Young! Major Iqbal x Young! Y/n
Synopsis A village girl secretly falls in love with Iqbal, an army officer she was never supposed to meet again after a wedding. What starts with hidden meetings and quiet jeep rides soon turns into something much deeper — until gossip, family pressure, and dangerous lies begin ruining everything around them. And by the time the truth starts coming out, it may already be too late.
Cws toxic family dynamics, ANGST, nsfw, consensual sex, emotional abuse, misogyny, slut-shaming, forced confinement, suicide, grief, religious guilt, manipulation, mental deterioration, obsession, family conflict, death, depression, psychological trauma. Might be triggering for us desi girls
The villagers called him mad long before Zayan was old enough to understand what madness truly meant.
To him, the man was simply another part of the village — like the old banyan tree near the mosque or the broken handpump beside the dirt road. Always there. Always wandering. Sometimes he appeared near the market muttering curses beneath his breath. Sometimes near the communal well, shouting at invisible people no one else could see. Children often followed him from a distance laughing nervously, throwing tiny stones before running away again.
His beard was overgrown and uneven, streaked heavily with white. His hair fell wildly around his face like it had not seen oil or a comb in years. One side of his loose pathani salwar was always folded carelessly above the knee while the other dragged against the dust. His legs carried old wounds — some healed, some fresh — and nobody knew where they came from anymore.
In one hand he always carried the same stick. A long worn-out wooden stick wrapped near the bottom with old polythene and strips of cloth tied tightly over one another as if repaired a hundred times. People said he had no home. Some claimed he slept near the old fields. Others swore they had seen him beneath shop awnings during rainstorms. Nobody knew the truth. And yet somehow, every morning, he appeared again. Like grief refusing to die.
Whenever Zayan crossed paths with him alongside his mother, he noticed the same thing happen every single time. Yalina’s fingers would tighten around his hand. Not enough to hurt. Just enough for him to notice. “Ammi…” he had once whispered while looking back at the man. “Woh aadmi aisa kyun hai?”
Yalina had immediately looked away. “Us taraf mat dekho.”
“Zayan.” Her voice had not been angry. Only sad. That sadness confused him more than anything else. Because the villagers feared the man. Some mocked him. Some pitied him.
But his mother…His mother looked at him like someone looking at a grave no one else remembered. Years passed like that.
And still the man wandered through the same roads with the same broken stick and torn clothes, screaming profanities at the sky one moment and laughing to himself the next. Sometimes he would stop in the middle of the road and stare into nothingness for so long it unsettled people. Sometimes he would suddenly whisper softly to himself as though speaking to someone beside him.
And every single time Yalina saw him, her eyes filled quietly with something Zayan could never understand. Until one winter morning, news spread through the village before sunrise. The madman had died. People spoke of it casually.
By afternoon the conversation had already begun fading from people’s minds. But not from Yalina’s. That evening Zayan found her sitting silently near the dim lantern light, her face turned away as she wiped tears with the edge of her dupatta. For the first time in his life, he saw her cry for that man. “Ammi…”
She quickly looked away. “Kuch nhi.”
“Phir aap ro kyun rahi hain?”
“Main nhi ro rhi.” But her voice broke on the last word.
Zayan slowly sat beside her. “Woh kaun tha?” Yalina stayed silent. Outside, the winter wind rattled softly against the old windows. “Aap usse janti thi? Vo pagal majnu tha na?”
At that, Yalina finally looked at her son. And something in her expression changed completely. Not anger. Not shock. Only heartbreak worn old with time. After a very long silence, she whispered softly, “Tum unhein pagal samajhte the na?”
Zayan frowned slightly. “Sab hi samajhte thay.”
Yalina lowered her eyes. Then, very quietly, she said— “Woh pagal paida nahi huay thay.”
The alleyways of the village were never truly quiet.
Even in the late afternoon, there was always something alive within them—women calling out from rooftops, children running barefoot through narrow paths, the smell of wood smoke mixing with fried snacks from tiny roadside stalls. Somewhere far off, a radio played an old song through static. You walked carefully through the uneven lane with your friends beside you, your little sister wandering a few steps ahead, kicking dust around with her feet. Or trying to. Because her juttis kept slipping off. “Jutti pehan le,” you called out, adjusting your dupatta over your head before it slipped again. “Zameen dekhi hai? Saari mitti pairon pe lag jayegi, Laiba.”
Your sister turned dramatically, holding the shoes in one hand. “Nahi pehnni!”
Your friends laughed. One of them nudged you lightly. “Chhor do usay. Do minute baad khud roti phiray gi.”
You shook your head, though a smile still tugged at your lips. “Phir pair dhonay bhi mujhe hi parenge.”
The little girl ignored you completely and continued ahead, humming to herself. The village sat somewhere between mountain quiet and crowded life—close enough to the towns for jeeps and markets, far enough that everyone still knew everyone’s names. Stone houses stood tightly together, some painted, some unfinished, many connected by shared courtyards and narrow walls children climbed over like they belonged to no one. The evening air carried the coolness of the hills. One of your friends suddenly hooked her arm through yours. “Kal aaogi na?”
You looked at her. “Kahan?”
“Mere bhai ka nikka ho gya. Sab auratein jama hongi dulhan dekhne ke liye.”
Before you could answer, she continued dramatically “Mat kehna phir se ke ghar wale ijazat nahi denge.”
You sighed. “Sach keh rahi hoon.”
“Kam se kamdulhan dekhne toh aa jana.” Another friend grinned. “Suna hai bohat khoobsurat hai.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Theek hai. Koshish karungi.”
You rolled your eyes softly while they laughed. By then, your little sister had already reached the tiny corner shop ahead. The old wooden counter was cluttered with jars of sweets, biscuits, tobacco packets, and glass bottles stacked in crooked rows. She pointed eagerly. “Gajjak aa gyi?”
The shopkeeper chuckled. “Abhi nahi aayi.”
She frowned like this was a personal betrayal. You stepped closer, pulling her gently back before she could begin arguing with the poor man. That was when your eyes drifted toward the old man near the side of the shop. You recognized him immediately. He lived alone near the masjid. Poor enough that most people quietly pretended not to notice him. The shopkeeper was stuffing flour, tea leaves, and lentils into a kata for him. You blinked. “Chacha, itna saara?”
The shopkeeper waved dismissively. “Uski fikr mat karo.”
The old man toothless smiled before the shopkeeper answered for him. “Ek sahib dete hain.”
You frowned slightly. “Kon?”
“Bas… ek jawan larka.” He continued packing casually. “Gaon mein jis ko zarurat ho, de deta hoon. Baad mein hisaab usay de deta hoon.”
Your expression softened. “Bada pak banda ha.”
The shopkeeper nodded once. “Allah aur bhi de usay.”
For some reason, the thought stayed with you even after you left. A stranger spending quietly without anyone knowing. You wondered what kind of person did that. By the time you reached home, the sky had begun turning gold. Your house sat attached to your uncle’s through a shared wall dividing the courtyard. Voices always carried through it—arguments, utensils clattering, children laughing. Your father’s elder brother lived there with his family. His sons treated you like their own sister. Their mother did not. No matter how many times your family tried to keep peace, she always found ways to remind everyone the distance between the households still existed. You had stopped understanding why years ago. Still, every Eid, every wedding, every gathering—you smiled anyway. Your mother said relationships survived only when someone chose patience. You weren’t sure if she believed that anymore herself.
Days passed quickly after that.
Music drifting from houses late into the night. And eventually the bride arrived. The women gathered immediately around her, excitement filling the courtyard as though royalty itself had entered. You stood near the back at first, your little sister pressed against your side, both of you trying to peek through the crowd. And then you finally saw her. Your eyes widened slightly. She looked shy beneath her veil, hands covered in henna, bangles chiming softly every time she moved. Without thinking, you smiled. “Chaand se aayi ho tum toh”
The bride lowered her gaze shyly while the women around her laughed. Your little sister tugged your sleeve immediately. “Dulhan sach mein chaand se aati hai?”
You looked down at her serious face and nodded solemnly. “Haan.”
Her mouth fell open in amazement. “Sachi?”
She stared at the bride with complete wonder after that. You laughed quietly to yourself before turning back toward the gathering, clapping softly along to the music now playing from somewhere inside the house. For a while, you forgot everything else. The noise. The crowd. The people watching. Until suddenly you felt it. A stare. Not uncomfortable. Just… steady. Your smile faded slightly as you glanced up instinctively.
Across the courtyard, above the noise and lights someone stood on the rooftop. Tall. Still. Watching. Iqbal had stopped listening to the conversation behind him several minutes ago. His attention had settled elsewhere entirely.
He wasn’t sure when exactly you had caught his eye. Maybe when you laughed. Maybe when you bent slightly to fix your sister’s dupatta. Maybe when you started singing quietly along to the music without realizing. Whatever it was he couldn’t look away now. The lights hanging across the courtyard flickered softly against the deep green of your suit, your bangles catching gold every time your hands moved. You looked completely unaware of yourself. And somehow, that made it worse. “Hmm.”
A voice behind him broke his thoughts. Mir Sajid stepped beside him casually before following his line of sight downward.
Then another glance toward Iqbal. And suddenly he laughed under his breath. “Acha…”
Iqbal didn’t react. Mir Sajid patted his shoulder once, still grinning to himself before walking away again without another word. Iqbal barely noticed.
Because just then you looked up. It happened quickly. A single glance. Your eyes met his across the courtyard. No smile. No expression. Your face simply stilled for a second. And strangely so did his. Then, almost immediately, both of you looked away. Like the moment had never happened at all. Nearby, one of the older men had started talking loudly again.
“Aaj kal de jawak…” he scoffed looking over at Iqbal and his outfit- A navy suit sat sharply against his frame, perfectly tailored as though stitched only for him, the clean lines making him look older than he actually was. Beneath it, the cream shirt softened the darkness slightly, its collar neat despite the long evening. Around his neck rested a light scarf tucked carefully beneath the collar—simple, structured, almost military in the way it sat against him. The kind young soldiers often wore. It gave him a composed look, restrained and deliberate, like even his clothing had been taught discipline. [kids these days.]
The older man continued almost as if he had personal beef with Iqbal “Chee jamata padhan naal koi khabi khan nhi ban janda khandani chahidi hai—Bakshi kadd oh mera nava asla payiye patake”Someone beside him handed over a double-barrel gun proudly. “Aa vekh.” The old man lifted it dramatically. “Aasi jatt hone aa.” Several men laughed around him. He aimed upward confidently and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He frowned. Again. Still nothing. “Khore ki fas gya ede ch.” [6th tak padh kar koi kuvh bada nhi ban jata- baskshi meri nayi gun nikal patake chalate hai] [hum jatt hote hai] [kya fass gya isme]
A few awkward chuckles spread through the group. Iqbal finally smiled faintly to himself before stepping forward quietly. Without a word, he took the gun from the older man’s hands, adjusted the safety calmly, and lifted it toward the sky. A loud shot echoed through the night. The courtyard below erupted with cheers immediately. And despite himself Iqbal’s first instinct was to look for you. He imagined you glancing up. Maybe impressed. Maybe startled. Maybe But you weren’t even there anymore. Your little sister had disappeared.
You spotted her near one of the jeeps parked outside the house, happily leaning over the driver’s seat and pressing random things. A loud horn blasted through the lane. Your eyes widened immediately. “Aray!” You hurried toward her quickly. “Kya kar rahi hai tu?!”
She jumped guiltily. “Main ne kuch nahi kiya!”
You pulled her down before she could touch anything else. “Kya pata kis ki gaadi hai!”
A voice behind you spoke calmly “Haan. Aape baj gaya hona.”
You froze slightly. He stood beside the jeep now, keys dangling loosely from one hand. Your sister hid partly behind you immediately. “Padhai ki soh veere horn main ne nahi bajaya…”
His expression barely changed. “Achha.”
You lowered your gaze automatically, suddenly aware of how close he was standing. For a second, nobody spoke. Then you took your sister’s hand quickly and started walking away. Only to stop. You looked down. Bare feet. Your eyes widened. “Teri jutti?”
Your sister blinked. “Gaadi mein reh gayi.”
You turn around, embarrassed but still marching down towards jeep. Iqbal looked at your face longer than necessary glad that you were already looking down-were you shy or afriad? He looked down at your sister,“Dobara horn bajana hai?”
Your sister shook her head furiously. “Nahi!”
You spoke quietly without looking at him properly. “Eski jutti gaadi mein reh gyi thi.”
There was a brief silence. Then he leaned into the jeep, picked them up, and held them out toward you. You took them quickly before your sister could. “Shukriya.” Barely above a whisper. And before he could answer you hurried away with your sister beside you, disappearing back toward the lights and music without once turning around. While behind you Iqbal watched until you were no longer visible.
The afternoon sun filtered softly through the carved wooden windows of the Kashmiri house, warming the patterned rugs spread across the sitting room. The house carried the quiet dignity of an old military family—polished furniture, framed photographs in uniform, brass trays stacked neatly beside cabinets darkened with age. A kettle hissed faintly somewhere inside while voices drifted between rooms.
And in the middle of it all sat Nasir Miyaan.
He looked exactly like the kind of man who entered homes carrying stories before greetings. His cream kurta was simple from afar, but up close every inch of it held detail—fine threadwork near the collar, tiny embroidered patterns along the cuffs, delicate buttons polished carefully. A dark waistcoat sat over it, slightly dramatic, lined with intricate stitching that caught light whenever he moved. A slim leather sling bag rested against his side, worn with age but clearly treasured. Silver rings gleamed on two fingers as he spoke, hands constantly moving with his words. And of course the surma. Dark around his eyes, making every expression look twice as dramatic. “Lieutenant sahib ka toh ab mashallah naam hi naam hai,” he said, stretching the words theatrically while adjusting his shawl. “Aaj kal har doosray ghar se rishta aa raha hai.”
Brigadier Jahangir sat across from him, straight-backed as always, one arm resting against the armchair. Even at home, he carried himself like someone still being saluted. Nasir leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice like he was revealing state secrets. “Magar yeh…” he tapped the photograph carefully, “yeh rishta khaas hai.”
Iqbal’s mother glanced over with mild amusement while pouring tea.“Kahan se hain?”
Nasir sighed dramatically after saying it, pressing a hand lightly against his chest. “Haaaye… paharon ke log. Sharafat bhi alag hoti hai unki.” He finally slid the photograph across the table toward Brigadier Jahangir. “Ladki ke walid police mein bohat achi post par hain. Khandaan izzat wala hai. Taleem bhi achi.”
Jahangir picked up the photograph calmly. His expression barely changed as he looked at it. Only a small nod followed. Approval. Nothing more. From beside him, his wife immediately took the picture next. The second her eyes landed on the girl, a smile tugged faintly at her lips. “Khoobsurat hai.” Beside her, the grandmother raised her brows knowingly.“Hmm.”
The photograph passed between older hands slowly—grandfather adjusting his glasses to see better while grandmother quietly examined every detail like she could judge character through paper alone. Finally—
it reached Iqbal. He sat slightly apart from everyone else, dressed simply despite the rank newly attached to his name. The olive-green sweater over his shoulders contrasted against the white kurta beneath, sleeves rolled slightly as though he’d rather be anywhere else. Behind him stood Mir Sajid, leaning lazily against the wall. The second the photograph reached Iqbal, sajid bent slightly over his shoulder shamelessly to look too. “Dikhao toh—”
Iqbal barely glanced at the picture. One look. That was all. Then he placed it quietly back onto the table. Not rude. Not interested either. His mother noticed immediately. Her smile faded into something softer, more understanding.
Nasir Miyaan blinked dramatically. “Aray?” He looked personally offended now. “Lieutenant sahib ne toh theek se dekha bhi nahi!” Sajid snorted quietly behind him. Nasir straightened immediately, recovering. “Magar rishta bohat acha hai. Ladki bhi shareef, khandaan bhi—”
Before he could continue, Brigadier Jahangir spoke calmly. “hum chahate hai ladka apni pasand se shadi kare.” The room quieted slightly. Jahangir continued in the same composed tone “Agar ladki achi ho, khandaan acha ho, toh humein aitraaz nahi hoga.”
Nasir blinked once. Then dramatically placed a hand on his chest again. “Haaaye Brigadier sahib… aaj kal ke maa baap mein itni samajh kahan.”
Sajid looked seconds away from laughing. Iqbal, meanwhile, had already gotten up. Without a word, he stepped out of the room. Sajid pushed himself off the wall immediately. “Main aaya.” And naturally he followed after him.
Sajid followed him upstairs a few moments later without bothering to ask permission. He never really did. Iqbal’s room sat at the far end of the upper floor, quieter than the rest of the house, tucked away from the constant movement of relatives and visitors downstairs. The moment Sajid stepped inside, warmth met him first. Not heat.
The kind old houses carried naturally. The wooden floors creaked softly beneath his steps, partially covered with thick Kashmiri rugs woven in deep reds and faded greens. Every piece of furniture in the room seemed carved rather than built—dark polished wood lined with delicate patterns worn smooth with time. The walls were half-paneled in cedar wood while the upper portions were painted a muted pistachio green, aged enough that the color softened beautifully in dim light. The windows were large but shut, their carved wooden shutters allowing thin slivers of sunlight to cut through the darkness in golden lines. Still—
the room remained dim. A single vintage lamp near the bookshelf glowed softly, washing everything in an amber-orange hue that made the room feel almost suspended in time.Iqbal had already settled into the old wooden chair near the corner. It was clearly his chair. The cushion beneath him had long since molded itself to the shape of years spent there, slightly sunken in the center, the fabric faded where hands often rested against the armrests. He wore his glasses now, one hand lazily flipping through the pages of a book resting against his knee.
Sajid shut the door behind himself dramatically before looking around. “Yaar…” he muttered. “Itni khamoshi?” Without waiting for permission, he walked toward the old radio sitting atop a carved side table. Even the radio matched the room—wooden, polished, old enough to belong to another generation. He twisted the knob. Static immediately filled the silence. “Kam az kam radio toh chala liya karo.”
Iqbal didn’t look up. Sajid continued adjusting stations unsuccessfully while speaking over the crackling noise. “Waise…” he glanced back with a grin, “ladki khoobsurat thi.”
“Phir rishta kyun mana kiya?”
Iqbal turned another page calmly. “Mana nahi kiya.”
“Dekha bhi nahi.” That finally earned him a glance. Sajid smirked triumphantly. “Acha toh batao…” he dragged the words teasingly, still fighting with the radio static, “kaisi ladki pasand hai aap ko, Lieutenant sahib?”
Iqbal looked back down at the book. For a moment, Sajid thought he wouldn’t answer at all. Then quietly “Saadgi.”
Sajid paused. Iqbal continued, voice even. “Saaf dil ho.”
The radio crackled loudly again. “Banawat na ho.”
Sajid’s teasing expression softened slightly now as he listened. “Aur…” Iqbal paused briefly, eyes remaining on the page before finishing quietly, “rabt ho.”
Iqbal finally closed the book softly and leaned back against the chair. The lamp light caught against the thin frame of his glasses. Outside, faint wedding music from some distant house drifted through the carved windows. For a second, only static filled the room.
Then Iqbal spoke again. “Dil radio ki tarah hota hai.” Sajid looked over. Iqbal’s gaze remained distant now, thoughtful. “Har awaaz usay nahi milti.”
The static shifted sharply.
“Magar…” he continued quietly, “kuch log hote hain… jin par dil khud ruk jata hai.” Sajid stared at him now with growing amusement. Iqbal’s fingers tapped once lightly against the closed book resting in his lap. “Jaise radio sahi station pakad leta hai.” A small pause. Then “Humara dil rabb ka radio hai.”
Sajid burst into laughter immediately. “Haaaye Allah.”
Iqbal frowned slightly. “Has kyun rahe ho?”
Sajid pointed at him dramatically. “Mujhe lagta tha aap sirf goli chalana jaante ho. Yeh falsafe kab se shuru hue?”Iqbal rolled his eyes faintly, reaching to take off his glasses. Sajid, meanwhile, had gone completely quiet for exactly three seconds before his expression suddenly changed. Slowly a grin spread across his face. “Ohhh.”
Iqbal immediately narrowed his eyes. “Kya?”
Sajid crossed his arms smugly. “Mujhe pata hai kis ne aap ka station pakra hai.”
Iqbal looked away first. Which was answer enough. Sajid gasped dramatically. “Woh shaadi wali larki?” No response. Sajid slapped his own forehead softly. “Ya Allah. Lieutenant sahib gaye kaam se.”
Iqbal sighed tiredly. “Tum zyada soch rahe ho.”
“Nahi.” Sajid walked closer immediately, now fully invested. “Aray, mera dost hai us ghar walon mein. Rishta bhej dete hain.”
Iqbal’s expression changed instantly. Not angry. Just firm. “Nahi.”
Sajid blinked. “Kyun?” Iqbal got up from the chair slowly, placing the book aside before walking toward the window. Thin strips of sunlight crossed his face through the carved shutters.
“Tum ne galat samjha hai.” Sajid stared at him suspiciously. Iqbal’s voice remained calm. “Hum aise nahi kar sakte.”
Iqbal looked outside quietly for a moment before answering. “Hum seedha ja kar nhi rishta mang sakte ya kisko vichola bana sakte…” he paused slightly, “unke dil mein humare khilaf galat sawal uth sakte hai.” The radio behind them finally caught a station clearly. Soft old music filled the room at last. And for some reason neither of them spoke after that.
A few days later, the village paths crossed them together again as though the mountains themselves had decided it.
The afternoon market was louder than usual, crowded with bicycles, sacks of grain, children running through narrow spaces, and women bargaining loudly over vegetables beneath faded cloth shades.
You stood outside the same little kirana shop with your friends while Laiba wandered nearby, distracted by absolutely everything except staying in one place. “Achhi wali gajjak aayi?” your friend asked hopefully.
The shopkeeper snorted. “Nahi.”
“Aap har dafa yahi kehte ho.”
“Aray toh main banata hoon kya?” Shopkepper folded his arms dramatically. “Aap alag moongphali aur alag gud le lein. Per mein mil jaega sab.”
Your friend stared at the shopkepper for a moment. “Wah. Kya ilm hai.” You laughed quietly beside them. “Yeh aise thori hota hai.”
While they argued, your attention drifted toward the open sacks resting near the shop counter. Without thinking much, you leaned slightly and grabbed a small handful of makhane, tossing one into your mouth absentmindedly while listening to the conversation continue.
Until suddenly the shopkeeper straightened. “Lo ji.” You looked up instinctively.
For a second, everything inside you went strangely still. He stood near the entrance in a dark rust jacket over a simple cream kurta, one hand loosely holding folded notes while the other rested against the jeep keys in his palm. His gaze shifted first toward the shopkeeper. Then toward you. Your fingers stopped midway. The makhane still rested in your hand. The realization hit instantly. You hadn’t paid for them. Heat rushed to your face so quickly it almost annoyed you. Without thinking, you quickly lowered your hand behind your back, gathering your dupatta awkwardly over it like somehow that would erase evidence of your crime. Your friends noticed immediately and nearly burst out laughing.
Thankfully the shopkeeper spoke before anyone else could. “Aray, yahi hain woh sahib.” He pointed proudly toward Iqbal. “Jin ka main bata raha tha. Jo zaruratmand logon ka hisaab dete hain.” Your eyes flickered back toward him automatically.
For a brief second, neither of you spoke. The same strange stillness from the wedding returned. His expression remained calm, unreadable almost—but there was something quieter in his eyes now. Recognition, maybe. Then he looked away first, handing the money over. “Hisaab bata dein.”
The shopkeeper immediately began digging through papers dramatically while your heartbeat continued for reasons you refused to examine. Before anyone could say anything else a loud horn suddenly blasted nearby. You spun around immediately. “Laiba!”
Your little sister sat proudly inside another parked jeep, hands still pressed against the horn. You hurried toward her. “Kya kar rahi ho tum?! Neeche utro foran!”
Laiba jumped guiltily. “Main ne jaan ke nahi bajaya!”
By then, Iqbal had already walked over too. Laiba looked at him immediately and raised one hand dramatically. “Qasam meri padhai ki, main ne jaan ke nahi kiya!”
For the first time you heard him laugh properly. Not loudly. Just a quiet chuckle beneath his breath.
“Haan,” he said calmly, reaching over to ruffle her hair lightly, “tumhari qasmein dekh kar lagta hai aathvi jamaat tak bhi mushkil se pohoncho gi.” Laiba gasped in betrayal. You tried not to smile. Tried very hard. And failed a little anyway. Iqbal crouched slightly near the jeep now, asking her questions casually. “Naam kya hai tumhara?”
“Achha?” He nodded thoughtfully. “Umeed hai pass bhi ho jaogi.”
Laiba immediately started defending herself loudly. Meanwhile he kept glancing at you. Not obvious enough for others to notice. Just brief looks between conversations, masked carefully as attention toward your sister. And you avoided looking at him almost entirely.
Sometimes your gaze shifted accidentally while pretending to look elsewhere. And somehow he always seemed to already be looking. It made your chest feel strangely tight. After a while, he finally stood again. The jeep keys spun once around his finger absentmindedly before he opened the driver’s side door.
“Changa…” he said casually before looking toward Laiba. “Milna phir.” Then, briefly toward you. Only for a second. Before he got inside and drove away.
The moment the jeep disappeared around the turn, your friends immediately turned toward you together. “Acha ji.”
Another one grinned. “milna phir.”
You groaned immediately. “Bas karo.” But the warmth in your face refused to leave. How could mere words- ‘milna phir’ make you feel this way? You kept thinking about it you exchange them with your friends- relatives- even random people you befriend but they never felt like an actual hope- or maybe promise till now.
That evening, your house smelled faintly of chai and wood smoke. You sat cross-legged beside Laiba while she changed clothes for the third time unnecessarily, still talking about the jeep horn incident. Then suddenly a relative entered through the courtyard gate. “Aray, bhadhai ho aap sab ko?”
Your mother looked up from cutting vegetables. “Kyu? Aise kya fateh kardi humne”
“Hamza ki shaadi tay ho gayi.”
The knife stopped in your mother’s hand. “Kya?”
Even your father looked up now. The relative blinked in confusion. “Aray… bhai ne bataya nahi?”
Your chest tightened slightly. Hamza was your cousin—your uncle’s son. The same uncle whose house shared the wall with yours. No one had told you. Beside you, Laiba lit up immediately. “Hamari bhi bhabhi aayegi?!”
You looked down at her excitement and smiled despite everything. “Haan.”
You laughed softly. “Haan, bilkul chaand se.”
Laiba gasped happily, hugging her doll. “Main naya joda pehnungi!”
“Achha?” You adjusted her hair gently. “Gudiya jaisa?”
Your mother and father exchanged a quieter look nearby. Because excitement aside the truth still lingered heavily between them. They hadn’t been invited.
Thankfully, your late grandfather’s sister refused to let that insult pass quietly. “Kya matlab nahi bulaya?” she snapped the second she heard. “Main zinda hoon abhi.” And somehow, after enough sharp words and wounded family pride an invitation arrived. Late. But it arrived.
Only your father attended the actual wedding ceremonies. But when the bride finally came home afterward, curiosity spread through the entire neighborhood immediately. Her name was Yalina.
People whispered about her beauty before anyone had even seen her properly. Fair skin. Curly hair. Delicate features. Big eyes.
But your aunt— her new mother-in-law made one thing very clear from the beginning. “Apna chehra un dono larkiyon ko mat dikhana.” Your stomach twisted hearing it from across the wall one afternoon. “Aur mujhe pehla bachcha beta chahiye.” The woman’s voice lowered further. “Un ki surat dekhogi toh Allah na kare larki paida hogi.”
You sat frozen beside the shared wall afterward.Beside you, Laiba whispered quietly “Bhabhi hum se baat bhi nahi karegi?”
You swallowed something heavy in your throat. “Shayad unko sharam aati hai.”
“But phir chehra kyun nahi dikhaati?” You had no answer. Still both of you kept trying. Sometimes peeking over the wall. Sometimes calling softly “Bhabhi…”
Only for your aunt to immediately yell “Udhar se hato!” And Yalina would disappear again quietly beneath her veil.
Life continued anyway. And strangely so did his. Not directly. Not intentionally. But somehow, your paths kept crossing now. At the market. Near the roads. Outside shops. Brief moments that felt accidental enough to deny. And frequent enough not to.
One afternoon, you walked alone toward the communal water well carrying a clay gada carefully against your hip. Laiba had stayed home for once. The village felt quieter in the afternoon heat. You had just filled the container when the sound of a jeep stopping nearby made you glance up briefly.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the handle. He stepped closer slowly. “Paani pila dengi?”
You lowered your gaze immediately, adjusting the edge of your dupatta over your head. “Ji.”
He cupped his hands together beneath the stream as you carefully poured water from the garah.
The cold water spilled through his palms while he leaned slightly forward to drink. A few drops slipped down against his jaw and beard. You looked away slowly. Then accidentally looked back again pretending to be focused on water you were pouring but your eyes looked past water, they looked at him. Instead of wiping the water with his sleeve, he ran his damp hand through his hair carelessly, pushing a few strands back. Your heartbeat stumbled for absolutely no reason. When he finally straightened again, his eyes met yours briefly. “Apko chodh deta hu.”
“Waise bhi mujhe bhi idhar se hi jana hai.” You hesitated. Then nodded once. The two of you walked side by side slowly through the dusty road. Silence came first. Then “Mela lag raha hai kal.”
You glanced at him briefly. “Pata hai.”
You looked ahead again quickly. “Dekhungi.”
A faint smile touched his face. “Aana chahiye.”
“Kyun ke bohat arsay baad laga hai.”
You tried hiding your smile slightly. “Theek hai” The wind shifted softly between the trees. Neither of you noticed how much easier silence had become now.
That night, lying beside sleeping Laiba beneath the shared blanket on the manja, your eyes stayed open longer than usual. The mela. Initially, you hadn’t cared much about going. But now for some reason you found yourself thinking about it. About dusty lights.
And someone asking quietly— Aaogi?
Beside you, Laiba turned in her sleep. You stared at the ceiling for another minute before finally sitting up. The next morning, two neatly folded outfits rested near your bedding. One for you. And one much smaller one for Laiba.
The afternoon before the mela, you stood on your side of the shared wall while Yalina bhabhi sat beneath the shade quietly cleaning wheat grains from a large metal tray. Even with no one home, her veil remained firmly in place. Only her hands showed. Soft hands covered lightly in flour dust. The sound of grains shifting against steel filled the silence between you both. You leaned slightly over the wall. “Bhabhi?” She looked up immediately beneath the veil. “Haye bhabhi tere hath kinne sundar hai.”
“Aaj main mele ha rhi thi,” you said softly. “Aap ke liye kuch laaun?”
For a second, she didn’t answer. Then her hands resumed sorting quietly. “Nahi.”
A small pause. “Tum bas jaa kar maze karo.”
Something about the way she said it made your chest ache slightly. Like she was talking about something she herself wasn’t allowed to have. You nodded anyway. “Theek hai.”
Before leaving, you stayed a second longer near the wall. You almost wanted to ask her again what she looked like beneath the veil.
Getting ready for the mela felt far more exciting than it should have. You sat near the small mirror inside your room while Laiba bounced around behind you impatiently. “Humein der ho rahi hai!”
“Bas do minute.” You carefully dabbed a little surkhi against your lips before pressing the remaining color lightly onto your cheeks with your fingertips.
But enough to make your face glow softly. Then came the bangles. Pretty glass ones you rarely wore outside special occasions. They clinked delicately against each other while you slid them over your wrists. Laiba stared dramatically. “Aap bohat sundar lag rahi ho.”
By the time you finished adjusting your dupatta and wore your juttis, your mother had already entered the room. She pressed folded notes into your hand. “Yeh lo.”
Your eyes widened slightly. “Ammi…”
“Kharch kar lena.” Even five rupees felt like treasure in your hands.
You smiled so brightly she had to look away pretending annoyance. “Laiba ka aur apna khayal rakhna.”
“Haan.” And then finally you left.
The mela was alive long before sunset. Strings of lights hung across pathways while dust rose beneath moving crowds. Children ran between stalls, old songs could be heard fro cracklinf speakers, and the smell of roasted corn, sugar syrup, fried snacks, and smoke mixed together in the evening air. Laiba nearly dislocated your arm within the first five minutes. “Udhar!”
Your friends laughed at your suffering while you struggled to keep up with her excitement. And somewhere between all the noise you saw him.
Iqbal stood near a row of crowded stalls, one hand tucked casually into his pocket while speaking to an older vendor. The second your eyes met his— something inside you softened automatically. No smile. Not at first.Just recognition.
Then the faintest change in his expression. Like he’d been waiting to see if you came. You quickly looked away before your friends noticed. Unfortunately they noticed anyway. One of them elbowed you immediately. “Milna phir.” Your friend quoted while giggling.
You ignored her completely.
Laiba, meanwhile, had already become distracted by the jalebi stall nearby. “Dilwa do naaaaa…” You sighed dramatically.
Before you could even move toward the stall properly, the jalebi seller suddenly walked over carrying paper wrapped around fresh hot jalebis. “Apke liye.”
He pointed somewhere behind you casually. “Un janab ki taraf se.”
You turned immediately. Iqbal stood farther away now, pretending absolute innocence. Your eyes narrowed slightly. He looked away almost instantly like he suddenly found another stall deeply interesting. You tried not to smile while taking the jalebis. “Laiba, garam hain. Sambhal ke.” But your little sister was already eating. Eventually you took a small bite too. Warm sugar syrup coated your tongue instantly.
When you looked up again he was already watching. Not openly not boldly just enough. And somehow, standing in the middle of all that noise and crowd, it felt strangely private. Like both of you existed inside a quieter space no one else could see.
Later, while Laiba got distracted at another stall full of toys and trinkets, you found yourself standing several feet away from him without either of you approaching directly. Too many people. Too many eyes. So instead he communicated differently. The stall owner displayed rows of necklaces and chains beneath hanging lanterns. Iqbal picked one up casually and held it slightly higher where you could see. Your eyes moved toward it. Then you shook your head faintly.
He understood immediately. The vendor looked between both of you in confusion while Iqbal calmly picked another. You looked again.
This time your attention drifted elsewhere before answering, distracted by Laiba yelling about something nearby. Iqbal waited a second. Then quietly chose one himself. A delicate silver chain with a small moon-shaped pendant.
He turned it once beneath the lantern light before buying it without another word. And for some reason your heartbeat wouldn’t calm down afterward. By the time evening settled properly over the mela, the entire ground had turned golden beneath hanging bulbs and lanterns. Dust floated softly through the warm light while distant music mixed with children laughing, stall owners shouting prices, and the constant murmur of people moving shoulder to shoulder. Laiba had completely exhausted herself running between games. One minute she wanted wooden toys.
Then earings- she didnt even have her ears pierced yet.
Your friends had finally taken pity on you and dragged her toward one of the game stalls so you could breathe for a moment. And that was when you saw him again. Iqbal stood farther away near the outer side of the mela grounds, partially hidden beside one of the large cloth tents tied with thick ropes into the ground. Even from this distance you knew he was looking at you. Your heart started behaving strangely again. You looked away immediately. Then looked back. Still there. A small part of you wanted to walk toward him. A much larger part reminded you that this was still your village. People noticed things. People talked. Still before you could stop yourself, you quietly leaned toward your friend. “Laiba ka khayal rakhna zara.”
Her expression changed instantly. “Achaaa?”
You glared at her immediately. “Bas.”
Trying to ignore their suppressed laughter, you adjusted your dupatta carefully over your head, pulling one side slightly closer toward your lips. Not enough to hide your face. Just enough to feel safer. Then slowly you walked toward the side tents. Your heartbeat grew louder with every step. You turned around the corner of one tent and suddenly someone caught your wrist gently. You gasped softly in shock. Before you could react properly, you were pulled just enough behind the cloth partition where fewer people passed. Your eyes widened.
The realization hit immediately and you stepped back at once, quickly creating distance between you both. Still— not enough. You could smell sandalwood faintly from him. Warm. Clean. Familiar already. Your fingers loosened from your dupatta nervously while you tucked one strand of hair behind your ear, eyes lowering immediately toward your juttis. For a second neither of you spoke. The sounds of the mela felt strangely distant here. Then quietly “Aaj aap bohat haseen lag rahi hain.”
Your throat suddenly felt dry. “Aap bhi,” you answered too quickly. And instantly regretted it. Iqbal smiled faintly. Then silence returned again awkward, and soft. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just new.
After a moment, he finally reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped carefully in newspaper. He held it toward you. You blinked in confusion before taking it carefully, making sure your fingers didn’t touch his. Slowly, you unfolded the newspaper. Inside rested the necklace from the stall. Simple black thread woven with tiny dark beads, delicate enough not to attract attention. In the center hung a small silver crescent moon. Your eyes softened instantly. It was prettier up close not expensive not flashy just… thoughtful.
“Yeh aap ko mere liye lene ki zaroorat nahi thi,” you murmured quietly.
“Apke liye hai ye.” You looked at him again. Then quickly tried handing it back.
“Nahi, main—” Before you could finish, his fingers closed lightly over your hand to stop you. The contact lasted barely a second. Still your breath caught immediately. You pulled your hand back quickly. He let go at once.
Neither of you looked directly at each other for a moment afterward. Finally, you folded the necklace carefully back into the newspaper. “Shukriya,” you said softly. “Lekin waqai zarurat nahi thi.”
A small smile appeared near the corner of his mouth. “Main chahata tha apke liye lena.”
Your heartbeat stumbled again. You looked away immediately. “Hume zyada der nhi reh sakte,” you whispered after a moment. “Koi dekh lega.”
“Sab apne kamo mein mehfoos rehte hai. Lagta nhi koi itni parwah karega.”
You shook your head faintly. “Aap mere gaon ko nahi jaante.”
That made him chuckle quietly. “Theek hai.” For a second he just looked at you. Not intensely, not boldly just calmly. Like he was memorizing the moment. Then softly “Phir milte hai kabhi.” You looked down again immediately. “Aur agar rabb mehar kare toh,” he continued, voice quieter now, “thoda zyada waqt saath guzrega.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. So you only nodded once. A tiny awkward nod. It somehow made him smile more. When he finally turned to leave, you watched him go a few steps before calling softly “Suniye…”
He stopped and looked back. You tightened your grip around the folded newspaper slightly. “Shukriya… phir se.”
Something changed in his expression briefly. Something warmer.
Then he nodded once and walked back toward his jeep. Near it stood Sajid already leaning casually against the side, looking entirely too entertained by everything. The moment he spotted you, you immediately pulled your dupatta higher again, covering part of your nose and lips before quickly turning away. And only then while walking back toward the crowd did the realization hit you.
You still didn’t know his name.
And he didn’t know yours either. Maybe that was better. Because somewhere deep down, both of you already understood something neither dared say aloud. People like you did not fall in love openly.
Not in villages where marriages belonged to families before hearts. You clutched the folded newspaper tighter inside your hand before finally slipping it carefully into your bag. You didn’t wear the necklace. Not yet.
When you returned to your friends, they were already sitting together eating plates of hot nadru chaat—crispy lotus stem topped with chutneys, yogurt, spices, and onions. The smell alone made you immediately hungry. Laiba waved dramatically. “Aap kahan thi?!”
Your friends exchanged looks instantly. Then one of them raised her brows. “Idhar hi?”
You sat down quickly. “Bas karo.”
That only made them laugh harder. Laiba, meanwhile, was too busy eating to care. You stole a few bites from her plate while your friends kept staring at you suspiciously. Finally one leaned closer. “Toh?”
You nearly choked. “Toh kya?”
“Aur kya baat kari apke us pak bande ke sath?”
You glared immediately. “Laiba yahan baithi hai.” That somehow made everything funnier for them. Even you started laughing eventually despite trying not to. Later, while leaving the mela grounds, your steps slowed near one final stall. This one carried quieter things.
Black threads against evil eye.
Your fingers moved slowly across the displayed items absentmindedly until suddenly you thought of Yalina bhabhi. Of her hidden face. Of the way she always answered softly through walls. Without thinking too much, you picked up a delicate black protective thread meant to guard against nazar simple but comforting. You bought it for her. Then, after another moment of thinking, you also picked glass bangles for your mother—though you already knew she would continue wearing only her gold ones anyway. Still, you wanted to bring her something. And quietly you picked another pair for Yalina too.
By the time you walked home beneath the cold night sky, your bag had become heavier with tiny things bangles, threads, and small gifts. And hidden carefully beneath all of them wrapped in newspaper a moon-shaped necklace you kept thinking about far more than you should have.
That night, after returning from the mela, the house slowly settled into silence one room at a time. Laiba had already fallen asleep halfway through talking about sweets and rides, still clutching one broken toy in her hand.
Your mother sat nearby sorting lentils beneath the dim lantern light while you quietly handed her the glass bangles you had bought. “Tune pasand kari?” she asked, surprised. You nodded shyly. A small smile appeared on her face while she turned them between her fingers. “Bohat pyari hain.”
Even knowing she would probably continue wearing only her gold bangles, the smile alone made the purchase worth it. You didn’t mention the ones bought for Yalina bhabhi. Or the necklace hidden deep inside your bag. Later, inside your room, you opened the almirah quietly to hang your bag away. But before closing it your fingers paused.
Slowly, you pulled out the folded newspaper again. The room was dim except for the faint yellow lamp glowing near the bedding. Its weak light barely reached your hands as you carefully unwrapped the necklace once more. The small moon pendant caught the light softly. You stared at it longer than you should have. Turning it slightly between your fingers. Admiring the tiny black beads threaded carefully around it. Simple. Still somehow precious. A strange warmth spread through your chest remembering the way he had handed it to you.
The way he’d said— It’s for you.
Your heartbeat stumbled again annoyingly. You immediately wrapped it back inside the newspaper and tucked it safely beneath your folded clothes inside the almirah before shutting it quickly, like someone might catch the thoughts on your face.
The next afternoon, when your aunt wasn’t home, you leaned over the shared wall again. “Bhabhi?”
Yalina looked up from where she stood cooking quietly near the courtyard stove. You immediately placed the wrapped bangles carefully atop the wall between you both. She blinked. “Mere liye?”
She hesitated before taking them slowly. “Kya zarurat thi.”
Yalina stayed quiet for a second, fingers lightly touching the glass bangles beneath the wrapping. Then softly- “Shukriya.” She still remained reserved. Still careful with her words. Like someone constantly afraid of taking too much space. But she accepted them. And for some reason that alone made you ridiculously happy.
Over the next few days, something small began forming between you both. Quietly and slowly. One afternoon while hanging clothes to dry, you looked over the wall and immediately noticed the bangles resting against Yalina’s wrist.
The sight warmed you embarrassingly fast. You smiled the entire afternoon afterward without realizing it. And slowly, Yalina stopped feeling like the mysterious hidden bride behind the wall. She became real. Someone who laughed loudly sometimes. Someone who secretly liked extra sugar in tea. Someone who missed her mother often. Someone lonely.
You still visited the communal well more often than necessary these days too. Though you never admitted even to yourself why. Sometimes he appeared. Sometimes he didn’t. But hope still followed you there anyway.
One afternoon, you and your friends wandered through the market area near a boutique, staring at fabrics you couldn’t afford while discussing entirely useless things. Mostly—
“Meri bhabhi ki bhi aise ankhe aur vaise baal honge,” you said thoughtfully, pointing toward a faded beauty poster outside the boutique.
One of your friend groaned dramatically. “Bas bhi karo.”
“Tu apni bhabhi ke bare mein itna bolti hai jaise koi heroin ho.”
You ignored her completely. “Meri bhabhi ki pakka badi badi ankhe hongi.”
Another friend suddenly snorted. “Nahi.” You looked at her. “Uski ankhe vaisi si hai.”
“Tiri marti hai…” your friend gestured badly, “jahan dekho kahin aur lagta hai.” [for those who dont know tiri marna is basically when someone bas crooked eye balls thingy not sure what its called in hindi also no hate for anyone with such eyes everyone is pretty i was inspired from a movie and it had this concept]
You stared at her in horror. “Kya?!”
“Nhi unki ankhe tiri nhi marti!”
“Meri ammi ne bataya vo gyi thi dekhni tere bhai ki dulhan.”
Your entire expression fell. “Nahi…”
Your friend burst out laughing immediately. “Vo dekhti kahin hai hath kahin marti hai.”
The rest of the walk home, you stayed unusually quiet. Because now the possibility genuinely disturbed you. Not because such eyes were not upto beauty expectations of society. But because suddenly you desperately wanted your imagined version of Yalina to stay intact. That evening, near the communal well, you finally saw her alone. Yalina stood quietly filling water containers while her veil covered her face as always. You walked toward her immediately. “Bhabhi.” She looked up. “Bhabhi apna chehra dikhana hoga.”
She nearly dropped the clay garha. “Nahi.”
“Please.” [ik they dont speak english but please in urdu or hindi would sound super weird]
“Mere saas gussa ho jaegi.”
You crossed your arms stubbornly. “Bhabhi kon bataega.”
You lowered your voice dramatically. “Bhabhi koi nhi agar tu tiri marti hai toh.”
Silence. Then slowly— “kya?”
Yalina stared at you beneath the veil. “Meri koi teedi ankhe nhi hai.”
“Bhabhi tiri toh tu marti hai.”
“Meri dost jhoot kyu bolegi!”
“Koi baat nhi agar aap tiri marte ho,” you reassured her kindly. “Mere nanke na ek baba hai vo surma dedega faki maar lena—”
“Surme ki faki?” Her expressions twisted from frustration to confusion.
“Matlab- vo ya toh surma dega ya kuch khane ka-”
“Bola na main tiri nhi marti.” She yelled clearly frustrated by your friend’s accusation and your pestering.
Nearby women turned briefly to stare. You blinked. Then immediately whispered—“dekha de na bhabhi.”
Yalina stood frozen for exactly three seconds. Then suddenly, with complete frustration, she pulled the veil off her face. You gasped immediately. Not because of crooked eyes. Because she was beautiful. Soft curls framed her face loosely while her eyes- perfectly normal eyes looked at you with exhausted irritation. “Ye le.”
You stared at her openly now.
“Bhabhi tu kitni sundar hai.”
The annoyance on her face finally cracked into laughter.“Tu bhi boht sundar hai.”
You grinned immediately. “Dekh bhabhi bola tha teri ankhe gandi nhi hai.”
“Ye pehle se hi aise hain!”
You laughed so loudly even Yalina started laughing with you. And somehow that moment changed everything afterward. From then on, whenever your aunt wasn’t home, Yalina finally stopped hiding from you. You sat together near the shared wall often sharing tea, food, and stories. Sometimes she passed dishes over the wall secretly. Sometimes you did. Sometimes you simply sat talking about nothing important at all. And slowly the wall between your homes stopped feeling quite so tall anymore.
The next few days passed strangely for you, as though something invisible had quietly settled itself inside your chest. You found yourself lingering near the communal well longer than necessary, looking up whenever a jeep passed by the road, pausing whenever footsteps approached from behind. Every time, disappointment followed. It was never him.
Meanwhile, miles away from your village, Iqbal sat inside a cramped office overflowing with files, maps, and papers stacked carelessly over one another. Since receiving the post of lieutenant, life had become unbearably busy. Men entered and exited the room constantly, voices overlapping, orders being barked out one after another until the walls themselves seemed exhausted. Yet somehow, in the middle of all that noise, your face kept finding him. The image of you standing at the mela with your dupatta pulled nervously toward your lips, your shy eyes lowering every time he looked at you—it returned to him again and again until he finally pulled a sheet of paper closer.
Sajid stood nearby, lazily leaning against the doorway while chewing roasted chana. “Mano rog lag gya ho tumko,” he remarked casually. Iqbal ignored him, continuing to write. “Yeh ishq wala bukhaar lagta hai mujhe.”
Iqbal finally looked up at him with irritation. “Bakwas band karo.”
Sajid only grinned wider. “Acha toh phir yeh khat kis ke liye hai?”
For a moment Iqbal stayed silent before carefully folding the letter and holding it out toward him. “Ye apni bhabhi ko de dena.”
Sajid straightened immediately. “Main?”
“Main kaam mein mehfoos hu zara.”
“Aur woh mujhe pehchaanegi kaise?”
Iqbal looked at him once before replying calmly, “Meri jeep le jao.” The answer alone was enough.
The next afternoon Sajid sat awkwardly inside Iqbal’s jeep near the communal well, trying to identify you among the women filling water. Unfortunately for him, his constant glancing did not go unnoticed. An older broad-shouldered man carrying a stick suddenly narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously before marching over along with few other men.”
“Oye!” Sajid froze. The man pointed the stick toward him aggressively. “Subah se auraton ko kyun ghur raha hai?!”
“Nahi chacha jaan, meri baat suniye—”
“Bahar ki number plate hai!” One of the man barked, now fully convinced he had caught some shameless outsider spying on village women. Nearby men began staring too, and Sajid felt genuine fear settle into his bones. “Hamare gaon ki auraton par nazar rakhta hai?” Before Sajid could explain anything properly, the old man lifted the stick threateningly. “Daud ja yahan se warna taange tod dunga!”
That was enough. Sajid immediately sped away in humiliation, muttering complaints under his breath about how he alone suffered for other people’s love stories. Still clutching the letter, he drove aimlessly through the village roads until suddenly a group of children ran across in front of the jeep. Sajid slammed the brakes harshly and jumped out angrily.
“Marna hai tum bacho ko?!”
The children stared at him with wide frightened eyes. But before he could continue scolding them, his gaze drifted ahead—and there you were. You had just stepped out of the house carrying a metal doli while an elderly woman standing near the gate spoke to you affectionately before saying goodbye. Sajid straightened almost immediately. Relief flooded through him. Finally. Obviously, after nearly being chased out of the village once already, he could not approach you directly. So instead, his eyes slowly shifted toward the same children he had just yelled at moments earlier. Within minutes he had bribed them successfully with coins and the promise of a jeep ride. The children came running toward you breathlessly.“Didi!” You turned in confusion just as one of them shoved a folded paper into your hand. “Woh aadmi ne kaha dene ko!” Before you could ask anything further, they were already sprinting back toward the jeep.
You stood there quietly staring at the folded letter. Somehow, even before opening it, a part of you already knew who it was from. Your fingers tightened around it carefully before you tucked it securely into your waist beneath your dupatta and hurried home with your heartbeat stumbling strangely inside your chest.
Unfortunately your mother was home. So was your father. Your aunt sat nearby gossiping loudly as usual, leaving you no chance to open the letter. It remained hidden against your side for hours, burning there like a secret. Finally, later that evening, your father left for work, your mother drifted into sleep, and your aunt disappeared toward one of her friend’s houses for her daily gossip visit. The moment the house quieted, you rushed toward the shared wall.
“Bhabhi!” Yalina appeared almost immediately from the other side. You quickly pulled the folded paper out from beneath your dupatta and handed it over nervously. “Aaj mujhe ye mila.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Usne diya?”
You looked away shyly. “Shayad.”
“Abhi tak uska naam nhi pata chala?”
Yalina laughed softly before unfolding the letter. You both sat separated by the wall while the evening breeze moved quietly around you. Then she began reading aloud.
You immediately interrupted her in surprise. “Usne pehle salam likha?”
“Haan” Yalina replied with a smile before continuing.
“Aj kal ajeeb haal ho gaya hai mera. Aankhen kholta hoon toh aap ko dekhne ko dil tarasta hai… aur bandh karta hoon toh aap nazar aati hain. Allah ne shayad meri saansoon mein aap ka zikr likh diya hai. Har cheez mein aap dikh jaati hain. Paani mein. Hawa mein. Raaston mein. Yahan tak ke aaina bhi ab mujhe chedne laga hai… jaise poochta ho ke jis ko dekhne ke liye itna bechain rehta hai, usse milta kyun nahi.”
Your entire face burned red almost instantly. “Bas karo!”
Yalina burst into laughter. “Abhi toh baaqi hai!”
“Haye Allah, itni sharam?”You hid your face behind your dupatta while she continued reading anyway just to tease you further.
“Jumme ki shaam neher ke paas milenge… agar aap aayein toh. Agar mumkin hota toh yeh khat bhi khud dene aata. Khuda hafiz.
The moment she finished, you grabbed the letter back dramatically, mortified beyond words. “Ye sab kaise likh sakta hai vo?!”
Yalina only laughed harder. “Tere liye likha hai.”
“Sach toh hai.” Then suddenly your embarrassment shifted into determination. You straightened abruptly. “Mujhe jawab likhna chahiye.”
But you had already rushed off toward Laiba, who sat peacefully drawing on her slate. “Api!”
Ignoring her protests completely, you snatched her notebook away before hurrying toward your father’s hanging coat to steal a pen carefully without waking your sleeping mother. Moments later you climbed onto the low brick wall separating both houses and shoved the notebook and pen toward Yalina breathlessly. “Likho.”
Yalina stared at you in disbelief. “Kya likhu?”
“Bhabhi tu padhi likhi tu bata!”
Trying not to laugh, Yalina finally lowered the pen dramatically onto the paper. “Good morning.”
You frowned immediately. “Nhi bhabhi kuch urdu mein.”
Your eyes widened in realization. “Ohhh.” Then confidently, with complete seriousness, you repeated, “Gode marni matlab Subah bakhair?”
Yalina froze for exactly one second before bursting into uncontrollable laughter. “Gode marni nhi!”
You immediately started laughing too, nearly falling off the wall yourself. “Laiba ki qasam, mujhe vo hi sunna!”
“Allah bachaye uss bechare aadmi ko agar tu sach mein gode marni soch rhi thi.”
The evening air had turned cooler by the time she reached the old peepal tree near the canal. The sky above Kashmir carried that soft bluish-grey shade that came just before maghrib, and the wind smelled faintly of wet soil and river water. You had walked almost the entire way in nervous silence, your dupatta pulled carefully over your head, fingers clutching its edge every few steps whenever you heard distant voices. Halfway through the walk, something sharp had pierced the sole of your foot. “Aah—”
You had stopped immediately, wincing, lifting your foot slightly before continuing again stubbornly. It hurt every few steps now, but you ignored it. Turning back would feel worse somehow. By the time you reached the meeting place near the canal, the pain had become unbearable. You quietly sat down on the raised roots beneath the peepal tree, pulling your foot into your lap as you tried squinting at the tiny thorn buried in your skin. Your brows furrowed in frustration. “Aakhir niklega kaise yeh…” you muttered softly to yourself.
And then you sensed him.Before you could even properly straighten up, you saw Iqbal approaching from the narrow dirt path. The sight of him immediately made you sit upright, hurriedly lowering your foot as though you had been caught doing something embarrassing.
He slowed the moment he noticed yor expression. “Aap theek hain?”
You nodded too quickly. “Ji… kuch nahi.”
But his eyes had already dropped to your injured foot. He stepped closer. “Kya hua?”
“Bas… raste mein kuch chubh gaya tha.”
You immediately shook your head. “Nahi, theek hai. Main kar lungi.”
“Aap chal bhi nahi paa rahi.”
Without arguing further, he quietly sat down in front of you on the edge of the platform beneath the tree. The canal behind them flowed softly, its sound filling the silence between them. You looked around nervously once before whispering, “Koi dekh lega…”
But he barely seemed to hear you. “Paon dijiye.”
Your heartbeat became uneven at the simple words. When you still hesitated, he gently reached forward himself, carefully pulling your foot closer onto the platform beside him. The moment his fingers touched your ankle, you stiffened completely. Not because he was rough. Because he was unbearably careful. His hands were warm against your cold skin as he inspected the tiny wound closely, brows knitting together in concentration. “Kaafi andar chubh gaya hai.”
You pressed her lips together as he carefully removed the thorn. The sharp sting made you inhale softly. “Aah…”
“Bas, ho gaya.” A tiny bead of blood appeared. Iqbal immediately pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket, wrapping it gently around your foot before tying it carefully. The whole time, you could barely breathe properly. His touch wasn’t improper. Yet somehow it felt too intimate too close, too dangerous.
And then, almost absentmindedly—as though the thought had arrived before sense could stop it—he lifted your foot slightly and pressed the gentlest kiss just above the tied handkerchief. Your eyes widened instantly. You pulled your foot back so quickly the fabric nearly loosened. The softness in your voice held panic more than anger. “Aap… aap mere mahram nahi hain.”
The words came out quieter than you intended. For the first time that evening, he looked genuinely startled. As though only now realizing what he had done. “Maaf karien,” he said immediately, his voice low and sincere. “Mujhe nahi karna chahiye tha.”
You looked away quickly, heart racing so loudly it almost embarrassed you. The truth was, you werent angry. You were terrified someone might have seen. Silence settled again between them, softer this time. The canal water moved gently nearby. Somewhere far away, children’s voices echoed faintly before fading again. Iqbal rested his elbows on his knees, glancing at you carefully. “Ab dard kam hai?”
Then he smiled slightly. “Aap waise bhi bohot himmat wali hain.”
You looked at him in confusion. “Kaise?”
“Itna chubhne ke baad bhi poora rasta chal kar aa gayin.”
A tiny embarrassed smile appeared on your lips before disappearing again. “Aapne bulaya tha…”
The words slipped out unintentionally. And somehow they affected him more than you expected. His expression softened immediately. For a moment he simply looked at you quietly, like he was memorizing the way you sat there beneath the fading evening light. Then he spoke softly. “Aapko lagta hai na yeh sab sirf ek… dil behlane wali baat hai.”
You frowned lightly. “Hum ek dusre ko jaante hi kitna hain?”
He looked down briefly before answering. “Mohabbat jaan pehchaan se nahi hoti.” You stayed silent. “Yahan hota hai,” he said softly, placing a hand lightly against his chest. “Aur rooh jab kisi ko pehchan leti hai na… phir waqt zyada maayne nahi rakhta.”
You lowered your gaze, fingers twisting nervously into your dupatta. “Aisi baatein sirf kahaniyon mein achi lagti hain.”
“Nahi,” he replied quietly. “Kabhi kabhi asal zindagi mein bhi.”
You shook your head faintly.b“Mere ghar wale kabhi nahi maanenge.”
“Aap unse baat toh kar sakti hain.”
At that, you actually looked up at him. “Aap nahi samjhenge.”
Your voice became smaller. “Humare yahan aise nahi hota. Ladkiyan… aise kisi se milti bhi nahi.”
He watched you carefully. Then very gently, almost instinctively, he placed his hand over yours resting beside you. “Aur agar main sach mein—”
The moment his hand touched yours, your thoughts disappeared entirely. All you could feel was the warmth of his fingers over your own. Nothing else. Not the canal. Not the wind. Not even the fear. Just his hand.
Iqbal stopped speaking midway when he noticed the way your eyes had fixed on their hands. Realization crossed his face instantly. He withdrew his hand slowly. “Maaf karien,” he murmured again.
You shook your head quickly this time. “Nahi… main bas…” But you couldn’t even finish the sentence. Because how could you explain that the touch itself wasn’t what frightened you? It was how much you liked it.
You sat there quietly after that conversation, your injured foot still wrapped in his handkerchief, the evening wind moving softly through the peepal leaves above you. For a few moments neither of you spoke. Your fingers kept worrying the edge of your dupatta until suddenly you remembered the folded paper hidden carefully inside your sleeve. Your eyes widened a little.
“Ek dafa ruke…” you murmured softly. Iqbal looked at you curiously as you pulled out the slightly crumpled letter. The folds were uneven, the ink a little smudged at the corners because you had opened and closed it countless times before coming here. You held it toward him without meeting his eyes. “Maine… aap ke liye likha tha.”
Something in his expression softened immediately. “Mere liye?” he asked quietly.
You nodded once. He took it carefully from your hands like it was something fragile, something precious. And to your horror, instead of putting it away to read later, he immediately began unfolding it. Your eyes widened.
“Aap abhi padhenge?” you asked quickly.
He glanced at you with amusement. “Toh aur kab padhu?”
Your embarrassment grew instantly. The letter had seemed perfectly fine when you and Yalina bhabhi had written it sitting against that wall, trying not to laugh too loudly. But now suddenly every single word felt foolish. You tried snatching it back. “Nahi, rehne dein—”
But Iqbal lifted his hand slightly higher, just enough to keep it out of your reach. A faint smile tugged at his lips before he finally began reading.
Mujhe likhna nahi aata is liye agar khat ajeeb lage toh hansiyega mat. Maine pehle kabhi kisi ko khat nahi likha. Aur mujhe samajh nahi aa raha kya likhun. Lekin jab se aap mile hain tab se ajeeb sa lagta hai. Kabhi kabhi lagta hai aap ki jeep ki awaaz door se bhi pehchan leti hoon. Aap ka khat bhabhi ne parh ke sunaya tha. Us mein jo baatein likhi thi woh sun ke mujhe bohot sharam aayi. Aur thori si khushi bhi. Mujhe nahi pata aap itni achi baatein kaise likh lete hain. Main itna acha nahi likh sakti. Lekin… Jab raat ko soti hoon toh kabhi kabhi aap yaad aate hain. Apne jo toofa diya mela wala tohfa mujhe bohot pasand aaya. Main ne usse sambhal ke rakha hai. Aur main ne aaj woh suit pehna jo bhabhi ne diya tha. Bas itna hi.
There was a small pause before the last line. Then Iqbal’s eyes dropped lower and his smile deepened. At the very bottom, written in slightly different handwriting — clearly Yalina’s — was another sentence.
“Aur inhon ne yeh bhi kaha hai ke inhein bhi neend der se aati hai.”
Your face burned instantly.
“Bhabhi!” you whispered in betrayal under your breath. Iqbal actually laughed then — a soft, warm laugh that made your embarrassment even worse. You lunged forward trying to grab the letter from him. “Bas! Wapas dein mujhe!”
But he leaned back slightly, holding it away while laughing quietly. “Aap ne diya hai mujhe.”
“Aap mazaak uda rahe hain!”
“Nahi,” he said immediately, voice gentler now. He folded the paper carefully again, smoothing the creases with his thumb. “Boht acha laga mujhe ye.” Your movements slowed. His eyes lifted toward yours. “Sach keh raha hoon.” You looked away instantly, unable to handle how sincerely he said it.
“Agar pasand nahi aaya toh wapas kar dein,” you muttered stubbornly. Instead of answering, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out his wallet. Very carefully — almost reverently — he placed the folded letter inside. Right behind a photograph. Then he closed it. Your heart stumbled strangely at that. “Aap… rakh rahe hain?” you asked quietly.
He looked almost confused by the question. “Arey zarur rakh raha hoon.” Then after a tiny pause, he added softly, “Aap ne diya hai. Sambhal ke rakhunga.”
The sky had already begun turning deep blue by the time you both finally fell silent again. The evening breeze carried the smell of wet soil and river water, and somewhere far away the faint sound of azaan echoed through the quiet village.
You looked around nervously before speaking softly. “Mujhe ab jaana chahiye.”
Iqbal glanced toward the darkening road and immediately straightened. “Main chodh deta hoon.”
You shook your head quickly. “Nahi. Agar kisi ne dekh liya toh?”
“Apko apke ghar ke aage nhi chodhunga,” he explained calmly. “Bas kuch galiyan pehle utaar dunga.”
You hesitated for a moment before nodding slowly “Theek hai…”
The ride back felt strangely quiet, but not awkward the way it once used to. You sat beside him in the passenger seat of the jeep, your dupatta gathered carefully around you while the cool wind slipped through the open sides. The road was uneven, causing the jeep to shake lightly every now and then, and each tiny bump made the bangles on your wrist clink softly. Iqbal kept one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested lazily near the gear. Every now and then his eyes drifted toward you before returning to the road. After a while he finally spoke. “Aap ne jo kaha…”
You looked at him. “Kya?”
“Rishta.” His voice was thoughtful now. “Agar kisi aur ke zariye bheja jaye… toh shayad baat ban sakti hai?”
You nodded slowly, staring down at your hands. “Mere ghar wale seedha aap logon ko dekh ke shak karenge,” you admitted quietly. “Lekin agar koi beech mein ho… koi jaan pehchaan wala… toh shayad.”
Iqbal stayed quiet after that, but you could practically see him thinking.By the time he dropped you a few lanes before your house, the village had become darker, lantern lights glowing warmly from windows and courtyards. Before you stepped out, he spoke softly. “Andar pahunch ke dekh lunga.”
You looked at him in confusion. “Kya?”
“Ke aap theek se ghar pahunch gayi.”
Your heart warmed a little at that. Without another word you stepped out, carefully adjusting your dupatta before walking quickly through the narrow lanes. Even without turning around, you somehow knew he was still there watching. And only when you disappeared behind the final turn did the jeep finally drive away. By the time Iqbal reached home, Sajid was already waiting for him in the courtyard. The moment he saw the expression on Iqbal’s face, a grin spread across his own. “Oho…” he dragged the word dramatically. “Toh mulaqat ho gayi?”
Iqbal immediately frowned. “Bakwas band kar.”
Sajid followed behind him laughing. “Achha? Toh phir yeh chehra kyun chamak raha hai?” Iqbal ignored him completely and walked inside, but Sajid only laughed harder.
The next morning the sunlight was bright and warm against the rooftops. You stood near the dividing wall between the houses while Yalina bhabhi sat on the other side cleaning rice in a large metal tray. Her veil had slipped back slightly though she still kept part of her face covered from habit. The moment she saw you climb onto the low bricks near the wall, her eyes lit up knowingly. “Mili thi us se?” she asked immediately.
Your cheeks warmed. You tried acting casual. “Haan…”
Yalina gasped dramatically. “Phir? Kya hua?”
You bit back a smile, lowering your voice. “Mere paon mein kanta lag gaya tha…”
“Haye Allah!” she exclaimed. “Phir?”
You hesitated before mumbling shyly, “Us ne… mere paon pe- vo kiya.”
Yalina nearly dropped the tray. “Kya?!” Not finding courage to say it you plucked lips hoping your sister inlaw would understand- and she did understand and her eyes widened in realisation.
You immediately burst into embarrassed laughter while hiding your face behind your dupatta. “Dil toh kar raha tha zameen mein gir jaun!”
Both of you dissolved into giggles. “Aur ye—” you quickly pulled out the folded handkerchief from your sleeve, showing it proudly. “Yeh us ka rumal hai.”
Yalina stared at it dramatically like it was some royal treasure. “Haye… rumal bhi sambhal ke rakha hua hai!”
You laughed harder, trying to snatch it back. “Bhabhi bas bhi karein!”
Days passed like that afterwards. You weren’t able to meet often anymore, but somehow Iqbal kept finding ridiculous excuses to appear near your house.
Sometimes you would be on the rooftop hanging wet clothes under the afternoon sun when suddenly a bright beam of reflected light would flash across your face. You would squint in confusion before turning—and there he’d be standing on the neighboring rooftop holding a tiny mirror with the most shameless expression imaginable. You stared at him in disbelief. “Aap kya kar rahe hain?!”
He casually hid the mirror behind his back. “Kuch bhi toh nahi.”
Then you noticed the kite in his hand. Your eyes narrowed immediately. “Aap yahan kya kar rahe hain?”
“Meri patang idhar aa gayi thi.”
You looked at the perfectly intact kite still in his hand. “Acha?” He grinned slightly.
You glanced nervously toward the stairs. “Ammi aa gayin toh?”
At that exact moment Iqbal suddenly raised his voice slightly. “Arey ammi aa gyi!”
You nearly jumped. “Pagal hai kya?!” you hissed immediately. He laughed quietly at the panic on your face while you glared at him furiously.
Other times you would hear the loud crackling sound of his Bullet motorcycle somewhere near the lane. Your little sister Laiba would immediately shout excitedly—
—and run toward the gate while you followed after her pretending annoyance even though your own heart had already recognized that sound long ago. Far away near the corner of the road, Iqbal would slow the motorcycle just enough to glance toward you once before driving away again. And somehow those tiny moments became enough.
Meanwhile Iqbal had still not forgotten your words about the rishta. One evening while passing by the kiryana shop with Sajid, a sudden thought struck him. He stopped abruptly. Sajid nearly walked into him. “Kya hua?”
Iqbal looked toward the shopkeeper. “Humein isi se baat karni chahiye.”
Inside the shop Sajid immediately grabbed a handful of peanuts from an open sack and began cracking them open casually while Iqbal questioned the shopkeeper. “Saat number gali mein jo parivar rehta hai lumbar dar ke ghar ke peeche jante ho unhe?” Iqbal asked, mentioning your house.
The shopkeeper nodded immediately. “Haan haan, jaanta hoon. Bohot shareef log hain.”
“Mujhe unki ladki pasand hai.”
The shopkeeper smiled absentmindedly. “Haan mujhe bhi pasand hai. Bohot achi bachiyan hai. Bas choti wali thodi padhai mein kamzor hai.”
Iqbal stared at him flatly. “Nahi. Main usse pasand karta hoon.”
The man blinked. Then blinked again. Sajid burst out laughing so hard peanuts nearly flew out of his mouth. Finally understanding, the shopkeeper slapped his forehead. “Arre acha!”
Soon the three of them headed toward your grandmother’s house. The shopkeeper had dressed unusually nicely for the occasion while Sajid sat proudly beside him like some official representative. Iqbal remained sitting in his jeep parked outside of the house. Your grandmother sat on a charpai in the courtyard holding her stick. The moment the shopkeeper nervously announced, “Hum rishta le kar aaye hain apke liye—”
she frowned immediately. “Mera rishta lene aaye ho?” she snapped. “Main tereko shaadi ki umar ki lagti hoon?” Sajid almost choked trying not to laugh.
“Nahi nahi!” the man panicked. “Aap ki poti ke liye!”
Your grandmother narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Kis ka rishta? Kon hai?”
“Main-“ before he could complete your grandma threw her jutti towards him.
“Haye tere sath kawarungi main apni poti ka rishta, marne.”
The shopkeeper winced in pain and cried out to her “bibi sunn toh le puri baat pehle main nhi koi aur hai.” At that your grandmother noded at him to continue “Ek Lieutenant sahib hain—”
Before he could even finish, your grandmother grabbed her stick. “Main apni poti ka rishte tere se toh lu na kabhi!”
The next thing anyone knew, two men were running out of the courtyard while she chased them furiously with the stick. One final throw narrowly missed shopkeeper but smacked directly into Sajid’s elbow. “AAH!”
Later that night the three sat around a small fire outside the shop. Sajid crouched beside it dramatically heating a cloth against the warmth before pressing it to his bruised elbow. The shopkeeper looked deeply offended. “Aap ne kaha tha bibi bohot maan aur izzat karti hain apki!”
Iqbal leaned against the wall trying not to smile. “Karta hongi… upar upar se.”
Sajid burst into laughter again. The shopkeeper glared at both of them miserably while continuing to warm the cloth. For a while only the crackling fire spoke between them. Then Sajid sighed dramatically. “Toh ab?”
Iqbal stared thoughtfully into the flames. “Ab…” he said slowly, “koi aur tareeqa sochna padega.”
The days after that felt strangely empty. At first, you kept telling yourself he must be busy. A Lieutenant could not wander around villages all day, chasing girls near wells and melas. That was what your bhabhi kept saying too whenever you sat beside the wall with your chin resting over your folded arms, speaking in a quieter voice than usual.
“Woh fauj mein hai… kaam hoga usse,” yalina would say gently while kneading dough or cutting vegetables. “Tum itna mat socha karo.”
But you did think about him. Constantly. It had been more than two weeks now. No jeep. No letters. No glimpse of him standing somewhere far away pretending not to look at you.
And slowly, without even realizing it, the letter he had sent became a part of your routine. At night, when everyone had gone to sleep and Laiba had curled closer beside you under the blanket, you would quietly pull the folded paper from beneath your pillow. The creases had deepened from how often you opened it. One corner had even begun tearing slightly where your fingers always unfolded it. You still struggled reading properly. Every sentence took time. Sometimes you had to whisper the words under your breath two or three times before understanding them. Yet over those many nights, you had memorized every line.
“Mere khwabon mein sirf aap aati hain…”
You knew it by heart now. Sometimes you would stare at the roof while everyone slept and think about what he had said that evening beneath the tree. About love. About souls recognizing each other. And then fear would creep in again. You imagined telling your mother everything.
Ammi… mujhe ek ladka pasand hai.
In your imagination alone, her face would harden instantly. Your father would stop speaking altogether. Your aunt would probably call you shameless. So you never said anything. You kept it hidden inside your chest instead.
That evening, you were returning home with a metal doli full of milk balanced carefully in both hands. The container was heavy enough that your wrists hurt slightly, and your eyes stayed fixed on the dusty ground ahead of you. Your mind wandered elsewhere. You wondered if he had forgotten you. The sudden sound of a horn startled you so badly that you almost dropped the doli. You turned around quickly. And there he was. For a second, you simply froze.
All those angry speeches you had practiced over the past fifteen days disappeared instantly. Every dramatic sentence you had prepared—every complaint, every accusation—vanished the moment you saw him leaning slightly out of the jeep window, looking at you with that familiar softness in his eyes. Your face brightened before you could stop it. “…Aap?” you breathed out.
A smile tugged at his lips immediately. “Assalamualaikum,” he said calmly. “Aapko bhi salam kar lena chahiye tha pehle.”
You looked down sheepishly before replying, “Waalaikumassalam…”
Then the words rushed out anyway. “Lekin aap the kahan? Itne din? Mujhe laga…” You tried laughing lightly. “Mujhe laga aap mar hi gaye.”
He chuckled softly at that. “Zinda hoon abhi.” He leaned back slightly against the seat. “Kaam bohot tha. Lieutenant- inshalla jaldh hi major banna asaan nahi hota.”
You tried acting unimpressed, but the relief inside you was too obvious to hide. He looked at the heavy doli in your hands and frowned slightly. “Ghar ja rahi ho?”
This time, you agreed without much hesitation. “Ji.”
He stepped out briefly and took the doli from your hands before placing it carefully in the back. Then you climbed into the passenger seat, smoothing your dupatta nervously over your lap. The jeep began moving slowly through the village roads. But instead of heading directly toward your house, he simply drove. Past familiar shops. Past fields washed gold beneath the evening sun. Past narrow roads where children still played barefoot. And for the first time, the awkwardness between you both felt smaller. You told him about your days. About Laiba annoying you constantly. About your bhabhi and you secretly exchanging gifts and meeting . About how your aunt still shouted at everyone for no reason and stayed out gossiping at her friend’s house for hours. He listened to every word like it mattered.
And then he told you about his work. About long nights. Endless responsibilities. Men constantly calling his name. Files. Meetings. Patrols. “Aapko pata hai,” he said while turning the steering wheel lazily, “do hafte mein mujhe sirf do baar theek se neend mili.”
You looked at him immediately. “Sach?” He nodded tiredly. A strange ache settled in your chest then. Because suddenly he looked exhausted to you. Not distant. Not careless. Just tired.
“Aapko boht yaad kara maine,” you admitted quietly before courage could leave you again. The words slipped out so naturally that even you seemed surprised by them. For a moment, he glanced at you instead of the road. There was something unbearably soft in his expression.
“Maine bhi,” he said just as quietly. The silence afterward wasn’t awkward anymore. Without fully thinking, you slowly placed your hand over his resting hand near the gear. The moment your fingers touched him, your heartbeat stumbled. But this time, you didn’t pull away. And neither did he. His thumb moved slightly beneath your hand before he intertwined his fingers carefully with yours, like he was afraid you might disappear if he held too tightly. Outside, the evening wind moved gently through the open window. Inside the jeep, everything felt warm.
When he finally stopped a few streets away from your house, neither of you moved immediately. You looked down reluctantly before pulling your hand away first. “Main chalti hu ab,” you murmured. He nodded, though he didn’t seem happy about it. You stepped out slowly and adjusted your dupatta again before taking the doli from the back. Then you looked at him one last time. “Allah hafiz.”
A faint smile appeared on his face. “Allah hafiz.”
You began walking away toward your street. But halfway there, something made you turn around. And there he still was. Sitting inside the jeep. Watching you leave. Realisation hit you both again- you forgot to ask for each other’s name
Days passed quietly after that, and somewhere between hidden meetings, stolen glances, and evening drives through empty roads, you and Iqbal grew closer without even realizing it. What had once been awkward silences and nervous conversations slowly turned into comfort. You no longer sat stiffly beside him in the jeep with your hands folded carefully in your lap. Now you leaned against him naturally, talked over him, argued with him, laughed with him. Sometimes he would drive for hours with no destination at all, just because both of you liked being near each other.
That evening, the jeep was parked beneath tall trees on a lonely road just outside the village. The windows were slightly fogged from the cold air outside, and faint wedding music drifted somewhere from far away. You sat beside him with your back resting against his shoulder while he lazily played with the edge of your dupatta between his fingers. The warmth of him behind you had begun feeling familiar now, almost dangerous in how natural it felt. Like always, the conversation eventually returned to the same thing—the future. You sighed softly, tracing invisible patterns against your sleeve. “Abhi bhi mujhe samajh nahi aata ke yeh sab kaise hoga. Mere ghar wale kabhi nahi maanenge.”
Iqbal leaned back against the seat with a tired exhale. “Mere ghar wale maan gaye hain.”
You turned immediately. “Sach?”
A small smile tugged at his lips. “Ammi toh khush ho gayi thi.”
That surprised you enough to laugh softly. “Khush?”
“Unhein sukoon hua ke mujhe aakhir kisi ko pasand toh aaya.” Then, as if remembering something, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a small photograph. The moment your eyes landed on it, you straightened completely.
“Meri tasveer?” you whispered in disbelief, snatching it from his hand. It was a tiny passport-sized picture of you, slightly blurry, your dupatta pulled neatly over your head while you looked annoyed at whoever had taken it. Your brows furrowed instantly as you looked back at him. “Aapko yeh mila kahan se?”
A smug look crossed his face immediately. “Mere tareeqe hain.”
Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Bhabhi ne diya na?”
He tried to hide his smile, which only confirmed it further. You gasped dramatically. “Unhone sach mein diya?!”
His laugh filled the jeep softly. “Maine sirf ek baar maanga tha.”
You shook your head, still staring at the picture before handing it back carefully. “Aur kya kaha unhone mere baare mein?”
“Unhe aap boht khoobsurat lagi.”
The words warmed your face embarrassingly fast. “Aur apke walid?”
“Unhein sirf itni fikr hai ke larki achhe khandaan se ho.” His gaze softened as he looked at you. “Aur tumhara khandaan acha hai.”
Your expression faded slightly after that. You lowered your eyes to your hands resting in your lap. “Mere abbu ek ache insaan hai,” you said quietly. “Allah se bohot darte hain… Ammi bhi. Isi liye darr lagta hai mujhe. Agar unhe pata chal gaya toh…”
“Tumhari khushi chahne par woh tumse nafrat nahi karenge..”
“Aap mere ghar walo ko nhi jante.”
“Aur tum meri,” he replied gently. “Tum bohot zyada sochti ho.”
You let out a frustrated breath and leaned your head back against the seat. “Aasan nhi hai itna.”
For a moment, silence settled between both of you again. Then his hand slowly came up, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your cheek. His fingers lingered there softly, thumb moving lightly against your skin while he looked at you with that unbearable calmness that always frustrated you.
“Kya pata ek din,” he murmured, “tum mein himmat aa hi jaaye..”
You hated how easily he spoke about forever. About destiny. About hearts recognizing each other like it was the simplest thing in the world. Meanwhile, you felt like your chest would burst open from fear alone. And suddenly, without properly thinking, frustration took over. Before your mind could catch up, you turned toward him and pressed your lips against his. It was not graceful. Or slow. You practically smacked into him.
His entire body went stiff in shock, eyes widening so much that for a second you almost pulled away immediately. His hands hovered awkwardly beside you like his brain had stopped working altogether. The kiss barely lasted a moment before you pulled back breathlessly. Both of you just stared at each other in complete disbelief. Then suddenly, a disbelieving laugh escaped him.
“Acha…” he muttered, still looking stunned. “Main toh aapka mehram nahi tha?”
Your jaw dropped instantly. Out of everything he could have said. You stared at him, offended and embarrassed all at once while he tried—and failed—not to smile.
“Kitne bewaqoof hain aap,” you muttered under your breath.
That only made him laugh properly this time. Maybe it was embarrassment. Maybe frustration. Maybe the way he was looking at you. But before either of you could overthink it again, you leaned toward him once more—and this time, he met you halfway. His hand finally came up properly, cupping your face gently as he kissed you back. Slower this time. Softer. Like he was still trying to process that this was real.
Your fingers clutched tightly at the front of his kurta while you shifted closer without thinking, ending up half in his lap as his arm wrapped around your waist to steady you against him. Outside, the world stayed quiet. Inside the jeep, neither of you could even remember what the argument had been about anymore.
Your fingers clutched tightly at the front of his kurta as you shifted closer without thinking, ending up half in his lap. His arm instantly wrapped around your waist, steadying you against him. Outside, the world stayed quiet. Inside the jeep, neither of you could even remember what the argument had been about anymore.
He slid his hands down to your hips, his grip firm as he pulled you as physically close as possible. Overcome by a sudden, deep ache of longing, you instinctively held on tighter. When his mouth met yours, it was warm and demanding, his tongue sliding past your lips to explore every corner of your mouth.
When you finally parted, both of you were breathing heavily. Your dupatta was long forgotten, discarded somewhere on the floor of the jeep. As you sat flushed against him, your chest heaving, the sight of you left Iqbal craving more. He pulled you back in for a brief, bruising kiss before his hands found the hem of your suit, tugging upward.
Deep down, a flicker of nervousness flared—Is this right? What if someone sees?—but the thoughts vanished before they could even fully register. Surrendering to the moment, you pulled your kurta over your head, tossing it aside, before reaching behind to unhook your bra. Loose strands of your hair swayed, settling gently against your bare chest. Iqbal’s breath hitched the pendant he got for you was visible now that your dupata or your suit werent in way. He wanted nothing more than to reach out, to knead the soft skin of your breast in his hands, to tug and pull at you, fighting a desperate battle with himself to maintain a shred of control when every instinct was screaming at him to let go. Your fingers tremble slightly as they hook into the waistband of your trousers, the soft cotton whispering against your skin as you slide it down your hips. The fabric pools at your ankles, a fleeting hesitation flickering through you—should your underwear remain, a last veil of modesty, or expose yourself entirely to him? You decide to leave it.
Iqbal's eyes fixed on you with a hunger. A low groan rumbles from his chest, raw and unfiltered, as his palm presses firmly against the straining bulge in his trousers. The sight of you, half-naked and above him, unravels something primal in his gaze.
You climb back onto him, knees sinking into the seat on either side of his hips, the leather seat dipping under your shared weight. Your hands find the hem of his kurta, tugging with quiet insistence. He obliges without a word, muscles flexing beneath the fabric as he peels it upward and over his head in one motion.
Leaning forward, your bare breasts brush his chest—then press fully, skin meeting skin in a rush of warmth that steals your breath. The contact is electric, immediate the firmness of his hands just enough against your softer body, his body heat seeping into you. A subtle rasp against your hair, syncing your breaths together or atleast trying to. You stay there, unmoving, forehead resting against his collarbone as minutes stretch into an eternity of sensation. His arms around your waist loosely at first, then tighten, palms press small of your back, tracing idle patterns with his thumbs. The air between you thickens with shared breaths—yours shallow and quick, his deeper, laced with restraint. sweat begins to gather where your bodies align, slick and intimate.
“Iqbal,” you murmur against his skin, voice muffled. His response is a hum, vibrating through his chest into yours, as his fingers dip lower, brushing the edge of your underwear but not venturing further—not yet. The tension coils tighter, ache building in the space between restraint and release, your hips instinctively rocking once, just enough to feel the hardness of him beneath the layers still separating you.
The whisper of his name on your lips ignites him. In an instant, Iqbal surges upward, his strong hands grip your shoulders as he flips your positions effortlessly. The jeep's leather seat creaks beneath you, cool against your back. He positions himself between your thighs, knees pressing into the seat, his body cage yours in the dim glow coming through fogged windows.
His mouth crashes onto yours, desperate and devouring, tongue sweeping in to claim every corner as if he could never taste enough. The kiss is aggressive teeth grazing, breath hot, and ragged—while his hand trails downward, palm rubbing the damp heat of your clothed core. Fingers rub in firm, circles through the cotton, pressure building friction that sends waves racing up your spine. You arch into his touch, a soft whimper escaping into his mouth.
He pulls back just enough to trail his lips higher a tender press to your forehead, lingering as if blessing the vulnerability there a peck against the tip of your nose a fleeting peck on your lips that promises more. Then lower, on your throat, where he sucks lightly, marking the skin with warmth. His descent continues, mouth finding the valley between your breasts, kissing the soft skin. Both hands cradle them, thumbs circling hardened peaks before he leans in, leaving open-mouthed kisses on each swell—wet, laps that draws shiver from you.
He captures your left breast fully then, lips sealing around the nipple in a deep, sucking pull. The sensation tugs straight to your core, a moan tearing free from your throat, raw and unrestrained. Your fingers thread into his hair, holding him there as he grazes with teeth—a sharp bite that stings, blooming into pleasure-pain, the kind that makes your toes curl against the jeep's leather seat. Satisfied for the moment, he releases with a final swirl of tongue and moves downwards, lips and tongue painting a glistening trail over your ribs, navel, and your abdomen. He pauses above your clothed cunt, breath ghosting hot through the thin barrier of fabric your hips twitch involuntarily. With gentle insistence, he hooks his fingers into the waistband and eases the underwear down your legs, the cool air kissing your now exposed skin.
A flicker of hesitation shakes your head—no, a instinctive retreat—but his eyes meet yours, steady and loving. “Mere upar yakeen karo.” he murmurs, voice laced with need. “Bas apni ankhe bandh rakho aur aram se lait jao.” You obey, eyes fluttering shut. The first lap of his wet, warm tongue against your folds is revelation—broad and unhurried, parting slickness to delve deeper. He eats you with focused hunger, nose nudging your clit, tongue thrusting in rhythmic exploration, sucking the sensitive pearl until your thighs tremble around his ears. The jeep rocks faintly with your writhing, suspension groaning like a conspirator.
When he rises, the loss of his mouth leaves you aching, and empty. He takes his trousers in hurried motion, freeing his cock—thick, veined, and curving upward with precum glistening at the tip. Your eyes lock on it, mesmerized, unable to look away. Propping on elbows, you look up at him as if asking for permission to touch. Permission granted without words he takes your hand, guiding it to wrap around his lenght. “Es par thuko” he gives you instruction, and you do, gathering saliva on your tongue before letting it drip onto the tip. With his hand over yours he uses your hand to smears the spit in long, twisting strokes, the obscene wet sounds filling his jeep.
“Lait jao,”he urges, voice strained. You sink back into the seat, knees splayed wide in the cramped seat. He positions himself at your entrance, his cock head probing—but he fumbles. Your hand joins his, trembling fingers aligning his cock. A burning stretch that rips a gasp from you both, his groans while your cry as he sinks in inch by agonizing inch. It feels like splitting open, walls clenching in protest around his thickess.
He stills, buried deep in you, forehead pressed against yours, breathing unison. Then motion begins—slow, deep thrusts, each withdrawal a drag of friction, each return a deeper point. His face buries in the crook of your neck, lips brushing your ear he mumbled praises now and then “mashalla! Meri jannat aap hi hain” you are unable to focus on anything he says in the haze of pain morphing to pleasure.
The rhythm builds deliberately, hips rolling in a grind that circles your clit with every thrust. The jeep sways with you windows now fully steamed sealing your world in humid intimacy. Outside, distant wedding music plays but here it's only the slap of skin, your moans, the wet sound of him splitting you open you hoped wedding music is loud enough tocover your sounds from by-passers. He hitches one of your legs higher over his hip, angling deeper, the new moment brushed the sensitive spot inside that makes you bite down on lips from intense pleasure.
Sweat clings to your bodies, his chest pressing against yours, your cheat moving up and down with each thrust. You claw at his back, nails digging into his well built body. He lifts his head, messily kissing you, tongues clashing. His thumb finds your clit to rub in tight, insistent loops. The motion unravels you—pleasure comes in shattering waves, as you release with a cry.
He follows moments later his thrusts becoming sloppy, he pulls out his cock and gives it few aggressive strokes followed by a moan vibrating through him as he spills his hot semen on your body. Collapsing on top. Your bodies locked in aftershocks. His lips press over your forehead, breathing heavily as he whispers, “theek hain aap?” He didnt need to say ‘I love you’ infact you both never confessed this way- but despite the unsaid i love you you both knew.
After that night in the jeep with Iqbal, something inside you began to change quietly.
At first, you tried convincing yourself that whatever had happened between you both should never happen again. Sometimes late at night, while lying awake beneath your thin blanket, guilt would slowly crawl into your chest. A part of you truly believed it was wrong. Galat tha. The kind of thing girls like you were never supposed to do. But then another thought would come immediately afterward.
If it was truly so wrong… then why had it felt so safe?
Why did remembering the warmth of his hands still make your heart race? Why did his voice still echo in your ears long after he was gone? Why did the memory of the deeds you two did in that jeep make your chest ache in the strangest, sweetest way? You tried hating those moments. You couldn’t.
And no matter how many promises you made to yourself afterward —bas, ab aise harkien nhi karungi—somehow your heart always led you back to him again.
Days slowly passed, and little by little the awkwardness between you both disappeared. Meeting him no longer felt frightening after the first few times. Instead, it became something your entire day quietly revolved around. Sometimes you both talked for hours. Sometimes you simply sat together silently while the evening sky darkened around you, comfortable enough in each other’s presence that words no longer felt necessary.
One day, you even took Laiba along. Before that, both you and your bhabhi made her promise at least ten times that she would never tell anyone.
“Kasam khao,” you whispered dramatically while holding her tiny face.
Laiba burst into giggles. “Kitni baar kasam khaun?”
Your bhabhi bribed her with sweets while you threatened not to braid her hair anymore if she spoke a single word. Eventually she agreed proudly, puffing out her chest as if she had been trusted with some royal secret. And the moment she saw Iqbal’s jeep, her eyes widened completely. Most of the time she didn’t even care about the two of you talking. She was too busy staring at the steering wheel with fascination, her tiny fingers itching to press the horn. Iqbal laughed softly watching her excitement. “Lagta hai jeep mujhse zyada pasand aa gayi hai isse.”
Laiba immediately shook her head stubbornly. “Nahi!”
But a second later she asked shyly, “Horn daba sakti hoon?”
The three of you burst into laughter. And somehow, sitting there together — you, Iqbal, your bhabhi, and little Laiba in the front seat — felt painfully domestic.
For brief moments, it almost felt like a family.
Those moments hurt the most because they filled your heart with impossible hopes. You would quietly sit afterward thinking maybe…maybe if your parents agreed someday… maybe if the world was kinder… maybe you could actually live like this forever. Iqbal has recently been bestowed with rank of major maybe your parents would not oppose of a major-
The thought followed you everywhere after that. While washing clothes. While kneading dough. While trying to sleep at night.
You found yourself drifting into deep thought constantly until one day even Iqbal noticed it. “Sab khariyat?” he asked softly while driving slowly down the empty road. “Aaj kal itni khamosh kyun ho?”
You hesitated for a long moment before quietly saying: “Mujhne na… mujhe ammi abbu ko bata dena chahiye.” Iqbal immediately looked toward you. “Aise milna…” you whispered nervously, staring down at your hands, “yeh hamesha toh nahi chal sakta.”
For a moment he stayed silent. Then he nodded gently. “Sahi kaha tumne.” Your stomach twisted nervously. “Fir kab bataogi ghar?”
You let out a weak breath. “Pata nahi… himmat jama kar rahi hoon.”
He pulls you towards himself pecking your crown your arms find their way to his chest, “sunno agli baar jaldi milne aana mera dil nhi lagta tumse dhur ho kar.”
He chuckles against your hair, “main toh kehta hoon bhag chalte hai puri zindagi sath gurarenge.”
You elbowed him gently and got up fixing your suit. That entire day felt strangely quiet afterward.
But you ignored the uneasiness sitting inside your chest.
When you finally returned home that evening, the moment you stepped inside the courtyard, something immediately felt wrong. Your mother was sitting silently near the wall. Your father beside her. Another woman from the village sat nearby too, whispering something beneath her breath. Even Laiba, who was usually running around noisily, was sitting quietly on the floor beside her doll. And the moment you entered, every single person looked toward you. Your heartbeat stumbled.
The atmosphere felt heavy enough to suffocate you. Before you could even speak properly, the other woman sharply looked toward Laiba. “Andar jao.”
Confused, Laiba looked toward you once before quietly getting up and disappearing inside the house. Then silence settled again. A terrible silence.
Your mother slowly stood up, but she still could not look directly at you. Her fingers trembled against the edge of her dupatta. “Ek baat poochun?” she whispered weakly. “Sach tum khud bataogi… ya hum batayein?”
Your throat went dry instantly. “Kya sach?” you asked, though fear had already begun crawling through your stomach. Before your mother could answer, your aunt spoke instead.
“Haye Allah, dekho iski masoomiyat,” she scoffed bitterly. “Jaise isne kuch kiya hi nahi.”
“Pata nahi kab se us aadmi ke saath chakkar chal raha hai iska,” your aunt continued venomously. “Maine apni aankhon se dekha hai dono ko. Kabhi kheto mein, kabhi raste mein… Allah jaane kya kya kartay phirte thi. Allah tallah ka shukar hai mujhe ladka hi naseeb hua.”
For a moment your mind went completely blank. How did she know? Your first thought was betrayal. Had someone seen you? Had Laiba accidentally said something? Had your bhabhi told somebody? But deep down you knew neither of them would ever do that.
Your aunt had found out herself.
And now she looked almost pleased standing there while your entire world collapsed. Your mother immediately burst into tears. “Nahi… meri beti aisa nahi kar sakti…”
But your father looked furious in a way you had never seen before. “tune hamara bharosa toda!!” he shouted suddenly. “Hamari naak kata di tune!”
You tried speaking immediately. “Abbu meri baat—”
“Chup!” His voice echoed through the courtyard so loudly even you flinched. Then suddenly he turned toward your mother.
“Tum kehti thi na larkiyon ko padhana chahiye?” he snapped angrily. “Kal hi Laiba ka naam school se nikalwa deta hoon.”
Your chest tightened painfully hearing that.
“Panchvi jamat tak padhya esko to ye harkatien hai iski,” he continued harshly while pointing toward you. “Zyada padh leti toh Allah jaane aur kitni jaldi hamari izzat mitti mein mila deti.”
Your mother cried harder at those words. Then finally she looked toward you again desperately, tears soaking her face.
“Bas ek baar sach bata do,” she begged brokenly. “Kya yeh sab sach hai?” You looked at her for a long moment. And suddenly you felt tired. Tired of lying. Tired of hiding. So slowly…silently…
Your mother broke completely after that. A sob escaped her lips as she covered her face with her dupatta. Your aunt almost looked satisfied watching it happen.
And before you could even react, your father stormed toward you furiously. “Abbu nahi—”
He grabbed your wrist painfully hard before you could finish speaking. You cried out softly as he dragged you across the courtyard while your mother cried but didnt step up to stop him. He dragged you straight toward the small storage room at the back of the house, shoved you violently inside, and slammed the door shut. “Abbu! Khuda ke liye! darwaza kholo!”
The lock clicked outside immediately. “Koi darwaza nhi kholega,” he shouted coldly from outside. “Koi bhi nahi.”
Panic exploded inside you instantly. You began banging against the wood desperately, tears streaming down your face. “Ammi! Khuda ke liye! Mujhe bahar nikalo! Ammi!” But nobody opened the door.
Meanwhile, completely unaware of the storm waiting for him, Iqbal drove back home with the faintest smile still resting on his face. The evening had felt peaceful. For the first time in days, he had allowed himself to imagine a future that did not feel impossible.
But the moment he stepped inside the house, that feeling disappeared. His mother was sitting silently in the lounge, fingers tightly wrapped around her rosary. His father stood near the window with a newspaper folded beneath his arm, jaw stiff in anger. The atmosphere itself felt wrong.
Iqbal frowned slightly. “Kya hua?” he asked carefully.
His mother exchanged one uneasy glance with his father before speaking softly. “Aaj hum uss gaon gaye thay… uss larki ke baare mein maloom karne.”
His stomach tightened instantly. “Aur?”
His father answered this time, voice cold and sharp. “Log uske baare mein achi baatein nahi kar rahe.”
Iqbal stared at him. “Kaisi baatein?”
His mother hesitated. “Yeh ke… uska kirdar theek nahi hai.”
For a second he genuinely thought he had heard wrong.“Namunkin hai.”
“Uski apni rishtedaar ne kaha,” his father continued harshly. “Aur uski bhabhi ne bhi.”
That shook him for the first time.
Not because he believed it.
But because your bhabhi would never say something like that unless she had been forced. “Main janta hu usse,” he said firmly. “Woh aisi nahi hai.”
“Tu janta tak nhi hai usse,” his father snapped.
“Main itna jaanta hoon ke woh aisi larki nahi hai.”
His father’s anger only worsened after that. “Aaj ke baad tum uss larki se nahi miloge.”
Iqbal looked at him in disbelief. “Aap mujhe rok nahi sakte.”
“Main tumhara baap hoon.”
“Bacha nhi raha ab main,” he shot back immediately. “Main Major hoon. Aap mujhe yeh sab karne se nahi rok sakte.” The room fell silent after that. Heavy and tense.
His father looked furious enough to explode, while his mother only looked exhausted. That night, long after everyone slept, Iqbal sat inside his room with Sajid. The cigarette between Sajid’s fingers burned slowly while Iqbal sat leaning forward on the edge of the bed, restless frustration crawling beneath his skin. Sajid sighed quietly.
“Yaar… bura mat manna, lekin…” He paused carefully. “Tu usse itna jaanta bhi nahi.”
Iqbal immediately looked up sharply. “Kya matlab hai tera?”
“Mera matlab…” Sajid hesitated. “Allah jaane hum galat ho sakte hain. Kaun itni jaldi kisi se mohabbat kar leta hai? Shaadi mein mili aur—”
“Bas.” Iqbal’s voice turned dangerously cold. “Tum nahi jaante usse. Aur baat aayi ‘allah jaanane’ ki toh kudha janta hai ki vo bekasoor hai” Sajid fell silent.
Because the truth was obvious. Iqbal trusted you completely. The problem was that he had no way to prove your innocence. And meanwhile, miles away, you sat locked inside that dark room, fists weakly hitting against the door until your hands hurt.
The first night you screamed until your throat burned.
The second night your voice grew quieter.
By the third day, even crying exhausted you. Your father only opened the door once every afternoon. He never looked directly at you. He would silently place a steel glass of water and two dry rotis on the floor before locking the door again immediately.
Just dry rotis growing harder with every passing hour. After that days passed- was it a week already- no three wait five days- you lost track of time.
Sometimes your mother sat silently outside the door after everyone slept. You could hear her soft breathing through the wood.
“Ammi…” you would whisper brokenly. “Meri baat samjho…” But she never answered.
You would tell her about him anyway. How gently he spoke to you. How he never touched you without care. How safe you felt beside him. How for the first time in your life, someone had made you feel seen. But every word only made her cry harder. Outside, the village continued swallowing your name whole.
And at the center of all those rumors stood your aunt. At first she had only been suspicious. Then curiosity turned into obsession. She spent days collecting gossip from people until she finally learned who Iqbal truly was — wealthy family, respected background, army officer, powerful connections. And jealousy poisoned her completely. She could not bear the thought of you getting that kind of happiness. Especially not you.
So when she learned that Iqbal’s family was planning to visit and discuss marriage, she forced Yalina into helping her. Yalina refused at first. But her mother-in-law cornered her cruelly.
“Agar jo bola hai vo nhi kaha,” she threatened, “toh iss ghar mein tumhare liye koi jagah nahi hogi.”
Yalina went pale. Hamza hated what was happening, but years of fear had made him silent around his mother. And so, trembling with guilt, Yalina lied.
In front of Iqbal’s mother.
She claimed you had spoken to many men before. That you had “history.” That your character was bad. Every lie nearly destroyed her while saying it. And afterward the guilt ate her alive.
Meanwhile, inside the locked room, time itself stopped existing.
You sat curled in darkness thinking about the evenings inside his jeep. About Laiba laughing while pressing the horn. About the way the fading sunlight had once fallen across his face while he smiled at you. The way held you close and kissed each part of you claiming to have found heaven in your arms.
Sometimes you pressed your forehead against the door and imagined he would come.
Imagined he would somehow know.
And slowly, hope began rotting inside you the same way the untouched rotis rotted in the corner of the room. Then one afternoon your aunt arrived again. You could hear fake sympathy dripping from her voice while she sat beside your mother. “Bichari,” she sighed dramatically. “Larkiyan samajhti nahi hain. Ameer mard dil behla dete hain aur phir kisi achay ghar ki larki se shaadi kar lete hain.”
Your heartbeat stopped. “Kya?” your mother whispered weakly.
“Haan,” your aunt continued casually. “Uski shaadi tai ho gayi hai. Kisi politician ki beti se.” The world around you blurred instantly.
Your aunt kept speaking anyway, almost enjoying every word. “Padhi likhi hai. Bohot khoobsurat hai. Akhbaaron mein tasveerein aati rehti hain uski kya bolte hai vo pehli ladki hai koi jo siyasat mein utri hai.” You remembered that name. Your father had mentioned that politician before while reading newspapers aloud. And suddenly the image formed inside your mind so clearly that it hurt.
That night you cried so hard you could barely breathe. And outside the room, hidden behind the wall, Yalina heard every second of it. The guilt finally became unbearable.
At the same time, Iqbal’s life was collapsing too.
His father had taken away the keys to his jeep and bike completely. A driver now took him everywhere — office, home, nowhere else. The marriage discussions with another girl had already begun. Iqbal stopped sleeping properly after that. Dark circles formed beneath his eyes. His temper worsened. He barely ate.
And one morning, desperate to find answers, he asked the driver to stop near the mosque in your village, pretending he needed to pray. Instead, he waited outside quietly. And eventually Yalina emerged after prayer.
The moment she saw him standing there, all color drained from her face. Iqbal stepped toward her slowly. “Aap Allah ke ghar se aa rahi hain,” he said quietly. “Aur phir bhi itna bada jhoot bol diya?”
Yelena lowered her gaze instantly. “Main chahti nhi thi…”
“Main janta hu apne jhoot bola.”
Tears gathered in her eyes immediately. “Mere abbu guzar gye the jab main panch saal ki thi,” she whispered shakily. “Mere chacha ne mujhe pala. Main pehle hi unpe bojh thi. Agar meri saas ne mujhe ghar se nikaal diya toh mere paas kahin jaane ki jagah nahi hogi.”
“Meri ammi…” she continued brokenly. “Abbu ke marne ke baad bas ibadat mein lag gayin. Aur agar main wapas gayi… phir se bojh ban jaungi.”
“Lekin jo aap ne kiya, usne ek beqasoor ki zindagi barbaad kar di.”
Yalina began crying openly now. “Janti hoon.”
For a long moment neither spoke. Then quietly, Iqbal said, “Aap sach bol sakti hain abhi bhi.” But fear still held her captive. So she left without promising anything. Yet the guilt followed her home.
And that same evening, unexpectedly, her own mother arrived to visit her. Yalina hugged her tightly the moment she entered. “Ammi, aap ghar se bahar hi nahi nikalti… aaj achanak?”
Her mother smiled faintly beneath her dupatta. “Maine khwab dekha tha,” she said softly. “Hum dono saath chal rahe thay apne ghar ki aur… phir tum mera haath chhod kar galat raste par chali gayi.” Something inside Yalina shattered instantly. And for the first time, she confessed everything.
Her mother listened silently before placing a trembling hand over her head. “Beta,” she whispered gently, “Rabb ke hukum se bada koi nahi hota.”
Yalina broke down crying.
“Agar woh tumhe ghar se nikaal dein,” her mother continued softly, “tab bhi tum akeli nahi hogi. Insaan ka sahara khatam hota hai. Rabb ka nahi.”
That night, something finally changed inside her. So when her mother-in-law returned home later and saw Yalina gathering her things, she frowned immediately. “Kahan ja rahi ho?”
Yalina looked up for the first time without fear. “Apni ghalti theek karne.”
“Agar dehliz se ek kadam bhi bahar rakha toh,” the older woman hissed, “dobara wapas mat aana.”
Yalina’s hands trembled. But this time she did not stop. Because for the first time, fear no longer felt heavier than guilt. Yalina’s fingers tightened around the small bundle of clothes in her hands. she whispered shakily, “Main yeh gunah aur nahi kar sakti. Bohot bada gunah hai yeh.” Her voice cracked. “Aur agar aap mujhe ghar se nikaal bhi dein… phir bhi mere paas Allah hoga. Uski rehmat hogi.”
For the first time, her mother-in-law had no answer. Hamza silently stood up from the manjha. He still said nothing.
Yalina walked past both of them and stepped outside before her courage could disappear. The evening air hit her face sharply. Her chest felt unbearably tight, but strangely lighter too. For a few moments she simply stood near the road waiting for a bus, hugging her shawl around herself while tears kept slipping down her cheeks.
Then suddenly she heard the sound of a bike stopping nearby. She turned. Hamza sat there quietly. The moment she saw him, she immediately shook her head. “Main wapas ghar nahi aaungi.”
Hamza looked at her for a long moment before speaking softly. “Main tumhe wapas le jaane nahi aaya.”
Yalina frowned slightly “fir?”
He adjusted his grip on the handle slowly. “Tumhara saath dene aaya hoon.”
And that was enough to completely break whatever strength she had left. Yalina began crying again before quietly sitting behind him on the bike. The first place they went to was Iqbal’s house.
When the door opened and Iqbal’s mother saw Yalina standing there crying, confusion immediately spread across her face. “Aap…?”
Yalina folded her trembling hands instantly. “Maine jhoot bola tha.” The entire house fell silent. Through tears, she confessed everything — the threats, the pressure, the lies about your character, all of it.
“Maaf karien,” she whispered brokenly. “Woh aisi larki nahi hai. Maine darr ki wajah se yeh sab kaha.” Iqbal’s mother looked genuinely stunned. Then slowly, her expression softened.
“Humein sirf yeh suna tha ke aap bohot achi aur shareef aurat hain,” she said quietly. “Lekin aaj dekh bhi liya.”Yalina broke down crying harder after hearing that.
Iqbal’s father remained silent for a long moment before sighing heavily. “Tumhari saas achi aurat nahi hai,” he muttered bitterly.
But despite finally learning the truth, the situation was no longer simple. The other marriage discussions had already begun. And reputations in their world were not things people easily reversed. Still, before Yalina and Hamza left, Iqbal’s mother quietly stopped them near the door. “Hum turant toh kuch kar nhi sakte,” she admitted softly, “lekin mera beta usse sach mein mohabbat karta hai.” Her eyes grew emotional. “Pichle kuch dinon se usne theek se khana tak nahi khaya.”
That was all she needed to hear. The moment Yalina left the house, she immediately called Iqbal’s office and told him everything. And for the first time in days, hope returned to him.
Meanwhile, Yalina and Hamza went to grandmother’s house — your and Hamza’s grandfather’s younger sister, the one person in the family whose words still carried weight.
The old woman listened silently while Yalina confessed everything through tears.
Every cruel thing that had been spread against you. By the end, the grandmother looked furious. “Tum logon ne ek zinda ladki ko qabar mein daal diya,” she snapped angrily.
And without wasting another second, she marched straight toward Hamza’s house with Yalina and Hamza following behind her. The moment Yalina’s mother-in-law saw her returning, she exploded. “Maine kaha tha na wapas mat aana!”
But before she could continue, the grandmother stepped forward furiously. “Tera dimaag kharab ho gaya hai?” she shouted. “Apne hi ghar ki ladki ki zindagi barbaad kar di tune!”
“Maine kuch nhi kara!” the older woman argued defensively.
“Kuch nhi kara?” the grandmother barked. “Jhoot pe jhoot phailaye! Uske kirdar pe ilzaam lagaye!”
The shouting quickly drew everyone outside. Your parents arrived in confusion.
Hamza’s father came out too, shocked to discover what had truly happened. The moment he learned Yalina had been forced into lying, his face darkened with rage. He turned toward his wife instantly. “Tumne meri bhanji pe itna bada ilzaam lagaya?”
“Par vo us brigadier ke ladke se mili thi!” his wife argued desperately.
“Par tumne yeh bhi kaha ke uske bohot mardon se talluqaat thay!” he roared. “Tumne uski poori zindagi barbaad kar di!”
At the same time, Iqbal finally arrived.
The second he stepped into the courtyard, everyone fell quiet for a moment. He looked exhausted. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes. His face looked pale from sleepless nights, but the first thing he did was look around desperately, hoping to see you somewhere.
And somehow, that terrified him more. Your mother stood there crying quietly while your father remained stiff with anger and humiliation. Then suddenly Iqbal’s voice broke through the chaos.
“Agar aapko apni beti se itni nafrat hai,” he said bitterly, “toh mujhe de dein usse.”
“Kam se kam mere saath woh iss tarah band kamre mein toh nahi maregi.”
Your father’s expression twisted instantly. “Marne do usse!” he shouted furiously. “Isi kamre mein sadhne do!” And only then did something horrifying finally settle over everyone. The silence.
Nobody had heard you crying for a long time.
Your mother’s face suddenly lost all color. “Woh… awaaz kyun nahi de rahi? Y/n dekh tera major aaya hai. Vo…vo bol kyu nhi rhi hai” she whispered shakily. Panic spread instantly. Your mother began begging desperately. “Khuda ke liye darwaza khol dijiye…”
But your father, stubborn even now, still refused. Until Iqbal suddenly grabbed a brick lying nearby and slammed it hard against the wooden door.
The wood cracked violently. And when the door finally broke open what he saw inside shattered something in him forever. The untouched rotis lay piled in the corner, covered in patches of green mold. The room was almost completely dark except for a thin line of evening light slipping through the tiny window. And there, against the wall—
For one horrible second, nobody understood what they were seeing. Your dupatta had fallen loosely around you. Your head rested weakly against the wall behind. One of your hands still lay near the untouched rotis piled in the corner, now covered in mold.
Your mother let out a broken scream.
Iqbal rushed toward you instantly, dropping to his knees beside you, shaking your shoulders desperately. “Utho… kudha ka vasta, utho…” But your body only fell limply toward him.
That was when he noticed the small metal container lying near the wall.
Your father went pale immediately.
The village doctor, who had been called in panic afterward, quietly confirmed what nobody wanted to hear. You had consumed poison-pesticide bottle you consumed that sometime during the night.
Your mother collapsed completely after hearing it, crying so hard she could barely breathe. Even your father stumbled backward like something inside him had physically shattered.
Iqbal said nothing at all. He just sat there on the floor beside you, staring blankly while your lifeless hand remained in his trembling grip.
And somehow, that silence frightened everyone more than tears would have.
Because it did not look like grief anymore. It looked like something inside him had broken beyond repair.
Later, Yalina would remember only one thing clearly from that evening
the way Iqbal gently fixed your dupatta over your head with shaking fingers, as if he still believed you could feel it. And when someone finally tried pulling him away from your body, he whispered so quietly it barely sounded human— “Tumne kaha tha na… ke jald milne jana.” His voice cracked completely. “Main der kyu kardi aane mein…”
Years passed after your death, but nothing truly moved on.
For Yalina, guilt became punishment enough to last a lifetime. She blamed herself for everything. Every single day.
It did not matter that she eventually confessed the truth. It did not matter that she tried fixing her mistake in the end. In her heart, one truth remained unchanged: If she had spoken sooner, you would still be alive. The thought haunted her endlessly.
Sometimes while washing dishes, she would suddenly remember your voice crying from behind that locked door and her hands would begin trembling so badly she had to sit down. Some nights she woke up gasping after dreaming of you calling her name while she stood frozen outside, unable to help.
Hamza stayed beside her through all of it, but even he knew some guilt could never truly leave a person. And Iqbal…Iqbal did not survive your death. Not completely. People expected screaming.
But what frightened everyone most was how silent he became afterward. When he broke the door open with that brick and saw you lying there beside the piled-up moldy rotis, the empty pesticide bottle near your hand, something inside him snapped permanently.
After that day, he was never normal again. At first he stopped speaking almost entirely. Then slowly, over the years, people began noticing stranger things.
He wandered roads alone at odd hours.
Sometimes he drove endlessly through villages without destination.
Sometimes he stood outside closed shops or empty fields for hours staring at nothing.
Other times he spoke to you as if you were still beside him.
Villagers began whispering that the once brilliant army officer had lost his mind after the girl died. “Majnu hai ye”
His parents tried everything.
Transfers to different cities.
With time, Iqbal’s mind unraveled so badly that almost every memory unrelated to you slowly disappeared. He forgot addresses, faces, conversations, sometimes even his own age. But he never forgot you. In his broken mind, you were still alive, still somewhere nearby, walking beside him through crowded streets and lonely roads. He wandered around the city for hours like a madman, clothes wrinkled, hair unkempt, speaking softly to someone nobody else could see. Sometimes he stopped outside small tea stalls and ordered two cups without realizing it. Other times he turned around suddenly in busy crowds as if he had heard your voice calling his name. And whenever anyone tried telling him that you were gone, he only looked at them with anger and confusion, because to him, you had never died at all. His mind refused to remember the one truth that would have destroyed him completely.
Children in villages became scared of him sometimes — not because he was violent, but because there was something deeply broken in his eyes. As if a part of him had remained trapped forever inside that dark room with you.
I hope u guys enjoy i was inspired by two movies rabb da radio and angrez also this new song “gali gaani” as for the concept of mast fakir um actually there is a madman in my city like in old market of my city who curses at everyone has no place to live and has over grown hair and i literally saw edit of laila-majnu tdy and also took ispo from the scene where he is having his schizophrenic epidose origanally it was gonna be happy ending but 😬 i hope y’all enjoy i doubt anybody would cry
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