick lashes, making her gaze feel hypnotizing.

She wore brown fuzzy boots. The kind you would always remember, the kind I'd only seen in TV commercials, and paired with a huge white furry coat draped over her slender shoulders. The coat looked so soft that it might have been made from clouds. Her prominent lips were a shade of pink, perfectly shaped, and curved into a smile that lit up the entire room.

Even the way she stood was attractive—calm, confident, like she was meant to be admired. She had delicate hands, her nails trimmed and painted in a shimmery red color that matched the fire in her eyes. Her earrings, tiny silver studs, shined every time she turned her head.

Everything about her felt unreal, like she had stepped out of one of those glossy magazines my mother sometimes brought home to loose herself in when the stench of our poverty-stricken home overwhelmed her. 

Suddenly, our little house with its cracked walls and dim lighting seemed brighter, just because Sara existed and I could take her home with me, in my dreams anyway. 

You see, we were a humble family living in Hyderabad, Pakistan. The streets were crowded and noisy, with vendors calling out as they sold hot samosas, steaming cups of chai, and colorful bangles. Our house in comparison was small, just two bedrooms with old walls and a fan that barely worked during the blazing summers in our constantly unkempt kitchen that always stank like the sewers we were living on top of. 

Life for us had always been hard. My parents worked endlessly, yet it was never enough. My father carried heavy loads of bricks on construction sites, and my mother spent her days stitching beautiful patterns on expensive clothes for rich clients who barely noticed her work.

I felt out of place all the time, no matter where I ended up. Even at the school my parents struggled to send me to. No matter how many showers I took, it was never good enough—not even when I started stealing toys from the street markets to fit in. No one wanted to play with me long enough to be a real friend. While the other kids arrived in fancy cars with lunchboxes full of treats, I carried a simple paratha wrapped in newspaper. Even though I was smart and once begged my uncle to give my father a loan for my studies, I couldn't shake off the feeling of being a parasite amongst my peers and generally everyone in the entire city. Everyone was struggling to survive here with hardly any motivation to do better or change their daily routine at all. 

But now… now there was this beautiful girl who had the entire room's attention. The same familiar faint smell of roti baking in the tandoor mixed with the earthy scent of wet clay from the courtyard completely changed. 

 Just as she entered the room, Sara walked straight toward me, carrying a bag almost as big as both of us. I just stood there, staring at her, my mouth hanging open.

"Happy birthday!" she wished me in the sweetest voice I had ever heard—it was like it was dipped in honey—she was holding the big bag out in front of me. 

My hands hesitated, I couldn't say anything; I didn't take the bag and just kept gazing at her, frozen.

"Are you going to take it or just stand there?" my neighbor, Bilal, muttered, nudging me hard in the ribs. He had only come because his mother made him.

"Uh... yeah, right," I mumbled, finally grabbing the bag.

I looked at Sara, unsure if I was supposed to open it right away. 

She nodded enthusiastically, her curls bouncing. "Go on! Open it!"

I pulled at the handles, and the bag toppled over.

"Whoa!" I gasped.

Several items tumbled over in front of our eyes. Each gift was more expensive than the other. She could only have gotten them from the big shopping malls that I only watched my classmates meet their parents after school, waiting to pick up their new toys and expensive snacks that I would never get the chance to eat.

"Do you like it?" Sara asked, her eyes sparkling.

I nodded quickly, still too stunned to speak. "This... this is amazing!" I finally managed to say.

"I picked everything myself," she said proudly. "Mama helped, but mostly it was all me!"

Bilal, peeking over my shoulder, muttered, "Lucky you. I only got some stale biscuits on my last birthday."

Sara laughed. "Well, you're special today," she said, patting my arm before she left to meet up with her parents outside. 

And just like that, she turned my modest birthday into something extraordinary before she disappeared into thin air on the party I would never have if I didn't get the highest result on my exams this year. 

Since that day, everything changed for me.

I never forgot Sara, not even once. 

Sara stayed in my thoughts constantly, a memory I could never let go of, no matter how much time passed.

Besides, since everyone had seen the unusual girl walk to me with that giant bag of expensive presents and hand them to me herself, every one changed. All of a sudden, people wanted to be my friend, even at school. It was like I had been invisible before, and now, out of nowhere, they could see me even though I had spent so much time being lonely, keeping to myself because no one really cared. I had already learned to rely on my own company. 

But now, because of this one rich cousin I had barely spoken to, everyone wanted to know me. Well, not really me—they just wanted to know about her—from me.

"Hey, is Sara coming back to visit?" one kid asked during lunch. "What kind of gifts does she usually bring him?" another whispered in class.

They didn't care about me. They just wanted what they could do to get to know about her or get something from her. 

It made me angry.

How can people stoop so low?

But at the same time, it also made me realize something: I was protective of her. I highly felt the need to not have Sara be used by anyone. Not the way I had felt so many times before. I didn't want anyone taking advantage of her. 

So I decided right then and there that I would guard her from the world, no matter who came asking for her.

So much so, I promised myself I would do an even better job than her parents ever did to shield her.

And even now, after all these years, I've never forgotten her. She was the first person to make me feel seen, and for that, I'll always be grateful.

I couldn't stop obsessing over Sara after that day. I asked my parents about her constantly—where she lived, what she liked, when I'd see her again. But no matter how many times I asked, they refused to give me answers.

"She's just your uncle's daughter," my mother would say dismissively, her tone sharp, like she wanted to shut me up before I could ask anything else.

"Our families aren't close," my father muttered once, not even looking at me, as if the subject wasn't worth his attention.

Their silence only fuelled my obsession. Why wouldn't they tell me anything? What were they hiding? It felt like they were keeping her from me on purpose.

I couldn't take it. My thoughts became louder, messier, clawing at my mind every second of the day. I'd see her face whenever I closed my eyes—her perfect curls, that bright smile, the way she lit up the room. I needed to know more.

When their silence became too much, something inside me snapped. I'd scream at them, demand answers, and cry until my vocal chords gave out. I'd throw things, claw at the walls, anything to force them to talk. But they never did.

It felt like they were robbing me of something I deserved. Something that belonged to me. And every time they ignored me, it only made my obsession with her grow stronger.

It wasn't fair in my head. You see, my parents never let me have anything nice or decent my whole life—not clothes, not food, not even toys—and now they wouldn't even answer the questions about her? My cousin?

It felt like they were keeping secrets from me on purpose, and that only made me more frustrated. How could they just shut me out like that? All I wanted was to understand why things were the way they were, but they acted like I didn't even deserve that. It hurt more than I could explain.

You see, Sara's father and mine were brothers, but something had happened between them. It wasn't until years later that I finally found out the truth. 

Apparently, when my uncle got rich at their father's company, he cut ties with the rest of us. He worked his way to the top and didn't look back, leaving us behind in the streets of our poverty-stricken town in Pakistan.

And my father? He stayed where he was, working long, hard days on construction sites under the blazing sun with no ambition to do anything more. I'd watch him drag himself home late at night, his shalwar kameez soaked in sweat and his face streaked with dust. He'd head straight for our broken shower, scrubbing at his skin like he was trying to wash away the struggles of his day, but it never seemed enough. The smell of cement, mud, and hard labor clung to him, just as my frustration clung to me.

I couldn't help but think it was his fault. His lack of drive, his inability to aim higher—that's why we lived the way we did. That's why I stank so much that no one at school wanted to sit near me. It wasn't just the smell; it was the difference between us and them. My classmates came to school in ironed uniforms, their polished shoes shining in the morning sun, while I walked in scuffed sandals and a kurta my mother stitched from leftover fabric.

It all seemed so unfair, but what could I do to fix it? 

All I could do was wish I had a life more like Sara's—bright, polished, and perfect—so far removed from the chaos I was stuck in.

As for my mother, she didn't push my father to do better, nor did she help me with my studies like the other moms I heard about. She was illiterate, a product of her own harsh upbringing, spending most of her time over a pot of daal or curry in our dimly lit kitchen. The food was often bland, sometimes even burned, but she had no choice but to make do with what we could afford.

Not that it was all her fault. My father barely made enough as it was. Most days, it felt like we were just scraping by, trying to stretch the little my father earned to cover all the needs of a family in a place where prices rose faster than hopes ever could.

I remember figuring out one day—after overhearing some parents at school talk about their jobs—that my dad made maybe one-fifth of what most of my classmates' parents earned.

They had cars, fancy houses, and packed their kids' bags with expensive treats. My parents couldn't even provide me with the basics I needed, even though they somehow managed to send me to school. It was a strange balance—paying for an education they could barely afford while not being able to give me much else.

It left me feeling stuck, like I didn't know which world I belonged.