Don’t Show Them Your Fear
Karam's Legacy, Chapter 3: The Past Never Stays Buried
Hey there! This is Chapter 3 of my serialized story, Karam’s Legacy.
If you haven’t read the earlier chapters, I recommend starting from the beginning:
Read Chapter 1 — where it all begins
Read Chapter 2 — the tension builds
The assault was over in seconds. One. Two. Three. Pow. Pow. Pow. Each blow landed with a sickening thud, the metallic clang of brass knuckles meeting flesh. Drip, drip, drip. The fresh blood felt warm against his skin.
Rashid stood over the fallen police officer, a cruel smile twisting his features as he reveled in his victory. The officer’s body twitched with shallow gasps. His eyes, wide with horror, met Rashid’s, but found no mercy there.
The officer’s eyes finally shut. Rashid didn’t flinch. He watched the life drain out of him, and only then did he stand.
Now, back in his bedroom, the memory lingered like the metallic scent of blood.
His father would have been proud, he thought, a sense of grim satisfaction washing over him. His brother, burdened by the weight of their shared past, could finally begin to heal. The curse that had plagued their family for so long would be lifted, and the pain and suffering brought to an end. Success was within reach; he could feel it in his very bones.
As the shrill ring of his alarm clock pierced the silence, Rashid threw off his blanket and began his daily routine. It was the same time his father used to wake up, the memory of his morning rituals vivid in Rashid's mind. Prayer, workout, shower, breakfast. The routine was etched in his memory, a tribute to the man he had lost but never forgotten.
Monday morning, January 21st, 2008, was the last time Rashid saw his father. Just a teenager at the time, he had left home for school, the weight of his school bag straining his back. The shadow of 9/11 still loomed large, and Rashid, a Muslim in a predominantly Hispanic school, was a target of bullying. But it wasn't the Hispanic students who tormented him, nor the white minority. It was Jagan Singh and his friends, Sikhs, who took pleasure in making Rashid's life a living hell.
They were brown, too—but that didn’t matter. Post-9/11 had warped everything. The fear, the blame, the need to distance yourself. Jag’s group had decided long ago that Rashid looked too Muslim, acted too different, and worst of all, he was skinny and unathletic. That made him an easy target.
Rashid took longer routes to school just to avoid Jag’s group, but they always seemed to find him. It was a daily hunt, and Rashid was the prey.
That morning, however, he made it to his school steps without incident, feeling a brief moment of relief. Jag and his friends could still catch him during lunch, but Rashid had a plan for that as well. He often skipped lunch entirely, heading up to the library to get a head start on his school work, his stomach always growling as a reminder of the sacrifices he made to avoid the humiliation Jag and his group put him through.
Home room and first period passed without trouble. It was towards the end of the third period that his teacher’s classroom phone rang. She picked it up and looked at Rashid. She nodded and put the phone back in its cradle. “Rashid. Can you go down to the guidance counselor’s office?”
Rashid looked up at his teacher, hoping to get some answers. However, before he could even ask a question, she spoke up, her tone serious and somewhat cryptic: "They didn't give me a reason," she said, "but she just needs to see you."
Rashid nodded and began to pack his things. Normally, his classmates barely noticed him. But now, every eye followed him as he stood. The silence was heavier than anything the chapter on the Cold War in their textbook could explain.
His teacher finally interrupted the tense silence. “Okay, so moving on, let's turn our textbooks to page 156 and continue our discussion of the Cold War."
With his backpack slung over one shoulder, he moved quickly toward the guidance office, exhaling the dread that had started to knot in his chest. His throat nearly froze as he thought through several scenarios of why he would be called to the counselor’s office. He had already met his college application deadlines. Could there be something wrong with his application? Was there an issue with his grades? Or perhaps, he dared to hope, it was something entirely unrelated to school, something positive even.
As Rashid walked through the empty halls with his mind consumed by thoughts, he didn’t notice Jag lurking near the boys' bathroom. It was too late. Jag had already stuck out his foot, sending Rashid tumbling face-first onto the hard floor.
The sound of Jag's laughter echoed in the hallway. “Hahahahaha,” he taunted. “I wish Nims and KS were here to see this. Dang.”
Struggling to rise, Rashid turned to the side, only to be met with another cruel blow as Jag jammed his foot into his face. Rashid winced in pain, closing his eyes tightly. When he finally opened them, Jag was already walking away, chuckling to himself.
He wiped his lip with the sleeve of his shirt and kept walking. Jag’s laughter still echoed, but Rashid didn’t look back. He’d learned that early: don’t give them the satisfaction.
Upon reaching the office, Rashid was surprised to see his older brother, Munir, seated across from Ms. Macy, their school counselor. Munir stood up, embracing his younger brother. “Let's go home,” he said quietly.
Confused and concerned, Rashid asked, “Home? Why?”
“Rashid. We have to get going,” Munir urged, his voice strained.
Rashid hesitated, “Look, I can’t just leave school,” he protested.
“Father’s dead,” Munir said flatly.
Rashid blinked, then looked to Ms. Macy, searching her face for anything that might soften what he'd just heard.
Before Ms. Macy could speak, Munir had already seized Rashid and ushered him out the door. A thin smear of blood clung to Rashid’s lower lip, unnoticed by Munir, whose focus was locked in a frantic, unrelenting drive. He shoved Rashid into the passenger seat of his battered 2001 Toyota Camry and peeled away, tires screeching like they could outrun the truth.
The car stopped in front of their father’s shop, "From Lahore Books & Gifts." Wakil Afzal, their father, had named the store intending to bring his culture and tradition to the country he now called home. A professor of Islamic Studies at the University of Lahore in Pakistan, Wakil had sought asylum in the U.S. due to his differing beliefs with those in power back home. Despite numerous challenges in the U.S., Wakil built a successful business and became a pillar of the immigrant community in Astoria and surrounding towns.
Munir gripped the wheel, fighting to steady his breath. “Our father took his own life,” he said, voice cracking. The words landed hard, heavy in the silence between them.
A moment later, barely above a whisper, he repeated the words their father had once given him six years and a lifetime ago. “Don’t show them your fear.”
He was a man who hated distractions, so after shutting off his old-school alarm clock, Amir walked the few steps to the bathroom where he splashed his face, grabbed a black sweatshirt with Manfred’s MMA logo printed on the front, and “Team Kashyap” written on the back.
The chilly spring air tickled his nose as he began with a slow jog. A pair of headphones beamed old-school songs, starting with Danger Zone, followed by Eye of the Tiger. As he picked up the pace, Amir rounded the block past a shuttered corner diner and a bodega with crates of fruit still being unloaded from a box truck.
Just ahead, tucked beside a faded green mailbox and a lamppost wrapped with missing dog flyers, sat a half-rusted newspaper box.
The headline screamed at him through the glass:
"TRANSIT COP FOUND DEAD ON TRACKS AMID ANTI-COP SENTIMENT"
Amir slowed his pace. His eye caught the corner of a black-and-white photo beneath the headline. He squinted and took a step forward to get a closer look at the picture.
Amir recognized the station. He was there just last night.
The music in his headphones kept going. “Risin’ up, back on the street…”
But there was no way he could get back to his run now. His heart sank, and his body temperature felt like it had dropped 20 degrees.
He had no clue what to do. A cop was murdered in his precinct.
In that moment, knees weak and sweat dripping into his eyes, Amir could think of nothing else—he had to call Mason.
Enjoying the story? Share it with a friend or post it on your favorite social platform—someone you know might love it too!