Peeral: the man who bowed to no one

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The writer is a freelancer based in Karachi

Peeral had always believed that patience would deliver him from misery. He was the man who sat quietly at the back of life's procession, watching others march ahead waving the flags of success. While his friends secured jobs in their twenties, married well, bought houses, and drove shiny cars, Peeral was still waiting in dusty recruitment offices, clutching worn certificates and hope that thinned with every rejection. He often recalled Dickens: "The sun himself is weak when he first rises, but gathers strength as the day goes on." Yet for him, the sun never rose high enough.

When he finally secured a government job in his late twenties, it felt hollow — a consolation tossed to him by fate. His old companions, now officers and businessmen, welcomed him with polite courtesy sharper than insult. Invisible lines divided privilege and ordinariness, and Peeral was stranded on the wrong side. Like Hardy's Jude, he felt forever outside the gates, watching life he could never claim.

At home, his wife's words became knives. "Look at others," she murmured while scrolling her phone. "They've built houses, they travel. Peeral, when will it be our turn?" Her silences wounded more than her words.

At night, staring at the cracked ceiling, Peeral whispered, "Why me, God? Have I not bent my back enough? Have I not fasted, knelt, begged?" There was no answer. Slowly, the prayers dried up. If God listened, He was deaf.

His office reeked of decay. Files moved only with bribes; promotions were traded like contraband. The Mafia ran it all with velvet smiles that hid iron teeth. When Peeral raised his voice, filing complaints and presenting evidence, colleagues looked away.

"Peeral," an old clerk muttered one afternoon, "don't tilt at windmills. You'll only break yourself."

But Peeral didn't stop. He leaked documents, sent anonymous letters, exposed fraud cleverly, silently. For a moment, he believed he had rattled the walls — until the hammer fell.

He arrived one morning to find a letter on his desk: Services no longer required. No explanation. No hearing. No appeal.

He fought smaller wars. When a home appliance failed, he lodged a consumer complaint and trudged to court for two years, only to watch adjournments pile higher than hope. When his lawyer demanded more fees, he withdrew.

An inflated electricity bill followed. He queued in suffocating offices, waving proof. "Pay it," a clerk sneered, "or we cut your line." He paid.

He poured his savings into a scheme that promised returns. Fraud. Another complaint. Another maze. Desperate, he sought his old friends. Men he once shared cheap tea and laughter with now sat in plush offices.

"Help me get my job back," Peeral pleaded.

One smirked. "Honesty is fine for poetry, Peeral, not life. Learn to bend."

Another laughed softly. "We joined the system. That's why we're happy. Look at you - you fought it and lost."

Peeral's fists trembled. "Is this happiness? Selling your soul one coin at a time?"

"Better a sold soul than an empty stomach," one replied coolly.

Their laughter rang in his ears long after he left. He swore never to see them again.

At home, the final thread snapped. His wife stood in the doorway, suitcase packed, their baby in her arms. "I can't live like this," she said, trembling. "Our son deserves more than your principles."

"Please," he whispered. Her eyes filled but she turned away. The door shut.

Alone in the silence, Peeral stared at his reflection — hollow-eyed, unrecognisable.

"Enough," he said aloud, voice cold.

He remembered Dostoevsky: "Man grows used to everything, the scoundrel." Perhaps it was time.

"Enough of honesty," he spat. "Enough of bowing to laws written for wolves." He glanced upward and almost laughed. "Enough of you too. If You are there, You and this world are the same — silent, cruel, blind."

That night, he walked the streets, fists clenched, shadow long behind him. "From today," he murmured, "I bow to no one. Not the system. Not the world. Not even God."

The man called Peeral was gone.

He moved like a ghost now — silent, watchful. He recalled Machiavelli: "It is better to be feared than loved." He no longer cared for love. He struck first at the office he'd lost. With the leaked documents he had saved — proof of fraud, forged signatures — he whispered into rival ears, feeding wolves until they tore each other apart. Within months, officials were dragged out in handcuffs.

"See," he muttered, smirking, "a crow can pluck out another crow's eyes."

He went deeper, recruiting the desperate: a disgraced lawyer, a clerk drowning in gambling debts, a junior officer hungry for promotion. They carved quiet chaos, wielding secrets like knives.

"This man denied your electricity appeal," the lawyer said one night, sliding a file across a tea shop table. "He owns property he can't justify."

Peeral smiled faintly. "Not use it. Control it."

Soon, the man who mocked him now leapt at his calls. Peeral saw the truth: corruption wasn't a wall — it was a river. Redirect it, and it could drown anyone.

Yet, in the quiet of his room, staring at the stars, he whispered, "Do you see me now? Is this what You wanted?" His laugh was bitter. "I've done more in months without You than in years with You."

Still, he saw his wife's face, his child's hands. Their absence burned. He confronted his old friend Malik. Dressed sharply, Peeral's presence chilled the room.

"Peeral," Malik said nervously, "what happened to you?"

"What happened?" Peeral leaned in, voice cutting. "You happened. This city happened. God's silence happened. I became what I hate to survive."

Malik's hands trembled. "You sound like..."

"Like a man who finally woke up," Peeral finished.

Weeks later, Malik's scandal exploded across headlines. Careers burned. Peeral watched coldly, murmuring Shakespeare: "Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war."

He regained his job - not by petitions but leverage. His name returned to rolls, not as favour, but fear.

But there was no peace. Alone in his silent house, staring at the empty crib, Peeral whispered, "This is what you made of me." Perhaps to his reflection, perhaps to heaven.

He stood taller, darker, unflinching. There was no going.

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