synopsis once, home was where they found each other. Now, it is where grief, silence, and unspoken words slowly turn two people who love each other into strangers.
cws miscarriage, infertility, grief, alcoholism, emotional distress, themes of depression.
[Masterlist]
The air inside the grand banquet hall felt impossible to breathe.
Every corner of the estate glittered beneath the glow of imported crystal chandeliers, their reflections dancing across polished marble floors and expensive jewelry alike. Laughter echoed through the room in carefully measured bursts, conversations flowing between politicians, businessmen, military officers, and socialites who had spent their entire lives perfecting the art of pretending.
Tonight was another one of your mother's gatherings. A celebration of status. Of influence. Of appearances. The kind of event she adored. The kind of event you had spent your entire life hating.
You stood near the edge of the courtyard doors, half-hidden behind a towering arrangement of white lilies, your fingers wrapped tightly around the embroidered edge of your saree. The fabric felt suffocating against your skin. Everything did.
Your mother was somewhere inside, probably introducing herself to someone important. Your relatives were undoubtedly gossiping. And you— You were searching for your husband. The realization alone felt strange.
Years ago, if someone had told you that you would one day enter a room and instinctively search for Major Iqbal amongst hundreds of faces, you would have laughed in their face. Back then, you couldn't stand him.
Back then, he had been nothing more than a stranger your mother had selected for you. A decorated military officer. A respected name. A prestigious rank. A perfect husband on paper. Your mother's dream. Your nightmare. You remembered the weeks leading up to your wedding with startling clarity. Every argument. Every plea. Every desperate attempt to convince your family to reconsider. None of it had mattered. For your mother, your marriage was never about your happiness. It was about securing a position. A title. Bragging rights. The daughter of a prominent family marrying Major Iqbal. People would talk about it for years. And they did. Just not in the way she expected.
Because despite the lavish decorations, despite the gold jewelry draped around your neck, despite the photographers running around trying to capture the "perfect moments," you had looked absolutely miserable. You hadn't smiled once.
Not during the ceremony.
Not during the photographs.
Not even during the departure.
Every picture captured the exact same expression.
A frown. A glare. A look of complete and utter devastation.
Months later, once the awkwardness between you and Iqbal had begun to fade, those photographs became his favorite source of entertainment.
You still remembered one particular evening. Rain had been falling softly against the windows of your bedroom while you folded laundry on the bed. Iqbal had somehow found the wedding album. A disaster. A terrible, terrible disaster. For nearly an hour, he had sat there flipping through the pages while trying—and failing—not to laugh. The more he looked, the worse it became. At one point he had laughed so hard he actually had to remove his glasses.
"Y/N."
You had immediately recognized the tone. The dangerous tone. The one that meant he was about to say something infuriating. "Nhi."
"Maine kuch kaha bhi nhi."
"Aapko kehne ki zaroorat bhi nhi."
He had grinned. Then pointed at a photograph. "Main bas aapki khubsorati appreciate kar rha tha."
You had looked. Instant regret. It was one of the close-up shots. Your expression looked less like a bride and more like someone attending a public execution.Your own. "Iqbal."
"Ji begum?"
"Iqbal."
"Boliye?"
You had lunged for the album. He had pulled it away. You had tried again. He had stood up. At six feet tall and unfairly athletic, he had simply held the album above his head while you glared at him from below.
"Khuda ki qasam," he had laughed, "logo ko lag rha hoga aapko kidnap kar rhe hai."
"Vo hi toh kara aapne."
"Nhi."
"Arrange marriage thi na."
"Toh kidnapping thode na thi."
"Aisa lag rha tha aap utha kar le ja rhe hain."
His laughter had only grown louder. The sound had filled the room.
Warm.
Unrestrained.
Happy.
A sound that had slowly become your favorite thing in the world. Eventually he had caught your wrist before you could launch another attack on the album. The teasing had faded from his expression. Softness replacing it. The same softness that always appeared when the two of you were alone. "Har tasveer mein kitni pyaari lag rhi hain aap."
You had rolled your eyes. "Jhoot."
"Main mazak nhi karta."
"Itni badsoorat lag rhi hu main en mein."
"Aap khafa lag rhi hain en mein."
"Main khafa thi."
"Ji." His thumb had brushed across your knuckles.Gentle. Familiar. Comforting. "Meri begum lag rhi ho har tasveer mein."
The very first genuine smile of that entire wedding. The same wedding where you had believed you could never love the stranger standing beside you.
You had been wrong.
Painfully wrong.
Because somewhere between shared cups of evening tea, late-night conversations, forgotten anniversaries that he somehow remembered, and quiet mornings where neither of you needed words...You had fallen hopelessly in love with your husband.
The years that followed should have been beautiful. For a while... They were. Until the first pregnancy. Until the first miscarriage.
You still remembered the silence inside the hospital room. Nobody had known what to say. Least of all you. Iqbal had simply held your hand during the drive home. The entire journey.
Not once had he let go. You had cried yourself to sleep that night. He had stayed awake beside you until dawn.
Then came the second pregnancy.
Hope returned. Briefly. Then another miscarriage. The third.
The fourth.
After a certain point, you stopped buying baby clothes. Stopped discussing names. Stopped decorating the spare bedroom. You couldn't bear to. Each tiny sweater folded neatly into cupboards felt like another reminder of someone who never came home.
The grief settled between you quietly. It wasn't loud. It didn't announce itself. It simply existed. Like an invisible wall neither of you knew how to climb. You withdrew into yourself. You stopped speaking about babies. Stopped mentioning hospitals. Stopped allowing yourself to imagine birthdays that would never arrive.
Iqbal watched. Helpless. He wanted to comfort you. He truly did. But every attempt seemed to make you cry harder. So eventually...He stopped trying. Not because he didn't care. Because he thought giving you space was what you wanted. You interpreted that silence differently. You believed he had stopped trying.
Stopped hoping.
Stopped grieving.
You couldn't have been more wrong. Every miscarriage broke him too. He simply broke quietly. Work became longer. Missions became more frequent. He returned home more exhausted than before. The nightmares began. Then came the drinking. At first it was only during military dinners. Then weekends.
Then after particularly difficult operations. Eventually... Whenever the silence inside the house became unbearable.
Alcohol dulled everything.
The memories.
The empty bedroom.
The questions neither of you asked anymore.
The look on your face whenever another friend announced her pregnancy. You never blamed those women. You smiled. You hugged them. Bought gifts. Then came home... Locked yourself inside your bedroom... And cried where no one could hear. Every newborn photograph. Every baby shower invitation. Every tiny pair of socks hanging in supermarket aisles... Felt like another reminder of everything you had lost. And tonight... Standing inside your mother's extravagant banquet... Watching your husband ask the bartender for another refill... You felt that same helplessness all over again. And somehow that had affected you more than any other thing ever could. Because by then you had realized something terrifying.
Your eyes found him instantly. Standing beside the bar. A crystal glass dangling loosely from his fingers. Another empty one already abandoned on the counter. His smile looked wrong. Too wide. Too forced. His posture remained straight, military discipline refusing to abandon him even now, but you knew him too well. You saw the glassiness in his eyes. The slight delay in his reactions. The exhaustion hidden beneath the expensive suit. And worst of all—The alcohol. Your stomach dropped. Because this wasn't home. This wasn't a private evening where you could gently take the glass from his hand and convince him to sleep. This was your mother's party.Your relatives' favorite hunting ground for gossip. One mistake. One scene. One drunken moment. And by tomorrow every single person in the city would be talking about Major Iqbal and his alcoholic tendencies. Your fingers tightened around your saree. Across the room, as if sensing your gaze, Iqbal looked up. For a brief moment, your eyes met. Something unreadable flickered across his face.
Pain.
Guilt.
Maybe recognition. Then he lifted another glass. And your heart sank. Because you knew exactly how this night was going to end. And no matter how desperately you wanted to stop it You weren't sure he would let you.
Your stomach dropped as you watched Iqbal raise another glass to his lips.
Third.
Maybe fourth.You had already lost count.
From across the hall, you could see the subtle changes nobody else would notice. The slight looseness in his posture. The way his smile lingered a little too long. The way his normally measured movements carried an unfamiliar carelessness.
To everyone else, Major Iqbal still looked composed. To you, he looked like a disaster waiting to happen. Your fingers tightened around your clutch. 'Please don't make a scene. Please. Not here. Not tonight.' As if sensing your thoughts, your mother suddenly appeared beside you. Her perfume hit you before her words did.
"Vo kya kar rha hai?" The disgust in her voice made your shoulders stiffen. You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because you already knew. You were watching it happen. "Aapni bezzati karwa raha hai vo." Your mother's eyes remained fixed on Iqbal.
"Nahi." The word came out before you could stop it.
"Nahi?" She looked at you. "Aas paas dekho, Y/N."
You didn't need to. You could already feel the stares. The whispers. The judgment. People pretending not to look while staring anyway. The kind of people who spent their lives waiting for someone important to fail. And tonight, Major Iqbal was giving them exactly what they wanted. "Main unse baat karti hoon"
Your mother scoffed. "Yeh sab karne se pehle tumhein unse baat kar leni chahiye thi."
The words struck deeper than they should have. Because she thought this was about shame. About reputation. About appearances. She didn't understand that your panic wasn't for yourself. It was for him. You knew what would happen tomorrow. People would laugh. They would gossip. They would reduce years of service and sacrifice into one drunken evening. And none of them would know the nightmares that kept him awake. None of them would know why he drank. None of them would care. Before you could move toward him, Iqbal looked up. His gaze swept across the room. Then landed on you. Immediately, his face softened. A smile appeared. The kind that once made your heart skip. The kind that now filled you with dread. Because it wasn't quite right. It was unfocused. Fragile. Broken around the edges.
"Y/N!"
His voice cut through the hall. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Your eyes squeezed shut for a brief second. Ya Allah. When you looked again, he was already making his way toward you. Or attempting to. His shoulder clipped a passing waiter. He muttered an apology. Then nearly walked into a decorative pillar. The room had gone noticeably quieter. Every step he took felt like another blow to your chest. By the time he reached you, your heart was hammering so hard it hurt.
"Y/N." He smiled again. For a second, you saw a glimpse of the man you loved. Then the smell of alcohol hit you. Strong. Overwhelming. Painfully familiar. His arm landed heavily across your shoulders.
The weight nearly made you stumble. Instinctively, you grabbed his wrist to steady both of you. "Iqbal." Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "Ghar chalein."
"Nahi." The answer was immediate. Childishly stubborn. His forehead dropped against your shoulder. "Nahi."
A few people nearby exchanged glances. You wanted the floor to open and swallow you whole. "Iqbal, please." His fingers found yours. Holding them. Playing with them absentmindedly.
As if the two of you were alone. As if there weren't dozens of people watching. As if your mother wasn't standing three feet away. As if he wasn't drunk. A small laugh escaped him. Then another. "Janti haina..." Your stomach sank. That tone never led anywhere good. "Nafrat karti thi aap."
"Ya allah."
"Yaad aaya."
"Iqbal."
"Nafrat karti hain aap." A grin stretched across his face. "Nikah ke din aisa lag rha tha jaise maar dogi mujhe."
Several relatives were openly staring now. Your face burned. "Iqbal, enough log dekh rhe hain."
"Mara hi toh hai." He pointed at you. Completely serious. "Apne pyaar mein." Someone nearby snorted. You wanted to disappear.
"Iqbal, scene na create karo."
"Apki biwi ko apne pyaar ka izahaar karna gunha hai ab?"
"Iqbal, bas karo."
"Ji jaisa aap kahe." He nodded firmly. Then immediately lost his balance. You caught him before he could fall. His grip tightened around your arm. And suddenly the amusement vanished from his face. So quickly it made your chest ache. For a moment, he just looked at you. His expression strangely vulnerable. Almost sad. "Itne saalo baad bhi kitna pyaar karti hain humse."
The room disappeared. The noise disappeared. Everything disappeared. Because for a second, he didn't sound drunk. He sounded broken. Like a man asking a question he was terrified to know the answer to. Your throat tightened. "Iqbal..."
His eyes lowered. A faint smile returned. But it wasn't happy. It looked tired. "Ji begum." The words were soft. Too soft. Then he rested his forehead against yours. Completely oblivious to the audience. Completely unaware of the scandal he was creating. "I love you."
The silence around you felt deafening. Your eyes burned. Because years ago those words would've made you smile. Tonight they only made your heart hurt.
You loved him too. You loved him enough that watching this felt unbearable. Enough that every drunken stumble felt like watching someone slowly drown. And standing only a few feet away, your mother's expression had turned cold as stone. The look in her eyes told you this wasn't over. Not even close.
The silence surrounding the three of you was almost tangible now. Conversations had resumed throughout the hall, but not with the same ease as before. Curious glances continued to drift in your direction every few seconds, each one settling like another weight upon your shoulders.
Iqbal, however, remained blissfully unaware. His forehead still rested lightly against yours for a lingering second before something over your shoulder caught his attention. Slowly lifting his head, his gaze landed on your mother.
A bright smile spread across his face.
"Aray..." he chuckled softly, straightening himself with an effort that was far less graceful than he imagined. "Ammi jaan!"
Before you could stop him, he slipped his hand from yours and took two uneven steps toward her. Your heart sank.
"Iqbal..." you called quietly, already moving after him.
He stopped before your mother with all the sincerity of someone who had forgotten the tension in the room entirely.
"Assalamwalaikum."
Your mother looked him up and down. Not at the distinguished military officer everyone admired. Not at the man who had spent years serving his country. Only at the glassiness in his eyes. The faint flush on his cheeks. The unmistakable scent of expensive alcohol lingering around him. A smile appeared on her lips. It never reached her eyes.
"Waalaikumassalam... Major sahib."
The deliberate formality wasn't lost on you. Iqbal, unfortunately, laughed as though she'd welcomed him warmly.
"Bohot khoobsurat intezam kiya hai aap ne."
"Hm."
Her gaze flickered toward the half-empty crystal glass still dangling loosely between his fingers.
"Lagta hai aap ne bhi intezam ka poora faida uthaya."
The words were polite enough that anyone overhearing would think nothing of them. You heard the insult beneath them immediately.
Iqbal simply smiled. "Aaj kaafi purane dost mil gaye."
"Haan," she replied smoothly. "Dost toh mil hi jaate hain... kabhi kabhi insaan khud ko kho deta hai."
Your stomach tightened. "Iqbal," you interrupted gently, reaching for his wrist. "Chalein? Bohot der ho gayi hai."
He looked at you with genuine confusion. "Abhi?"
"Haan."
"Nahi..." he smiled lazily. "Abhi toh mehfil shuru hui hai."
He turned back toward your mother. "Soch raha tha... agar ijazat ho toh aaj raat yahin ruk jaate hain. Subah uth kar thodi madad bhi ho jayegi."
Your mother let out a soft laugh. It wasn't kind. "Madad?" She folded her hands neatly in front of herself. "Major sahib... meri mehfil ki fikr chhodiye." Her eyes lingered meaningfully on the glass in his hand. "Pehle apni fikr kar lijiye."
You felt your cheeks burn. Iqbal merely smiled sheepishly, assuming she was teasing him. "Haan... woh bhi theek hai."
Then your mother looked at you. "Waise bhi..." she continued casually, "tumhara kamra toh kaafi arsa pehle kisi aur ko de diya tha."
For a heartbeat, you couldn't breathe.
"Itni badi haveli hai," she went on. "naukaro ke quarters khaali hain. Agar tum dono rukna chaho... toh aaj ki raat wahan guzar sakte ho."
The words landed with frightening precision.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Simply...dismissive. As though you were no longer a daughter returning home. As though your husband was no longer worthy of crossing the threshold.
Iqbal only blinked. Still smiling faintly. He hadn't understood. But you had.
Every single word.
Something inside your chest seemed to fold in on itself. You lowered your gaze before anyone could see the tears gathering there.
"Meharbani," you said quietly, your voice remarkably steady despite the ache in your throat. "Humein ab chalna chahiye."
Your mother didn't stop you. She simply inclined her head once and turned back toward her guests. Just like that. As though the conversation had never happened.
You reached for Iqbal's hand again. This time, your grip was firmer. "Chalein."
He frowned slightly. "Itni jaldi?"
"Haan."
"Lekin—"
"Please." Something in your voice must have reached him. He studied your face for a long moment before giving a small nod.
"Theek hai, begum."
The driver had already brought the car around to the entrance by the time the two of you stepped outside. The cool night air hit your face immediately. It should have felt refreshing.
Instead, it only made the smell of alcohol clinging to Iqbal's clothes more noticeable. He leaned on you more heavily as you guided him toward the back seat.
"Aram se, sahib," the driver said respectfully, opening the door.
Iqbal smiled absentmindedly before sliding inside. You followed. The door closed. The city lights blurred past the windows as the car pulled away from the estate. For several minutes... Neither of you spoke. The silence was broken only by the low hum of the engine. Sitting this close, the scent of the old single malt on his breath mingled with the faint smell of his hair oil. Beneath it all was the familiar scent that had always reminded you of him.
It should have been comforting.
Tonight...It wasn't. You noticed the fine sheen of perspiration along his temple despite the cool evening. His tie had loosened slightly. The top button of his shirt had come undone somewhere during the evening. He looked...tired. So impossibly tired. Without opening his eyes, he shifted closer until his shoulder rested lightly against yours. His fingers searched lazily across the seat before finding your hand. They curled around it instinctively. As though they'd done it a thousand times before.
"Begum..." he murmured.
Your chest tightened. You stared down at his hand around yours. So warm. So familiar. The same hand that had held yours through hospital corridors. The same hand that had squeezed yours during sleepless nights.
The same hand that now seemed to reach for you only when alcohol silenced whatever walls he had built around himself.
A tear rolled silently down your cheek. Then another. You carefully slipped your hand free.
Not harshly.
Not angrily.
Just...gently.
He frowned in his sleep but didn't wake. Your composure shattered.
"Ek dafa..." you whispered, your voice breaking. "Sirf ek dafa... mere liye mazboot ban jaiye."
He didn't answer. His breathing had already evened out. He had fallen asleep. You covered your mouth with trembling fingers to muffle the sob that escaped. Outside, the city continued as though nothing had happened. Inside the car... It felt as though your heart had broken all over again.
By the time you reached home, the house was silent. You helped him inside, guided him carefully to your room, removed his shoes, loosened his tie, and pulled a blanket over him.
He barely stirred. Within minutes, he was asleep. You weren't. The night stretched endlessly before you. You sat beside the window long after midnight, a book lying forgotten in your lap. You hadn't turned a single page. Your thoughts refused to leave the same place. Maybe... he had finally grown tired. Maybe every miscarriage had taken something from him too. Maybe every time he looked at you... he saw another child who never came home.
You wrapped your arms around yourself. The thought settled deep inside your chest. Maybe he's only staying because he feels responsible.
'Maybe I've become another burden he quietly carries.'
You didn't know that, at almost the same moment, the sleeping man behind you murmured your name softly in his dreams. You never heard it. Dawn arrived without you having slept at all. And when morning finally came... Everything returned to the routine that had slowly become the shape of your marriage.
You prepared breakfast before sunrise.
Tea.
Paratha.
Eggs.
The lunchbox he carried to work every day.
You moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, completing each task almost mechanically. Iqbal entered the dining room dressed immaculately for work. Freshly bathe. Uniform perfectly pressed.
Nothing remained of the man who had stumbled through your mother's banquet hall the previous evening except the exhaustion hidden behind his eyes. He paused when he saw breakfast already waiting. He sat. You served him quietly.
Neither of you mentioned the party. Neither of you mentioned your mother. Neither of you mentioned the tears. The silence between you had become fluent. He finished eating. Collected his briefcase.
"Main chalta hoon."
You answered softly. "Allah hafiz."
"Allah hafiz."
The front door closed.
And the house fell silent once more. Day after day, the pattern repeated itself. He left before the city had fully awakened.
You spent your mornings tending to the house, reading when the chores were done, trying desperately to lose yourself in words that never held your attention for long.
By evening, he returned home exhausted. He greeted his father. Answered Jahangir's questions about work. Listened politely. Spoke very little. Before dinner, he disappeared briefly into his study.
Inside, mission files waited in neat stacks across the desk.
A crystal tumbler.
An old bottle of single malt, opened so many times it had become part of the room itself. And tucked quietly into one corner of the desk... your wedding photograph.
He rarely looked directly at it anymore. He didn't have to. Every line of your face was already etched into his memory. He poured himself one measured drink. Not to celebrate. Not to forget you.
But because, for a little while, it softened the weight he carried—the faces of soldiers he'd lost, the pressure of command, the hospital rooms he wished he could erase from both your memories, and the helplessness of watching the woman he loved grieve in a way he could never fix.
He had convinced himself that giving you space was mercy. You had convinced yourself that his silence meant disappointment. Neither of you knew how wrong you were. And so the days continued. Not with arguments. Not with hatred.
But with an unbearable quiet that slowly settled into every room of the house, leaving two people who loved each other deeply wondering, in silence, whether the other had already begun to let go.
Looking back now, there had never been a single moment where you could point to Major Iqbal and say, that was where everything began to fall apart.
Because in the beginning, it hadn't. The beginning had been gentle. Unexpectedly gentle.
Your marriage had started as nothing more than an arrangement orchestrated by two families, but somewhere between shared meals, sleepy conversations after long days, forgotten cups of tea growing cold on the bedside table and quiet evenings spent reading beside one another, the unfamiliarity had dissolved into companionship.
Into friendship.
Into love.
You had found yourself waiting for the sound of his footsteps outside the front door every evening. He had found himself lingering at the dining table long after dinner simply because you were still sitting there.
For a man who had spent most of his life surrounded by soldiers, discipline and duty, coming home had slowly begun to mean coming home to you. And for the first time in years, perhaps ever, he had someone waiting for him. Someone who asked how his day had been. Someone who noticed when he skipped meals. Someone who quietly ironed his uniforms without ever being asked. Someone who remembered exactly how he took his tea. Likewise, you had found in him something you had never expected.
Safety.
He never raised his voice at you. Never belittled you. Never mocked your opinions. He listened. Even when he disagreed. Even when he was exhausted. He listened.
Looking back, you would later wonder whether that had been what made losing each other so unbearable. Because there had never been a lack of love.
Only a lack of words.
His mother adored you. Not because you had married her son. But because, somewhere along the way, she had begun to love you as though you had always belonged there.
When your first pregnancy ended in miscarriage, she never once allowed anyone to utter the careless phrases society reserved for grieving women.
"Allah ki marzi thi."
"Abhi toh umar hi kya hai."
"Dobara ho jayega."
She silenced every one of them. Instead, she tucked the blanket around your shoulders herself. She warmed oil between her palms before gently massaging your scalp. She braided your hair when you didn't have the strength to lift your own arms. She sat beside your bed for hours, telling you stories from her own childhood simply so the silence wouldn't swallow you whole.
Whenever Iqbal left for work, she took his place beside you. Sometimes neither of you spoke. Sometimes she simply held your hand. Never once did she make you feel as though you had failed anyone.
Not as a wife.
Not as a woman.
Not as a daughter.
"Meri beti..." she would whisper whenever tears escaped you again. "Allah ne tumse kuch nahi cheena. Bas waqt abhi tumhare haq mein likha nahi gaya."
You had believed her. Because she had said it with the kind of certainty only mothers possessed. Then, barely months later...
She was gone.
It happened so suddenly that the house never truly understood what had changed. Visitors arrived. Neighbours recited prayers. Relatives filled every room with condolences that sounded rehearsed. People came.
People left.
Life continued.
For everyone except Iqbal. You had never seen grief settle so quietly inside a person. He accepted every condolence with the same polite nod. Offered everyone tea. Thanked them for coming. And the moment another guest entered the drawing room... He disappeared. Sometimes into the courtyard. Sometimes onto the veranda. Sometimes into his study. Anywhere people couldn't see him. He spoke less. Smiled less. Laughed...Not at all.
It frightened you. Not because he was angry. But because he wasn't. He had simply... retreated somewhere you couldn't follow.
The first evening you found him standing alone in the study, a crystal tumbler rested in one hand. An unopened bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch sat on the desk.
You frowned. "Iqbal?"
He looked over his shoulder. His expression barely changed. "Ji?"
Before he could pour the amber liquid into the glass, you reached forward and gently wrapped your fingers around the bottle. He didn't resist. He simply looked at your hand. Then at you.
"Kya kar rahi hain aap?"
You swallowed. "Yeh sawaal toh mujhe aapse poochna chahiye."
"Bas ek peg hai."
"Nahi." Your voice remained soft. "Bas ek peg nahi hai."
Silence stretched between you. You slid the bottle farther across the desk. "Mujhe pata hai aap takleef mein hain."
"Main theek hoon."
"Mere saamne mazboot banne ki zaroorat nahi hai."
"Main natak nahi kar raha."
"Kar rahe hain." He looked away. You stepped closer. "Yeh mat sochiye ke mujhe kuch nazar nahi aa raha."
He sighed quietly. "Baat karne ko kuch nahi hai."
"Hai."
"Nahi."
"Hai."
"Maine kaha na... kuch nahi hai."
Your eyes stung. "Mujhe Ammi ke chale jaane ka dukh hai..." His brows knitted together. "Lekin usse bhi zyada dukh is baat ka hai..." Your voice cracked. "...ke aap yeh sab akele seh rahe hain." He didn't answer. "Aap mujhe apne saath khada hone bhi nahi de rahe."
Still nothing.
You reached for his hand.
Cold.
Motionless.
"Iqbal...Please...Mujhse baat kijiye."
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, almost inaudibly...
"Jab main chhota tha..." His voice was strangely distant. "Mujhe lagta tha Abbu bohot ache aadmi hain." You stayed silent. "Mujhe lagta tha Dadi bas sakht mizaj hain." Another pause. "Mujhe samajh hi nahi aata tha ke Ammi un dono ke saamne itni khamosh kyun ho jaati thi." A humourless smile crossed his face. "Main bachcha tha."
"Mujhe lagta tha har ghar aisa hi hota hai." His jaw tightened. "Phir jaise jaise bada hua...samajh aaya ke Ammi ko kabhi is ghar ka hissa samjha hi nahi gaya. Bas bardaasht kiya gaya. Logon ke saamne unki izzat ki jaati thi. Mehmaan aate toh Abbu misaali shohar ban jaate. Dadi misaali saas. Aur jaise hi sab chale jaate... Taane phir se shuru ho jaate."
He stared at the untouched glass. "Mujhe us sab se nafrat thi. Unhein har baat par maafi maangte dekh kar nafrat hoti thi. Unhein muskurane ki koshish karte dekh kar nafrat hoti thi. Sabse zyada nafrat is baat se thi ke main kuch kar nahi sakta tha."
His fingers curled around yours.
Barely.
"Maine bachpan mein hi ek baat ka vaada kar liya tha......agar kabhi meri shaadi hui...toh meri biwi ko kabhi yeh ehsaas nahi hone dunga ke woh is ghar mein parayi hai."
Your throat tightened. He looked at you then. Eyes red. Not from drink. From grief.
"Hamari shaadi ke baad...Bohot saalon baad...Ammi ko maine waqai khush dekha tha." A faint smile appeared. "Pata hai kyun?"
You shook your head.
"Aap ki wajah se." He smiled sadly. "Ajeeb baat hai na...Aap dono ek doosre ke itne kareeb itni jaldi aa gaye."
He remembered the afternoons he'd return home to find the two of you sitting in the courtyard, shelling peas together. Or laughing over some old family recipe. Or arguing over how much cardamom belonged in kheer.
"Aap dono ne is ghar ko ghar bana diya tha." His smile disappeared. "Aur ab...Yeh ghar bohot khaali lagta hai."
Silence settled again. Then, almost absentmindedly, he murmured,
"Woh apne pote ya poti ko dekhe baghair hi chali gayin."
The words slipped out without thought. Not as blame. Not as expectation. Simply another grief. You lowered your eyes. The wound was still fresh then.
One miscarriage.
One impossible loss.
The sentence hurt...But not enough for either of you to realise how deeply it would echo years later, after hope had been broken again and again.
You stepped closer until there was almost no space left between you. Without saying another word, you wrapped your arms around him. For the first few seconds... He remained stiff. Almost unsure of what to do. Then, slowly... Very slowly... He rested his forehead against yours. His shoulders sagged. The weight he'd been carrying finally visible. He never cried. Not once.
But for the first time since his mother's passing... He allowed himself to lean on someone else. And that night... The untouched glass of whisky remained exactly where you had left it.
Grief did not leave Major Iqbal overnight. It lingered. In quieter evenings. In empty chairs at the dining table.
In the instinctive urge to call out for his mother before remembering there would never be an answer. The weeks that followed were slow. Painfully slow. It took him time to find his way back to himself. To laugh again. To lose himself in work instead of memories. To return to the version of the man you had married. He never truly stopped grieving. He simply learned how to carry it.
And through it all, the two of you found yourselves growing closer. Hardship had a peculiar way of doing that. The late-night conversations became longer. The silences became more comfortable. A single glance was often enough for the other to understand.
Some wounds remained unanswered, but they no longer felt impossible to bear when you were bearing them together. Yet grief rarely leaves without taking something with it. For Iqbal, it left behind a habit. At first, it was harmless. Or at least that was what he told himself. One glass of whisky after particularly exhausting days. Sometimes none for an entire week. Sometimes two evenings in a row. Never enough to cloud his judgment. Never enough to interfere with work. It was simply... there.
A quiet ritual at the end of difficult days. A crystal tumbler. A measure of old single malt. Ten minutes of silence before returning to the rest of the evening.
You noticed it, of course. But you never thought much of it. He remained the same man. Still attentive. Still patient. Still reaching for your hand whenever the two of you walked together. Still asking whether you had eaten. Still reminding you to carry a shawl whenever the evenings turned cold. So you told yourself it was nothing more than another way of grieving.
Another wound that time would eventually heal. Neither of you knew then... that grief has a way of changing shape. Sometimes it disappears. Sometimes it simply waits for another reason to return.
The second loss did not break either of you. Not immediately. It simply left another crack in a foundation that had once felt indestructible. By then, condolences had become routine. Prayers had become familiar. The silence that followed every hospital visit had become something neither of you questioned anymore. But the world around you never stopped talking. Jahangir did. Not directly. Never directly. He never looked at either of you and spoke the words aloud.
Instead, he would mutter them under his breath to relatives, old acquaintances, or trusted servants, never caring whether those words found their way back to your ears.
"Pata nahin aaj kal ke mardon ko kya ho gaya hai."
"Mera beta bhi..." He would shake his head before letting the sentence trail away. "Khair... Allah behtar jaanta hai."
Or sometimes—
"Ghar ka chiragh hi na jal sake to daulat ka kya faida?"
Every unfinished sentence carried a meaning louder than the words themselves. The servants heard. The relatives heard. Eventually... So did you. And so did Iqbal. He never confronted his father. Not because he agreed. But because experience had taught him that Jahangir's pride only grew louder when challenged. Instead, he quietly ensured you were never left alone during family gatherings.
His hand would find yours beneath the dining table. His chair would always be beside yours. He answered every intrusive question before anyone could direct it at you. Small things. Things no one else noticed. But they never erased the sting of words already spoken.
The losses continued.
Third.
Fourth.
Each one taking something invisible with it. Hope. Ease. The effortless joy that had once filled your home. Somewhere along the way, both of you stopped speaking about the future. Neither of you dared to decorate it anymore. Even the dreams you once whispered to each other before sleeping became fewer, quieter... Until one day, they disappeared altogether. You still loved each other. Perhaps more than ever.
But grief had a cruel way of standing between two people who wanted nothing more than to hold each other.
By the fifth miscarriage... You no longer recognised yourself. The woman who laughed too loudly at Iqbal's terrible jokes. The woman who insisted on watering every plant herself. The woman who filled every room with conversation... Had quietly disappeared.
You spent more time alone.
Sometimes reading the same page for nearly an hour without understanding a single word.
Sometimes sitting beside the bedroom window, watching the evening settle over the garden without truly seeing it.
Iqbal tried. God knew he tried. He sat beside you. He brought you tea. Asked if you wished to go somewhere. Suggested short walks in the evenings. Sometimes he simply reached for your hand. More often than not...
You gently pulled away. Not because you didn't love him. But because every kind gesture reminded you of what you believed you had failed to give him. And every time you withdrew... Iqbal convinced himself you simply needed more space to grieve.
So he stepped back.
Not knowing that every step away only convinced you he had stopped wanting to be close to you.
One afternoon, while Iqbal was still at work, a hesitant knock echoed through your bedroom. You looked up. One of the younger housemaids stood nervously at the doorway.
"...Begum sahiba?"
You offered a tired smile. "Ji?"
She twisted the edge of her dupatta between her fingers. "Ijazat ho to... ek baat arz karni thi."
You nodded. "Boliye."
She lowered her gaze. "Main... pet se hoon."
For a brief second...You forgot how to breathe. The girl hurried to explain.
"Maine socha tha ke shayad kuch arse ke liye kaam halka kar diya jaye... ya agar mumkin ho to..." She looked almost guilty. "...thodi si tankhwa barha di jaye."
She wasn't cruel. She hadn't meant to hurt you. If anything... She looked ashamed for bringing it up. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to smile.
"Bas itni si baat?" She looked up uncertainly. You folded your trembling hands together. "Aaj se... jab tak bachcha paida nahin ho jata... tum ghar par aaram karo."
Her eyes widened. "Lekin Begum sahiba—"
"Tumhari poori tankhwa milti rahegi."
She stared at you. "Sach?"
You nodded. "Bachche ki fikr karo. Ghar ki nahin."
The young woman nearly burst into tears. "Dua dein gi aap ko..."
You only smiled. "Jao."
She thanked you over and over before quietly leaving the room. The door clicked shut. And the smile vanished.
Another child.
Another woman.
Another family waiting for a new life.
Your friends from university had children now. Your younger sister carried her first baby. Even your mother's old dog had recently given birth to a litter of puppies. Everywhere you looked...Life continued. Life grew. Life blossomed. Everywhere... Except within you. The thought broke something inside you.
Almost without realising where your feet had carried you...You found yourself standing outside the nursery. The room had remained locked for months. No servant entered. No dusting. No cleaning. No one dared. Your fingers trembled as you unlocked the door.
A stale silence greeted you. You stepped inside barefoot. A thin layer of dust clung to the soles of your feet. The curtains remained exactly where you had left them. The tiny cradle stood beside the window. Soft toys waited patiently on the shelves. Tiny clothes still folded inside the wardrobe. As though someone would come looking for them tomorrow. Your chest tightened painfully. With shaking hands, you opened the wardrobe. One by one... You lifted the impossibly small clothes into your arms.
Then another.
And another.
Until they slipped through your trembling fingers, falling into a growing pile across the floor. Your breathing became uneven.
"Main nahi..." You whispered to no one. "main nahi kar sakti ye sab..."
You reached for another box. Your elbow struck the bedside lamp. It crashed against the wooden floor. The sharp sound of shattering glass echoed through the silent house.
You flinched. Then finally... You broke. A sob tore from your chest. Another followed. And another. The front door had barely closed downstairs when Iqbal heard the noise. Glass. Breaking. He abandoned his briefcase without a second thought.
"Y/n!"
His footsteps thundered up the staircase. He reached the nursery and froze. The room looked untouched by time... Except for you.
Standing barefoot among broken glass, scattered baby clothes and dust, shaking so violently it looked as though you might collapse. His face drained of colour. He crossed the room in seconds.
"Y/n." His voice was gentle. Alarmed. "Kya hua? Kahin chot to nahin lagi?"
You didn't answer. Only cried harder. He looked quickly over you, searching for blood.
"Y/n." He knelt in front of you. "Meri taraf dekho."
Nothing.
Your shoulders shook uncontrollably. His own voice began to tremble.
"Y/n... meri baat sunno."
Slowly... Your tear-filled eyes lifted to meet his. He spoke carefully. Every word chosen with love. Not judgement.
"Mujhe nahi lagta... aapko ye sab akele jhelna chahiye."
A pause.
"Mujhe lagta hai... humein kisi professional se baat karni chahiye."
Another pause.
"Kisi therapist se."
Your expression changed instantly. "...Kya?"
"Main tumhe khona nahi chahata. Sochiye—"
"Aapko main pagal lagti hoon?"
His heart stopped. "Nahin—"
"Aapko lagta hai mujhe dimagi bimari hai?"
"Y/b, meri baat sunno—"
"Aap mere bare mein ye sabh sochte hain?"
"nahi." He took another careful step. "Bilkul nahin."
Tears streamed uncontrollably down your face. "Sab ko lagta hai mujh mein hi kami hai."
"Y/n..."
"Main hi buri hoon."
"Nahin."
"Main hi kisi kaam ki nahin."
He reached for your hands. You tried to pull away. He didn't let go. Not forcefully. Just firmly enough to keep you from retreating even further into yourself.
"Bas." His own voice cracked. "Bas... meri taraf dekho." You finally looked at him. His eyes glistened too. "Maine kabhi nahi kaha tumhare ander koi kami hai. Main bas ye kaha... ki aap dard mein hain. Aur main nahi janta es dard ko kam kaise karun."
His forehead rested against yours. "Dar lagta hai mujhe. Boht zyada."
You began crying even harder. Without another word... He wrapped both arms around you. This time... You didn't resist.
The two of you slowly sank to the dusty wooden floor, surrounded by tiny clothes that had never been worn, broken glass that neither of you cared to clean, and dreams that neither of you yet knew how to mourn.
His freshly pressed uniform gathered dust. He never noticed. The only thing he held onto...Was you.
That night, after everything had fallen apart inside the nursery, sleep found the two of you long after exhaustion did.
Neither of you remembered when your eyes had finally closed. You only remembered waking once in the middle of the night, your cheek resting against his shoulder. His arm was still around you. It had been the safest you had felt in months. For that one night... His words had managed to quiet the storm inside your mind. Not completely. But enough for you to believe—if only for a few hours—that perhaps the two of you would find your way back to each other.
Morning arrived anyway. As it always did. The sunlight slipped quietly through the curtains, painting soft streaks across the bedroom floor. You opened your eyes first. For a brief moment... Nothing felt different. Then the memories returned. The nursery. The tiny clothes scattered across the floor. The broken lamp. His arms around you. The tears you hadn't realised he had been holding back himself.
You turned your head slightly. Iqbal was still asleep. Peaceful. The faint crease between his brows hadn't disappeared even in sleep. Your fingers almost reached for his hand. Almost. Instead... You quietly slipped out of bed.
Downstairs, everything unfolded exactly as it always had. The pressure cooker whistled. Tea was prepared. Breakfast was laid out. The servants moved through the house in practiced silence.
When Iqbal entered the dining room, already dressed for work, your eyes met for only a second. Just long enough for both of you to remember the previous night. He almost said something. You almost smiled. Neither happened.
"Chai thandi ho jayegi." It was the only thing you managed.
He nodded quietly. "Shukriya."
Nothing more. Nothing less. And somehow... That hurt more than either of you expected. It wasn't awkward. Awkwardness implied unfamiliarity between strangers. This was something else entirely. The two of you had shared countless silences before. Comfortable ones. Sleepy ones. The kind that needed no words because love spoke loudly enough on its own. This silence...Carried too many words. Every sentence either of you wanted to say became trapped behind the fear of saying the wrong thing.
There had once been mornings when you would wake tangled together beneath the blankets. Half asleep, you would bury your face against his shoulder while he laughed softly before pressing a kiss against your forehead.
Sometimes he would refuse to leave the bed until you smiled.
Sometimes he would disappear downstairs only to return with a cup of tea balanced carefully in one hand.
Those mornings belonged to another lifetime. Now... You woke before him. Or sometimes... You never slept at all. Hope had become frightening. Once, it had been the thing that carried you forward. Now it felt dangerous.
Every hopeful thought reminded you of hospital corridors. Of tiny heartbeats that never stayed long enough. Of empty nurseries. Of folded baby clothes waiting for someone who would never wear them. You couldn't bear another beginning if it meant surviving another ending. So you stopped allowing yourself to hope. Without realising it... You had begun surviving one day at a time. Nothing more. Sleep abandoned you most nights.
You would lie awake until dawn, staring into the darkness while your thoughts circled the same questions over and over again.
By the time exhaustion finally claimed you, the sun had already climbed high into the sky. Sometimes you slept through the afternoon. Sometimes until the orange glow of sunset filled the bedroom. The curtains remained drawn. The room remained dim. Some evenings you didn't even notice how much time had passed until the grandfather clock downstairs struck six.
Only then would you force yourself out of bed. Wash your face. Tie your hair back. Walk downstairs. If you had enough strength, you cooked dinner yourself. If you didn't... The servants quietly prepared the meal instead, never asking questions they already knew the answers to.
Iqbal noticed everything. The untouched breakfasts. The sleepless nights. The books lying open to the same page for days. The curtains that remained closed. The smile that visited your face less and less.
He wanted to help. God knew he wanted to. But every attempt seemed to push you a little further away. So he convinced himself... Perhaps she still needs time. Perhaps tomorrow will be easier. Perhaps if I stop reminding her of what we've lost... She'll begin to heal.
Tomorrow became next week.
Next week became months.
Work no longer distracted him the way it once had. Mission reports blurred together. Meetings became longer. He volunteered for assignments he would once have delegated. Anything that delayed going home to a house filled with memories he no longer knew how to face.
And when even work failed... He returned to the only habit that had ever managed to quiet his thoughts. The bottle locked away inside his study. One measured glass.
Then another.
Never enough to forget you.
Only enough...
To stop his own mind from replaying every hospital room, every tear, every apology you had whispered for something that had never been your fault.
Even then... Every evening ended the same way. He would leave the study. Walk past the wedding photograph resting silently on his desk.
And think only of you.
Always you.
No matter how much silence had settled between the two of you, there had never been room in his heart for anyone else.
In the end, it wasn't grief that separated you two. It was everything you both mistook for the truth... and everything you, and Iqbal were too afraid to ask.
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