Chapter 158 : Ibrahim's childhood - Part Four

 VIOLENCE AHEAD - READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

The next day, Zafar was throwing a grand party, inviting only the teachers from Ibrahim's school. It wasn't a birthday or any special occasion, but for the wealthy, extravagant parties were sometimes just another way to spend an evening.

As the night of the party arrived, Aliya helped Ibrahim get ready. She dressed him in a sharp black suit. But when she went to tie a cute little bow around his neck, Ibrahim scrunched up his face.

"Mommy, I don't like it," he mumbled. "It feels weird."

Aliya smiled. "Oh, sweetie, you should have told me before! We could have gotten the tailor to make a tiny tie just for you."

Ibrahim shook his head. "Forget the suit, Mom. But you look amazing in that dress!"

She was wearing a simple coral coloured gown. It had sparkling stones around the neckline and chest. 

"Thank you, sweetie," she said, taking his hand. "Let's go see your dad downstairs."

As they made their way down the grand staircase, Ibrahim paused. "Isn't Samir coming with us?"

Aliya knelt down to his level. "No, honey," she explained gently. "It's a bit cold outside tonight, and the winter weather isn't good for babies. Samir will be much happier staying cozy and warm.

It was mid-January, and Malaysia was experiencing its cool winter season. Even though Malaysia is a tropical country, it does experience a winter season of sorts from December to February. Winter in Malaysia is much milder than what one might expect in other parts of the world. The daytime temperatures typically hover around 22°C to 26°C, which is still quite pleasant. However, nights can get a bit cooler, dropping down to around 18°C to 20°C

 While that day wasn't freezing, it was chilly enough for a little baby like Samir to be uncomfortable outdoors.

The mansion's backyard was transformed for the party. There were lots of pretty paper lanterns hanging up, and they glowed in different colors. Folding tables were draped in bright tablecloths, and bowls overflowing with snacks and candies sat invitingly.

Suddenly, Mrs. Habiba appeared beside Aliya. Ibrahim darted behind his mother's legs, seeking refuge in the folds of her dress.

Aliya plastered a smile on her face, "Oh, Mrs. Habiba, so glad you could make it!" she said, forcing her voice into a cheerful tone. They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, Aliya all the while aware of Ibrahim clinging to her leg.

Habiba's gaze went towards Ibrahim, who peeked out from behind his mother with a wary expression. "Hello, Ibrahim. How are you?"

He mumbled a small, "I'm fine."

"Oh, please excuse me," Aliya said politely. "I just need to greet a few other guests. I hope you'll enjoy the party!"

With that, she took Ibrahim's hand and steered him away from the conversation.

The party continued. Guests mingled, filling their plates with food and exchanging pleasantries. Finally, just as the party began to wind down, Zafar stepped forward. He didn't need a microphone – the well-manicured lawn ensured his booming voice would reach every ear. "Ladies and gentlemen. I trust you've all enjoyed yourselves tonight."

A collective murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Zafar paused, letting the silence stretch for a beat before continuing. "However, there's a reason I called you all here tonight. A reason that goes beyond mere merriment."

His gaze swept across the faces in the crowd, finally settling on Mrs. Habiba who stood stiffly. 

Zafar told, "Let me tell you all something. Yesterday, I noticed red and black marks on my son, Ibrahim's, shoulder."

All eyes turned towards Mrs. Habiba, who visibly gulped. The colour drained from her face. 

Zafar took a deliberate step closer to the crowd, "Now, I know for a fact these marks aren't from playing in the park or some tumble." His gaze met Mrs. Habiba's directly again, "I'm well aware of Mrs. Habiba's… those unique teaching methods. And I daresay, some of you might be too."

Shamefaced mumbles and nervous coughs filled the air. Some of these teachers knew about Habiba, yet they remained silent.

Zafar told, "It seems that Mrs. Habiba Ansari is in need of a little…re-education."

Habiba's eyes widened in horror. Her blood turned to ice. Two hulking guards emerged, pushing a large table saw into the center of the illuminated gathering. A large circular blade, shining ominously in the night light, stuck out from its center.

Just then another guard came with Habiba's 10 years old son, "My son! W-what did he do?" Habiba exclaimed "He's innocent."

"No your child never did anything. But did you ever think about the consequences, Habiba? Did you ever consider that if you hurt other people's children, your own child could face something like that as well?" Zafar countered.

Habiba lunged towards her son, but more guards came beside her, their hands clamping onto her arms with a vice-like grip, "Leave him alone! He has nothing to do with this! My son... My son has nothing to do with it."

Zafar laughed with cruelty, "Perhaps not. But maybe you'll understand how it feels… to watch your own child get hurt."

He silently gestured to the guards to start there work..... 

Habiba's world shattered as the guards slammed her son's head onto the cold surface of the table saw. The boy's struggles and pleas for help swallowed by the roar of the table saw. The first cut sliced through the air, aiming straight for the boy's neck.

The sound of flesh being torn asunder mingled with the haunting sounds of bone being sundered. Habiba's voice became a howl as the saw tore through flesh and bone. 

With each gruesome rotation of the blade, the air filled with the smell of blood, thick and cloying. The boys desperate screams were abruptly silenced as the saw bit deep and mercilessly sliced through his neck, severing his head from his body. Habiba's son's life ebbed away in a red tide.

A dread gripped the onlookers, the teachers who had remained silent in the face of cruelty. No one dared to look directly at the scene. Some looked away and others squeezed the eyes shut. The warning was clear. Anyone who dared to harm Zafar's family would face a fate far worse than death. 

Five-year-old Ibrahim, hidden behind his mother, saw enough. His innocence replaced by the understanding of the darkness that existed in the world. That night a part of him died. It was replaced by a hard knowledge of violence.

Zafar stalked towards the broken woman, holding the horrifying trophy – her son's bloody head. Habiba crumpled on the cold ground. Her once-proud posture was reduced to a heap of shaking limbs, her eyes vacant with a soul-crushing despair.

"Do you understand the lengths I will go to in order to protect my son? You never thought of it right?"

Habiba didn't reply. She couldn't. The scream had taken everything. Her gaze remained fixed on the object in Zafar's hand. 

Zafar threw the head at her feet. Habiba took the blood head and started to cry, "My son....My son...."

His eyes lever left Habiba's broken form, "You are so focused on your son... But you likely didn't notice what you were served for dinner."

He gestured towards a remaining plate of food on the nearby table. All the teachers' including Habiba eyes darted towards the plate. 

Zafar told, "This wasn't chicken you devoured with such relish earlier. You ate YOUR OWN HUSBAND'S MEAT."

"It wasn't chicken!" 

"What! What just I ate?" 

"It's not possible." 

"I want to throw up."

The whispers started. Panic erupted. The teachers scrambled towards the exits. And Habiba lost in her own private hell. Her whole family just ended in one night.

Next morning. The golden light was coming through the window cast long shadows across the dining table. Ibrahim, perched on his booster seat, poked his fork at his omelet.

"Dad, Why didn't you punish Mrs. Habiba? Her son and husband were innocent." 

Zafar, seated across from him, took a slow sip of his lemon tea, his face an unreadable mask. He set down the cup and met Ibrahim's gaze. "Why didn't I kill Mrs. Habiba?" He repeated the question softly.

Ibrahim nodded. 

"It's easy to want revenge, to see someone punished for what they've done. But sometimes, revenge isn't just about taking a life. Last night, She lost everything she held dear. Her son, her husband... they're gone. But she's still alive. And that, Ibrahim, might be the worst punishment of all."

Zafar continued, "For her death would be an easy escape. No, I want her to live. I want her to wake up every morning, to see the empty chair at her table, the silence where her son's laughter used to be..... I want her to understand, every single day, the pain she inflicted on you and other students. She will suffer. And hopefully, in that suffering, she will learn. She'll never be able to hurt another child again. She'll be a prisoner in her own mind."

Zafar's words proved tragically prophetic. Consumed by guilt, Habiba sank into a deep depression. Three months later, unable to bear the weight of her burdens any longer, she took her own life.