A choice!

Mustafa Ali was sitting in his shop-small, shabby and consisted of a very less stock. It was not the first or the last day when only a few customers would have chosen to do shopping from his little shop. Located in a narrow street of inner Lahore, Ali's shop of herbal medicines was visited by the customers once in a blue moon. The life of such a shop-keeper, in a third-world country was not hard to envisage.

Life comprising of every day’s suffering and tormentation.Mustafa Ali's wife used to complain regularly about the ever-increasing expenses of grocery, children's education, utility bills, etc. Mustafa Ali considered it as his fate, to live a cats and dog life. Once thinking about his life, a devilish plan sprouted in his mind. A plan for changing his fate .By bringing his interior monologue to a close, he said to himself, “What’s there in selling these cheap, no-profit-making herbs, blessed are those who sell something worth profit-making”. Believing that doing so would end all his troubles was the only force behind pulling him into an apparently-bright, yet a dark phase of his life.

Mustafa Ali's contacts grew rapidly in the world of selling illegal drugs. Not only selling such medicines but also importing and exporting them. As the days elapsed, so did his life changed. A huge palace, luxurious cars, abundant black balance was the result of 'diamond-like-medicines', as Ali referred to them; due to immense profit. Sitting in his garden, he thought, “i have progressed by leaps and bounds”. Unfortunately he was unaware of the horrible days which awaited him.

After a heated argument with his partner, Mustafa Ali had to separate his business. But he was unfamiliar with bitterness and envy of his partner. One, who could do such a business, could do anything to compensate for the insult he faced at the hands of Mustafa. Mustafa’s daughter became the victim of the rivalry-she was rapped by Ali's partner.

Traumatised by the incident, Mustafa became a maniac and later, paralysed and then, died. Everything ended, the huge 'Mustafa Palace' which once echoed with the sounds of music, laughter; became as silent as dead. An aura of oppressive silence wrapped it. Mrs. Mustafa’s only daughter became schizophrenic, husband died and she was left abondoned.Gazing towards the starry sky, she cried,

"I must have stopped Mustafa from doing that. Had i been a patient and supportive wife, this would not have happened. That two-room house was far better than this twelve-room. At least there lived humans. Then, those humans made God angry, he turned them into devils. Life is precious, death is a loss-but i demand the latter."