The sky over Darazinda Tehsil often looked calm, but inside many homes, lives were ruled by fear and old customs. In one of those homes lived Gulalai Khan, a 22-year-old student of English Literature and Language. She was deeply interested in books and learning. Her favourite poet was John Keats, and one line from his work stayed with her “Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.”
Gulalai believed those “unheard melodies” were the hopes missing from her life, the kind of happiness she had never known. Her world was full of limits. Her father Haji Ismail Khan and her elder brothers made all the decisions. They never liked girls studying too much, believing education spoiled them. Still, she continued her studies quietly and hid her books whenever anyone entered her room.
She often spoke to her younger brother Kareem Khan, the only person she trusted. “Why must a girl’s voice mean shame?” she asked him once. Kareem lowered his eyes and said, “That’s how people here think, Gulalai. It’s not easy to change their minds.”
At college, she found someone who understood her feelings, Amanullah Khan, a kind boy who shared her love for poetry and learning. Their friendship began with small talks about books but grew into something stronger. Yet they both knew it had to remain hidden. In their area, such a bond could destroy a girl’s name forever.
Time passed, and their affection deepened. One day, Gulalai told her mother she wanted to marry Amanullah. Her mother’s face turned pale. “Don’t say such words again,” she warned. “Your father and brothers will never forgive you.”
Gulalai stayed quiet for a while. Then she said softly, “But Islam gives a woman the right to choose a good man. Why can’t I choose too?” Her mother had no answer. She only prayed her daughter would forget that thought.
Her sister Asia Khan begged her not to raise the matter again. “Please don’t bring this up before Father,” she said. “It will bring shame on all of us.” But Gulalai’s patience was wearing thin. She wanted a life where she could decide for herself.
Soon after, another twist came. Qadeer Khan, the son of a local politician Haji Jannat Gul, sent a proposal for her hand in marriage. Her father refused it. “We marry our daughters within the family,” he said firmly. Feeling insulted, Qadeer decided to take revenge.
He came one night and fired shots in the air outside her home, a cruel act known as “Ghag.” It meant he had claimed Gulalai as his own. After that, no man could marry her without risking his life.
That single act destroyed everything. Her father’s pride was wounded, her family’s name was discussed in whispers, and her own dreams shattered. Even Amanullah lost courage. “My family will never agree now,” he said quietly.
Her father tried to arrange a quick marriage for her, but no one came forward. Everyone feared the powerful politician’s son. Days passed, and the house grew heavier with worry.
One evening, Gulalai met Amanullah near the fields. Both were broken but unwilling to give up. “Let’s leave,” he said. “Let’s go somewhere no one knows us.” Gulalai nodded. They decided to escape to a far off village beyond Darazinda.
That night, while everyone slept, she left her home quietly. The road was dark, the air cold, but her mind was firm. She looked back once, then kept walking beside Amanullah.
After that night, no one saw them again. Some said they were caught and never returned. Others believed they reached a place where they could finally live freely.
People in Darazinda still speak of her, the girl who wanted to live her own life, to turn her unheard melody into something real. But her story ended in sorrow. Her wish for that unseen happiness became a reminder of how costly freedom can be in a world ruled by pride.
Bio:
Abdul Basit, a writer with a Bachelor's degree in English Literature and Linguistics. I am currently a researcher at the National Research University Higher School of Economics, Moscow Campus.