Generally, I am not into dramas. I’ve only watched a selected few, usually after seeing their popularity or getting intrigued by posts and reels on Facebook. One such drama that recently grabbed my attention, like everyone else, is “Kafeel, ” and it hits home. Not entirely, but in bits and pieces, here and there, in ways I wasn’t prepared for. Some scenes, dialogues, and emotions felt so real that they shook me to the core. I found myself tearing up without even realising it. I can’t remember the last time a drama or movie triggered me like this. I know many people in my circle might not know or might not even believe that I have been a “Subuk” for as long as I can remember, a product of a dysfunctional family. But I’m now at a stage in life, and at that age, where I care less about what society thinks. Writing about something so personal brings me a strange sense of peace and accomplishment. And maybe, just maybe, it will help someone else realise that you can be a real-life Subuk, that real-life Subuks do exist, and that sometimes a drama is more than just a show. It reflects us. It validates us. And sometimes, it even pushes us to change our lives. Balochistan Unemployment Crisis Unlike Zeba and Jami, my parents had a love marriage, but like Zeba and Jami, it was deeply dysfunctional. Unlike Jami, my father did earn. But like Jami, he never spent a single penny on us. He had another family, and everything he earned or had went to them. Unlike Jami, he did not live with us 24/7, 365 days of the year, but just like Jami, he would make life hell for us on the days when he did come to live with us. There would be fights over the smallest things, loud arguments, and constant tension. Things he had no role in, like my education, which my mum managed through her full-time job from day one, or innocent things like me staying at my aunt’s place during summer holidays because where else could we go, would somehow become reasons for conflict. The days when he was absent from our home were the happiest days. Calm. Peaceful. But the minute he entered, there would be an unspoken feeling that some kind of drama was about to unfold at any moment. Children usually look forward to their dads coming home if they are not always present or are working abroad, for example, but every time he left the house, I used to wish he never came back. Great Expectations Like Zeba, my mother was earning, and she was earning better than what Zeba is shown earning, and we also had support from our maternal family, just like Zeba’s family, so we were doing well, Alhamdulillah, without a father figure. Of course, there was always a void when I saw my friends with their dads, but even that void felt like a blessing compared to the chaos he brought with him. Years passed and we grew up. I grew up, while my brother was still quite young because we are seven years apart, and like Subuk, I started taking a stand whenever he would create some reason for a fight or taunt us and destroy our peace. One day, after yet another episode of shouting and fighting, something in me finally settled, and the Subuk in me, who had been waging a war inside against him for years, told my mum that he was not coming back, and if she still wanted to see him, she could, but not in our home. But just like Zeba, my mum was also fed up, and the only reason she was holding on to that hollow relationship was the same reason Zeba had been tolerating abuse for so long: for the sake of having a father’s presence over the children, for their future prospects, for a daughter’s marriage, for fear of what society would say. But I was adamant that I did not want to see his face again. Unlike Subuk, who is shown as 22 or 23 and earning alongside his mum, I was just 16 or 17, still studying, and even though I took a stand against letting the abuse continue, I did not convince my mum to pursue a formal separation, or khula, because Pakistani courts felt intimidating, exhausting, and endless. Going to court would mean seeing his face again, giving him a chance at reconciliation, him coming back to the house, and asking us to give him one more chance, which we had already done multiple times. My mum was tired, and I was done with his excuses. We just wanted him out of our lives. Looking back, I feel that was a mistake because not having formal documentation made so many things harder in later stages of life: NICs, passports, marriage certificates, immigration processes, visas, things you don’t think about in the moment, but they matter. Active Lifestyle We moved houses. He never contacted us again. And I still don’t know whether to feel relieved or hurt that a man could abandon his family so completely. On days when people behind counters asked, “Have you brought your father’s NIC? ” or HR heads during job interviews asked, “What does your father do? ”; in those moments, I would silently wish he was dead because telling people your father had died was so much easier than explaining the truth. (To be continued) Anum SultanThe writer is a HR professional by day, and a full-time homemaker and mom, who enjoys writing and storytelling. Expensive Gas and Cold Stoves
Life I Never Spoke About (Part 1)
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