The sun hung low in the sky, covered by the clouds, casting a dim, shadowy light against the crumbling walls of Ghulam Ali’s small house. He sat with his mother inside the prayer room, a prayer mat laid in front of him. The silence prevailed everywhere as he chanted the name of his saint again and again.
Two weeks ago, his wife Asma had quarreled with him over his new faith and habit of chanting his saint’s name in the house. She left for her father's house without explaining or saying goodbye just saying one sentence: “I won't come back until you return to your forefathers’ faith and stop chanting the name of your saint.”
Asma's stay at her father's house worked like a pressure cooker for Ghulam Ali ready to explode. Every day he faced threats as sharp as a blade from Asma's father: " Return to the faith of your forefathers or face my wrath.”
He trembled as he read the last chat with his wife on his mobile phone. He had read Asma’s last message a hundredth time: "I can't come back until you fix this, until you return to the faith of your forefathers".
He was rolling the beads in his hands when someone knocked at the door. He opened the door and found Asma's father standing in the doorway, his wide eyes aflame with anger, determined to return Ghulam Ali to his forefathers’ faith. Two giant men flanked him, clutching sticks. Asma’s father spoke: "The last chance boy" as he held his six-shot revolver into Ghulam Ali’s chest.
Ghulam Ali was quivering with fear, but the tone of his voice remained steady as a rock. " Faith cannot be taken away with violence," he said. A complete moment of silence fell; then Asma’s father pulled the trigger. The sound echoed down the street and sent the evening's birds fluttering about. As Ghulam Ali fell to the ground, his lips kept praying and saying, “I am a free man, I am a free man".