Zulekha was getting ready to leave for Multan and then Sukkur when she suddenly saw her granddaughter entering through the front gate of the house. A sense of peace and quiet happiness ran through her veins at the sight of Subha’s smiling face. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her.
When Subha noticed the travel bag lying nearby, excitement lit up her face. Her dear old grandmother whom she had called Ammi since childhood, a habit she and her cousins had picked up from their parents, was going on another journey so soon.

“Ammi, where are you going now?” Subha asked curiously. “You just came back from Lahore two weeks ago.”
Zulekha looked at the youngest child of her only daughter. Subha carried all her mother’s features, except for her complexion and her nose, an inheritance that was often praised within the family. According to Subha’s mother, “If the nose is crooked, too long, or unpleasant in any way, the whole face loses its balance.”
Zulekha’s daughter, Mehrunisa, her second child and only daughter, had two children: a son, now in his senior year at one of Pakistan’s finest universities, and a daughter five years younger than him, currently studying in high school.

Answering her granddaughter, Zulekha said quietly:
“I must go to Multan. One of my distant relatives has passed away, and I must pay my respects.”
Subha responded immediately; her voice edged with resentment.
“Why do you keep going back to those relatives again? They’re the same people who hurt you and your children so deeply that Mama still cries whenever she remembers them or Grandpa.”
Zulekha had no answer. As always, she said only this: traditions and customs cannot be abandoned entirely. They must be followed—one way or another.

That evening, after Subha returned home, Zulekha sat alone in her small kitchen, cooking dinner for herself and her eldest son. The kettle hissed softly. The walls held the weight of years.
And memory returned—without permission. Her thoughts drifted back to her childhood and teenage years, to a time when she herself had been a young and beautiful woman.

Zulekha Begum was the last child of her mother, though not of her father. Her mother had been married twice and had two sons from her first marriage. After the death of her first husband, her parents married her again. Her second husband, too, was entering a second marriage, and through him Zulekha gained half-brothers on both sides of the family. Of all those brothers, only one would live long enough to witness the course of his sister’s life. But the second marriage proved to be a mistake. The man was lazy, irresponsible, and contributed nothing to the household. Once a wealthy woman, she lost everything during Partition. With no support from her husband, she took up a low-paying government job at a small school to feed and educate her three children.

They call it fate, destiny, sacrifice, blessing, Allah’s will.
So many names… but not all bring happiness.
Once, these words were spoken around her like final truths—unchallengeable, unquestioned. Zulekha had listened in silence, learning early that some decisions arrive already sealed.

Now, in her small kitchen, decades later, Zulekha remembered. Her mind travelled more than half a century back—to a cold night in September 1959. She was only thirteen then—old enough to understand fear, too young to name it.
That night, her uncle—the elder brother of her father, a man who refused to bend his conscience for power or wealth—took her to the railway station in Multan. Her father, driven by greed for land, was planning to marry her off to an elderly landowner.
A man with two wives already.
A man known for cruelty.
A man who beat his wives, confined them, denied them even the right to step outside.

Her uncle knew him personally. He knew what awaited Zulekha. That was why he sent her away—to Lahore. Not as rebellion, but as rescue.
There, he bought her a ticket to Lahore, seated her on a wooden bench, and tried his best to explain calmly what was happening and why she was being sent away in such haste, back to her mother.

“Zulekha, my dear child,” he said gently,
“I know you must have many questions, but time is short, and I may never see you again. Please forgive me. I had no choice but to send you back to your mother. She will take care of you.”

Suddenly, the announcement for the train bound for Lahore echoed through the station. Zulekha’s uncle hurriedly took her hand, lifted her small bag onto his shoulder, and led her toward the carriage. He helped her find her seat and sat beside her for a moment, trying to say what little he could.

“I don’t have much time…” he began.
“What do you mean?” Zulekha asked innocently. “We can talk on the way to Lahore.”

The man looked at the young girl, so unaware of what life was preparing to place upon her shoulders once she reached her mother.
“I cannot go with you, my child. For that, I am sorry. But you must listen to me carefully,” he said urgently. “Do not trust your father. You understand the difference between Muslims and Ahmadis. Trust no one except your mother.”

He could say no more. The train began to move. With tears filling her eyes, Zulekha looked at him one last time; her mind crowded with questions she would never get the chance to ask.
Oh fate, oh destiny, who among you would tell this innocent child, this beautiful girl, that nearly half a century later she would finally understand how cruel life could be, and how merciless one’s own blood might turn out to be?

It was her first journey alone. Her uncle had wanted to accompany her, but doing so would have cost him his life at the hands of his own family. Everyone, after all, is bound in one way or another by family rules, culture, and tradition.
Life, she later learned, does not unfold the way it is promised.
It narrows instead—into duty, into endurance, into days measured by necessity.

Zulekha kept her eyes open throughout the journey. She pulled her scarf tightly over her head and adjusted her burqa. Behind the veil, who would notice that she was only thirteen years old and not a grown woman?

And oh fate, oh destiny, Life asks again what was her fault?
What crime had she committed?
Was it being born a girl?
Was it being born too early—before she could speak for herself?
Did anyone ask her age? Did anyone listen to the screams, the cries, the desperate pleas?
No. They did not. For no cruelty is greater than that committed by a human being.
Men spoke of protection, cloaking control in the language of honor and tradition.

That night was the first of many nights Zulekha would spend in fear, praying silently for her safety. The train arrived in Lahore at dawn, where her mother stood anxiously waiting. Perhaps she had already been informed by her brother-in-law, or perhaps she had been part of the plan all along.

The moment Zulekha saw her mother, she ran toward her with arms wide open. It was their first meeting in four months. Yaqoob had taken her away, promising to bring her back within a few days, but he never did. Zulekha knew her mother could not come to Multan, and so she never complained.

Maryam Begum took her daughter home, where Zulekha would spend a year and a half in bliss. These days would remain the most peaceful and joyful of her life. Even on her deathbed, she would remember the compliments she received, the evenings spent with her brothers, and the gentle smile of her beloved mother who would soon be taken from her as well.

A year and a half, destiny whispered to life that was all the happiness written for Zulekha.
“Why?” Life asked. “Why not give her more?”
Destiny replied that traditions, loops, and centuries-old cycles must be obeyed. There was no room for questions.
“But she is happy now,” life protested. “She is free from her father’s grasp, free from a fate that would sell her to an elderly landowner for money.”
Destiny answered coldly that the same story had to repeat itself to keep the cycle alive. What was so difficult about that? It had happened for centuries, and it would continue no matter how educated people became. In hidden corners of the world, the filth would remain.

And so, fate and destiny placed yet another mountain upon Zulekha’s shoulders.
“What do we call this thing again life?” asked Destiny.
“What do you mean?” Life replied. “We do not name it. Humans do.”

“They call it fate,” Destiny said. “They call it destiny, a compromise, a sacrifice—Allah’s will. They dress it in many names, many excuses. They tell young girls, little children, that marriage is beautiful, that a man will give them happiness. But not all marriages bring joy.”
Some end like Maryam’s first marriage in death.
Some end like her second in betrayal.
Some do not end at all, leaving a lifetime of pain for a woman to carry alone.

One day they call them girls, and the next they call them wives and mothers. They place responsibilities upon women far beyond their age.

Maryam hurried home from school, her breath uneven as she reached the house and began packing Zulekha’s clothes and necessities. Zulekha, who had been working in the kitchen, entered the room and stared at her mother in confusion.

“What are you doing, Ammi?” She asked softly. “Why are you packing my things? I’m not going anywhere. If I’ve done something wrong, tell me.”

Maryam looked at her daughter, so innocent, and so accustomed to placing others before herself. She held Zulekha’s hand and took a deep breath before speaking.

“Zulekha, my dear child,” she said quietly, “your father has sent a letter. He wants you to marry a man of his choice. And you know, he would not be a better choice. Please, just come with me and do as I say. Trust me.”

Zulekha had no choice. She trusted her mother more than anything in the world. She understood that whatever was happening, her mother was acting out of necessity, not cruelty.

Maryam took her daughter from Lahore to Bahawalnagar, where they stayed at her cousin’s house. The very next day, Zulekha was married to her mother’s cousin’s son, her second cousin. Nearly thirty years her senior, Ibrahim was emotionally distant—a man married to a girl not yet fourteen.

Maryam returned to Lahore. Zulekha was no longer a girl.
Her presence was not welcomed by her mother-in-law and sister-in-law, and soon she was sent back to live with her mother. Ibrahim cared more for his relatives and friends than for his wife. When their first son was born, he showed little affection toward the child for years.

Two years later, Allah blessed them with a daughter, the only daughter they would ever have. Ibrahim was harsh with his sons, yet distant even from his daughter, though never cruel to her. A year later, another son was born. By the time Zulekha turned twenty, she was already the mother of three.

Throughout these years, Zulekha lived with her mother. Ibrahim visited occasionally when business brought him to Lahore, never staying for more than a few days, much like Zulekha’s own father, who appeared every few months, offered no affection, and disappeared again. Ibrahim provided money, clothes, and necessities. These material gestures would later be remembered by his children, especially his daughter, who would grow up struggling for her own children’s survival.

Destiny whispered again to life that this was how the cycle continued.
Ibrahim provided material comfort but never security, never affection. Material comfort could not excuse the absence of security. Destiny had to crush the mountain once more, this time with Zulekha’s children beneath the rubble.

A year later, her fourth child—a son—was born, Ibrahim died suddenly of undiagnosed appendicitis. The night he passed away, he had planned to buy a television set for the children the next morning. Zulekha was still in her early twenties when she became a widow.

“Oh destiny, oh fate, what is this?” Life cried.
“This is life,” they replied. “It brings tests. It brings trials. But it is always harsher for women, for widows, and for orphans. It hides thorns inside creatures called humans.”

Zulekha was now a widow. Destiny placed another mountain on her shoulders—this time with four children beneath the rubble. She received no support from her husband’s family. His mother and sister refused financial help and even denied shelter. His business was taken over by partners and relatives who gave nothing to their rightful heirs.

With nowhere else to go, Zulekha took her children back to her mother’s home in Lahore. Two years later, when Zulekha had barely learned how to survive alone, destiny struck again. Death entered that house of grief and took Maryam, the anchor of Zulekha’s life, the only source of security she had ever known.

Now Zulekha was truly alone. She refused every proposal her mother had once brought her, choosing instead to struggle over surrender, for her children’s sake. She worked wherever she could. She learned how hunger sounds before it speaks. How silence becomes heavier than hunger. How a woman’s strength is measured not by what she says, but by what she endures. She wrapped candies in small factories until her fingers grew numb. She knitted sweaters through long nights, her eyes burning under dim light. She labored in fields, cleaned homes, washed utensils, and carried water—doing every kind of work women of her time were forced to accept in silence. She worked not for dignity, but for survival.

What was once called sacrifice quietly became habit.
And habit, over time, became a life lived without asking whether it could have been different.

Years passed.
She told her children to study hard, believing that education and perseverance were the only weapons against destiny. Her sons, however, could not complete their education. But her daughter, once indifferent to books while her father lived, now topped her class.

“Mehru,” Zulekha told her one night, “I failed because I could not study. They did not let me. Please do not follow my path. Get an education. Get a good job. Do not suffer like I did.”

But to Mehrunisa, her mother was never a failure. She was a miracle, a woman who kept the stove burning, who clothed her children, who never complained. If they ate roti with chutney, they never questioned it. If meals were few, they accepted them with gratitude.

Zulekha’s daughter studied. Her daughter rose. For a brief moment, peace returned.
And then life reminded her again: if one rope does not burn, another will.

Mehrunisa passed her matriculation and intermediate examinations in the first division and went on to complete her bachelor’s degree. She lived a difficult student life but never developed bitterness or shame. She supported herself by teaching while completing her master’s degree, later joining Radio Pakistan, Lahore, a place she never left, not because it was a job, but because it was her passion.

When Mehrunisa was appointed as a Grade-17 lecturer at a government college in Rahim Yar Khan, Zulekha felt peace return to her life.
But destiny was waiting.

Mehrunisa married a decent man of her age, a man with ancestral land and business. Yet life reminded them: if one rope does not burn, another will.

Now well into her seventies, Zulekha sat in the old kitchen of her rented house, living with her sons and their families, thinking of her daughter’s struggles with her in-laws.

Some humans, she believed, existed only as thorns in others’ lives, unable to bear the sight of peace in someone else's life.

“Ammi! Ammi! Grandmama!”
Zulekha wiped her tears and looked up to see Subha standing before her.

“The tea was boiling,” Subha laughed. “You didn’t turn off the stove. Look, it spilled everywhere.”

“Oh, my child,” Zulekha smiled softly, “I was lost in thought. I’m old now, it’s allowed to spill a little tea.”

Subha laughed, understanding the meaning behind her words. She made fresh tea, and grandmother and granddaughter sat together. Zulekha listened eagerly to Subha’s stories, for the girl always brought light into her life, trying to fill the gaps of happiness in her Ammi’s and her mother’s hearts.

Destiny watched them, and for the first time, felt envy.

For Zulekha had been given a granddaughter, one who carried the same inheritance as her great-grandmother, her grandmother, and her mother: the fate of being the only daughter.

But when Destiny revealed what had been written for Subha, even Life grew silent.
Subha was fifteen. She knew the past. She questioned it. She prepared to resist it.

“Can the cycle truly be broken?” Life asked.
“Many have broken it,” Destiny replied. “Women have altered the course of humanity before. But for the cycle to end, many more Subhas must still be born.”