A Rehman Dakait x Reader fic
Masterlist
a/n: aand this is part 3! written for @mainyahaankyunhoon, event organised by @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange
This fic is VERY canon divergent. It is solely based on Akshaye Khanna’s portrayal of Rehman Dakait in the movie Dhurandhar and has nothing to do with the gangster Rehman Dakait in any way, shape or form. I sincerely hope he is being tortured in the worst way possible, wherever he is. Rest of the notes are at the end!
PART 1 | PART 2
The only thing more predictable than Lyari’s electricity disappearing exactly when you needed it was your son disappearing into the Baloch haveli the moment school ended at least twice a week.
You had screamed your head off when you returned to Khanani’s office the day after the flood, asking — rather, threatening — him to honour the terms of his contract and let you pick up your son on time, or you would undo every single small thing you had done to ensure his untainted reputation and get rid of his political career before it even took off completely. He had scoffed then, but the implications of your words didn’t leave him; he knew there was no way he could survive the likes of Jameel if he didn’t have someone to mince his words in front of investors and supporters.
It was days like these you were grateful you had pushed yourself to study Communications after school, even if your parents were initially against the idea since your elder sister had got married the second she was out of 12th grade and effectively disappeared off the face of the earth. The marriage had happened anyway, and everyone knew how badly that went after the first two years, and it was only your degree that saved you.
That and Ayaan, of course. If he didn’t exist, you wouldn’t have found a reason to live in the first place.
You had barely rested your bag on the sofa when Ayaan rushed towards you, Uzair hot on his heels and Rehman following a few steps behind.
“Ammi!” he shouted with a toothy smile, proudly revealing the gap where his milk tooth had fallen out a month ago. “Rehman uncle phir se haar gaye!”
You looked past him at Rehman, who merely lifted a shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching in the unmistakable smile that meant he had, once again, bowled at the speed of continental drift.
Ayaan nodded so enthusiastically that you were briefly concerned his head might detach from his neck.
“Unke ball ki pace khargosh jaisi hai. Maine ek over mein six, six, six, six, six, six maara.”
“Mashallah,” you said, kissing his cheek. “Pakistan team ko abhi phone karti hu. Babar Azam ko retire ho jaana chahiye.”
Rehman rubbed a hand over his face.
“Doctor sahiba,” he sighed, “aap isko aur hawa mat dijiye.”
“Maaf kijiyega,” you replied sweetly. “Main bas national talent ko appreciate kar rahi hu.”
Somehow, your son had managed to bully one of Lyari's most feared men into playing cricket after school every other day.
You had long stopped questioning it.
There were simply some things in life that were beyond human comprehension.
Like why Ayaan insisted on carrying his tennis ball to school every day.
Or why Khanani believed every problem could be solved by scheduling another meeting.
Which was precisely why you continued running late even after the rains had stopped.
It had been three months since the flood. The roads had dried, the potholes had returned to their regularly scheduled duty of trying to murder Lyari’s suspension systems, and there was no longer any practical reason for Ayaan to spend every afternoon at the Baloch haveli.
Having apparently decided that philanthropy was the latest stepping stone to political sainthood, he had suddenly become obsessed with launching a charitable foundation. According to him, it was for "the people." According to you, it was for tax deductions, newspaper headlines, and laying the groundwork for an election campaign that was still four years away.
Unfortunately, you were paid to make the first version sound more convincing than the second.
Which meant endless strategy meetings. Press notes. Donor meetings. Logistics. More strategy meetings because the first ones apparently hadn't strategised hard enough. By the time you escaped the office most days, it was closer to five than four.
Not that Ayaan seemed to mind.
If anything, he had become rather fond of your chronic inability to leave work on time.
And any child would be, to be honest. Every morning, sometime around eleven, you would send Rehman a short text asking if he — or, failing that, literally anyone at the Baloch haveli — was around to pick Ayaan up from school. The reply would almost always arrive within half an hour.
Uzair free hai. Tension mat lijiye.
With that worry taken care of, you would bury yourself in files and press releases, only glancing at your phone now and then to find the occasional photo awaiting you.
Ayaan proudly holding up a lopsided drawing.
Ayaan perched on Donga’s shoulders.
Ayaan grinning beside a thoroughly defeated-looking Rehman with a plastic cricket bat raised triumphantly over his head.
By the time you finally escaped the office, it was usually closer to five than four.
The routine hardly changed after that.
Ayaan yelling, "Ammi aa gayi!"
A cup of chai somehow materialising in your hands before you even sat down.
Five minutes turned into thirty as Akhlaaq insisted you taste whatever he was experimenting with that day, or as Uzair and Siyahi argued over whose fault it had been that Pakistan had lost yet another match, while Rehman occasionally contributed exactly one sentence every ten minutes before returning to whatever file was open in front of him.
By six, you would finally drag a protesting Ayaan home, supervise homework over dinner, lose a board game you were fairly certain he cheated at, tuck him into bed around nine, and spend another hour finishing whatever work Khanani had decided absolutely could not wait until morning.
It was exhausting and repetitive, but it had become your new normal, even as work increasingly became the major cause for strands of your hair turning white at the ripe age of twenty-eight.
It was on a cool December evening that you finally said it.
“Khanani ab bhi ek number ka…” Rehman looked around to ensure Ayaan was nowhere in the vicinity, “chutiya hai kya? Maine socha tha woh apne business mein hi dooba hoga.”
You laughed, too used to the casual companionship, perhaps even acquaintanceship, to feel weird about Rehman asking about your employer.
“Charity khol raha hai, toh obviously kaam hai. Pata nahi kya karega aur kaise, lekin Christmas ke din ek bada press conference hoga.”
“Haan. Puri Lyari ko bula raha hai. Media, donors, sab.” You sipped on your chai. “Aapko bhi invitation bheja hoga, shaayad.”
He nodded and took out an envelope from the stack lying on the dining table. “Yeh wala na?”
You nodded as he opened it and read the letter, lips curling in a grimace as he took in the words. You knew Khanani wanted Rehman to be seated in the front row so he could be roped into the festivities whenever needed, and while you were against that idea, you knew this battle wasn’t worth fighting, and you had more work to do than squabble with a slimy git on seating arrangements.
“Aur mujhe teen hafte se bas isi ka kaam karwaya jaa raha hai,” you added as an afterthought, not missing the way Rehman’s ears perked up.
A dry chuckle escaped you before you could stop it. “Teen hafte optimistic hai. Mujhe lagta hai agle janam tak is opening ki planning chalti rahegi.”
Rehman placed the envelope down and looked at you with a soft yet piercing gaze that seemed like it was slicing through your soul.
“Toh chhod kyun nahi deti?”
The question was so simple, so matter-of-fact, that it caught you off guard.
There was no accusation in his voice. No implication that you were making poor choices. No suggestion that you owed Khanani your loyalty. It was pure curiosity, asked by someone who had noticed you stumbling into the haveli looking increasingly exhausted over the past few weeks.
You let out a quiet laugh through your nose and leaned back against the chair, absentmindedly tracing the rim of your teacup with your thumb.
“Phir Ayaan ko zindagi kaun dega?”
The words slipped out before you could dress them up as another joke.
You smiled a little, more at yourself than at him, and shrugged.
“Rent, school fees, uniforms, books, toys, bijli ki bill... usko yeh sab samajh nahi aata na samajh aana chahiye. Bas itna pata hota hai ki Ammi roz kaam par jaati hai, shaam ko ghar aa jaati hai aur agli subah uska tiffin taiyaar hota hai.”
You looked down at the tea in your hands.
“Mere alawa uska hai hi kaun? Jo bhi karna hai, mujhe hi karna hai. Aakhir beta mera hai, zimmedari bhi meri hi hui.”
Rehman looked at you for a long moment, his brows knitting together ever so slightly, almost like he wanted to say something more.
“Ammi!” Ayaan whispered loudly, diving under the dining table faster than you would’ve liked him to. “SHHHHH!”
A second later, Uzair strolled into the room, hands on his hips.
“Dakait sahab, Y/N ji,” he said solemnly, bowing to both you and Rehman, “agar kisi ne ek chhota sa bachcha dekha ho toh bata dijiyega. Paanch minute se dhoond raha hu.”
Rehman sighed dramatically and looked anywhere but under the table.
You nodded, pursing your lips to hide your snickers.
Ayaan's muffled giggle echoed through the room.
The conversation dissolved into laughter, but long after you had taken Ayaan home that evening, one sentence refused to leave Rehman's mind.
Mere alawa uska hai hi kaun?
If there was one thing Rehman Dakait hated more than paperwork, it was press conferences.
They were just the elite’s way of looking at people and telling them in vague terms that they could not give a shit about the people below them. Journalists asked questions, assumed silence was guilt, words were admissions, and almost every single one of these events ended in either a scandal, a scandal that was hastily covered up, or one that was so inconsequential to the figure themselves that covering it up was just a waste of money.
He had texted you about whether he should bring Ayaan along or leave him at the haveli, considering he had been seeing the boy every day the week leading up to Christmas — but your reply had come an hour later, telling him that he was with your best friend and didn’t need watching that evening.
Rehman wished that wasn’t the case. He had grown to enjoy Ayaan’s presence; he had even gone as far as to rearrange his meetings with Jamali and other influential people to ensure Ayaan was safe and occupied till you picked him up. Ayaan was a ray of sunshine and managed to light up every room he entered, and Rehman knew his presence was doing good to everyone involved. You were able to leave work early to spend time with your son, Ayaan was safe and occupied, and Rehman and his boys had finally found something to break the monotony of deliveries, murders and fights that had become normal to him long ago.
He was dressed in his signature all-black shalwar kameez, one ankle resting over the opposite knee as he waited for the programme to begin.
It was already running ten minutes late.
These kind of events never started on time. They merely taught important people how to waste each other’s afternoons while pretending it was networking.
His fingers drummed idly against the armrest as his gaze drifted across the hall. Cabinet ministers. Local businessmen. Party workers. Reporters already rehearsing the next day’s headlines. Half the people seated there despised one another. The other half were pretending not to.
Politics was a strange profession.
Every few months, someone would suggest that he contest an election. Sometimes Jamali, who probably wanted him to ally with his party so he would retain the Lyari seat, but would still have Rehman helping him out. Sometimes, it was one of his men, who knew he was the only person who didn’t brag about his anonymous donations in this godforsaken town. Sometimes, it was people he had never met, convinced that if Rehman Dakait could command the streets, he could command the Assembly too.
Perhaps they weren’t wrong.
Power had never interested him for its own sake.
He already controlled enough of Lyari that very little happened there without reaching his ears. But Lyari was only one neighbourhood in one city. Every welfare project he wanted to build, every school he wanted funded, every hospital he wanted repaired, every business licence, every land dispute, every shipment, every police raid, every person who wanted him dead — sooner or later, it all ran through someone sitting in a room like this.
Men who funded campaigns. Men who wanted influence without ever dirtying their own hands. Men who smiled for the cameras and then spent the rest of the week deciding who got access and who did not.
And Rehman had grown tired of asking other people for permission.
Politics would change that.
Not because it would make him richer, because he had stopped caring about money years ago.
Not because it would make him famous, if anything, he would happily trade half his reputation for a quieter life.
But legitimate power reached places fear never could. It opened doors that even Rehman Dakait occasionally found locked. It would give him everything he needed to continue his welfare schemes and his shipments without any interference by a pudgy man who hadn’t stepped out on the streets unless it was to deliver a speech that held more dreams than promises.
There was just one problem.
Politics required press conferences.
He would rather negotiate with three rival gangs than spend an hour smiling for cameras and answering questions whose answers everyone in the room already knew.
His gaze wandered towards the stage again.
If this was the price of power...
He wasn’t convinced it was worth paying.
A pink-faced Khanani finally walked onto the stage wearing a suit that, from the tailoring, looked straight out of a James Bond movie but somehow looked horrible on him, and the hall fell into the kind of silence that only existed when absolutely no one wanted to be there.
Rehman took a slow sip of his juice.
The obligatory “Aaj hamare saath shaamil hone ke liye aap sabko shukriya.”
If politicians were manufactured in factories, he was fairly certain they all came with the same script pre-installed.
Khanani adjusted the microphone, cleared his throat, and began reading exactly what had been placed in front of him. He thanked the donors, the businessmen, the construction company, the ‘visionary team’ behind the foundation, and every other person whose name had been arranged to sound important without actually meaning anything. The audience responded exactly as expected — polite applause, blank expressions, and the occasional glance at a watch from those unfortunate enough to be seated where leaving early would be noticed.
Rehman had tuned the speech out entirely when it finally ended.
Relief moved through the room in a collective, audible exhale.
Khanani stepped away from the podium with the stiff smile of a man who had survived something he planned to repeat even if he hated doing so, and the guests were ushered into the tour that followed.
That, Rehman realised within minutes, was where the real performance began.
The building looked expensive from the outside. It had the polished façade, the imported stonework, the tasteful lighting, and the kind of entrance that suggested money had been spent generously and often.
But the moment he stepped inside, the illusion began to crack.
Not literally, of course.
Instead, it was hidden beneath layers of expensive cover-up that only a person who grew up on the streets could spot.
Rehman looked around him. No guest was paying attention, and if they were, they were too engrossed in their lives of lavish luxury that they couldn’t care less about the structure of a building everyone knew was not going to be used ever again. He knew he was the only person who actually noticed how shabbily built the charity house was.
Fresh paint on uneven walls.
Decorative panelling placed over what was clearly cheap plaster.
Marble flooring laid in a pattern that drew the eye away from the places where the tiles did not quite sit flush.
A chandelier large enough to distract from the ceiling above it, which was going to give way anytime soon.
Rehman’s gaze moved slowly, taking in every detail with the detached patience of a man who had spent years learning how to read what people tried to hide, and the wrath of someone who knew what a disgrace such a hall was to the people it was meant to serve.
The building had been dressed up beautifully.
It had also been built badly.
And the money spent concealing that fact had almost certainly exceeded the money spent fixing it.
He glanced once at you as you moved ahead of the group, speaking quietly to one of the staff members. Even from where he stood, it was obvious you had not known about the damage until you came to inspect it yourself. Your expression had shifted only slightly when you noticed the cracks disguised beneath the paint, the uneven finish beneath the polished surfaces, the corners where the cover-up had been done just well enough to miss anyone who wasn’t looking closely.
That, more than anything, seemed to irritate Khanani.
By the time the tour ended and everyone was ushered back into the main area for the press conference, the man looked increasingly uncomfortable. The cameras were already in place. The journalists were already seated. The microphones were already waiting.
Rehman had seen enough press conferences to know that this was the part where things usually went wrong.
Khanani had barely settled behind the table when the questions began.
At first, they were the usual ones — funding, plans, the harmless nonsense politicians and their pudgy stomachs loved because it allowed them to sound generous without being specific. Khanani answered them easily, clearly following a script he had memorised line by line that had been written to answer scripted questions.
What a pretentious fucking asshole.
No wonder you hated working for him.
Then one journalist leaned forward and asked, “Khanani sa’ab, aapke khilaf kaafi money laundering aur tax fraud ke cases hai. Kya yeh charity jaaiz hai ya aapki naajaiz cheezo ko chupane ke liye tarika hai?”
The room changed instantly.
The cameras kept rolling.
Khanani’s face darkened so quickly that Rehman almost admired the speed of it. His jaw clenched, his hand curled around the edge of his chair, his eyes reddened from the alcohol he had clearly drunk before the speech, and for one second, it looked as though he might actually stand up and start shouting.
Rehman leaned back on his chair and watched.
Khanani's face twisted with such spectacular fury that Rehman was almost certain tomorrow's newspapers would feature it on the front page. It was almost impressive how such a small man possessed the remarkable ability to compress every unpleasant human emotion into his face at once until he resembled an overboiled potato moments away from exploding.
He opened his mouth, and Rehman could almost see how the cameras zoomed in, eager to catch the expletives that were undoubtedly going to be spewed from his lips.
Before a single word escaped, one of the attendants hurried forward and discreetly slipped a folded piece of paper into his hand.
The interruption lasted barely two seconds.
Then, remarkably, his entire expression changed.
The veins threatening to burst from his forehead retreated. His shoulders loosened. The hand gripping the edge of the table unclenched one finger at a time.
By the time he looked back up, he was smiling.
But it was convincing enough to anyone who hadn't witnessed the transformation.
"Yeh bahut zaroori sawaal hai," he began again, this time in a measured voice that sounded nothing like the one about to unleash a string of obscenities, "Aapki fikr ka shukriya. Transparency hi woh wajah hai jis ke liye hum ne aaj aap sab ko yahan daawat di hai... "
Rehman didn't bother listening to the rest.
Instead, his eyes followed the attendant as the man quietly disappeared behind the stage.
Moments later, you emerged from the same direction, clipboard tucked beneath your arm as though you hadn't just prevented a political suicide in front of all of Pakistan.
Rehman’s fingers brushed his beard, his gaze fixated on you as he tracked every single movement you were making, Khanani and his press conference be damned. Not because you demanded attention — quite the opposite, actually. If he hadn’t known you were there, he would’ve missed you entirely; you had an uncanny ability to disappear into the background the moment a crisis had been averted, moving through the hall like a silent predator with the efficiency of someone who had no interest in recognition so long as the work got done.
It was only then that he realised that the whole room looked to you before doing anything.
A journalist wanted an additional interview.
The interview was arranged.
One of the sponsors arrived twenty minutes late and insisted on being seated in the front row despite every seat already being occupied.
A brief exchange with one of the volunteers.
Someone from the catering staff whispered something to you.
You glanced at your watch, made two quick notes on the clipboard tucked beneath your arm and pointed towards one of the side entrances.
Within minutes, fresh trays began replacing the empty ones, as if they had always been part of the plan.
None of it was dramatic, none of it drew applause, and Rehman knew most of the room wasn’t aware of your existence, much less your role in ensuring the entire program ran smoothly.
And yet, every time something threatened to derail the evening, it somehow corrected itself within moments of reaching you.
More interestingly, nobody seemed to question you. And more than that, no one seemed to want to.
Because they knew you were right.
Rehman tore his eyes away from you, a small light flickering in his forehead as he sipped on the whiskey next to him. He had worked his way up Laloo’s gang before overthrowing the latter. He had built businesses and fronts for said businesses. He had organised and funded more schools, hospitals and shelters than most people would see in their lifetimes. He had sacked, tortured, killed and politely fired people who didn’t work properly. He had enough experience to recognise sharp competence that came from extensive knowledge and exceptional presence of mind.
Because real competence never announces itself.
It makes everyone’s lives easier, and that is enough testament to its impact.
His eyes drifted back to Khanani, who was once again smiling for the cameras, answering questions that had almost ended his evening less than ten minutes ago.
The photographers were taking his picture.
The headlines would carry his name.
But the most important person in this room was neither sitting on the stage, nor with the journalists, nor with the guests who were more concerned about what they would eat for breakfast than any word Khanani was saying.
Rehman had thought that Khanani, thanks to some brain in that empty head of his, had somehow survived an evening that was designed to test his worst instincts, all for a piece on the news and a political career that would never take off.
Now, he realised Khanani hadn’t survived shit.
You had survived it for him.
By the time his car had arrived, Rehman had eaten a very fulfilling dinner, which you had undoubtedly organised, his mind was no longer on the charity or the horrible construction of that abomination of a shelter.
Because for the first time since anyone had suggested he enter politics, Rehman found himself thinking that perhaps press conferences weren't the problem after all.
He had just never met the right person to run them.
February arrived carrying fresh flowers, clear skies and the promise that Lyari would, in a matter of weeks, transform into a giant convection oven determined to roast every living creature unfortunate enough to exist within it before you could even celebrate your son's birthday.
“Ayaan, beta, andar aao,” you called from the living room, wondering — not for the first time — how your son possessed enough energy to run around in the afternoon after demolishing a plate and a half of biryani.
At his age, you supposed, children either ran exclusively on carbohydrates or had somehow discovered a source of renewable energy that scientists had yet to identify. Either way, he had spent the last hour tearing around the small courtyard with a plastic cricket bat in one hand and a tennis ball in the other, loudly declaring himself captain of Pakistan, wicketkeeper, umpire and commentator all at once.
“Ek minute!” came the predictably immediate reply, followed by the crack of plastic meeting tennis ball and a triumphant, “SIX!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
There truly was no force on Earth more optimistic than a five-year-old who believed one minute meant anything less than fifteen.
You sighed, dragging your palms over your face as you wandered towards the kitchen, deciding that the increase in your electricity bill from letting the fan run for another ten minutes was nowhere near as catastrophic as you always convinced yourself it would be. You still hadn't grown used to Lyari's summers, even after nearly a year of living there. Quetta had been cooler—more importantly, drier. Karachi's humidity, on the other hand, seemed personally offended by your existence, wrapping itself around you until even breathing felt like a sweaty activity.
You glanced through the kitchen window one more time to make sure Ayaan was still in the courtyard, happily inventing yet another impossible cricket match.
Time to bring him inside.
You leaned against the counter just loudly enough for your voice to carry through the open window.
“Hmmm...” you mused theatrically to yourself. “Ayaan toh baahar khel raha hai... toh matlab mujhe meri favourite mango ice cream pe chocolate syrup daalke akele hi khaani padegi.”
The change was immediate.
You heard Ayaan dash into the house, kicking off his slippers, footsteps thudding across the floor as he raced to the kitchen with the urgency of someone trying to stop a national disaster. Biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, you reached behind him and quietly slid the latch into place.
“Are?” you said, widening your eyes in mock surprise. “Tum toh bahar cricket khel rahe the.”
“Ab nahi!” he declared, already rummaging through the freezer.
While Ayaan stood on his tiptoes, trying — and failing — to locate the ice cream tub behind a bag of frozen peas, your phone buzzed on the dining table.
“Sabr kar,” you muttered, gently nudging Ayaan away from the freezer before he managed to pull half its contents onto himself as you glanced at the notification.
Rehman: Assalamualaikum. Sab theek?
You picked up your phone, a little surprised.
He wasn't supposed to be back for another two days.
You: Walaikum assalam. Aap waapas aa gaye?
Rehman: Ji, doctor sahiba. Abhi abhi. Socha Ayaan se mile hue kaafi din ho gaye. Aap aaj aa sakenge? Akhlaaq ne waise bhi zarurat se zyada khaana bana diya hai.
You looked over at your son again, who had apparently solved the problem of being too short by dragging a dining chair across the kitchen and climbing onto it with the confidence of a seasoned engineer. He was now half inside the freezer, muttering to himself as he rummaged through frozen peas, packets you had hastily sealed, and mystery containers in search of the mango ice cream, but you didn’t mind; he was careful with the other containers and hadn’t hurt himself or spilt anything so far.
Ayaan had wanted to visit the haveli for the longest time, and it was a Sunday the next day, so you figured, why not?
You: Haan, shaam ko aate hai. Waise bhi kisi ne kisi khaas aadmi ko do hafte mein nahi haraaya hai
Rehman: Do hafte se koi cheating bhi nahi kar raha tha.
You: National talent aur cheating alag alag cheez hai, Rehman ji. Aap bas mere sher ka taakat handle nahi kar pa rahe hai
Rehman: National talent ko sabhi ball no ball ya ‘yeh warm-up tha’ hai kya?
You: Haarne ke liye taiyaar rahiyega :)
Rehman: Inshallah. Bas is baar umpire imaandar hona chahiye.
“Ayaan,” you started, looking at your son, who had streaks of yellow around his lips. “Hum Rehman uncle ke ghar jaa rahe hai. Aur—”
Before you could finish, his eyes lit up.
“Main Siyahi bhaiya ko batana hai ki maine naya cover drive seekh liya!”
“Andar saans bhi le liya karo kabhi,” you muttered, unable to suppress a smile. “Haan, jaa rahe hain. Lekin pehle muh dholo, kapde badlo, aur jo ice cream tumhare gaal pe lagi hui hai na, woh bhi hatao.”
Ayaan immediately rubbed his face with both hands.
You took one look at the now much larger yellow smear stretching from one cheek to the other and sighed.
“Bathroom jaake saaf karo. Varna tujhe teri hi chehre dikhayega nahi.”
Ayaan rushed towards the bathroom, giving you what would probably amount to five whole minutes of peace before he returned with a towel draped over his head like a superhero's cape.
You leaned against the kitchen counter, your thoughts drifting back to work.
Khanani had promised you a pay raise and extra allowances in December.
December had come and gone.
Neither the raise arrived, nor did the allowances materialise.
Something about upkeep costs, new hires and budget reallocations had ensured the discussion never resurfaced, despite your workload having nearly doubled since the charity's launch. If anything, your responsibilities had only expanded. Every successful event seemed to convince Khanani that you could manage two more while juggling a five year old, his life and the ungodly frequency of his falling sick.
The irony wasn't lost on you.
The better you became at your job, the more your competence was rewarded with more work.
Money had become tighter, too. Tensions across the city had driven prices upwards over the past few months. Groceries cost more. School supplies cost more. Even the auto ride between home and work punished your wallet more and more..
It wasn’t like you couldn’t manage. You always managed, whether you had barely three thousand rupees to your name or eighty thousand. But managing had never been the life you wanted for Ayaan.
Worse than the money, though, was the time.
Khanani still had an almost supernatural inability to understand that offices were, in fact, supposed to close. Leaving before five felt like negotiating a peace treaty. If you couldn’t make it, you would request Rehman, desperately hoping that he wasn’t secretly tired of you. And when you could, Ayaan would inadvertently have to wait for at least half an hour before you could pick him up, because Khanani refused to let you go early, having barely enough time to feed him lunch before rushing to return to work. By the time you returned home, Ayaan had already spent a majority of his day without you.
You could see it in little ways.
The books he wanted to read.
The fact that he no longer relied on you to reach the freezer.
You had missed enough in one year.
You refused to miss the rest of his childhood too.
With a quiet sigh, you picked up your phone and locked it again.
You really did need a new job.
The only problem was that finding one that paid enough, respected your time, and accommodated the fact that you came as a package deal with a five-year-old felt about as realistic as Khanani voluntarily ending a meeting on time.
But you couldn’t let yourself and your time be disrespected so much, could you?
Ayaan stepped out at exactly that moment, face freshly washed and dusted with traces of talcum powder that made him look like a doughnut that had clumps of icing sugar on it . Before you could ask where he had gotten that idea from, he had already packed a change of clothes, his favourite snack, and his cricket bat into his school bag.
Ayaan knew his tantrums hadn't vanished entirely. He also knew that if he wanted to be treated like a big boy around Rehman and the others, he needed a backup plan for the moments when hunger, heat, or exhaustion threatened to turn him back into a five-year-old disaster.
Oh, your baby had grown so much.
You nodded and took his hand.
The journey to the haveli had become so routine that neither of you thought much of it anymore. Ayaan spent that time talking your ear off, alternating between narrating the newest rules he had invented for cricket and asking whether Rehman Uncle would survive this evening's match. You, meanwhile, silently prayed that your son would show enough mercy to let the poor man score at least one run.
The familiar iron gates came into view barely fifteen minutes later.
Before you could even knock, Siyahi spotted the two of you from the window and shouted, “Aagaye!”
The announcement echoed through the haveli as though visiting heads of state had arrived instead of one exhausted single mother and her five-year-old son. Uzair immediately bounced out, gave Ayaan a high-five and took his bag, allowing the child to run into the haveli with the surety of someone entering their second home. Donga was just retrieving the stumps and tennis bag, shouting that Rehman uncle would join in just a few minutes, he was occupied with a call upstairs and would be down before anyone even knew it.
Uzair led you inside, and Akhlaaq served you a cup of masala chai, too familiar with you to remember your order without you having to remind him. You took a sip and thanked the latter, who warmly smiled at you from the kitchen in response before returning to the pressure cooker that was sure to burst.
“Aaj khelne nahi gaye?” you asked Uzair, who had just downed a glass of water, and he sheepishly shook his head.
Akhlaaq stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Ladki haan kar di na,” he announced to absolutely no one in particular. “Date pe jaa raha hai.”
“Kya ‘Akhlaaq bhai’?” the older man scoffed, disappearing back into the kitchen. “Poore ghar ko pata hai.”
You turned back to Uzair, eyebrows raised.
He was already pink around the ears. “Bas milne jaa raha hoon.”
You laughed softly, reminiscing about a lifetime ago when you were excitedly getting ready for your first date too. “Accha. Maze karo.”
He chuckled and turned his body towards you, facing you directly. “Ab aap bataiye. Naukri kaisi hai? Kisi ko maarna hai kya?”
You snorted into your tea. “Khanani ko.”
Uzair winced. “Itna bura?”
“Agle hafte ke meeting ko schedule karne ke liye aaj meeting rakha.”
That was enough to make him laugh into his water, but he couldn’t continue, because the sound of a ball landing on concrete and the shout that followed interrupted the conversation.
“Ayaan!” Rehman's voice called from the courtyard. “Yeh unfair hai!”
“Aap mujhe bowling hi nahi karne de rahe.”
For all his complaints, Rehman had been ‘losing’ to your son for nearly twenty minutes now, but Ayaan definitely never noticed how each ball that could’ve been caught easily was being let slip by the adults, who clearly found joy in your son’s excited shrieks.
When Akhlaaq announced dinner, your first instinct was to decline.
You had always left after tea.
“Akhlaaq bhai, taqlif mat kijiye—”
“Kaisi taqlif?” he interrupted, already setting another plate on the table. “Khaana ban gaya hai.”
You gave in after debating with Akhlaaq for a full five minutes, during which he dismissed every excuse you offered with the confidence of a man who had already decided you were staying. You helped him set the table instead, insisting that this was the least you could do after his offer.
Dinner stretched on lazily, moving from politics to recipes to cricket to stories from Uzair's childhood that became more exaggerated every time Siyahi interrupted to 'correct' them.
Ayaan looked at Siyahi in pure admiration.
And you, for the first time, weren’t watching the clock, thinking about unfinished files, or wondering when the bastard Khanani was going to call you about something inconsequential that had to be done immediately.
By the time Akhlaaq insisted everyone eat kulfi, Ayaan had quietly abandoned his chair altogether, climbing into your lap with the certainty that mothers existed to be portable beds. You absentmindedly stroked his hair while listening to the others argue over whether mangoes or oranges were objectively superior.
At some point, the small sounds settled into soft snores.
“Isko toh duniya utha ke le jaaye, phir bhi nahi uthega,” Rehman chuckled, watching Ayaan sleep so soundly that not even the chatter around the table seemed capable of reaching him.
You smiled faintly, gently brushing a lock of hair away from your son's forehead.
“Bas thak gaya hai,” you murmured.
Rehman gave a quiet nod and looked down into his teacup, letting the moment pass without comment.
Then he set his files down. “Y/N ji.”
You looked up at him. “Hm?”
He rested his forearms on the table, studying you with an expression you had come to recognise over the past few months. It was the same one he wore before making an important business decision — calm, measured, certain like he had already thought the matter through.
“Main aapse ek baat poochun?”
He was silent for another heartbeat.
“Kabhi Khanani ki naukri chhodne ka socha hai?”
You raised an eyebrow, and the warmth of the evening disappeared behind the familiar analytical composure that most people mistook for your entire personality. Ayaan was drooling on your kurti, but you paid him no mind — your focus was on Rehman now. “Kyun?”
“Aap meri baat samajhiye,” Rehman started, and you kept your expression blank as a sign for him to continue. “Business achchi chal rahi hai. Lyari par kabza hai. Is se mujhe zindagi guzaarne ke liye kaafi se zyaada paisa hai. Agar main chahu, main in sab ko chodke Canada ya Dubai mein settle ho sakta hu aur kuch nahi hoga.”
“Lekin main apni sheher, apni kaum ko chhod nahi sakta. Har din main yai sochta hu ki agar mujhe meri kaum nahi mili, toh main yahan hota hi nahi. Aur main unko vahi izzat dena chaata hu. Aap jaante honge ki yahan ke schools, hospitals, vagera itni buri haalat main hai aur bas tax fraud ke liye banaye hai.”
You hummed. “Lekin aapke paas paisa hai. Siyasati mein aane ke liye kya zaroorat?”
“Vahi toh,” he replied, unnerved by your question. “Mere paas paisa hai. Asar bhi hai. Lekin ikhtiyaar nahi hai.
“Har naya project ke liye kisi na kisi politician ke paas jaana padta hai. School banana ho, hospital expand karna ho, land allotment ho, welfare programme ho, har jagah kisi aur ki marzi chalti hai. Aaj Jameel, kal Khanani, parson koi teesra.”
“Main unse kaam nikalwa leta hoon. Lekin mujhe yeh pasand nahi ke jis cheez ke liye paisa bhi mera ho, planning bhi meri ho aur niyyat bhi meri ho, uske liye ijaazat kisi aur se leni pade.”
Your fingers absentmindedly traced circles over Ayaan's back.
His expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“Aur agar main siyasat mein aa gaya,” he said quietly, “toh mujhe har baar kisi aur ke election ka intezaar nahi karna padega. Lyari mein jo kaam kar raha hoon, usse poori Karachi tak le jaa sakta hoon.”
You adjusted a sleeping Ayaan on your shoulder. “Aur main kahan se aati hu? Har saal, Karachi University se approximately 600 students graduate karte hain. Aap ke liye kaam zaroor karenge."
“Maine aapko Khanani Charitable Foundation ke opening mein dekha. Logon ke sawal aapke paas aa rahe the. Sponsors, volunteers, media, aur kaam aap handle kar rahi thi. Agar aap nahi hote, Khanani yahan pahunch nahi pate.”
The praise was welcome, but you refused to take it as something apart from mere words.
He let the words hang between you for a moment before continuing.
“Main siyasat ko chhoti cheez nahi samajhta,” he said quietly. “Mujhe pata hai yeh business se alag hai. Log alag hain. Masle alag hain. Aur sach kahun toh, mujhe sab kuch nahi aata.”
“Lekin itna zaroor jaanta hoon ki mujhe mere aas-paas aise log chahiye jo mujhse zyada samajhdaar ho. Jo mujhe mana bhi sakein jab main galat hoon. Jo mujhe samjha sakein jab mujhe kuch samajh na aaye. Aur jo mujhe sirf isliye haan na bolein kyunki main Rehman Dakait hoon.”
“Mujhe aap jaisi insaan chahiye.”
The distinction didn't escape you.
You looked down at the little boy asleep against your shoulder.
He had drooled all over your favourite kurti.
Rehman nodded immediately.
There was no disappointment, no persuasion, not even a hint of negotiation in his voice.
“Jitna waqt chahiye, lijiye.”
The drive home passed in a blur. Rehman had arranged for a taxi, and the driver kept the radio low as it moved through Lyari’s late-night streets, past shuttered shops with their grills pulled down, tea stalls glowing under weak yellow bulbs, stray dogs curled up beside parked motorcycles, and the occasional sign flickering over an empty road. The city looked different after dark, but you barely noticed any of it. Your mind was still back at the haveli, still turning over Rehman’s offer, still hearing the calm certainty in his voice. Ayaan slept against you in the back seat, warm and heavy and completely unaware that your entire evening had shifted around a single conversation.
By the time the taxi pulled up outside your house, you still hadn’t reached an answer.
You thought about it while changing Ayaan into his nightclothes without waking him.
You thought about it while scrubbing the sauce stain off your sleeve.
You thought about it lying awake in bed long after the ceiling fan had become the only sound in the house.
Working for Rehman was objectively riskier.
He was entering politics — a field you understood infinitely better than he did — and his reputation alone would attract scrutiny from every newspaper, politician and businessman in Karachi. He had the backing of a gang and the possibility of war surrounding him at every possible moment. Signing up for a job with him would only pull you further away from your original thoughts of not getting into the dirtier part of Lyari’s politics.
You looked at Ayaan, who was sleeping soundly.
He was going to turn six soon.
A big age for him, undoubtedly. He had already started insisting he was ‘almost a grown-up,’ proudly tying his own shoelaces and refusing your help with the simplest of tasks. Every week seemed to bring a new piece of independence, another tiny reminder that childhood was slipping away faster than you were expecting.
If you accepted his offer, how were you supposed to hide the bad parts of life from him? Khanani wasn’t that difficult. No child understood money laundering, tax frauds or the intricacies behind financial extortion. They didn’t even know something called financial crimes existed.
A child would understand guns, though. Violence. War. Fear so primal that it never left anyone’s bones. Trauma so deep-rooted people became shells of themselves. You would sooner lose every job in Karachi than knowingly let your son see that, or wose, experience it.
But how long could you protect him?
Sooner or later, he would learn that the world wasn't fair.
That bad people often didn't.
That sometimes the monsters looked exactly like ordinary men.
You just hadn't expected to be the one choosing how close he stood to them.
Yet, for the first time in years, someone had offered you a job without speaking about what they wanted you to sacrifice.
No one had asked you to work longer hours.
No one had asked whether your son would be ‘manageable’.
No one had suggested that motherhood and professionalism existed on opposite ends of a spectrum.
Rehman had not said it outright, but you were positive he had considered Ayaan too. The way he had looked at him — careful, unbothered, a part of the equation from the very beginning — had made that clear.
You weren't sure what unsettled you more.
Or the fact that you were genuinely considering it.
Rehman had expected the call.
He just hadn't expected himself to spend the better part of the morning checking his phone every fifteen minutes.
“Phone ko dekhne se woh jaldi nahi bajega.”
Rehman ignored him and continued pacing around the room, glaring at Uzair, who was still in a suspiciously good mood from the previous date and seemed to think that made him impervious to his elder brother’s taunts or sarcasm. The smugness on his face was almost offensive.
Thirty-eight minutes later, the phone rang.
Uzair’s expression only grew more pleased with itself, and Rehman picked up before the second ring.
Your voice came from the other side, crisp with the weight of a decision that you had probably thought about the entire night. “Wa Alaikum Assalam.”
“Agar offer abhi bhi hai, toh meri kuch shart hain.”
The corner of Rehman's mouth lifted, and suddenly, he understood why even the smallest thing could make Uzair jump up and down in joy. “Mujhe umeed bhi yahi thi.”
Rehman smiled to himself. Of course you had conditions. He would have been disappointed if you hadn’t. People who accepted things too quickly usually hadn’t thought them through. You had. He could hear that in the measured way you spoke, as if you had already arranged your thoughts into neat rows before dialing his number.
He reached for the notebook lying beside him and motioned to Donga to shut up before he smashed his head into the expensive mahogany that had created Rehman’s desk.
“Main Khanani se kam salary par nahi aaungi.”
He had already budgeted for that. In fact, he had budgeted for more. He had known from the moment he made the offer that if you came, you would not come cheaply — not because you were greedy, but because you knew your worth and would not let anyone pretend otherwise. He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the notebook open in front of him.
“Pandrah lakh rupay saalana chalega?”
The silence that followed was long enough for him to glance at the receiver, frowning slightly.
A quiet laugh slipped through the line, soft enough that he could imagine the smile behind it.
“Main bas yeh soch rahi thi ke aap negotiate bhi nahi karenge.”
He laughed then, genuinely amused. “Aapne kam toh maanga hi nahi.”
That made you laugh too, though yours was quieter, more restrained. “Theek hai.”
He wrote the figure into the notebook with a neat line beneath it, though he already knew he would not need to revisit it. “Phir?”
“Agar school se phone aaya, ya Ayaan ko lena hoga, toh main kaam ke beech chali jaaungi.”
Rehman shrugged. He had already expected it, and even if you hadn’t mentioned it, he would’ve made it clear that that was always how it was going to work. “Theek hai.”
“Main baad mein kaam poora kar dungi.”
“Aapko justify karne ki zaroorat nahi hai.”
He heard a faint pause on the other end, and for a moment, he wondered if you had expected resistance. Perhaps you had prepared yourself for the usual questions — how often, how long, what if it becomes a habit, what if everyone starts asking for the same thing. Instead, he had agreed before you had even finished speaking. He could almost picture your expression changing, the guardedness easing by degrees.
“Work from home,” you continued after a moment. “Har roz nahi. Lekin agar Ayaan bimar ho, ya mujhe ghar se kaam karna behtar lage, toh mujhe woh option chahiye.”
He did not even bother writing that one down immediately, for, in his mind, it had already become policy. He knew taking care of a child that young was hard work; checking the temperature every hour, ensuring all medicines were absorbed, staying on the phone with doctors as every symptom was read out… there was a lot. And he was never going to stop you from being a mother, because his work came later than your priority.
“Jab Ayaan haveli mein hai, uske saamne siyasat ya kaam ki baat nahi hogi.”
For a second, his mind flashed back to all the evenings the boy had spent in the courtyard, batting a tennis ball across the tiles while adults around him discussed contracts, constituencies, and the kind of problems children should never have to hear. He had never thought much of it before. Children were often present in his world without truly being part of it. But you had noticed. Of course you had.
“Bilkul nahi hogi,” he said at once.
He answered before you had even finished the sentence, because there was no room for ambiguity there. “Ayaan jab haveli aata hai, toh woh mehmaan nahi hota.”
He glanced out through the open window toward the courtyard. The plastic wickets Ayaan had left behind the previous evening still stood near the wall, one slightly tilted. The sight made him smile faintly.
“Woh bachcha hai,” he said. “Uske saamne bachchon wali baatein hongi.”
The line stayed quiet for a heartbeat, and when you spoke again, there was something in your voice that sounded almost like relief, though you kept it tucked neatly beneath your professionalism.
“Main har business trip pe nahi aaungi.”
“Main aaungi,” you clarified, “agar waqai zaroorat hui toh. Lekin har meeting, har sheher, har safar, uski zaroorat nahi honi chahiye. Ayaan abhi bhi baccha hai. Jitna ho sake, mujhe uske paas rehna hai. School ho ya chutti.”
Rehman frowned slightly, not in disagreement but in genuine confusion. That was not what people usually asked for. In his experience, everyone wanted to travel. Travel meant visibility, visibility meant influence, and influence meant leverage. People fought for it, angled for it, dressed it up as necessity when it was really ambition. You were asking for the opposite. He understood most of it, but one part that left him confused was why you thought taking your child with you was not an option, especially during holidays. He had done that with Uzair. What made you dismiss that idea?
“Theek hai,” he said instead, storing that piece of information for another day.
Another pause followed, quieter this time, both of you taking stock of how little remained unsaid.
Rehman looked down at the notebook in front of him. The page was not crowded with demands. It was crowded with boundaries. Salary. Flexibility. No politics in front of Ayaan. No unnecessary travel. None of it made your life easier in the way people usually meant when they negotiated a job. Every clause protected something else.
“Aur kuch add karna chahti hain?” he asked.
He smiled despite himself. “Mujhe pata tha.”
“Yeh sab contract mein likha hoga.”
“Nahi,” you corrected immediately, with the firmness that suggested you had already anticipated his answer. “Sab. Word for word.”
He laughed under his breath. “Aap mujhpe bilkul bharosa nahi karti.”
The answer came so quickly that it caught him off guard. There was no hesitation in it, no defensive edge, just certainty. Then, after a brief pause, you added, “Lekin contract phir bhi chahiye.”
That, more than anything else you had said, made him respect you all even more. You trusted people, but you trusted paperwork more. You trusted what was written down, what could not be conveniently forgotten later. It was sensible. It was careful. It was exactly the caution someone learned after being disappointed once too often. And Khanani had disappointed you too many times.
“Theek hai,” he said. “Main legal team se draft banwa deta hoon. Aaj shaam tak email kar dunga. Agar hard copy chahiye ho toh woh bhi bhijwa dunga.”
You hummed. “Aur agar mujhe kuch badalna ho?”
This time neither of you spoke for several seconds. Rehman could hear the faint rustle of movement on your end, perhaps you shifting the phone from one hand to the other, perhaps Ayaan calling from another room.
Then you cleared your throat softly.
He looked at the living room from his window. Ayaan’s colouring book was still on the sofa, and the crayons he had left were haphazardly strewn across the floor. Had the mess been that of an adult, Rehman would’ve fired them or at least screamed at them on the spot, but knowing it was Ayaan’s made him smile softly.
“Offer letter shaam tak pahunch jaayega.”
He smiled faintly, though you could not see it.
“Uske baad... aap officially meri boss ban jaayengi.”
For the first time since answering the phone, you laughed properly, and he joined, returning to that old dynamic of acquaintances — or colleagues, now — as easily as it was to shift into professionalism.
When the call ended, he sat for a moment with the phone still in his hand, then closed the notebook and rang his legal department. He dictated every condition exactly as you had said it, without changing a word, without smoothing anything over, without adding the kind of corporate polish that usually made such things sound more generous than they were.
And now that you were on his team… no sky or star was unreachable.
a/n: AAAND Y/N IS WORKING FOR REHMAN! Can't wait to see how that 'purely working' relationship evolves lmao. Also, the next part is unfortunately not going to be published as quickly as parts 2 and 3 were, but I will try to update once a week or once in ten days. College is starting and I will no longer have as much time as I did these past few days. Please comment or dm if you want to be added/removed from the taglist!
Tags: @ishq-e-rehman @minnielovesme @shadylovedhurandhar @rini4everdreaming @satorustorm @cloudmast @layinglowkey @gulaabjamun08 @humsafarhumhihai @mrgrungusthefrog @sea-breeze-in-my-hair @goodasaysboo @debsreads21 @tanipartner @sunf1over @oinswiftie @rhopalocera23 @poetry-beauty-love-writez @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @rosesandpeoniesthings @potashii @idonthavechatpateusernamed @virtualship @alyssafasil @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @itstiaofficial @rutvii @goldenharrysworld @akshi-the-nirmata
