As staff writer Thomasi McDonald penned the story, Pakistani immigrant Mohammed Sundal had promised his four kids that he would stop working in his restaurant seven days a week so that he could spend more time with them.

He never had a chance. An employee found Sundal, who operated a popular eatery at 2016 Guess Road, mortally wounded by gunfire in the parking lot behind his restaurant on the night of Dec. 6. He was dead when police arrived about 10 p.m.

End of story, at least for many of us. Just one more episode in a seemingly endless litany of the Three M’s this month: mayhem, manslaughter and murder.

But let’s not end it there, not this time.

Nouns paint the pastels of a life. Mohammed Sundal, for example, had studied mathematics in his homeland. I had never heard of a mathematician who forsook the most abstract of human endeavors to open a restaurant here or anywhere else, but Sundal did exactly that five years ago. And by all accounts, he was pretty darn good at it.

His restaurant, the Kabab and Curry House, was anything but grand except in the estimation of Sundal’s neighbors and patrons near Duke’s East Campus. This is the most cosmopolitan and inclusive part of Durham, a venue where his modest enterprise found a receptive corps of foodies.

Sundal had brought his wife and family to the Research Triangle from New York City, looking for their particular acre of diamonds in a country that still rewards hard work – and anybody who has done it will tell you that running a restaurant is work on steroids.

But the toil was worth it for Sundal, who told friends that he would not turn off the burners until all of his kids had college degrees. That, my fellow pilgrims, is a work ethic.

If it’s the little things in life that count the most – kindness, concern for others and all the other icings on the cake – Sundal apparently was blessed with an embarrassment of riches.

He was generous within his means. Amado Valencia, who operates a record store near the Kabab and Curry House, remembers how Sundal would offer rice to his small daughter, no payment accepted.

Why someone shot Mohammed Sundal to death on that dark night as he waited for a delivery likely belongs in that category of mystery grown fat on wickedness. Usually, the perp in such cases invokes the divine right of kings: You work and sweat for your bread, and I will eat it.

There will be no more bread from the Kabob and Curry House for the Sundal family, no more rice for Amado Valencia’s little girl. The perp killed not only the man but also the means of supporting his wife and children. Gone, too, will be their house in Cary when the family returns to New York, where Mohammed’s brother lives.

In the great chain of being, many a life from here to Pakistan via New York has been upended by the killing of Mohammed Sundal – and for what? He was 51 years old. He came to the United States when he was 23. He was a proud family man, a good provider. He gave more than he received.

Think about it, Mr. Gunman. Whose life counts more?