Chapter 156 : "Can you kill my teacher? She gives me way too much homework!"

Ibrahim hopped off the couch. "Hold on a sec, Dad," he announced, his small legs pumping as he raced up the stairs. 

A moment later, Ibrahim reappeared with a grin. But Zafar's smile vanished within a second. In Ibrahim's hand, he clutched an object. 

It was a gun, a real gun, heavy in his small hands.

Reaching his father, he held out the object in his outstretched hand, "How does this work, Dad? They use these all the timein the movies!"

Zafar reacted instinctively, snatching the gun from Ibrahim's grasp. He quickly checked the weapon, his heart sinking when he saw four bullets nestled in the chamber.

"Where did you find this, Ibrahim?"

Zafar forced himself to keep his tone calm, not wanting to frighten his son, but the incident made him surprised . How could he have been so careless? He usually kept his guns locked away. But clearly, his usual precautions hadn't been enough. What if Ibrahim had pulled the trigger out of curiosity?

Ibrahim pointed towards the upper floor, "It was in a drawer upstairs."

It was true that the son of a mafia leader was almost destined to follow in his father's footsteps. Violence and danger were an undeniable part of their lives. But there was a time, an age, for such things. Ibrahim was a child. Zafar wouldn't let that world taint his son's childhood.

There was a lifetime ahead for Ibrahim to learn about the dark side of his father's world. Right now, he shouldn't be playing with death.

Zafar knelt before his son, "You can't play with these things. They're very dangerous, and they can hurt people very badly. These are for grown-ups, for people who know how to use them very carefully. We'll talk about how guns work later, son. When you're older, maybe ten, eleven years old. But for now, this needs to be put away safely."

Ibrahim's face fell. He didn't like being told that he was too young for something. "But Dad," he whined, "what's the difference between being four and being ten? I'll still be me, won't I? Why can't I learn now?"

"Listen closely. These guns, they're not like a prop or a toy. One pull of the trigger, and it's done. There's no going back. A bullet can hit someone, and...and they won't wake up again." Zafar replied.

Ibrahim's brow furrowed in concentration. He pondered his father's words for a moment. Then, his brow furrowed in a different kind of confusion, "Did you kill someone with this gun, Dad?" 

Zafar hadn't planned on having this conversation so soon, but as Ibrahim stared at him with wide, curious eyes, he had other way but share. Sooner or later, his son would learn about all these things. 

"Yes." Zafar admitted after a long pause. "I have. Not just with this gun, but in other ways too."

Ibrahim also seemed to absorb the information just like his mother. There was no fear, no horror, just a child's curiosity about a world he didn't fully understand, "Can you kill my teacher? She gives me way too much homework!"

"Ibrahim!! Your questions are giving me a headache! We'll talk to your teacher, okay? She just wants you to learn, that's all. Now, how about we get some sleep?"

Zafar managed to deflect his son's morbid curiosity for that night, but the following week brought a new challenge. 

A phone call from the school principal shattered the morning calm. Zafar had to the school. 

There, in the principal's office, he found a stern-faced woman – the principal herself – and a defiant-looking Ibrahim. The principal wasted no time.

"Mr. Rahman," she began "I'm afraid I have some disciplinary news regarding your son, Ibrahim."

Zafar braced himself. This wasn't the first time he'd been called to the principal's office. He attended multiple parents meetings with principal but he wasn't prepared for what came next.

"Apparently," the principal continued, "Ibrahim slapped Mrs. Habiba, one of our teachers."

Mrs. Habiba. The very same teacher Ibrahim had complained about, the one who burdened him with excessive homework.

Zafar's gaze darted towards Ibrahim, expecting to see a hint of shame. But to his surprise, Ibrahim sat tall, his posture rigid, his expression unrepentant. He didn't appear like a child who had misbehaved; he looked like someone who genuinely believed he was in the right.

Apologizing to both teachers, Zafar took Ibrahim and came back home. Shame burned in Zafar's throat as he stormed into the house, Ibrahim trailing behind him like a kicked puppy. He didn't wait to get settled. Right there, in the foyer, he spun Ibrahim around to face him.

"Slapping a teacher?" Zafar roared, "What were you doing? Today it's Mrs. Habiba, tomorrow it could be anyone! Do you want to grow up to be a undisciplined man?"

Ibrahim, for the first time, seemed unsure. He looked down at his shoes, kicking at the rug with the toe of his sneaker. The defiance that had been in his eyes at school was replaced by a fear. A fear directed not at the principal or Mrs. Habiba, but at his father's anger.

Zafar and Aliya had always showered Ibrahim with much love. Perhaps it had backfired. Their love had instilled a sense of fearlessness in Ibrahim, a sense that he was untouchable, even in the face of authority.

The scolding continued for more than one hour. 

"If I hear of you misbehaving with your teachers one more time, Ibrahim," Zafar said, "there will be consequences. And one of them is boarding school."

This time, the tears Ibrahim had held back earlier spilled down his cheeks.

"I won't do it again, Dad," he choked out, "Please, don't send me away."

Zafar had done what he had to do as a father. He knew he'd done the right thing, the responsible thing. But as he looked at his son, guilt stabbed at his heart.

The Rahman mansion fell silent from that day. Little Ibrahim's playful screams no longer echoed through the halls. Ibrahim withdrew into himself. He became quieter day by day. He had started to sleep at his own room. 

Meals became quiet affairs. Ibrahim wouldn't argue about vegetables anymore. Gone were the days of Ibrahim's picky pronouncements of "No vegetables!" or "I want dessert first!" Now, he sat quietly, politely eating whatever was placed before him.

Even playtime with friends seemed to lose its appeal. The boisterous games of tag and hide-and-seek that once filled the afternoons were a thing of the past. Ibrahim started to live with his own quiet company.

Remarkably, at the tender age of 5 years, Ibrahim began taking on more responsibilities. Previously managed by a caretaker, tasks such as bathing and feeding were now performed independently by Ibrahim. This newfound independence and self-sufficiency at such a young age was a notable development to Aliya.

At first, she thought it might just be a sign of Ibrahim growing up. Maybe, he was old enough now to handle some things independently. It could also be that as Ibrahim might feel shy about having a female caretaker help him with baths.

What neither Aliya nor Zafar realized was that Ibrahim's maturity wasn't quite natural. The scolding, the sudden shift in his world, had pushed him to grow up a little too fast. 

Meanwhile, Aliya gave birth to a healthy baby boy, Samir! Zafar and Aliya were overjoyed to welcome their new son, and their days became filled with the joys and challenges of caring for a newborn. 

As often happens with new babies, Samir demanded a lot of attention. Feedings, diaper changes, and countless sleepless nights filled their days.

This wasn't uncommon. Many families experience a shift when a second child arrives. The older child who used to being the center of attention, can feel a little left out.

One morning, they ran out of diapers for Samir. The babysitter who usually helped Aliya wasn't there that day. Aliya needed to get a new pack from the storage room on another floor, but she couldn't leave Samir alone. She called Ibrahim. 

"Ibrahim, can you watch Samir for a minute?" Aliya asked. "I need to grab some new diapers. I'll be right back."

Ibrahim sat down carefully on the bed next to his little brother. Samir, only six months old, looked so tiny and helpless.

Samir's features, especially his nose, forehead, and big eyes, were all copies of Aliya's. Ibrahim, on the other hand, looked more like his father, Zafar.

A change came over Samir's peaceful gurgling. A small whimper escaped his lips, quickly escalating into a wail that seemed to fill the entire room. The sound went from a high-pitched whine to a long, like a siren that wouldn't stop.

Ibrahim reached out and gently touched his cheek, "Hey there. Why are you crying? Don't worry, Mom's just getting you some new diapers. She'll be right back."

His touch seemed to calm Samir instantly. The crying stopped, replaced by a gurgle. A small smile spread across Ibrahim's face. "That's my brother. You look much better when you're smiling, Samir. I promise I'll always be here for you. We'll play together, and I won't let anyone be mean to you."

"Maybe you shouldn't go to my school. There's this teacher, Mrs. Habiba, and she yells and punishes sometimes. You can go to a different, bigger school, a much better one than mine. But..." his voice trailed off, "but what if Dad says no? Well, then when Habiba yells at everyone in class, even if she punishes you, I'll tell Dad everything! I won't let anyone make you cry like this again."

Aliya, who had just returned with the new diapers, paused in the doorway, her heart clenching at Ibrahim's words. He sounded so…grown-up.

Ibrahim's back was towards her, so he hadn't noticed her arrival.

She approached them, her voice soft as she sat beside Ibrahim. "What were you just talking about telling Dad, honey?" she asked gently. "Is there something you haven't told us?"

Ibrahim's eyes widened in surprise. He hadn't realized his mother was there. Hesitantly, he looked up at her, his lower lip trembling slightly. "No, nothing, Mom," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

She squeezed his hand gently. "Tell me the truth, honey," she urged. "Is something wrong at school?"