By SYED MAJID GILANI
It was a quiet evening when Mohsin sat in his bedroom, his hands trembling as he looked across at Farhat, sitting opposite him. Her posture was rigid, and her expression was as cold and unyielding as the accusations she had just thrown at him.
“I am such a clever and intelligent woman,” she said, her voice laced with twisted arrogance. “I kept you in a constant state of insecurity all these years.”
The words hit him like a punch to the stomach. Mohsin struggled to breathe, barely able to process what she had just confessed. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice hoarse with a mix of disbelief and growing pain.
Farhat smirked, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You heard me. I manipulated you. I made you doubt yourself, made you feel like you were not good enough. And you believed it, didn’t you?”
Mohsin’s world shattered in that instant. He had spent more than a decade of his life trying to please her, always believing that if he loved her enough, things would get better. Now, staring into her cold, triumphant eyes, he realized the painful truth—she had been playing a game, a game that was never meant for him to win.
“Why?” His voice cracked, torn between confusion and heartbreak. “Why would you do that to me?”
Farhat’s smile deepened, her words laced with venom. “Why did you believe it? Because I could, and because you were too weak to stop me.”
The silence that followed suffocated him. Mohsincould not move, could not speak. The weight of her words crushed him. For so long, he had hoped that things would improve, that his love would somehow change her, make her see him for the man he truly was. But now, it became clear: he had been living in a prison of his own making.
As his mind raced, he thought back over the years, to the countless moments when he had felt small, insignificant—always questioning himself. He had given everything to her, tried so hard to prove his worth. However, it was never enough. Every sacrifice, every effort, was met with indifference, manipulation, and cruelty.
“I thought… I thought you loved me,” Mohsin whispered, almost to himself.
Farhat’s lips curled into a cynical smile. “Love? I never loved you. You were just a means to an end. I used you to get what I wanted. Your love, your sacrifices, they meant nothing to me.”
A cold wave washed over Mohsin. His heart, once filled with hope, now felt empty. His love had been nothing but a tool—something to control, to break him down, to make him feel insignificant.
Tears blurred his vision, but they were not tears of sorrow. No, these were tears of realization—of wasted years spent on someone who had never cared for him. The life they had built, the family they had raised, had all been based on lies.
Then, something shifted within him. It was not anger, nor was it sadness. It was a quiet, resolute decision. He would not let her destroy him any longer. “No,” he said, his voice steady, filled with newfound strength. “I won’t let you do this to me anymore.”
Farhat raised an eyebrow, as if she had not expected him to fight back. “What are you going to do about it?” she sneered.
Mohsindid not respond immediately. Instead, he locked eyes with her, the weight of her manipulations heavy in his mind. For too long, he had been her silent victim. For too long, he had let her control him, let her make him doubt himself. Not anymore.
He thought back to all the moments, all the years, when he had convinced himself that things were just misunderstandings. He had tried so hard to prove his love, to prove that he was worthy of her affection. Now, he understood the truth. Farhat had never loved him. She had used her indifference, her silence, and her cruelty to keep him on edge, to make him feel small, to strip him of his dignity.
Her words—the words that had cut him down repeatedly—now rang in his ears with sharp, bitter clarity. He had been manipulated, controlled, kept in a constant state of insecurity. And for what? For her amusement? For her need to feel in control?
He had given her everything—his love, his trust, his heart—and she had thrown it all back at him as if it meant nothing. How could she be so cruel? How could she take pride in having kept him insecure all these years? To her, he was just a tool, a pawn in her cruel game.
Mohsin felt an ache in his heart, but no tears came. The pain was too deep, too raw, for tears. He felt broken, beyond repair. The years of suffering, of not knowing where he stood, of never feeling good enough, all of it crashed down on him in that one moment.
However, Mohsin remained silent. What could he say? How could he possibly express the depth of his pain, the emotional neglect, and the years of being belittled and ignored? The truth was, he did not have the words to convey what he had endured. No words could fully capture the weight of those years—years that had hollowed him out. His suffering was so deeply ingrained that even the idea of putting it into words seemed impossible. A wound had no name, no way to explain the torment he had lived through.
Strangely, it was notMohsin who sought justice, but Farhat. With cold calculation in her eyes, she approached the King. It was her voice that rang through the halls of the royal darbar, accusing Mohsin of crimes he had never committed. There she stood, the one who had twisted his love and manipulated him for years, now casting herself as the victim.
“Mohsin has abused me for years,” she claimed, her voice shaking with false emotion. “He stole my valuables—cash, gold, and silver ornaments. He forced my family to give him a dowry when we married—and continues to demand it to this day.”
Farhat, the architect of their suffering, had become the accuser, twisting the truth to suit her narrative, while Mohsin, the true victim, was left to prove his innocence. She even accused him of neglecting to provide for necessities—household amenities, groceries, medical care and other living expenses—which he had always shouldered, silently, without complaint.
She painted a picture of herself as a helpless victim, portraying Mohsin as a cruel man who had emotionally and physically tortured her. She claimed her family had supported her financially throughout their marriage, not Mohsin, and that he had demanded dowry at every turn.
Her accusations seemed endless, each more damaging than the last. She even claimed that Mohsin had physically abused her, beaten her, and manipulated her into submission. However, when questioned, she could not produce any witnesses to support her story. No neighbors, no friends, no family—no one had seen or heard what she claimed to have suffered.
Mohsin stood across from her in the King’s darbar, his heart heavy with the weight of her lies. His hands clenched at his sides, but he did not lose his composure. “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice calm but unwavering. “I ask for one day to gather the evidence and prove my innocence.”
The King nodded, granting him time to collect the proof.
When the next day arrived, Mohsin stood before the King, the documents he had gathered in hand. He did not flinch under Farhat’s gaze. “Everything she has said is false,” he said, his voice steady. “I never demanded dowry. I did not need it—her family could never have afforded it even if I had. I have never abused her. I have done my best to provide for her and our children.”
Mohsin laid out the records of his financial support for the family—providing for necessities—household amenities, groceries, medical care and all other expenses he had shouldered, with no assistance from Farhat’s side. “This is the truth, Your Majesty. I have always fulfilled my duties as a husband and father.”
Farhat’s eyes widened in shock, but she quickly masked it with a scowl. She had expected him to crumble. ButMohsin wasn’t finished.
“I also have testimonies from witnesses who can confirm that I never asked for anything from her family,” he continued. “I earned handsomely and decently. I did not need anyone’s help or favours. All I wanted was for her to love and respect me. But she turned my love into a weapon.”
Farhat’s accusations crumbled under the weight of evidence. She could not produce any proof of the dowry she had claimed to provide, nor could she provide any evidence of abuse. Her story, carefully crafted to destroy Mohsin, unravelled piece by piece, each lie exposed.
Despite the mounting evidence in his favour, the King was compelled to reopen the case multiple times as Farhat’s persistent accusations dragged the proceedings on. Each time, Mohsin had to prove his innocence anew.
However, through it all, Mohsin did not feel victorious. The wounds of his past, the years of emotional manipulation, were still raw. He had spoken the truth. He had been believed. The prison he had lived in for so long was finally breaking apart.
The road ahead would be challenging, marked by deep scars and lingering pain. Yet, for the first time, he felt something new—a delicate spark of hope. Though fragile, it sparked a quiet resolve within him. The possibility of healing, of reclaiming his life, was no longer out of reach. He would rebuild, slowly but surely, piece by piece. He would learn to live for himself again, and for the sake of his beloved children, vowing to continue forward with purpose and strength.
Syed Majid Gilani is a writer and serves as a GST Inspector for the Government of Jammu and Kashmir. He can be reached at [email protected]
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