Write a hot oneshot of any AK character u like for the starters 😍
hot oneshot?? 😭😭😭 bhai mein smut nahi likhti. Abh by hot you mean serious fic, toh honestly serious fic likhne ki jaan nahi hai mereme, crack fic toh tabh bhi likh sakti hu mein. that reminds me ki tarun saluja ka epilogue kabhi nahi likha meine hmmmmm
I saw you wanted some inspos, and I missed your writing :3
So here I am hehheheh
I sat this post about a coffee shop mafia Dhurandhar au, and would be honoured if anyone wrote it :’)
But if you write it then you’ll be my new best friend :P (no pressure babi, this was the only payment I could offer heheh)
(You can guess I’m in desperate need for chatpata fics)
HAHAHAHA DAKAIT DHABBA
Customer : Bhai mera order kidhar hai?
Uzair : ye loh (throws a packet of white powder.)
Customer : bhai...meine biryani thaali mein maangi thi- tumne blend kardi kya
Customer 2 : OYE BHOSDIKE BAWARCHI, MEINE MAAL MANGA THA, BIRYANI NAHI
Rehman : sigh Uzair bola tha na, receipt padh kar order doh..
Female Customer : Rehman bhai, mera maal ka order to aapke peeche hai
Rehman : grabs whatever is behind him, "Haan ye lijiye" sees hamza, "Arey- YE BIKNE KE LIYE NAHI KHAADA HAI!! DONGA KITNI BAAR BOLA HAI HAMZA KO "MEIN MAAL NAHI HU" WAALI TOPI PEHENANI HAI. AUR HAMZA TUJHSE KITNI BAAR KAHA HAI KURTE KI BUTTON BAND KARNE KE LIYE!
can you write a funny fic of uzair like yk uzair is that sbse mastikhor in the house and he's getting married, him going to the veri expensive mall and there they need to behave properly which they can't cz all the mastikhor s are there like donga siyahi hamza so they are pure chaos. at the time of his wedding his frnds teasing him during his varmala saying "rehman bhai ko batata hu, adhi raat ko ladki ke sath ghum (fere le) rha h and all. uzair has been single his whole life and aj uski first night hai so he's also shy and all and reader isn't that shy but she's enjoying his shyness and she keeps laughing at his efforts for yk to get touchy touchy but one's uzair has done it he is in his dominant form for romance (idk if you want to write the romance and smut part) so yeah fir subha hoti h and there's chaos going on maybe for the pehli rasoi rasam.
sorry for grammatical mistakes i made. and idk if u liked the idea or not pls do let me know 🙃
I AM SO SORRY FOR REPLYING LATE TO THIS
i love the idea but mein smut nahi likhti hu naahi padhti hu toh um uh i am the wrong person for this idea. but overall idea cutu hai. so if any one proficient in writing smuts want to take this up, please feel free to do so!
The Baloch haveli had descended into complete chaos.
Not unusual chaos.
Travel chaos.
Which was somehow worse.
Suitcases lined the foyer, drivers moved in and out carrying bags, someone was shouting for documents, and somewhere upstairs Donga was loudly claiming he had been robbed.
"I had it five minutes ago!"
"You lost it five minutes ago," Siyahi corrected without even looking up.
"That's a serious accusation."
"It's an observation."
Near the entrance, Ulfat stood with her arms crossed, supervising the entire operation like a general preparing troops for war.
"Naieem, did you pack your medicines?"
"Haan."
"Show me."
A pause.
"...I forgot."
"I knew it."
Across the room, Faizal was attempting to sneak enough snacks into his backpack to survive a zombie apocalypse.
"Faizal."
The boy froze instantly.
"Ji?"
"Put half of those back."
"What if I get hungry?"
"You packed seventeen packets."
"What if I'm very hungry?"
Before Ulfat could answer, Hamza appeared carrying a suitcase.
Or at least trying to.
"Why is this thing so heavy?"
"Because you're weak," Donga informed him helpfully.
"You packed dumbbells?"
"I like being prepared."
"Prepared for what? A gym emergency?"
The argument continued all the way down the hallway.
Meanwhile, near the front porch, Rehman stood speaking to one of the drivers while checking messages on his phone. Everything was finally ready.
Almost.
Because one person was missing.
Uzair.
"Where is he?" Rehman asked.
"Upstairs," Hamza replied immediately. "Probably pretending he's not excited."
Silence.
Then five heads slowly turned toward him.
Hamza blinked.
"What?"
"You chose violence today," Naieem informed him.
"I choose violence every day."
Fair.
A few minutes later, Uzair finally appeared carrying his bag.
Immediately, the grins started.
Dangerous grins.
The kind that meant suffering.
"Good afternoon, Uzair."
Safe.
Normal.
Suspicious.
Uzair narrowed his eyes.
"Good afternoon."
A pause.
Then—
"I wonder if the Ansaris have left yet."
"Hamza."
"What?"
"I haven't said anything."
"You were about to."
"I was."
Donga leaned against the railing dramatically.
"Do you think they'll reach before us?"
"Donga."
"What?"
"Curiosity."
"Curiosity kills people."
"Not me."
Siyahi looked exhausted already.
"We haven't even left Karachi."
"And yet somehow they're already annoying."
"Already?" Naieem repeated. "When did they stop?"
Across the porch, Ulfat hid a smile behind her chai.
Uzair immediately noticed.
"Bhabhi."
"Hm?"
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
That somehow made everything worse.
Before anyone could continue, Rehman clapped his hands once.
The sound cut through the noise immediately.
"Bas."
The courtyard quieted.
"Cars are ready."
That got everyone's attention.
Finally.
The teasing paused.
The bags were loaded.
The drivers climbed into position.
The convoy waited beyond the gates.
And for the first time all morning, the trip suddenly felt real.
Balochistan.
Political meetings.
Community leaders.
Several days away from Lyari.
And unfortunately for Uzair—
one Ansari family.
As everyone started moving toward the vehicles, Hamza casually fell into step beside him.
"You know what's funny?"
"No."
"I have a feeling this trip is going to change lives."
Uzair looked deeply unimpressed.
"I have a feeling I'm going to leave you on the highway."
"See?"
Hamza grinned.
"That's the spirit."
A minute later, the gates opened.
Engines started.
And the convoy rolled out into the afternoon sun.
Unfortunately for everyone involved—
the chaos was only beginning.
───────────────────✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*───────────────────
The Ansari household was significantly calmer than the Baloch haveli.
Not quiet.
Just functional.
The kind of organized chaos that happened when Nadia Ansari had already prepared for every possible disaster three hours in advance.
Suitcases stood neatly beside the front door. Travel documents were stacked on the dining table. Hassan was checking messages while sipping chai, and Rooh was sitting on the sofa with a book she hadn't turned a page of in nearly ten minutes.
Unfortunately—
peace never lasted.
The front door burst open.
"ROOOOH!"
Rooh closed her eyes immediately.
"Allah."
A second later Safiya stormed into the house carrying an overnight bag.
A very suspicious overnight bag.
Nadia looked up first.
Then the bag.
Then Safiya.
Then the bag again.
"...Safiya beta."
"Ji, Aunty?"
"Why do you have luggage?"
A pause.
Safiya smiled.
The kind of smile that should have been illegal.
"Funny story."
"No."
"Very funny story."
"No."
Across the room Hassan slowly lowered his chai.
Already concerned.
Rooh looked horrified.
"Tell me that's not what I think it is."
"I don't know what you're thinking."
"Safiya."
"Okay fine."
She dropped the bag dramatically beside the sofa.
"I'm coming."
Silence.
Complete silence.
Nadia blinked.
Hassan blinked.
Rooh looked personally betrayed.
"You're WHAT?"
"I'm coming."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"Who invited you?"
Safiya pointed proudly at herself.
"I invited me."
"That's not how invitations work."
"I think you'll find it is."
Hassan rubbed a hand over his face.
"Safiya."
"Ji, Uncle?"
"Does your family know about this?"
"Haan."
That actually surprised everyone.
"Wait," Rooh said slowly. "They said yes?"
"After twenty-seven minutes of negotiations."
"...Negotiations?"
"I may have exaggerated how educational this trip is."
Nadia looked suspicious.
"How much did you exaggerate?"
Safiya considered it.
"...a little."
"A little?"
"I may have compared it to a cultural leadership summit."
Rooh stared.
"That's not a little."
"It's technically not a lie."
Before anyone could argue further, another voice came from the doorway.
"She's telling the truth."
Everyone turned.
A man in his late forties stood there looking deeply tired.
Safiya's father.
Mr. Qadir.
The exhausted expression suggested this was not his first battle.
Or even his hundredth.
"Assalamualaikum."
"Waalaikum assalam."
He looked toward Hassan.
"Bhai, I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize."
"She wore us down."
"That sounds right."
"I fought bravely."
"You lost."
"I lost."
Safiya looked very pleased with herself.
"As all great leaders do."
"You are not a leader," Rooh informed her.
"I led a successful campaign."
"You committed emotional terrorism."
"Semantics."
Across the room, Nadia sighed.
"How long is she staying with us?"
"Until we come back."
Rooh looked devastated.
Safiya looked delighted.
Perfect balance.
Then, because Allah enjoyed creating problems, Safiya suddenly gasped.
"Oh my God."
Everyone immediately became nervous.
"What now?" Hassan asked.
Safiya pointed dramatically at Rooh.
"You haven't even packed snacks."
Rooh stared.
"...that's your concern?"
"Of course."
"We're going to Balochistan, not crossing the Sahara."
"Same difference."
Nearby, Mr. Qadir looked toward Hassan with the exhausted solidarity of one parent suffering alongside another.
"We can still leave her behind."
"ABBU!"
"I'm trying to help."
The betrayal was immediate.
The drama was immense.
And somehow—
the journey hadn't even started yet.
───────────────────✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*───────────────────
By the time the Ansari convoy finally left Lyari, the sun was hanging high overhead and everyone had already lost a small portion of their sanity.
Mostly because of Safiya.
Naturally.
She had somehow claimed the seat beside Rooh before anyone could stop her and had spent the first fifteen minutes of the journey talking nonstop.
Not speaking.
Not conversing.
Talking.
Like a podcast nobody had subscribed to.
"And then I told him if he was going to fail the exam he should at least fail confidently."
Rooh looked out the window.
"Hm."
"Did you hear anything I just said?"
"No."
"Rude."
Across the car, Nadia hid a smile behind her sunglasses.
Hassan didn't even look up from his phone.
"You asked her three questions in one breath."
"I have talent."
"You have volume."
Meanwhile, several kilometers ahead, the Baloch convoy was suffering from an entirely different problem.
Hamza.
Unfortunately.
Inside the SUV, Donga was asleep against the window, Siyahi was pretending not to exist, and Uzair was trying to review notes on his phone.
Trying.
Being the important word.
Because Hamza clearly had other plans.
"So."
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"You were about to."
"I was."
Hamza settled deeper into his seat.
"Do you think they're behind us?"
Silence.
"Do you think they're ahead of us?"
More silence.
"Do you think—"
"Allah."
"That's not an answer."
"It should be."
Donga opened one eye.
"Ask him if he thinks Rooh packed snacks."
Uzair looked ready to jump from the moving vehicle.
Siyahi finally spoke.
"I support throwing both of you out."
"You're jealous."
"Of what?"
"Love."
Siyahi looked offended.
Hamza looked proud.
And somehow—
the journey had only just started.
Hours passed.
Karachi slowly disappeared behind them.
The roads grew longer.
The cities became smaller.
Concrete gave way to open land.
Brown hills rose in the distance while stretches of empty road cut through the landscape beneath an endless blue sky.
Eventually, even Hamza ran out of energy.
A historic event.
The car grew quieter.
Donga slept.
Hamza dozed.
Siyahi stared out the window.
And for the first time all day, Uzair had peace.
Unfortunately—
his brain immediately betrayed him.
Because now there was nothing distracting him.
Which meant his thoughts wandered.
Straight toward Rooh.
The earrings.
The football match.
The doodh soda.
The jeep ride.
"Goodnight, Uzair."
He looked annoyed immediately.
At himself.
Mostly.
Because this was becoming ridiculous.
Several cars behind them, Rooh wasn't doing much better.
She sat beside the window watching the landscape blur past while Safiya scrolled through her phone.
Occasionally showing her random videos.
Occasionally causing emotional damage.
Mostly causing emotional damage.
"Question."
"No."
"I didn't ask yet."
"You were about to."
"Fine."
Safiya grinned.
"Do you think school security guy misses you already?"
Rooh nearly dropped her water bottle.
Across the car, Hassan slowly lowered his phone.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
"Nadia."
"Hm?"
"I think I'm getting a headache."
"That happened two hours ago."
"Fair."
Safiya looked delighted.
Rooh looked like she wanted to disappear.
And somewhere on the road to Balochistan—
fate was laughing.
Because neither convoy knew it yet.
But their first stop was getting closer.
And so was the first reunion.
Whether either of them was ready or not.
───────────────────✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*───────────────────
The convoy stopped just after sunset.
Not because anyone wanted to.
Because apparently every political convoy in Pakistan eventually reached a point where half the people needed chai, the other half needed a bathroom, and Rehman had finally decided they should all stretch before continuing into the mountains.
The roadside stop wasn't much.
A petrol station.
A small restaurant.
A few plastic tables scattered beneath bright lights.
Enough.
The moment the vehicles stopped, everyone spilled out.
Faizal immediately started hunting for snacks.
Donga followed.
For entirely unrelated reasons.
Hamza claimed he was getting chai.
Nobody believed him.
Siyahi leaned against one of the vehicles, watching the chaos unfold with the exhausted expression of a man questioning every life choice that had brought him here.
Meanwhile, Uzair finally escaped the jeep.
The drive had been long.
Too long.
His shoulders ached.
His neck ached.
And Hamza had spent nearly three hours making comments.
Which was somehow worse.
For a few moments he simply stood there, stretching slightly while the evening air drifted across the parking lot.
Peaceful.
Quiet.
Normal.
Then—
another convoy pulled into the station.
Several black vehicles.
Political flags.
Security personnel.
The usual.
Uzair barely looked.
Until he heard Hamza stop talking.
Completely.
A rare and terrifying event.
"...oh."
Uzair immediately knew.
No.
Absolutely not.
Slowly—
very slowly—
he turned.
Across the parking lot, doors were opening.
People stepping out.
Hassan Ansari emerged first, already speaking to someone on the phone.
Nadia followed.
A few other family members.
Then—
Rooh.
For a second, she didn't notice him.
She adjusted her dupatta, pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and looked around the crowded stop.
Then she looked up.
And froze.
Not dramatically.
Not obviously.
Just enough.
Enough to make it clear she'd seen him.
Across the parking lot, Uzair stopped moving too.
The noise around them continued.
Cars.
Voices.
People walking past.
But for one brief moment—
everything felt strangely distant.
Rooh hadn't expected them to stop at the same place.
Uzair clearly hadn't either.
And somehow—
despite knowing they were headed to the same destination—
actually seeing each other felt different.
A little surprising.
A little ridiculous.
And far more relieving than either of them wanted to admit.
Neither moved.
Neither spoke.
Then—
on one side of the parking lot—
Hamza's grin appeared.
Dangerous.
Immediate.
Catastrophic.
And on the other side—
Safiya finally climbed out of the Ansari vehicle.
Looked toward Rooh.
Followed her line of sight.
Paused.
Then slowly—
very slowly—
grinned.
"Oh."
Allah help everyone.
Because now both idiots knew.
And that was significantly more dangerous than any political gathering waiting for them in Balochistan.
Across the parking lot, Rooh looked away first.
Uzair immediately pretended to be interested in absolutely anything else.
Too late.
Far too late.
The damage was done.
And judging by the expressions on Hamza and Safiya's faces—
their suffering was only beginning.
───────────────────✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*───────────────────
Avi's Notes:
Hey! I am, in fact alive (kinda)
I rly have nothing to say rn, so
Hope you enjoyed reading!
Leave a comment if u have any constructive criticism!!
There is an ancient lore surrounding the Pied Cuckoo or the Chatak bird, as it is more popularly known. The call of the cuckoo weaves a myth about an open beak on its head that waits for the first showers of the monsoon to quench its thirst. It would rather die parched than have water from anywhere else.
The Chatak yearns like no other creature— a symbol of pure devotion.
And yet, Ulfat knows that it can’t compare to the longing eating away her heart like vultures picking at a carcass. She feels like a corpse, laid out on the scorching desert in a macabre display for the scavengers to feed on, slowly and painfully.
And yet they won’t pluck out her eyes.
A strange benediction which sears like a curse.
Ulfat hadn’t known that physical separation could literally make someone sick.
At least not till she started losing the taste of food in her mouth, when no drink could satiate her thirst, the hours crawled by like light years and the world around started losing its colors. It was almost like she was existing in a gray bubble and all life around her had faded.
The haveli felt like a rattling old cage. The corridors haunted with that familiar baritone, the rumbling laugh that felt like the thunder splitting the skies in half and the thuds of his boots echoing in the darkened corners.
The worst part was that, the fragrance of his skin had that somehow imbibed on her sheets, that she buried herself completely into, lulling her to sleep had almost faded away into the sterile scent of expensive detergent.
Ulfat had yelled at the poor scullery maid for hours after.
The afternoon sunshine was a palette of vermillion and mauve on the Lyari skyscape as Ulfat swung with a dispassionate rhythm on the massive swingset on the arched balcony.
She was re-reading the letter for the hundredth time.
His script had always been a reflection of his own self in the most endearing, quirky way.
The lines were sharp and pointed showing the determination and confidence in its fluid strokes, the loops hurried and dented showing the constant restlessness in his blood.
The letters flowed like the Hingol on the musty pages, showing that despite the certain exhaustion and the bloodshed, he was sitting on a desk, stashed in the corner of some tent filled with the haunting echoes of the wounded and the roar of the weapons, diligently putting his thoughts in a coherent manner for her.
Meri Jaan,
I will not waste my breath asking about you. I can feel it in my bones, as I am sure you can sense me in your blood. I will not sugar-coat too— you deserve to know the truth. The situation is progressing from bad to worse. The ISI doesn’t seem to care for the collateral damage, their hatred for us is too deep, too old. And thus, set in stone. All of our diplomatic efforts have failed. The war is on two fronts now.
I have alerted our friends in the government, as I am sure, the enemy has too. I am trying to keep the damages to a minimum. Violence has never unsettled me before, but this war is draining me. I cannot close my eyes without seeing the blood soaking the sand, I cannot close my ears to the screams of the children. The children, my love. They won’t even spare the helpless infants. I thought I had encountered evil. In myself more than most— but this is a scale of pure unfiltered wicked-ry that even I with all my deviance cannot digest.
I think of you, dearest. In my darkest moments, when I feel like giving up, I think of you sitting on that beloved swing of yours, the mahogany of your hair whistling in the wind like that of a water nymph and I imagine how your eyes light up when they look at me. Like I am something worth looking at with such fervour.
I miss the scent of your skin, meri jaan. The way your body moulds into mine like it has been crafted for me. I have never felt yearning such as this. I feel like some days it would carve me up from the inside like a pumpkin with a blunt spoon. I feel like a starving filthy animal that is tied into a stump with a rotting noose around its neck. I do not know when I might return, I do not even know whether I can return at all, whether this will be the only thing of me that you might be able to keep, whether the war will be lost or won.
I just kiss the words hoping you can feel them on your skin.
I won’t apologize because it cannot make up for a crime so heinous.
Take care of yourself, meri jaan. Take care of my Uzair. He is still too young, too rash, too gullible. Too much fire in him. Take care of each other. And if I cannot crawl back to you with any breath left in my lungs, know that I will find you again, in another life, in another world.
We will meet again, in the stars be it, and know that my heart, or whatever is left of it, has always been and will always be, ever, yours.
Rehman.
Her tears had dried.
She only flattened the creases with her palm over and over again, as if she could feel him through the dried ink and the dusty parchment. She brought it to her face and inhaled the fading scent of his blood and the slight salt of his tears.
She kissed the letters in turn, hoping he could feel her lips on his wounds as well.
“Mallika, you must eat something—”, Sabaa, her chief attendant, was standing beside her, holding a glass of pomegranate juice, “please. It is not good for you to stay hungry..think about the—”
Ulfat glared at her and she shut up immediately. She sighed and took the glass anyway because the woman was right.
Her heart might keep crying, her body and soul howling for her husband but she had another life to protect now.
Some days she wondered whether that was the only tether holding her back from breaking every single security protocol and flying straight to the jaws of danger, if only to see Rehman for a split second.
She swallowed down the juice and refrained from puking it all out even as it settled like sweet poison inside her belly. She didn’t even know whether her husband had eaten anything that week, forget that day. He had such a bad habit of foregoing sustenance when in a zone.
Ulfat kept a hand on her still flat stomach and tried siphoning off some of that strength from the life building inside of her slowly.
Rehman sent her letters occasionally but she wasn’t allowed to respond. It was too much of a risk apparently. There was no way of telephonic communication at all, the ISI having cut off all the networks to box them in.
Sabaa had gone away, leaving her alone finally.
Mercifully.
Her brother had called her that morning. She hadn’t heard his voice since the day she had walked out on her family. They said pride was the worst sin of all. And her brother was a very prideful man.
Ulfat had tried contacting him many times but the only person who would even deign to pick her calls would be her sister in law. She was a good woman and had always been very fond of her. She tried in her own way to assure her that Bilal wasn’t going to be angry forever but Ulfat knew her brother.
After all, she had got her legendary stubbornness from him.
“Ulfat”, he had said, almost breathed the word like he couldn’t believe it himself.
Ulfat had gripped the receiver so tight, she still had indentations from it hours after.
“Bhai?”, she had asked, tremulous.
“How are you?”, he had asked subdued but she could sense the anxiety behind the question. The separation from Rehman and the sheer loneliness of the past month had softened her edges and smoothened her hurt pride too.
They had talked for an hour straight.
Ulfat had been happy. After what had felt like centuries. But then the other shoe had finally dropped.
“He is making even more enemies than he already has. It is suicidal, waging war against the ISI”, Bilal had said.
“He didn’t start the war, Bhai. The ISI and the BUF had been in loggerheads for too long. They massacred an entire village in the name of interrogation. He is their last line of defense.”
“And he is sacrificing you at their altar is it? Does he want fame so bad?”
Ulfat had pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the incoming headache bloom mercilessly behind her shut eyes. She was so tired of this constant push and pull. She just wanted her brother to start behaving like her brother again and she wanted her husband back home, goddamnit.
But when she had married Rehman, she had married his responsibilities, his duties and his dreams too.
“You waged war for protecting our tenants in our ancestral properties during Dada sahab’s time, Bhai. He is protecting his people just as you had yours. Why can’t you respect that?”, she had argued, irritated.
“Ulfat…Murtasim is back from London. I was hoping you could come and meet him”, Bilal had suddenly changed the topic, giving her a whiplash. Ulfat remembered her childhood friend, Murtasim. He used to be her partner in crime. The Jahaans and the Siddiqi’s were old friends.
“That is wonderful news. Unfortunately I cannot move outside right now. The situation is too delicate—”
“Has that monster trapped you in the haveli, Ulfat? Are you being watched now? I will break through that damn fortress if I have to”
“Bhai for God’s sake! I am not trapped and if you insult my husband one more time, I—”
“Ulfat, I talked with the Siddiqis. Haider is a reasonable man and Murtasim had always been in love with you. It doesn’t matter to him. This is the golden opportunity to get out Rehman Dakait’s clutches— all you need to do is get out of the haveli somehow, my men—”
Ulfat felt her heart curdle inside her chest viciously. It seemed like her brother still laboured under the delusion that Rehman had kidnapped his sister or turned her head somehow. He just couldn’t take the truth, even after so much time.
And she had been slamming her head against an iron wall all these years.
“Just..just stop”, she snapped, exhaustion coloring her sharpness.
She wanted Rehman’s arms around her so bad it made her almost buckle with the phone still clutched in a dead grip against her ear.
“I love him, Bhai. I love him so much it makes me want to rip open my chest and take out my heart and offer it up. And he loves me too. He was ready to bow down to you for me— Rehman Dakait, the man who wouldn’t even bow to God. There is no deception here, no manipulation, nothing. It's the bitter truth which you have to digest sooner or later— your sister fell in love with a gangster. That is all.”
“Ulfat—”
“Don’t ever call me again.”
She slammed the receiver down with enough force to almost crack the plastic. It made Uzair come running into the room, young face tight with anxiety and concern and the sharp practised demeanour of a man used to being thrown off at the deep end of violence at a moment’s notice.
“Bhabi! Are you alright? What happened?”
Ulfat had tried smiling reassuringly, probably failed spectacularly but somehow managed to suppress the depression long enough to distract her brother in law with the promise of stories.
Uzair reminded her so much of her own husband nowadays, especially with the boy hovering around like he would protect her from the very air they need to breathe. Rehman had apparently entrusted her safety to him and then later asked for her to protect him instead. The man could be pretty cunning when needed.
‘Come back to me, meri jaan. Please, come back. I feel like a dying ember with no oxygen. I feel like a crushed frangipani under a boot. The world looks like a nightmare to me. Life feels like torture. I do not know how long I can bear a soul inside me with mine ripped apart and taken away, bleeding in the deserts with you. Please come back to me. I need you.’
Ulfat curled onto the pillows and gripped the shawl around her tightly. It still had the lingering fragrance of his cologne and aftershave entangled with the threads woven together haphazardly.
“Rehman…”, she whispered into the empty air and the responding silence slid inside her ribs like a venomous blade.
She let the tears spill then and wet the silken covers.
Tu jo nahi to aise piya hum
Jaise soona aangnaa
Naina tehaari raah nihare
Nainan ko tarsao na
Fucking hell the world cup as leased new life into me, now im thinking Rehman and Uzair have always been football paglus and Rehman taught it to Naeem and Faizal as well, thinking of writing a world cup fic with the Baloch Gang 😭✋🏽
and then demo ke Rehman Uzzie ko goalie bana ta hai
Rehman : abh dekho ki shoot kaise lete hai
Naeem and Faizal watching from the side.
Uzair : bhai thoda aaram se-
Rehman : arrey tu sambhaal lega-
KAPOW!!!
Uzair : dead
Rehman : wincing in shit ye meine kya kardiya- does this come under assault agar meine theoretically usko batane ke baad football shoot kari???
Naeem : Uhh abbu, shayad chacha nahi sambhaal paye...
Faizal : Bhaiya! Muh se football rokna koi naya paitra hai? Chachu ke muh se tamatar sauce nikal raha hai!
Ulfat : sighs in being the sole braincell of this household.
AAAAAA when are you going to continue fic writing 😍 is ur interest gone????? i mean i understand yr
I have no problem writing fics- bas
A. mere pe ideas nahi hai unfortunately
mera interest abhi bhi hai, but like the fandom has turned thoda sa 😬 while I was gone.
I am open to ideas though! So if anyone has any, drop em!
Writing wise I dunno, the fandom has a lot of things that have happened and I personally wish to stay away for I do not have a penchant for unnecessary drama. However, I am not completely opposed to the idea toh dekhti hu Agar idea aayega toh I'll write. Ya toh aap log hi ideas de dijiye ki kya dekhna hai 😂😂 I'll write your ideas
Ive felt shit about my writing recently, but this made my day 🩷
Here r my favs: @sanamkhanani @tere-naal-nachna @kisswithknife @clownoiogy @americannutz @goodasaysboo @hereforfanfictionsfr @pavbhajisupremacist @ib-gremlin @cloudmast
And so many more. These were the ppl who's work ive read and inspired me to write
My favs (writers and otherwise): @hyade @euphorkive @tojisloft @golgappalicious @pavbhajisupremacist @mehfil-e-random @vakalatnelagadiye @ramayantika @theramblergal @rhysaka @krsnaradhika @tomorrowwithme @hindulivesmatter @tehmam @dukh-dard-peeda @starryy-berryy @zeherili-ankhein @hum-suffer (I am sure I've forgotten someone but here are some :))
Summary: You deal with the aftermath of threatening a hottie who also happens to be the politically connected right-hand man of a gangster. Meanwhile, Uzair realizes that dream-you is just as dangerous for his heart as real-you and nearly causes an accident from merely making eye contact with you.
part - 1
Word count: 12k words
Warning: Not proofread, barely formatted, mildly suggestive, and sprinkled with cuss words. The plot exists somewhere in there. Good luck. 😭
A/N: The original plan was to post Part 2 in its entirety, but due to unforeseen circumstances (life decided to square up with me), I wasn't able to finish it. So this is basically the first half of Part 2, and the rest will most likely be released as Part 3, if I manage to finish it 😭 Also, I'll be honest, this chapter is absolute trash. It has very little coherence, questionable flow, and consists mostly of me adding random scenes whenever inspiration kicked in. So please don't come in expecting major plot progression because there is barely any plot to progress 😭 In fact, Uzair and Y/N don't even meet in this chapter. This entire thing exists purely for shits and giggles. Please do let me know what you thought and what I could've done better. Whether I continue writing the next part will honestly depend on how this one is received 😭 Hopefully Part 3 won't take nearly as long, though.
Disclaimer : ALL THE PEOPLE IN THIS FIC ARE FICTIONAL, THEY HAVE NO RELATION TO REAL PEOPLE, THE CHARACTER ARE INSPIRED FROM THE MOVIE DHURANDHAR MADE BY ADITYA DHAR. THESE CHARACTERS ARE BASICALLY OCS AND HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH REAL LIFE TERRORIST, WHO ARE GOD AWFUL PEOPLE AND SHOULD ROT IN HELL. ALSO HAMZA AS A SPY AND MAJOR IQBAL PLOT DOESN'T EXIST IN THIS FIC.
The second the car doors shut, the cool air from the AC hit your face like divine mercy after Karachi’s humid night heat. Outside, the streets still buzzed with life, food stalls glowing under harsh white lights, bikes squeezing recklessly between cars, and groups of people gathered outside chai dhabas like nobody in the city had jobs the next morning. The smell of traffic, and late night food still lingered faintly through the cracked windows before Yalina rolled them fully up with dramatic exhaustion.
Meanwhile, you sat there in complete silence. Mortified. Absolutely destroyed. The second the car doors shut and the cold air hit your face, the embarrassment settled in properly.
“Koi meri kasam kha kar jhoot bol do-,” you whispered weakly into your hands, hiding your face from the world.
You had experienced embarrassing moments before. Obviously. This was you who we are talking about. Your life was basically a compilation video titled “Beta please soch kar bola karo.”
There was the unforgettable incident in first year where you confidently walked into the boys washroom while scrolling through your phone, fully washed your hands, fixed your hair, and only realized something was wrong when three boys stared at you like you had just asked their ammi out on a date. The silence in that washroom had been so deafening even the hand dryer sounded judgmental. Needless to say, you had never visited that side of campus ever again. In fact, till graduation, you took a fifteen minute longer route purely out of shame and commitment to the bit.
Then there was that wedding disaster where you stepped onto the stage, accidentally landed on somebody’s STUPID fallen dupatta, and immediately took down an entire decorative flower stand with you like a collapsing government. In the middle of your downfall, survival instincts kicked in and you screamed,
“YA ALLAH CATCH ME-”
Out so loud that Allah had actually caught you.
Unfortunately by sending a seven year old child as cushioning.
The poor kid survived. Barely.
You spent the next twenty minutes apologizing to his horrified parents and explaining how you had almost accidentally squared their ‘ankhon ka tara’ into the wedding stage flooring. The child himself, looked absolutely delighted by the experience and kept reenacting your fall for nearby relatives like it was a live performance.
For three business days afterward, random aunties kept asking your mother, “Woh WWE wali beti kaisi hai aapki?”
So yes. This had officially topped both those incidents combined.
Because not only had your BIG mouth called a HOT guy HOT directly to his face like some malfunctioning Wattpad protagonist, you had also simultaneously provided Karachi awam with entertainment so grand it would probably be passed down generations as bedtime stories.
Somewhere out there, a chai dhaba conversation was already happening.
“Aur phir us larki ne usko line chor bol diya.”
“Nahi yaar phir usne hot bhi bola usko.”
“Astagfirullah.”
“Phir kulfi kis ko mili?”
By tomorrow evening the story would evolve beyond repair. By next week people would claim you climbed the counter and delivered a full political speech about public queue corruption before being escorted away by Azam Sweets management.
At this point, you would not even defend yourself.
Honestly, if somebody narrated this entire event back to you theatrically over dinner, you too would sit there invested.
You let out another noise of suffering and slid lower into the car seat.
You turned furiously toward Yalina.
“Tune mujhe roka kyun nahi?!” you demanded in horror, fingers sliding up your scalp as if physically massaging your brain would somehow delete the past thirty minutes from existence. Unfortunately for you, memory loss did not work through aggressive head rubbing.
Yalina, on the other hand, looked completely recovered now. She had worried far too much in the last thirty minutes, suffered enough public embarrassment by association, and had now entered her healing era. Which meant it was officially your turn to suffer alone.
You were out here experiencing full psychological collapse while she sat there glowing peacefully in the passenger seat like a woman finally freed from worldly burdens.
“Maine kareeb pandrah baar tujhe rokne ki koshish ki thi,” she said, staring at you like you were the problem here. The horrifying part was, she sounded genuine. Like she had actually counted every attempt. And knowing Yalina, she probably had.
You let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a dying whale before dragging both hands down your face dramatically.
“Yalina,” you whispered in genuine agony, “maine usko hot bola.”
Yalina immediately burst into laughter again.
“MAT HASS!” you snapped, pointing at her accusingly while your soul continued disintegrating. “Mera dimaag temporary shutdown pe tha.”
“Haan woh toh mujhe nazar aa raha tha.”
“No because why did my mouth say that OUT LOUD?” you continued horrified. “Normal logon ke thoughts unke dimag mein rehte hain. Mere thoughts public service announcements kyun ban jaate hain?”
Yalina wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “Mujhe bhi yahi sawal hai.”
You dropped your head back against the seat dramatically.
This was bad.
Because somewhere in Karachi currently existed one extremely attractive man who now knew you found him hot. Not only that, but he knew after you had publicly fought him over frozen dairy products like an unemployed politician during election season.
Ya Allah.
And worst of all was you could still picture his stupid face perfectly.
The really tall frame. The absurdly well groomed beard. Those intense dark eyes that looked like they belonged in one of those painfully artistic black and white photographs people wrote essays about. A face that genuinely deserved to be studied under controlled laboratory conditions.
And the size difference absolutely had not gone over your head either.
Because why was that man built like a fictional character written by women with employment and dangerous levels of imagination? Lean, tall, shoulders that stretched that black kurta so well-
Would he stretch y-
“ASTAGHFIRULLAH,” you blurted out loud suddenly, sitting upright so fast Yalina nearly launched herself into another dimension.
“YA ALLAH KYA HUA?!”
“Kuch nahi,” you blurted instantly, the words leaving your mouth at such dangerous speed they practically tripped over each other trying to escape.
Yalina looked at you suspiciously. Very suspiciously. The kind of suspicion reserved for people caught deleting browser history at alarming speed.
You refused to make eye contact.
Because absolutely nothing productive would come from explaining that your own brain had just attempted to assassinate your dignity in broad daylight, no nightlight???
You immediately cleared your throat and decided to change the topic before Yalina started investigating further.
“Khair,” you said with forced composure, holding up the kulfi dramatically, “jis cheez ke liye maine itna bada embarrassment loan liya hai, jiski EMI mujhe ab roz 3 a.m ke thoughts mein bharni padegi…” you glanced down at the kulfi, now half melted already, “…usse kam se kam taste toh karlein.”
Yalina stared at you for exactly two seconds before snorting loudly and taking the kulfi from your hand.
The streets of Karachi blurred past in streaks of yellow lights, chai hotels still crowded despite the hour, bikes weaving through traffic like people here had collectively accepted death as a lifestyle choice. Somewhere nearby, loud music echoed from a passing car while the smell of smoke, food, and humid night air lingered faintly even through the AC.
And somehow, despite all that noise around you, your brain still chose to replay one specific thing.
That stupid laugh.
You frowned.
No because actually what was wrong with him? Who laughs like that after being publicly harassed over kulfi? Any normal person would’ve gotten offended. Maybe argued back. Maybe called you insane.
That man?
He looked entertained the entire time.
What was wrong with him????
You took an aggressive bite of your kulfi.
And a felt silence consume your soul.
…Bas?
YEH thi woh legendary kulfi?
Because genuinely, you had stood in that line for almost an hour sweating through Karachi humidity like a microwaved samosa. Your soul had evaporated around minute twenty-seven. At one point your clothes were sticking to you so badly you felt vacuum sealed. After standing there long enough, your Na-Aadhaar card photo (Pakistani version of an Aadhaar card lmao) was starting to resemble you in real time.
AND
You had fought with a sexy gangster for this.
And FOR WHAT????
For this kulfi that tasted like somebody froze condensed milk and selected pista as a aesthetic choice.
This was ALL Muzaffar Shaikh’s fault.
That man had looked directly into the camera with the confidence of a man who had clearly never faced consequences in his life and said “Bhai jaan ek baar kha ke dekhiye… pasand na aaye toh mujhe peet dena.”
Oh you remembered.
WHEN I CATCH YOU MUZAFFAR. MUZAFFAR WHEN I CATCH YOU—
“Wo chhod,” yalina said, suddenly turning toward you again.
But you barely heard her.
Because annoyingly… another bite melted softer this time.
And suddenly it didn’t taste average anymore.
It tasted like humid after-school evenings.
Twenty rupees in your pocket.
Yalina’s laugh.
Qureshi Chacha’s pretend disappointment in you.
Orange sunsets
No responsibilities
Your expression softened against your will, a smile almost betrayed your face. Which irritated you more, because now you couldn’t even hate the kulfi properly.
“Tumhe pata bhi hai kis se lad kar ayi ho?” Yalina's voice fades back in, like she was about to reveal the final plot twist of a crime thriller.
You frowned, brain finally shifting back to the conversation.
“Kis se?”
“Uzair Baloch.”
“…Kaun?”
Yalina stared at you like she was genuinely reconsidering your entire friendship. “Please bolo tum mazaak kar rahi ho.”
“Yalina main literally do saal Switzerland mein thi,” you defended instantly. “Mujhe Karachi cinematic universe ke side characters kaise pata honge?”
“SIDE CHARACTER?” she nearly screeched. “Side character nahi hai woh aadmi.”
You blinked slowly at her while she leaned closer, lowering her voice.
“Hamza works for Rehman bhai.”
“…Yeh Hamza kaun hai?”
That immediately earned you a sharp smack on the shoulder.
“OOF-”
“MERA FIANCÉ, IDIOT,” Yalina whisper yelled. “Jisse main tujhe milwane ki koshish kar rahi thi before you grabbed me and bhaag gayi like police ne raid maar di ho!”
Oh.
That giant man standing beside Yalina. The one built like gym equipment feared him, laughing so hard during your argument like he was witnessing the season finale of his favorite drama live and free of cost.
“And he works for Rehman Dakait,” Yalina continued, pointing at you with her half eaten kulfi. “Yeh naam toh suna hi hoga na?”
Your chewing slowed immediately.
Okay.
That name you knew.
Anybody from Karachi knew.
Even people pretending not to know, knew.
The kind of name spoken carefully in public, and quietly at home. A man tangled somewhere between politics, power, business, and the kind of influence that made problems disappear before they properly became problems.
Seeing realization finally hit your face, Yalina nodded aggressively.
“Haan. Wohi.”
Then she leaned closer.
“And Uzair?” she continued. “He’s basically Rehman bhai’s adopted son at this point. Cousin hai unka, but everyone knows he practically raised him.”
You blinked slowly. “Matlab?”
“Matlab,” Yalina stressed, “that man is his right hand. EVERYTHING handle karta hai. Political dealings, factory ka kaam, security, rival gangs ka scene—sab.”
“Factory?”
Yalina looked at you flatly.
“Arms factory, meri jaan. Not candle making.”
Outside, Karachi traffic continued blaring around you while internally your soul quietly packed its bags and left the country again.
Because suddenly the evening replayed very differently in your head.
The crowd going silent.
People stepping back.
One uncle whispering Astaghfirullah like he could already sense violence in the air.
Meanwhile you had been standing there poking a politically connected gangster with rival gang issues in the chest over frozen dairy products.
Ya Allah.
You slowly lowered the melting kulfi from your mouth.
“…Yalina.”
“Haan?”
“TUNE MUJHE WAHAN MARNE KE LIYE KYUN CHOD DIYA THA!?”
Yalina gasped immediately, turning toward you so fast her earrings nearly slapped her in the face. “EXCUSE ME? Main toh pura time tujhe bachane ki koshish kar rahi thi!”
“Well you were doing it badly!”
Yalina just huffs in return.
“Par ek baat toh hai, asal mein” she snorted suddenly, another laugh escaping her despite herself, “he looked more in danger than you.”
You opened your mouth to argue.
Then closed it.
Because…Now that you thought about it properly, she wasn’t entirely wrong.
The man hadn’t looked angry once. Not even slightly irritated. If anything, he’d looked one amused smile away from asking for your full family history instead of getting offended.
Your brain continued replaying the scene in 4k quality.
The way he’d looked down at you while you pointed fingers at his chest like an angry HR representative.
His dumbfounded expression when you started ranting about sunscreen prices like you were presenting the annual economic budget.
The blush after you called him hot.
You physically felt your lifespan decrease.
Like somewhere above, God had quietly written “embarrassing but entertaining. keep alive for now.”
You slowly looked up, absolutely no life left in your eyes anymore, face completely blank.
“Driver chacha,” you said quietly, “seedha samundar mein le lo.”
From beside you, Yalina laughed so hard she nearly inhaled kulfi.
As the car slowed down outside your house, the familiar black gates slowly sliding open under the warm yellow porch lights should’ve felt comforting. Instead, you sat there in complete spiritual defeat, staring blankly ahead while Karachi’s humid night air fogged faintly against the windows. The melted remains of your kulfi still rested sadly in your hand, the wooden stick now serving as physical evidence of your public humiliation. Outside, the guards nodded respectfully as the car rolled into the driveway.
As you entered the house, your posture immediately transformed into that of a child returning home after scoring a beautiful 3/25 in mathematics and now searching for a parent in the weakest emotional state possible for signatures. Slow steps. Avoiding eye contact. Already preparing excuses nobody had even asked for yet.
Behind you, Yalina followed with the energy of someone desperately trying not to laugh at a funeral.
“Oh toh matlab zinda ho.”
Your mother’s voice drifted through the hallway just as she started making her way downstairs, one hand lightly resting against the railing. The warm yellow lights of the house softened everything around her, the faint smell of dinner lingered comfortably through the air. Normally, coming home to this instantly fixed your mood. The house always felt calm, safe and peaceful.
But tonight, you had returned home carrying the spiritual burden of publicly flirting fighting a VERY attractive gangster over kulfi.
Beside you, Yalina suddenly transformed into the picture of innocence. Which honestly should’ve been studied. Five minutes ago this woman was wheezing like a broken pressure cooker laughing at your downfall, and now suddenly she stood there all graceful and respectable like she spent her free time teaching Quran classes to children. Snake behaviour.
“Assalamualaikum aunty,” she greeted sweetly, smiling warmly as your mother immediately pulled her into a hug.
“Walekumasalam beta, finally yaad ayi humari?” your mother teased fondly before her eyes shifted toward you.
And slightly narrowed and that was enough.
Because mothers somehow always knew. You could commit international fraud, survive interrogation, erase CCTV footage, and still desi mothers would take one look at your face and go ‘Sach sach batao kya harkat ki hai?’
“Itna time kyun laga ghar aane mein?” she asked.
Your brain instantly started speed running possible excuses. Traffic? Flat tire? Kidnapping? Selling Abbu’s company to strangers? at this point even corporate fraud sounded easier to explain than “Sorry ammi, public mein ek gangster ko hot bol diya tha.”
Yalina – may Allah test her separately, casually muttered under her breath,
“Damaad dhoondne gaye thay aapke liye.”
And your soul toodles.
For one horrifying second, you physically stopped breathing while your brain imagined every possible outcome if your mother had heard that sentence.
Because explaining ‘No ammi I did not find a husband, I just publicly accused one of Karachi’s most dangerous men of abusing pretty privilege,’
would genuinely force you to leave the country again.
Thank God your mother didn’t hear her. Mostly because at that exact moment, one of the house staff accidentally dropped a steel tray somewhere in the kitchen loud enough to sound like minor construction work had started indoors. The noise immediately distracted your mother into turning around with full desi mom concern.
“Aray kya gira?” she called out instinctively.
Divine intervention.
God still had you back after all of this.
You physically felt your soul return to your body.
You whipped around toward Yalina so fast your neck nearly snapped.
“YALINA,” you whisper hissed with the rage of a woman moments away from committing small manageable crimes.
Yalina just stood there looking peaceful, like she hadn’t just tried to destroy your future, family reputation, and possibly bloodline all in one sentence. The idiot was visibly fighting another laugh, shoulders shaking suspiciously while she pretended to study the living room decor, what a useless friend, no strike that off, she was an enemy.
This woman would one day stand beside you at your funeral trying not to laugh while narrating your embarrassing moments to guests.
So naturally, in the interest of protecting both your dignity and blood pressure, you did the only thing possible.
Diversion.
“Ammi,” you spoke quickly before Yalina could open her demonic mouth again, “Abbu abhi tak nahi aaye? Bohot late hogaya hai.”
And just like that, your mother took the bait instantly.
Her entire expression shifted into the specific brand of desi wife disappointment reserved for husbands who said “bas dus minute” and then vanished for three geological eras.
“Dekho na beta,” she started immediately, “maine unhe kitni baar kaha tha ke beti do saal baad ghar ayi hai toh dinner late nahi hona chahiye.”
You nodded sympathetically while relief flooded through your body.
Success.
“Par nahi,” your mother continued, “tumhare abbu ko office se mohabbat zyada hai. Bol kar gaye thay ‘bas aadhe ghante mein araha hoon.’” She glanced toward the clock dramatically. “Aadhe ghante ko do ghante hogaye.”
Bless desi parents honestly. Mention one complaint and they immediately open a TED Talk.
“Maine toh khaana bhi delay karwaya,” your mother continued. “Sakhina khala ko teen baar bola ke garam rakho. Lekin nahi. Office se jaan hi nahi nikalti inki.”
“Haan ammi,” you agreed solemnly, like a politician during elections. “Yeh toh galat baat hai.”
You were one “jee bilkul” away from surviving the evening altogether.
But, fate hated you.
After another few minutes of roasting your father’s nonexistent understanding of time, your mother finally waved toward the stairs.
“Chalo, dono jao fresh hojao. Dinner lagwa deti hoon.” Then she looked at Yalina warmly. “Aur tum kahin nahi ja rahi. Bohot din baad ayi ho. Aaj yahin ruk jao.”
Before you could even process the disaster, Yalina immediately answered, “Okay aunty.”
Too fast, not even fake hesitation.
No, ‘Nahi aunty takleef hogi.’ or ‘Ghar walay wait kar rahe honge.’
You slowly turned toward her in absolute horror while she stood there looking all innocent.
And then you understood.
This woman did not want a sleepover..
This snake of a friend wanted uninterrupted access to bully you about Uzair Baloch for the next twelve business hours.
God help you.
By the time you came downstairs for dinner, you had decided one thing and one thing only.
Yalina no longer existed to you. Spiritually. Emotionally. Socially.
The woman had betrayed you repeatedly within the span of one evening and therefore deserved the same treatment you once gave your sixth grade maths report card. So naturally, despite her dramatic attempts to make eye contact and laugh every six seconds, you ignored her with the determination of a woman protecting state secrets.
The dining room glowed warmly beneath soft chandelier lights, the table already crowded with steaming rotis, karahi, kebabs, and salad while the staff moved around placing dishes down. Your father sat at the head of the table loosening the cuffs of his sleeves while beside him sat Qureshi chacha, his assistant and unofficial co-parent in your life at this point.
Honestly, if your father ever sold the business, Qureshi chacha would probably be transferred alongside the office furniture and company laptops. But you know your father was never going to let Qureshi chacha go, heck you were never going to let qureshi chacha go! man knows too many of your secrets to be let off that easy-
The second Yalina entered, she greeted both men politely with salams while you quietly took your usual seat beside her out of old childhood habit. No matter how much you currently wanted to throw this woman into Karachi traffic, years of routine apparently remained stronger than hatred. Across the table, your mother finally joined everyone with the exhausted elegance only desi mothers possessed after supervising dinner arrangements for the past hour.
Desperate to ensure the conversation never accidentally shifted toward your deeply humiliating Azam Sweets experience, you immediately decided to redirect attention elsewhere.
“Abbu,” you asked casually while reaching for the naan basket, “itna late kyun hogaya?”
This was later identified as your first fatal mistake.
“Bas kuch nahi,” your father sighed tiredly while finally breaking a piece of roti, “traffic bohot zyada tha aaj. Pata nahi kya masla tha.”
“Apparently koi ladaai hui thi,” Qureshi chacha added conversationally while pouring himself water.
And because Allah sometimes temporarily removed survival instincts from your body for entertainment purposes, you immediately perked up.
“Ladaai?” you repeated excitedly before thinking anything through. “Aap ne video liya kya?”
Because obviously, how could anybody casually mention free public entertainment and not expect interest? Karachi fights were basically community events at this point. Half the city survived through chai, spite, and recording random arguments vertically on phones.
“Video lene ka time hi nahi mila,” Qureshi chacha snorted. “Azam Sweets ke bahar aadhi road block ho gayi thi.”
Your blood ran cold so fast.
“Pata nahi kya hua tha wahan,” he went on casually while eating salad completely unaware he was actively shortening your lifespan. “Public itni invested thi jaise India Pakistan ka match chal raha ho.”
Beside you, Yalina immediately choked violently on her naan.
Good.
Choke more, you wished bitterly while keeping your own face carefully neutral through years of academic presentation trauma.
“Haan,” your father nodded thoughtfully, “Uzair Baloch ko bhi dekha tha wahan. Lagta hai kuch serious hi hua hoga.”
You became so still it genuinely felt like your atoms had temporarily converted into another form of matter altogether. Beside you, Yalina physically bent forward pretending to cough while clearly trying not to explode laughing directly into the food.
And then, because apparently God enjoyed character development through suffering, your mother added the final nail into your coffin completely innocently.
“Aray,” she said suddenly while looking between the two of you, “tum dono bhi toh Azam Sweets gaye thay na?”
Your heart stopped.
“Tum logon ne kuch dekha?”
Now how exactly were you supposed to explain Nahi ammi, kuch dekha toh nahi… lekin aapki beti khud pura season finale perform karke ayi hai.
To save yourself from immediate collapse, public exposure, and possibly cardiac arrest at the dinner table, you forced out the most unnatural sentence of your life with the acting skills of a woman seconds away from prison.
“Nahi,” you said quickly, reaching for your water glass with suspicious calmness, “humein toh kuch nahi dekha.”
A terrible lie.
Because not only had you seen the fight, the fight had practically revolved around you like some deeply embarrassing solar system. Somewhere in Karachi probably existed at least seven different phone recordings of you aggressively pointing fingers at Uzair Baloch.
Across the table, your father nodded approvingly, completely unaware he was currently dining with the main event herself.
“Good,” he said seriously while tearing another piece of naan. “Acha hai. Yeh cheezein dangerous hoti hain. Gang violence lag raha tha mujhe.”
Yalina instantly folded into herself pretending to cough again while her shoulders shook violently. Your mother handed her a glass of water, but your useless friend was one second away from sliding under the table laughing.
“Haan,” your father continued casually, unknowingly tightening the noose around your remaining peace of mind, “waise bhi Rehman bhai tak baat pohanch gayi hogi.”
Your stomach dropped.
Oh no.
OH NO.
“Aur waise bhi,” he added with a teasing smile while glancing toward Yalina, “Yalina ka rishta jo horaha hai Hamza se.”
Across the table, your mother smiled warmly while Yalina instantly went pink before ducking her head down, suddenly looking extremely interested in her plate.
“kuch ho toh bata dena,” your father continued easily. “Rehman bhai kaafi decent aadmi hain. Apne logon ka khayal rakhna jaante hain.”
And there it was.
The exact moment your soul detached from your body and floated somewhere near the dining room chandelier to watch the scene peacefully from above.
Because how exactly were you supposed to tell your loving father that merely hours ago, his precious daughter had stood in the middle of Azam Sweets publicly bullying the politically connected right hand man of the same people currently offering your family support?
You sat there silently chewing your food while internally preparing at least four different fake identities for yourself. You know what, Disappearing from Karachi now felt like the safest option available. Maybe life in Iceland would not be so bad after all. Cold weather. Peaceful people. Zero chances of accidentally fighting with politically connected gangsters over kulfi. You could restart your life as a humble sheep farmer named Sana (sorry if your name is Sana, lmao), living alone in a tiny cottage with your prize-winning sheep, Woolendra Pratap Singh, heir to the prestigious Grazing Dynasty and part-time consumer of cardboard, living peacefully away from public humiliation and your own mouth.
The dining table remained warm and lively around you completely unaware of the psychological warfare happening in your head. Normally these family dinners felt comforting. Tonight, however, you sat there feeling like a criminal accidentally invited to dinner with investigators.
Your father casually kept talking about Rehman bhai’s connections and support, completely unaware that his daughter had already become tonight’s community event in their social circle. Somewhere out there, Karachi awam was probably still emotionally recovering from the scene at Azam Sweets while you sat here quietly eating karahi beside your unsuspecting parents. Is this how superheroes probably felt hiding secret identities from family? Except instead of saving lives, you had nearly started gang politics over kulfi.
By the time you and Yalina finally escaped upstairs, both of you looked less like women returning from dinner and more like exhausted survivors of Karachi society and your own terrible decisions.
You disappeared into the washroom to change into your oversized sleep shirt and pajama shorts, returning ten minutes later looking significantly less like a respectable master’s graduate and more like somebody who barked at delivery drivers for fun.
Yalina had already invaded your closet, stolen your oversized university hoodie, and claimed your bed horizontally like a colonizer discovering land.
Within minutes the room dissolved into complete girls sleepover chaos. Skincare products covered the vanity, Om Shanti Om played softly in the background, and both of you moisturized aggressively like hydration itself could erase public humiliation.
Then, Yalina opened her mouth.
“You know,” she started carefully, “I still think Uzair b-”
“Finish that sentence,” you interrupted immediately, “and I’ll tell your ammi what happened in tenth grade.”
Yalina gasped loudly that her sheet mask shifted.
“Tumne promise kiya tha ke tum kisi ko nahi bataogi!” she accused immediately, sitting upright in betrayal. “Yeh CHEATING hai!! Tumne khud kaha tha ya toh yeh tumhari qabar tak jayegi ya meri!”
“Haan aur ab meri qabar bohot close lag rahi hai because of YOU.” you retorted.
Ah yes.
Now that you remembered what happened in tenth grade, this was actually one of the rare historical events where you were not the one embarrassing yourself.
For once, God had looked down at you and thought “Nahi. Aaj content Yalina degi.”
The great tenth grade scandal was successfully buried before it could permanently destroy Yalina’s bloodline. No one except you, Yalina, and Qureshi chacha ever knew the full truth about what had actually happened, and all three of you agreed to carry it to the grave immediately afterward. Mostly because exposing it publicly would probably still kill Yalina on the spot from secondhand embarrassment.
Unfortunately for her, however, you also believed friendships were built on love, trust, and weaponizing each other’s worst moments during arguments.
So as the night continued, Yalina remained on her absolute best behavior and, impressively, had not mentioned the six foot two tall, annoyingly handsome gangster’s name a single time the entire night. Which felt less like personal growth and more like survival instinct after the tenth grade blackmail reminder.
Not that she hadn’t tried changing the topic toward Hamza instead.
At one point she’d started blushing and rambling softly about how they met, how weirdly polite he was, and the random little things he remembered about her before you immediately shut the conversation down because absolutely not.
You refused to hear detailed Hamza lore before meeting the man yourself.
How else were you supposed to silently observe his body language, eye contact, vibes, and overall husband material potential in real time? Yalina had called you insane after you very seriously informed her that you needed to “study him in his natural habitat first.”
At one point, however, your priorities had shifted entirely after remembering Hamza’s offensively good hair because no actually how was his hair looking moisturized in Karachi humidity while yours fought for survival daily? You had then grabbed Yalina dramatically and begged her to ask for his haircare routine in her mahr which nearly caused her to fall off the bed laughing.
Instead, the two of you spent the next hour discussing completely useless topics that contributed absolutely nothing productive to society whatsoever.
Important philosophical questions like
“Machli kabhi paani ke beech mein beth ke sochti hogi, ‘yaar kuch peene ka dil kar raha hai’?”
“Machhar humein dekh ke waise excited hote honge jaise hum shawarma dekh ke hote hain?”
Truly groundbreaking conversations. Nobel Prize worthy.
Eventually exhaustion won and both of you drifted off to sleep. However, your subconscious apparently believed humiliation alone was not enough suffering for one evening because your dreams spent the entire night replaying intense dark eyes and that stupidly attractive smile beneath bright kulfi shop lights like some low budget Bollywood slow motion montage.
Sunlight danced through the curtains teasingly, like a mother trying to wake a child who refused to leave bed. Uzair remained deeply asleep, completely unaware that the Haveli had already started preparing for the day like it was preparing for war. Staff moved through the halls with practiced routine, footsteps echoing softly against marble floors while distant kitchen noises and hurried conversations slowly brought the house back to life.
Uzair had never slept this peacefully before,and the reason was probably the dream he found himself trapped inside right now.
In the dream, he stood outside Azam Sweets again beneath the harsh white lights of the shop. Except this time there was nobody else around. No crowd waiting for ‘chai’ that was definitely about to be spilled. No Hamza cackling like an idiot with one foot already in his qabar. No Yalina planning your janaza in the background. No Siyahi side eyeing him like he had called his boss Abbu.
Just you.
You looked exactly the same, angry, frustrated, and god damn beautiful.
“Aap phir yahan agaye?” you asked sharply, eyes already loaded like they could physically shoot him if god allowed it.
And just like in real life, Uzair suddenly forgot how to function like a normal human being.
There were a hundred things he wanted to say. Like ‘maaf karein, agli baar apne hi khwabon mein aane se pehle aap ki permission le lunga.’
or ‘aap ka naam kya hai? Qabar pe likhwana tha… taake mere jaane ke baad bhi mera naam sirf aapke naam ke saath liya jaye.’
Or even better ‘aap ab mere khwabon ke ilawa kahaan milengi?’
But instead, nothing came out. Absolutely nothing. Just Uzair staring at you while his subconscious betrayed him in real time. He could already feel dream-Hamza laughing like a dying donkey somewhere out there. Kameene dost khwabon mein bhi picha nahi chortay. He thought.
He looked down at you with such a genuine dumbfounded expression that honest it could probably get him acquitted in court one day. As you continued speaking, still visibly irritated, but Uzair couldn’t pay attention to a single thing coming out of your mouth when your pretty lips were distracting him instead.
Probably taste sweeter than that kulfi.
—WHO SAID THAT? WHO SAID THAT??
You finally stopped mid-rant, clearly fed up with his behavior, and jabbed a finger against his chest accusingly just like you had in real life.
“Aap sun bhi rahe hain main kya bol rahi hoon?” you demanded.
Uzair immediately shook his head in at least five different directions, which realistically could only mean one thing.
He was stupid.
And just like that, your finger flattened against his chest, your entire hand resting there now right above his loud traitorous heartbeat. Before you suddenly gripped the front of his kurta and yanked him forward.
Heaven.
Was this jannat?
Allah mian… were you close or what?
Your lips met his with enough force to silence every unfinished argument between you. Hot, impatient, and addictive. The grip on his kurta tightened as he pulled you closer instinctively, like letting go would physically kill him.
And God… you tasted sweet.
Sweeter than the kulfi. Sweeter than every terrible decision his life had ever offered him.
His hand found purchase at your waist, pulling you even closer like he was trying to force this dream into reality before god decided to wake him up out of pure personal hatred. Your hand slid to the nape of his neck, tugging lightly at the base of his hair there, igniting fires in places that were still peacefully asleep in real life.
Oh god.
One more second of this and Uzair was ready to start thanking whoever invented kulfi lines in the first place.
And in true fashion that was you, dream-you did exactly what real-you would do. Something he never expected.
You bit him.
Right on his lower lip. Not enough to hurt, but enough to send his blood rushing south instantly. And as if that alone wasn’t enough, you tugged lightly on his bottom lip as you pulled away, slow and teasing.
Uzair let out the most embarrassing, pleasure-drenched gasp of his entire existence.
And then—
CRASH
Uzair sprung out of his dream so violently he nearly launched himself off the bed, chest rising sharply as his eyes flew open straight into the horrifying sight of Naieem and Faisal standing there.
Naieem had one hand over Faisal’s eyes like he was protecting him from accidentally witnessing haram activities first thing in the morning.
“Main kaha tha knock karke jaate hain,” Faisal complained blindly from behind the hand covering his face.
“Abe chori karne aaye hain, knock karke kyun aayenge?” Naieem muttered in disappointment. “Lagta hai Abbu ko batana padega tere basics kharab ho rahe hain. Abbu ka surname Dakait hai, thori toh izzat rakh unke profession ki.”
“Bhai haath hata pehle, mujhe bhi dekhna hai konsa dream tha jis mein banda asthma patient ki tarah saanse leke utha hai,” Faisal argued shamelessly.
Naieem just laughed while shaking his head.
Naieem had thought today was going to be a good day. Uzair, the same man who woke up before fajr even during literal gunfire situations and family emergencies, had somehow slept in for the first time in human history. Which obviously meant Allah himself had personally delivered an opportunity.
A beautiful opportunity.
Specifically, stealing something from Uzair’s expensive watch collection before he woke up.
Unfortunately, Allah had also apparently decided that haram activities deserved mind-altering, soul-changing, bleach-drinking repercussions in return.
And Faisal, being the bright, loving, deeply caring younger brother that he was, obviously wanted to witness his brother’s downfall with his own eyes. So he tagged along. He firmly believed there was nothing more bonding for siblings than collectively participating in a bad decision together. Which was exactly why he currently stood there situationally blinded by Naieem’s hand like a hostage victim.
Uzair wanted to be buried. Six feet under—
No. Way too close to society.
Three hundred and sixty feet under minimum. Somewhere deep enough for future archaeologists to discover his fossil and go, ‘Damn… yeh banda sharam se mara tha.’
The sheer humiliation of not only getting caught, but getting caught by his younger lackeys specifically, made him want to climb Mount Everest for “mental peace” like those gym bro podcasts recommended and then immediately throw himself off the edge before Naieem could open his mouth again.
“Kya chahiye tum dono ko?!” Uzair snapped, finally noticing the expensive watch box that had fallen onto the floor alongside his izzat.
Naieem ignored the question completely. “Maine toh jab unnees saal ka tha tab bhi aisi harkatein nahi ki.”
“Maine bhi,” the 14 year old Faisal also added despite still being blinded by his brother and still contributing confidently.
“Tum abhi bhi unnees ke ho,” Uzair deadpanned instantly.
“Wohi toh,” Naieem replied proudly. “Mere "halkat jawani" phase mein bhi maine aise kaam nahi kiye. Tauba tauba.”
Naieem nodded seriously while trying not to laugh. “Sasta wala mat lena. Aankhein kharab hojayengi.”
“Chup kar,” Uzair muttered darkly, already regretting every life decision that had led him to this family.
“Nahi sach mein,” Faisal continued, still blindfolded against his will. “Aap yeh harkatein shaam ko phir se karna. Tab main bleach daal lunga, homework bhi nahi karna padega, aur Ammi Abbu ko bhi finally kisi aur ko kosne ka mauqa mil jayega.”
Then after a thoughtful pause, he added in the tone of a corporate manager ending a Zoom meeting, “Toh… let’s continue this meeting at 4 p.m.?”
Before confidently looking down at his wrist to check the time.
Still blinded.
And not even wearing a watch.
Uzair had officially had enough.
His hand blindly searched for the nearest object within reach before immediately launching it across the room at the two gremlins currently ruining both his perfect sleep and the greatest dream of his entire existence.
Unfortunately for Faisal, Naieem’s survival instincts activated instantly.
The second he saw Uzair move, he grabbed Faisal by the shoulders and dragged him directly in front of himself like a human shield, one hand still firmly clamped over the poor boy’s eyes while the other held him hostage against his chest.
“AHH—” Faisal screeched the moment something smacked painfully into his shoulder. “BHAI CHHORO MUJHE, MUJHE LAG RAHI HAI!”
A pillow came flying first, narrowly missing Naieem’s face before crashing against the wall.
Then a shoe.
Then what looked dangerously close to one of Uzair’s expensive watches spinning through the air.
Naieem’s soul visibly left his body.
“AREY CHACHU?!” he yelled in genuine heartbreak. “Rolex kyun phek rahe ho mere upar?!” Suddenly far more concerned about the safety of the watch than the fourteen year old child currently absorbing physical damage on his behalf.
Uzair looked one inconvenience away from personally appearing on the evening news. Hair messy, his shirt half-open, chest still rising heavily from being violently ripped out of sleep, eyes carrying the exhausted rage of a man whose peace had just been assassinated before breakfast.
“MAROON GA TUM DONO KO!” he barked from the bed.
Meanwhile Faisal was still being dragged backwards blindly across the marble floor, arms flailing helplessly through the air like a kidnapped civilian in a badly directed action movie. The second they crossed the doorway, Faisal’s offended voice echoed through the hallway loud enough for half the Haveli to probably hear,
“CHACHU SHAAM CHAAR BAJE MEETING YAAD SE!”
And then the bedroom door slammed shut just before another pillow flew past Naieem’s head hard enough to qualify as attempted murder.
Uzair let out a long exhausted sigh.
Could Allah finally have some reham on him for once? Was that too much to ask?
He flopped back against the bed, staring up at the ceiling while his traitorous brain immediately dragged him right back into the dream despite the third-degree humiliation he had just survived moments ago.
Specifically, the bite.
Allah.
His jaw tightened slightly as he bit down on his own lip unconsciously, heat rushing through him all over again just from remembering the feeling of your teeth catching against his mouth.
This was absolutely ridiculous.
One girl argues with him over kulfi line etiquette and suddenly this man was fighting for his life at eight in the morning.
Then, reality checked back in.
Uzair glanced toward the clock and immediately groaned. It was late. Which meant Rehman would absolutely start cutting into his very important daily schedule of “bhai kuch stupid karein?” activities with Hamza.
He got up, peeling the bedsheet off himself while mentally complaining about how hard life was. So stressful. So exhausting. So-
Then he looked down at his lap.
…Apparently life wasn’t the only thing HARD this morning.
Uzair closed his eyes briefly in disappointment.
Because apparently his body had not moved on from the dream whatsoever. At least one part was still stuck in it.
Sigh.
As Uzair walked downstairs after spending a very necessary forty-five minutes under a freezing cold shower handling… ahem ahem business, his mood was already hanging by a thread.
Which made it even more irritating that the man still looked illegally attractive.
The grey pathani fit him disgustingly well, sleeves rolled up just enough to show strong forearms and the watch sitting on his wrist like it paid taxes there. Beard freshly trimmed. Hair pushed back carelessly like he hadn’t just fought demons in that shower five minutes ago.
And then the aviator glasses.
The glasses were mostly there so he wouldn’t accidentally make eye contact with someone and let them discover the deeply humiliating truth that this six foot two emotionally unavailable gangster had already lost his heart in under twenty-four hours.
The combination of broad shoulders, messy hair, a sharp jawline, and those stupid glasses made him look less like a real person and more like a dangerously specific dua that had been accepted. if he made direct eye contact with someone right then, there was a solid chance she’d mentally plan the nikah, pick baby names, and fight imaginary saas allegations before even learning his full name.
Sexy? was just a synonym.
Uzair reached the chaos they collectively referred to as a dining table to find Rehman drinking his chai while Naeem and Faisal sat on either side of him. Sadly, Ulfat wasn’t around today to balance out the collective pagalpan of the men in this house, meaning the atmosphere was already unsafe.
Rehman looked up the second Uzair entered, saying nothing at first except glancing at his watch.
Late.
Uzair, trying very hard to not make anything obvious, loaded his plate with the speed of a certified bhukkad and immediately started eating like food alone could save him.
After a while Rehman casually asked, “Aaj late hoga uthne mein, Uzair?”
It was a simple question, and had no malice whatsoever. Completely harmless.
Unfortunately, Naieem instantly started choking on his toast while the blush creeping onto Uzair’s cheeks exposed enough information for Rehman to realize he had made a terrible mistake.
Oh no.
Was Rehman losing his edge?
Usually he could sniff out stupidity, unnecessary kalesh, and emotional disasters before even knowing who was involved. But now the signs were right there and he still missed them.
This is what happens when a man spends too much time away from his beautiful, loving wife who apparently possessed most of the brain cells in this household.
Rehman immediately raised a hand, “Mat batao. Mujhe nahi jaana.”
Which only caused Naieem to start dying harder because the toast was now physically lodged somewhere inside his esophagus.
Rehman quickly turned toward his younger son instead.
“Haan Faisal, tum batao.” making conversation with his younger son on the other side, asking about how his friends are.
Faisal immediately starts going on about his friends and how they played cricket with a football yesterday. He made a face at that. But, anything was better than involving himself in whatever was happening on the left side of the table, Rehman thought to himself. Especially because Naieem still looked one cough away from meeting his ancestors while Uzair suddenly started eating his breakfast like the paratha knew too much information.
After a while, Uzair finally asked where Ulfat bhabhi was because her absence at breakfast felt unnatural.
Usually, Ulfat sat beside Rehman while the man silently pretended he wasn’t completely obsessed with his wife.
Which fooled absolutely nobody.
Because whenever Ulfat entered a room, Rehman stopped looking like Karachi’s most feared man and started looking like someone who definitely had emotional Urdu poetry saved somewhere in his phone notes app.
The same man who looked like he scheduled people’s final warnings between chai breaks. So imagine everyone’s surprise when his terrifying older brother actually looked offended instead.
No.
The man was pouting.
“Tumhari bhabhi ko aaj kuch kaam hai,” Rehman muttered with visible disappointment while looking like a retired drama serial husband abandoned by society. “Yalina aur Shabnam ji ke saath shaadi ki shopping pe ja rahi hain.”
Clearly not happy that this had ruined his peaceful morning routine of gazing at his wife before dealing with what he liked to call the ‘unemployed behaviour of his employees.’
Rehman and Ulfat had already planned on being heavily involved in the wedding from the start, but after one particular conversation with Hamza, they’d quietly taken over the role of the groom’s side completely.
Remembering that one evening, Hamza had casually mentioned that he’d officially gone and asked Jameel sahab for Yalina’s hand in marriage himself.
Which had genuinely impressed Rehman.
Mostly because HOW exactly had this man managed to convince Jameel Jamali?
Rehman had stared at him for a solid ten seconds, clearly impressed.
Hamza, reminded him far too much of himself at that particular moment.
Back then, before the money, before the power, before people lowered their voices when he entered rooms, Rehman had been nothing more than a man stubbornly in love with a girl whose family wanted significantly better for her.
And Ulfat had deserved better too.
She came from a wealthy, respected family with status, connections, security. while Rehman at the time had little beyond loyalty, dangerous ambition, and the kind of determination that made older people deeply uncomfortable.
Their wedding had been small.
Painfully small.
Most of Ulfat’s family had refused to properly support the marriage, forcing the two of them to figure everything out themselves. The only person there who truly mattered to both of them had been a very young Uzair standing awkwardly beside his brother like an angry little bodyguard prepared to fight society itself.
Even years later, after Rehman gained both money and influence and Ulfat’s family slowly rebuilt cordial ties with them, he never truly forgave what they’d done to her.
Ulfat might have forgiven.
Rehman never would.
Sometimes even now, he still brought it up quietly, how he wished he could’ve given her the kind of wedding she deserved back then.
And every single time, Ulfat answered the same way.
That marrying him exactly the way she did was the only way she would ever choose him again and again.
So when Hamza had jokingly mentioned that he probably wouldn’t even have proper family standing on the groom’s side for photos because he was an orphan anyway-
Both Rehman and Ulfat had looked rightfully offended.
“Hum kya mar gaye hain?” Ulfat snapped immediately before Hamza could even finish laughing.
Even Rehman had looked annoyed after that.
Because employee ya outsider wali line Hamza had crossed months ago.
Not after saving Naieem.
Not after bringing their son back to them.
Not after becoming the kind of person who quietly stitched himself into people’s lives so naturally that one day everyone simply realized he had become family.
Faisal and Naieem didn’t call him Hamza bhai out of formality. They called him that because somewhere along the way, he had simply become one.
And to Uzair, Hamza occupied a category of his own. Somewhere between brother, best friend, and lifelong headache. The two of them spent most of their time arguing, but if Uzair ever genuinely needed help, Hamza was usually already on his way before he even had to ask.
By the end of that conversation, Hamza had the biggest smile Rehman had ever seen on the man’s face while Ulfat aggressively informed him that she’d personally handle the wedding preparations herself and he better act like he loved every single one of her choices.
And Hamza wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Which was exactly why the second Ulfat finally walked into the dining area, Rehman looked at her like a man seeing sunlight after war.
She was dressed to leave already, wearing a soft pastel green suit that made the gold bangles on her wrist gleam warmly beneath the dining lights. Her hair was loosely braided over one shoulder and she wore those specific earrings Rehman privately categorized as her “I’m going out” earrings.
And immediately-
The man turned poetic.
“Aye haye, begum sahiba,” Rehman murmured dreamily while watching her walk around the table, “lagta hai Lyari mein bahaar iss saal jaldi agayi hai.”
Ulfat only huffed softly at that, rolling her eyes in the practiced way of a woman who’d spent years surviving her husband’s shameless flirting before reaching for the water jug.
“Apse kaha tha na chhutti le lijiye, saath chalte hain,” she scolded while pouring herself water. “Par aapko toh kaam se fursat hi nahi milti. Aur yeh aapke nawabzade…” she added, glaring toward the boys now, “inki khwahishein toh khatam hi nahi hoti. Ab main aap logon ki shopping baad mein hi karungi. Saath chalenge parso. Chhutti le lijiye.”
“Arey,” Rehman sighed with drama, one elbow resting on the table while he held up his face like a tragic lover abandoned by fate itself, “aap humein pyaar se kafan bhi pehna dein toh woh bhi pehen lein.”
That instantaneous caused Ulfat to blush despite herself, quickly looking away while Uzair outright burst out laughing into his chai.
“Ammi,” Faisal suddenly spoke up with sincerity, “main bhi chhutti le leta hoon aapki help karne ke liye.”
The entire table looked at him. Because everybody there knew this had absolutely nothing to do with “helping.”
The boy simply wanted freedom from school and saw shopping as Allah-given opportunity. Naieem just slowly shook his head seeing his younger brother in action.
“koi zarurat nahi hai, mujhe tumhare size pata hai, main dekh lungi.” Ulfat replied, seeing through her son.
Naieem loved his parents.
Truly and sometimes, watching them together like this made something ache softly inside his chest because if he was lucky enough to find someone special someday, he hoped his relationship would look something like theirs—
“Sirf Faisal ka?” Rehman cut in casually while adding suggestively with absolutely shameless confidence.“Mera size bhi toh kaafi achi tarah yaad hai aapko.”
“REHMAN!”
Ulfat immediately hit him on the shoulder while Uzair just shook his head at his older brother’s shameless antics around his bhabhi.
Naieem would rather puke out his breakfast and re-eat it than stay at this table another minute.
“Eww,” he muttered before looking at Faisal. “Chal shehzade, ya khud paidal chala ja school.” As he stood up and walked toward the door.
And Faisal, seeing the perfect opportunity to leave his half-finished breakfast, immediately sprang out of his chair.
“Abhi aaya, bag lekar aata hoon bhai!”
“FAISAL—” Ulfat called out from behind.
The breakfast table finally began to settle after the boys disappeared. Rehman pushed his chair back with a sigh and rose to his feet, while Uzair finished the last of his tea before following suit. Around them, the house staff quietly moved in to begin clearing away the dishes. Ulfat had barely reached the hallway when she paused mid step.
“Aray, mera bag room mein reh gaya.”
The pastel green of her suit disappeared upstairs a second later while the rest of the house settled back into its usual noisy morning rhythm, distant utensils clinking from the kitchen, someone outside dragging a hose across the driveway.
Uzair and Rehman had started making their way when Rehman suddenly stopped beside the doorway, adjusting the cuff of his watch before speaking.
“Aaj apni bhabhi ko Jameel sahab ke ghar chhor dena.”
Uzair would never say no to an order from his older brother, but still—
“Hamza ko bol dein na,” he said casually, already smirking slightly. “Uski bhi eid ho jayegi.”
The implication was obvious.
Yalina.
Rehman immediately scoffed.
“Usse bhejunga toh woh nikah kara ke hi wapas aayega,” he muttered while adjusting his watch. “Isliye tu hi ja.”
Uzair laughed at this, knowing exactly how whipped his best friend was.
Halfway down the corridor, Ulfat suddenly called out for Rehman from upstairs, saying she needed something from their room.
Which instantly made Rehman change direction without question. The man could never say no to his wife.
Uzair walked out alone making his way to his jeep.
Near another car, Donga and Siyahi were already standing together doing and discussing God knew what with the most unserious expressions imaginable. One was leaning against the hood while the other waved his hands around like he was explaining international politics instead of whatever useless nonsense they were actually talking about. Looking exactly like unemployed side characters in a crime thriller.
“I’m taking bhabhi to Jameel sahab’s house,” Uzair told them while unlocking his car. “Meri absence mein kaam dekh lena.”
The two nodded immediately.
Uzair silently thanked God right then because at least this meant he wouldn’t have to see Hamza yet. His brain genuinely could not tolerate another round of dramatic “ohhh” and “ahhhhs” about the Miss Kulfi incident this early in the morning. By evening he’d probably invent some fake emergency just to distract Hamza’s ADHD-induced attention span elsewhere.
Maybe set Donga’s bike on fire a little, nothing too serious. Just a little fire hazard for distraction purposes.
The morning air outside was still cool despite the sunlight beginning to spread across the massive driveway. Somewhere near the gates, guards stood lazily sipping chai while an old radio played distorted Bollywood songs in the background. Birds chirped from the trees lining the boundary walls, and the gardener nearby sprayed water over the hedges with absolutely zero enthusiasm for life.
For one beautiful, fleeting moment—
There was peace.
Peace-
“JUMMAA CHUMMAA DE DE—”
Uzair decided the universe had personal beef with him specifically. Because barely ten seconds later, peaceful silence across the driveway was violently destroyed by loud off-key singing approaching from somewhere behind him.
“JUMMAA CHUMMAA DE DE CHUMMAA—”
Donga looked up before promptly folding in half laughing. “Ayee wah, Subha subha public concert.” he added
Meanwhile Siyahi had already closed his eyes like a tired man accepting fate.
Because unlike Donga, Siyahi knew exactly what was about to unfold.
He had been there during The Incident™.
Just like the other half of Karachi apparently.
Uzair froze. Absolutely FUCKING not.
And then there was Hamza.
Walking down the front steps with the confidence of a retired Bollywood hero returning for one final performance, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his kurta while dramatically pointing at Uzair mid-song like he was dedicating the performance to him. He was.
“Jumme ke din kiyaaa— Jumme kaa waadaaa—”
Every step carried the confidence of a man who genuinely believed background music followed him in real life.
Hamza pointed dramatically at Uzair like he was exposing him in front of a live studio audience.
“Jumme ko tod diyaa— Jumme kaa waadaaa—”
And then the idiot somehow got louder.
“LE AA GAYAAA RE PHIR JUMMAA—”
Pausing only to bounce on the spot, he threw both arms outward before pointing emphatically at the ground.
Now, under ordinary circumstances, Uzair would've merely rolled his eyes. He might have even entertained the spectacle and joined in.
But today was far from ordinary, wasn't it?
Consequently, Uzair flushed scarlet.
If one looked closely enough, they might have sworn wisps of steam were rising from his skin. His complexion had somehow transformed into the exact shade of #CC677C, the sort of perfectly rosy blush colour so aesthetically pleasing that people would probably queue up to purchase it if it came in a makeup palette.
Because sadly, the second Hamza started aggressively yelling chummaa, Uzair’s brain betrayed him entirely and replayed the dream from earlier with HD pro max quality clarity.
Your hand gripping the front of his kurta.
That sharp tug pulling him forward.
Warm lips crashing against his.
The sweetness.
God, the sweetness.
And then—
The bite.
Oh God.
Did dream-hamza tell real-hamza about it???
Uzair physically looked away from Hamza abruptly, suddenly very invested in staring at literally anything else. The car. The trees. The pavement. Tax laws. Anything.
Much to his dismay, Hamza noticed it at once. Of course he did.
The man detected suspicious behaviour with the same uncanny precision aunties reserved for family gatherings.
One awkward silence and suddenly they were mentally writing full episode recaps.
The singing stopped mid-line so abruptly that the sudden silence almost echoed across the driveway.
Hamza lowered his imaginary microphone and narrowed his eyes at Uzair. The scrutiny that followed was nothing short of forensic, the sort usually reserved for detectives, interrogators, and exceptionally nosy relatives.
“…oye.”
Hamza took a step closer.
“Rooh Afza ki bottle ki tarah kyun khara hai tu? Main ne abhi tak kuch poocha bhi nahi.”
“Rooh Afza?” Uzair echoed at once, affronted by the comparison.
“Aaj kuch khaas hai kya? Bara chamak raha hai tu.” Hamaz continued, grabbing Uzair’s face in one hand and turning it this way and that, the way mothers inspected their children after combing their hair before sending them off to school.
“Chup kar.” Uzair's voice came out muffled.
But Hamza’s curiosity had now evolved into full-time unemployment.
He leaned closer and asked, “Blush lagaya hai kya?”
“Pagal hai?”
“Mujhe bhi bata na konsa hai,” Hamza said immediately. “Yalina keh rahi thi usay woh ‘mushkil se milne wali khoobsurati’ wala blush chahiye.”
That made Uzair pause.
Not because the sentence made sense.
It absolutely didn’t.
But because unfortunately his own stupidity always activated around Hamza’s stupidity.
Faisal stood behind them in full school uniform, one bag strap hanging off his shoulder while holding a juice box like a tired corporate employee on his morning commute instead of a literal child.
“Woh Rare Beauty hota hai chachu,” he explained casually. “Selena Gomez ka brand.”
Uzair slowly narrowed his eyes.
“Ek minute…” he said carefully. “Tujhe kaise pata Rare Beauty kya hai?”
Faisal looked at him like the question itself insulted his intelligence.
“Because unlike certain individuals in this household,” he replied with remarkable composure, directing a pointed glance at Uzair, “I have game. I prefer to keep myself informed for when the occasion eventually arises.”
The statement sent Hamza into a fit of laughter so severe that he doubled over on the spot.
Uzair looked offended.
“Teri umar mein main football khelta tha.”
“Haan ise liye abhi bhi single ho,” Faisal shot back.
Hamza pressed a hand to his chest, a gravelly laugh escaping him as appreciation and amusement.
Uzair stared at Faisal in stricken disbelief, his expression steeped in betrayal.
“Yeh TikTok ne bachon ko barbaad kardiya hai.”
“Jealousy is a disease, chachu,” Faisal remarked, taking another sip. “Allah sab ko female gaze samajhne ki taufiq de.”
“Tu abhi tak school nahi gaya?” Uzair called out.
Faisal had already started walking toward Siyahi and Donga.
“Chaliye Siyahi bhai,” Faisal continued pleasantly. “Aaj ka homework proposition discuss karte hain.”
Siyahi slowly turned toward Uzair and Hamza with the expression of a man betrayed by his own nation.
Before the conversation could get any more ridiculous, Rehman and Ulfat finally walked out of the house together, fingers loosely intertwined. The second they appeared, every man present straightened up almost automatically.
Even Hamza.
Which was a proof enough that Rehman’s aura needed to be studied.
Rehman walked Ulfat toward Uzair’s jeep.
Stopping beside the jeep, Rehman took Ulfat’s hand and pressed a brief kiss against it naturally before looking toward Uzair.
“Uzair, dekh kar jana. Seedha Jameel sahab ke ghar.”
“Ji bhai,” Uzair nodded.
“Chal, Hamza,” Rehman motioned toward him afterward.
Hamza's expression carried the same wounded indignation as a child deprived of his favourite toy.
Uzair watched him walk away beside Rehman looking like a kicked puppy.
The poor man hadn’t even gotten the chance to see Yalina.
Or properly continue bullying Uzair.
What torture.
Finally free from public harassment for at least thirty minutes, Uzair exhaled quietly before opening the passenger-side door for Ulfat.
“Thank you,” she smiled softly while getting inside.
Uzair closed the door gently before walking around toward the driver’s side, sliding into the seat moments later. The engine started smoothly while the gates ahead slowly opened for them.
The drive itself turned surprisingly peaceful.
Morning sunlight spilled across the roads now while Karachi gradually woke around them, small chai stalls crowded with people, bikes weaving recklessly through traffic, fruit vendors loudly calling customers, and the smell of fresh parathas drifting from roadside hotels every few minutes.
Through the journey, Ulfat kept him company easily, talking about everything from wedding preparations to how work at the factory had been going lately, along with random family gossip here and there. The conversation flowed naturally, calm and comfortable against the backdrop of Karachi’s noisy morning traffic.
At one point, Ulfat casually suggested that he and Hamza should probably get their sherwanis stitched together since it would look better during the wedding events. Uzair had immediately looked mildly offended at the implication that his fashion choices required supervision, especially from Hamza of all people, who according to him dressed like he was constantly one dramatic background score away from becoming a Bollywood villain. The entire topic only seemed to amuse Ulfat further, soft laughter escaping her every time Uzair muttered another complaint under his breath about “matching vibes” and coordinated outfits like they were part of some shaadi Pinterest board.
Eventually, Uzair made Ulfat promise that if she found something she thought would look good on him, she’d let him know, and somehow the rest of the drive stayed warm, calm, and easy.
The morning had started far too peacefully for your liking.
Sunlight spilled softly through the curtains while the smell of chai and toasted bread drifted through the house, mixed with the faint sounds of utensils clinking in the kitchen downstairs.
But none of that mattered because your mother had committed the ultimate act of betrayal.
She woke you up at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m.
According to her, “zindagi ke aadhe maslay jaldi uthne aur uss manhoos phone ko phenkne se solve hojate hain.”
You personally believed this sounded fake.
So now you sat miserably at the dining table beside Yalina, face almost drowning in milk instead of actually eating cereal. While your father packed up nearby, preparing to leave for work. Morning sunlight stretched across the dining room table while the TV in the background played loud news that your father usually watched before leaving for work, but nobody was actually paying attention it.
Meanwhile your parents remained deeply entertained by the fact that you were absentmindedly drawing patterns in your cereal bowl with your spoon.
“Bilkul nahi badli fifth grade se,” your mother cooed fondly.
Yalina caught the opening at once, sensing your mother's mamta in the air the way sharks sensed blood in water.
“Auntyyy,” she started sweetly, suddenly putting on the most fake masoom bachi expression imaginable. “Aaj aap free hain?”
If you didn’t know her, even you would’ve believed she respected authority and voluntarily woke up before noon.
“Haan beta, kya hua?” your mother asked warmly.
“Kuch nahi,” Yalina said innocently. “Bas aaj main aur ammi shaadi ki shopping pe jarahay hain… please aap bhi chaliye na?”
Your mother immediately hesitated.
“Aray beta aisay kaise? Acha nahi lagta. Tumhari ammi ne bulaya bhi nahi aur tumhare susral walay bhi honge shayad…”
“Aunty kuch nahi hoga,” Yalina interrupted. “Bas Ulfat bhabhi aarahi hain. Aur ammi ko toh main text bhi kar chuki hoon.”
Then she paused, sighed heavily and said “Aur aap toh jaanti hain na ammi ki pasand.”
You snorted into your cereal because unfortunately—
You did know.
Very well actually.
Specifically because of the Sixth Grade Fancy Dress Competition Incident.
The theme had been fictional characters.
Your mother—Allah unko khush rakhe; had treated your costume preparation like a full-scale film production. She had searched fabric markets for days, matched jewellery perfectly, curled your hair despite nearly burning her own fingers off, and somehow transformed you into an actual Princess Jasmine.
You looked beautiful, elegant, almost unreal, especially for a random school function where half the children were usually dressed in cardboard costumes held together with safety pins and parental desperation. The teachers kept calling you “beta mashallah” every five minutes and smiling at you with genuine affection whenever you passed by.
You won first place.
Meanwhile Yalina had arrived dressed as—
Jadoo.
From Koi Mil Gaya.
Not inspired by Jadoo.
Not “cute alien version.”
No.
Full commitment method acting Jadoo.
Her face had been painted blue from forehead to neck. Massive bug eyes were drawn around her actual eyes so she looked permanently shocked by inflation. And then—
The bald cap.
OH GOD.
THE BALD CAP.
The second she entered school, one nursery child started crying immediately. Even the math teacher flinched near the staircase after seeing her unexpectedly. At one point the Urdu teacher accidentally started reading Ayat-ul-Kursi under her breath after spotting Yalina standing silently near the water cooler looking super unnatural.
And what was worse was that Yalina stayed in character the ENTIRE day.
She spoke in broken alien noises and blinked aggressively at people.
At recess she just stood near the basketball court staring at students like she had crash-landed there accidentally. The principal had side-eyed her the entire competition with the exhausted expression of a man reconsidering his career choices.
And yet somehow—
She still won second place.
You were genuinely ready to fight the principal on her behalf because HOW could they disrespect your icon like this? Your best friend had singlehandedly traumatised the entire school population before lunch break and they gave her SECOND?
Through Yalina herself didn’t even care.
You told her repeatedly she deserved first place.
Repeatedly.
Her costume had absolutely eaten everyone else's.
So here she was again years later, sitting at your dining table with cereal in one hand and generational trauma in the other, complaining about her mother’s fashion choices like a victim giving a news interview after surviving a natural disaster. “Aunty, please,” Yalina groaned softly. “Aapki choice bohot achi hoti hai. Ammi ki choice thori….different hai.”
Your father, who had been adjusting his watch, looked far too pleased hearing that indirect compliment considering your father had technically been her choice too.
The man actually muttered a satisfied little “thank you”, winking at your mother, while she only shook her head.
Then, after kissing your forehead affectionately and patting Yalina’s head on the way out, he finally left for work looking weirdly proud of himself.
Your mother finally sighed in defeat, though the expression on her face already said she knew she’d been emotionally manipulated into this entire plan from the beginning.
“Theek hai,” she said at last, pointing a warning finger toward Yalina across the dining table. “Par mujhe ek baar tumhari ammi se baat karne do.”
With that, she pushed her chair back and stood up, already reaching for her phone while walking toward the kitchen. The soft sound of her slippers faded down the hallway while the morning show continued playing faintly in the background.
The second she disappeared from sight. Yalina turned toward you.
“Toh madam,” Yalina said, kicking your foot lightly beneath the table, "tum bhi ready hojao. Chalte hain."
You wanted to refuse, but you had already missed her actual engagement, so saying no now felt slightly criminal. Besides, your plans for today weren’t exactly life-changing anyway. They mostly consisted of eating, rolling around dramatically on your bed every time your brain remembered yesterday, reading for distraction, then remembering it again and getting embarrassed all over again before recovering through more food. Perhaps also creating several entirely fictional scenarios in your head and dissociating for a few hours.
At some point you also planned on calling your father for no reason, eating again, and ending the night with one final wave of humiliation before sleeping.
A very solid and productive day in your opinion.
Still, after another long sigh, you decided fine. Whatever. You’d go with her.
If not for shopping, then at least to witness Yalina getting traumatised by her mother’s fashion choices in real time.
Eventually you got dressed, though not before Yalina casually raided your closet again. Somehow, after twenty minutes of stealing your accessories and rejecting half your suggestions, she still managed to look annoyingly pretty.
Soft summer colours caught beautifully beneath the sunlight as you stepped outside, light fabrics shifting gently in the warm Karachi breeze. Your mother looked effortlessly elegant, as though grace had simply decided to make a permanent home in her. Yalina, meanwhile, possessed that curious luminosity that seemed to settle upon engaged girls without warning, leaving them bright-eyed and radiant for no discernible reason. And even you felt beautiful—composed, polished, every detail falling into place with unusual ease.
The day felt almost too perfect.
But surely that meant nothing.
Everything that could possibly have gone wrong had already unfolded yesterday.
Today, for once, had to be kind.
...Right? RIGHT????
Now seated in the car with your mother beside you in the backseat and Yalina in the passenger seat already talking before the car had even fully left the street, the drive slowly disappeared into Karachi’s crowded afternoon traffic.
Yalina and your mother talked easily the entire way, moving from stories about her mother to Hamza, then somehow into discussions about married life and adjusting after weddings. Their laughter filled the car warmly every few minutes.
You, however, couldn’t relate to any of it.
Instead, you found yourself watching Karachi through the window—the crowded roads, tiny roadside flower stalls, old buildings squeezed between newer ones, laundry fluttering from balconies, and strangers moving through the city beneath the blazing summer sun like scenes passing quietly from a film. you were now close to yalinas house, you thought.
Uzair had just dropped Ulfat off at Jameel sahab’s mansion and waited until she disappeared safely inside before finally pulling the jeep away from the driveway. The huge gates shut behind him slowly as he turned back onto the road, sunlight flashing across the windshield while Karachi traffic dragged lazily around him beneath the afternoon heat.
The drive back had been normal.
He’d barely gone half a kilometer when another car passed beside him-
And suddenly his brain stopped functioning properly.
Everything slowed down so sharply it genuinely felt fake. Like one of those dramatic romance scenes from old movies where the hero sees the heroine once and immediately forgets how oxygen works.
His head turned automatically toward the passing car.
And there you were.
Sitting in the backseat.
For one horrible second you looked exactly the way you had in his dream earlier that morning. Same expression. Same wide eyes. Same slightly parted lips like you’d recognised him at the exact same moment he recognised you.
Sunlight filtered through the passing windows, scattering fleeting bands of gold across your face.
And for one perilous moment, Uzair found himself transfixed by the ease with which the light seemed to favour you, lingering upon your features as though it, too, had forgotten the rest of the world existed.
Then your eyes met his.
And that was the end of it.
Whatever fragile remnants of composure Uzair had been clinging to promptly disintegrated.
The effect was immediate, almost embarrassingly so. One look was all it took for every coherent thought in his head to abandon its post. His mind should have remained fixed on the present—on the absurd coincidence of seeing you again, on the traffic surrounding him, on the fact that he was currently operating a moving vehicle. Instead, it betrayed him with spectacular efficiency. Because the moment his gaze locked with yours, his thoughts ceased to belong to him.
They returned to that moment.
Your hand fisted in the front of his kurta.
The startling closeness.
The warmth of your breath.
The kiss.
The bite.
Uzair hit the brakes so suddenly the jeep jerked violently, earning several angry horns behind him that he completely ignored. His heart had climbed directly into his throat while panic flashed across his face for reasons even he didn’t fully understand.
He turned quickly in his seat, searching for the car again through the moving traffic ahead.
But you—
You were gone.
The backseat that had held you only seconds earlier now appeared empty. Your mother sat calmly on the far side, entirely unaware that someone in a passing car had just experienced the emotional equivalent of a head-on collision.
Uzair frowned immediately, eyes narrowing as he leaned out of his jeep's window, to look back properly.
He knew he saw you.
Your face.
Your eyes.
That expression.
So where the hell had you disappeared to?
His eyes scanned the road almost desperately now, searching between cars, mirrors, windows, anything. But there was nothing. No glimpse of you. No movement. No trace that you’d even been there seconds ago.
For one alarming moment, Uzair wondered whether he was finally beginning to lose his mind.
You, meanwhile, had responded with all the composure and emotional fortitude of a startled goat.
The instant the car passed Uzair's jeep, you practically collapsed into yourself before dropping sideways into your mother's lap, yanking her dupatta over your face as though concealment might somehow undo the previous ten seconds.
“YA ALLAH, KYA HUA?!” your mother exclaimed at once, nearly fumbling her phone in the process.
From the front seat, Yalina twisted around immediately, confusion knitting her brows.
“Kuch nahi, Ammi,” you replied from beneath the dupatta, your voice emerging embarrassingly muffled. “Bohat dhoop hai. Mujhe aapne mamta ke aanchal mein chupa lo.”
Your mother dissolved into laughter.
“Beta, aise karogi toh mera mamta ka aanchal phat jayega.”
That made Yalina lose it too, laughing loudly from the passenger seat while you stayed hidden beneath the dupatta, face burning from your own behaviour now.
You had no defence.
Because what kind of mentally stable person reacted to eye contact by diving into their mother’s lap like they were escaping sniper fire?
The rest of the drive you spent exactly there too, half hidden beneath your mother’s dupatta with your face buried in her lap while Yalina occasionally looked back at you only to start laughing all over again. Your mother, however, seemed rather taken with the arrangement.
Every few minutes, her hand would drift to your hair, smoothing back a stray strand or patting your head with absent affection. There was a faint smile lingering on her face the entire time, the sort reserved for children who had momentarily forgotten they were adults.
As far as she was concerned, her daughter had voluntarily sought refuge in her lap.
For a few seconds, Uzair remained where he was, engine running and hands resting lightly against the steering wheel, staring at the house gates like they might suddenly open again.
They didn't.
Of course they didn't.
Finally, he exhaled quietly.
“Allah…”
And pulled away.
The road stretched ahead beneath warm streetlights while Lyari settled deeper into evening around him. Normally he would've gone straight home.
Normally.
Instead, he took a left turn. Then another. Then another.
No destination.
No reason.
Just driving.
The city drifted past outside the jeep windows—families sitting outside their homes, children playing cricket in narrow lanes, shopkeepers closing for the night.
Normal.
Everything normal.
Unfortunately, his brain wasn't.
Because every five minutes, without permission, the same memory kept replaying.
“Goodnight, Uzair.”
Silence.
Then—
“Allah hafiz, Uzair.”
Uzair tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
Annoyed.
Deeply annoyed.
Because he had survived gunfights with less damage than whatever that had been.
The jeep rolled through the quieter side of Lyari, market lights glowing faintly in the distance, and somehow his thoughts only got worse.
The earrings.
The football game.
The doodh soda.
The way she'd laughed at Alam bhai.
The way she'd looked genuinely happy while talking about Lyari.
The way she'd smiled whenever she forgot to be careful.
“Allah…”
This time it sounded significantly more tired.
A motorcycle sped past. Somewhere nearby a radio blasted old songs. Life continued completely unaware that Uzair Baloch was losing a battle against his own thoughts.
Then fate decided he hadn't suffered enough.
Because as he passed the market, a familiar voice suddenly echoed through the street.
“DARLING DARLING DIL KYUN THODA—”
Uzair immediately knew.
“No.”
“PEELO PEELO ALAM DOODH SODA!”
There he was.
Standing outside his shop.
Holding a steel jug like a microphone.
Causing public distress.
Alam bhai spotted the jeep instantly, paused, then narrowed his eyes.
“OYE.”
Uzair kept driving.
“UZAIR!”
The jeep continued moving.
“OYE ROMEO!”
The jeep accelerated.
Slightly.
Behind him, Alam bhai's laughter echoed through half the market.
Unfortunately, that only confirmed his suspicions.
Because apparently everyone in Lyari had collectively decided to ruin his life.
And somehow the worst part wasn't the teasing.
The worst part was that every time someone mentioned her—
he smiled.
Which was becoming a serious problem.
A very serious problem.
By the time he finally turned toward the haveli, the city had grown quieter, the roads emptier, and the night deeper. Yet despite driving around for nearly an hour, he felt absolutely no closer to understanding what exactly had happened to him.
Only one thing seemed painfully obvious.
Tomorrow was going to be unbearable.
Because Hamza was definitely going to find out.
───────────────────✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*───────────────────
By the time Uzair finally reached the haveli, it was much later than it should have been.
Far later.
The lights were still on.
Which immediately felt suspicious.
Very suspicious.
Because normally by this time, half the house would've already gone to sleep.
Instead, the moment he drove through the gates, he saw people.
A lot of people.
Standing on the front porch.
Waiting.
Like a cartel preparing for an interrogation.
Uzair immediately slowed the jeep.
"...Allah."
In the middle stood Ulfat with her arms crossed and a smile that usually meant somebody was about to suffer. Beside her was Rehman, already looking amused. Naieem sat on the porch railing watching the gates like he'd been waiting for entertainment all evening, while Hamza, Donga and Siyahi looked entirely too pleased with themselves.
The second the jeep stopped, Hamza pointed dramatically.
"HE'S HERE."
"Aray wah," Donga announced. "Dekho kisko yaad aa gaya ghar ka rasta."
"I was working."
"Liar."
"Jhoot."
"Propaganda."
Even Siyahi nodded.
"He's definitely lying."
Traitors.
Every single one of them.
Uzair stepped out and shut the door. The entire porch watched him in silence. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Just stared at him like he was about to confess to a crime.
Finally, Ulfat spoke.
"Safar acha raha?"
Hamza immediately folded in half laughing.
Uzair closed his eyes.
"...Bhabhi."
"Main toh bas pooch rahi hoon."
Naieem snorted.
"Achha safar hi raha hoga. Warna aadmi ek ghanta extra Lyari ke chakkar nahi lagata."
That got another round of laughter.
Even Rehman finally gave up trying to look serious.
"Traffic tha?" he asked innocently.
"There was no traffic," Hamza replied before Uzair could answer. "There was Alam."
The porch exploded.
"Alam bhai ne dekh liya?" Naieem asked.
"Oh, he definitely saw them."
"Ya Allah."
Uzair considered homicide briefly.
Then Ulfat lifted one hand.
Instant silence.
The kind of silence only women like Ulfat could create.
She looked at Uzair for a long moment.
Then smiled.
A dangerous smile.
"So."
Everyone immediately leaned forward.
Even Rehman.
"Should I contact the Ansari family?"
Silence.
Complete silence.
Uzair blinked once.
Then twice.
"...What?"
"For wedding planning."
Donga nearly fell off the porch.
Hamza physically grabbed Siyahi's shoulder to stay upright.
Naieem was laughing so hard he had to sit down.
Even Rehman gave up completely and turned away to hide his face.
"Bhabhi."
"What?"
"We had doodh soda."
"And?"
"That's it."
"Uzair," she said patiently, "nobody drives around Lyari for over an hour because of doodh soda."
Unfortunately.
She had a point.
A very annoying point.
Hamza wiped tears from his eyes.
"I've never seen him lose this badly."
"Neither have I," Donga agreed.
"Enough."
The word came out sharper than intended.
The boys immediately straightened.
Still grinning.
But straightened.
For a moment, the teasing faded from Ulfat's expression. She looked at him carefully before saying, much more softly,
"She's a good girl."
And somehow that was worse than all the jokes.
Because he couldn't argue.
Couldn't deny it.
Couldn't even look at anyone.
Ulfat noticed immediately.
Of course she did.
A small victorious smile appeared.
Complete victory.
"Accha, bas. Everybody inside. And keep your voices down. Faizal finally fell asleep."
That immediately got a chorus of groans.
"Seriously?"
"He was waiting for bhai to come home."
"Poor kid."
"Now move before you wake him up."
The interrogation finally ended and everyone began heading inside.
Or at least, it should have.
Because as Hamza walked past Uzair, he leaned close enough to whisper,
"Goodnight, Uzair."
Donga followed immediately.
"Allah hafiz, Uzair."
Both idiots sprinted toward the house before Uzair could murder them.
And judging by the way the entire porch erupted into laughter behind him—
they had absolutely no regrets.
───────────────────✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*───────────────────
Eventually the house settled.
The laughter faded.
The lights downstairs switched off one by one.
Even Hamza's voice finally disappeared somewhere into the depths of the haveli.
A miracle.
A genuine miracle.
Uzair escaped to his balcony sometime after midnight.
Mostly because staying inside meant risking another interrogation.
The night air was cooler now.
A welcome change after the heat of the day.
Below him, Lyari glowed beneath scattered streetlights. A few shops were still open in the distance. Somewhere far away, a motorcycle rumbled through the streets before fading into silence again.
The city never truly slept.
Neither, apparently, did he.
Uzair rested his arms against the balcony railing and stared out over the rooftops.
For the first time all day—
nobody was talking.
No Hamza.
No Donga.
No Alam bhai.
No Ulfat.
Just silence.
Unfortunately—
that somehow made things worse.
Because now there was nothing distracting him.
Nothing stopping his thoughts from replaying the entire day from the beginning.
The school.
The football match.
The earrings.
The scooty.
The doodh soda.
The drive.
Everything.
A small groan escaped him.
"...Allah."
The city remained entirely unsympathetic.
Somewhere a dog barked.
A light switched off in a neighboring house.
Life continued.
Completely unaware that Uzair Baloch was currently losing an argument with his own brain.
Because every time he tried thinking about literally anything else—
the same moments returned.
Rooh laughing at Alam bhai's awful jokes.
Rooh teasing him about smiling.
Rooh sitting across from him with a doodh soda in her hands.
Rooh saying she liked Lyari.
And then—
inevitably—
the worst one.
"Goodnight, Uzair."
Uzair immediately looked offended.
At nobody.
Just the universe in general.
Because there was absolutely no reason a person should be thinking this much about two words.
Two words.
That was all.
Ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
A breeze drifted through the balcony, carrying the distant sounds of the city below.
He should sleep.
He knew that.
Tomorrow would be busy.
There was work.
School.
Meetings.
Actual responsibilities.
Important things.
Instead—
he found himself wondering whether her scooty would actually be fixed by tomorrow.
A dangerous thought.
Followed by an even more dangerous one.
Would she still wear the earrings?
Uzair immediately straightened.
"No."
The answer came out aloud.
Firm.
Decisive.
As if he'd caught himself committing a crime.
A second later he sighed.
Because he absolutely had.
The worst part was that Hamza would somehow figure it out.
Hamza always figured it out.
Which meant tomorrow was going to be unbearable.
Absolutely unbearable.
For a long moment he remained standing there, watching the lights of Lyari shimmer beneath the night sky.
Then finally—
slowly—
a small smile appeared.
Unwanted.
Uninvited.
Completely hopeless.
And for once—
there was nobody around to make fun of him for it.
That alone almost felt suspicious.
Almost.
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Avi's Notes:
Ok, so this chapter is a bit shorter than the others, mainly because i wanted a little haveli scene.
Please feel free to let me know if you have any constructive criticism.
Pairing: Rehman Dakait × Mahnoor Azmi
Content Warnings: Past Lovers • Lost Love • Unrequited love, One-Sided Enemies • Right Person, Wrong Time • Second Chance • Marriage of Separation • Mature themes
Synopsis:Firaaq-e-Mohabbat (The aftermath of separation) is a story of unfinished love, regret, and the terrible things time cannot heal. A story about what remains after love is lost — and whether some people are destined to become each other’s greatest wound.
Present day, Lyari, Pakistan
Dinner was announced shortly after, and the guests gradually moved toward the long dining table arranged beneath the courtyard lights. It stretched almost the length of the haveli, filled with politicians, businessmen, and old family friends—men who had spent years building influence and power.
Mahnoor would have preferred staying as far away from Rehman as possible, but fate seemed determined to mock her. By the time everyone found their seats, Rehman was directly across from her. Not beside her. Not close enough for conversation. Just close enough to be impossible to ignore. Mahnoor lowered her gaze immediately, focusing on her plate, on the food, on literally anything else. Conversation flowed around the table as Major Iqbal told some story from his army days, several men laughed, someone made a comment about politics, and someone else argued back.
Everything was normal. Except Mahnoor was painfully aware of Rehman's presence from the opposite side of the table. It sat beneath her skin like a splinter she couldn't reach, impossible to ignore no matter how hard she tried. She could feel him without looking at him—the weight of him, the familiarity of him, the memories that seemed to rise uninvited whenever he was near. It was infuriating. Every laugh around the table, every conversation, every clink of cutlery faded into the background whenever she became conscious of him sitting there. Like the beginning of a headache pulsing behind her temples, subtle at first and then impossible to escape. She hated it. Hated that after everything, he still had the power to occupy space in her mind without saying a single word
Across the table, Rehman barely heard half the conversation. Major Iqbal was saying something. Someone else was arguing about politics while Abir responded.
Ten years.
Ten years and somehow she still reached him without trying.
Mahnoor tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the movement absentminded and familiar. Rehman's gaze lingered on it longer than it should have. It was such a small thing, yet it unraveled something deep inside him. Once, he had been the one to do that—to brush away the stubborn strands that escaped her braid, to tuck them gently behind her ear while she complained about him fussing too much. Back then, the gesture had been effortless, instinctive, woven into the ordinary rhythm of their days. Now he watched her do it herself, and the sight left a strange ache in his chest. It was astonishing how years could pass, how lives could change, and yet a single movement could carry him back to a time when reaching for her had felt as natural as breathing.
Rehman lowered his gaze to his plate, haunted by their old memories together. He had spent years imagining the moment he would meet her again. In some versions she was angry. In others she cried. Sometimes she walked away. Never once had he imagined this.
Politeness.
Distance.
Indifference.
Across the table Mahnoor smiled at something Abir said. The smile was small. The kind that settled naturally on her lips when she was comfortable, when she wasn't carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Rehman's gaze lingered for a moment too long before he forced himself to look away.
The sight hurt.
Because this was what he had wanted for her, wasn't it? Happiness. Peace. A life untouched by the shadows that had followed him for so long. He had spent years convincing himself that if Mahnoor ever found those things, he would be grateful. That seeing her smile again would feel like a blessing.
Instead, it felt like losing her all over again.
A waiter moved around the table, serving food from one guest to the next. When he reached Mahnoor, the serving spoon caught awkwardly against the edge of the dish.
The bowl tilted.
Only slightly.
Enough for a few drops of curry to tremble near the rim.
Before the waiter could steady it himself, another hand reached forward.
Rehman's.
The movement was so immediate that it seemed almost unconscious. As though some part of him had reacted before the rest of him had the chance to think. His fingers closed around the side of the bowl, holding it steady.
The waiter froze. Then quickly murmured an apology and moved on.
Mahnoor eyes lifted.
And found Rehman's.
The distance between them remained the same—an entire dining table, dozens of guests, ten years of silence.
Yet suddenly it felt much smaller.
Rehman's hand still rested against the bowl.
His gaze remained fixed on her, steady and unreadable.
There was no smile.
No greeting.
Nothing that should have affected her at all.
Yet something inside her chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because she remembered.
She remembered a boy who had once noticed everything.
The way she took her tea. The books she liked. The headaches she got when she skipped meals. The small things no one else ever paid attention to. And somehow, after ten years, his first instinct had still been to reach for her. The realization unsettled her more than it should have.
A second later, Rehman seemed to remember himself. Something flickered across his face—so brief she almost thought she had imagined it. Then his hand withdrew, the warmth of his touch disappearing as quickly as it had come.
And just like that, the moment shattered.
The spell broke.
The world rushed back in all at once. Voices drifted across the table. Someone laughed at a joke she hadn't heard. Cutlery clinked softly against porcelain. A waiter passed by carrying steaming dishes. The evening resumed as though nothing had happened.
As though the air between them hadn't changed. As though her heart hadn't forgotten how to beat properly for a few terrifying seconds.
Mahnoor lowered her gaze to her plate, focusing on the food in front of her with far more concentration than it deserved. But it was useless. Her pulse still felt unsteady beneath her skin. A strange tightness had settled in her chest, expanding with every breath she took.
She hated it.
Hated that after all these years, after all the anger and hurt and promises she'd made to herself, a single look from him could still unravel something inside her.
Suddenly, the food on her plate looked unappetizing.
A few minutes later, Abir found himself drawn into a discussion with several older guests regarding property matters. Questions turned into suggestions, suggestions into advice, and before long, all attention had shifted toward him.
Mahnoor remained silent, listening more than participating.
Then Major Iqbal suddenly laughed.
"Abir sahib, aap toh khushnaseeb nikle."
Several heads turned toward him.
Abir smiled politely.
"Ji?"
Major Iqbal gestured toward Mahnoor.
"Biwi bhi khoobsurat aur samajhdar."
A ripple of amused agreement passed around the table.
Mahnoor offered a courteous smile.
Across from her, Rehman remained perfectly still.
No reaction.
No visible change in expression.
Nothing.
For reasons she couldn't explain, that unsettled her more than any display of emotion could have.
Because she remembered a different Rehman.
Younger.
Reckless.
Possessive.
The kind of man who would have bristled at a comment far less personal than that. But that man belonged to another lifetime. This Rehman simply sat in silence, his face unreadable beneath the warm glow of the courtyard lights.
The conversation moved on.
Yet the tension remained.
Invisible.
Lingering across the length of the table.
In every accidental glance.
Every silence.
Every moment their eyes nearly met before one of them looked away.
Neither spoke.
Not once.
And somehow, amidst the laughter, the conversation, and the clatter of dishes, that silence became the loudest thing in the room.
Ten years stood between them—unspoken, unresolved, and impossible to ignore.
The dinner ended nearly an hour later, and Mahnoor had never been more grateful to hear chairs scrape against the floor.
As people stood and conversations fragmented into smaller groups—some drifting toward the courtyard, others gathering around Abir, a few older guests moving toward the sitting area where tea had already been arranged.
Mahnoor rose from her seat, finally feeling like she could breathe. Abir appeared beside her, still smiling from whatever conversation he had just escaped, and asked if she was tired. She admitted she was a little. He offered her the chance to sit inside, but before she could answer, another guest called his name across the courtyard.
With a sigh and a brief squeeze of her hand, he left, and she watched him disappear into another circle of guests, then exhaled.
Finally. Peace. No. Not from him. From the chaos.
A few minutes later she stepped onto one of the quieter verandas overlooking the courtyard. The noise became distant there—muted, bearable. The night breeze carried the scent of jasmine from somewhere in the garden, and for the first time since arriving, her shoulders relaxed.
Ten years.
Ten years and somehow one accidental meeting had unsettled an entire evening.
Ridiculous.
Mahnoor folded her arms, her thoughts hardening as if trying to rebuild walls that had cracked for a moment. Seeing Rehman reminded her of who she used to be—the girl who had trusted him blindly, believed every promise he made, and waited for him long after she should have stopped.
That girl was gone. Her life now was different.
bir wasn't the kind of love people wrote poetry about. He didn't make her heart race or leave her awake at night thinking about him. Their marriage had never been built on grand declarations or impossible passion.
It had been built on something steadier.
Something quieter.
Respect.
Trust.
Consistency.
Abir showed up.
Every day.
He remembered how she took her tea. Called when he said he would. Sat beside her during difficult days without demanding she explain herself. He never made promises he couldn't keep and never left her wondering where she stood.
There was comfort in that.
A deep, settled contentment she had spent years building.
Maybe it wasn't the kind of love that consumed a person.
But it was the kind that stayed.
The kind that made a house feel like home and silence feel companionable instead of lonely.
And after everything she had survived, Mahnoor had chosen certainty over intensity.
Chosen peace over longing.
Chosen the man who remained.
So why, she wondered bitterly, did seeing the man who had left still have the power to disturb her peace?
A quiet sound behind her pulled her from her thoughts: footsteps, slow and measured. Mahnoor didn't need to turn around; some instincts never left. For a second she considered walking away, but irritation won.
She turned.
Rehman stood a few feet away, bathed in the pale glow of moonlight.
For a moment, Mahnoor simply stared.
Ten years had changed him.
The boy she had once loved was gone. In his place stood a man shaped by time and experience. Broader shoulders. Sharper features. A quiet confidence that hadn't existed before. The years had stripped away the recklessness of youth and replaced it with something steadier, something far more dangerous.
And God, she hated that it suited him.
There were faint lines around his eyes now, traces of a life she knew nothing about. Yet beneath all the changes, some things remained exactly the same.
The dark eyes.
The intensity of his gaze.
The unsettling way he could look at her and make her feel seen.
His expression remained unreadable, and she hated that most of all. Hated how calm he looked, as though he hadn't spent an entire decade haunting memories he had no right to occupy. As though seeing her again hadn't shaken him at all.
Then his voice came, quiet and low:
Meri jaan
The endearment slipped from his lips with the same familiarity it always had, as though no time had passed at all. As though he was still the young man who reached for her hand without thinking, who said her name and followed it with meri jaan so often that the two had become inseparable in his mind.
The breeze stirred the edge of her dupatta, sending the soft fabric dancing against her arm. Somewhere below, laughter echoed from the courtyard—guests mingling, life continuing as though the world hadn't just tilted on its axis. Neither of them moved. The air between them felt thick, heavy with everything unsaid.
Mahnoor forced her voice steady, sharpening it into a warning.
Rehman
Just his name, clipped and final, a door slamming shut before he could even step through it. But Rehman didn't flinch. His gaze traced her face slowly, as if he was memorizing every line time had added, every shadow the veranda's dim light cast.
When he spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent, the words slipping out like a confession he'd been holding for a decade.
Das saal baad bhi tumhari aankhon ka rang nahi bhool saka
The compliment landed like a stone in still water, ripples spreading through her chest despite every wall she'd built. She hated that. Hated how easily his voice found the cracks. So she hardened her own.
Rehman
She warned again, sharper this time, a blade drawn to keep him at arm's length. He took a step closer anyway—just one, but it felt like a mile. His hand lifted slightly, as if to reach for her, then stopped mid-air, hanging there, uncertain.
Puchogi nahi kuch mujhse
Puchne ke liye kuch bachaya hi kaha tha tumne"
Her words cut him off before he could finish, clean and cold. She turned her face away, fixing her gaze on the dark garden beyond the railing, refusing to meet his eyes. And he noticed.
Tumhe yaha nhi aana chahie tha
The silence swelled again, filled with the distant clink of teacups, the murmur of conversations, the whisper of jasmine in the night breeze.
Rehman took a step closer, the space between them shrinking until he stood just behind her. His hand lifted instinctively, drawn toward her as though ten years had never happened. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to curl his fingers around her arm and turn her toward him, to see her face, to make her look at him. But the movement died halfway. Reality returned, and with it the reminder that he no longer had that right.
Slowly, he let his hand fall back to his side.
Still, he didn't move away.
He remained there, impossibly close, separated from her by only a few inches and an entire decade. The night air felt heavy between them. Rehman looked at her silhouette beneath the moonlight and felt the weight of every unsaid word settle in his chest.
He wanted to explain.
To unravel the ten years that stood between them like a wall.
Main aaj bhi tumse baat karne ke liye wahi alfaaz dhoondta hoon jo das saal pehle dhoondta tha
Mahnoor slowly turned, and their eyes met.
For the first time that night, Rehman saw it clearly. Not fury. Not resentment. Just disappointment—the quiet, devastating kind that came after grief had exhausted itself. The kind that settled in the heart when there was nothing left to hope for, when love had nowhere left to go.
A thousand questions seemed to hang between them. Why? Where did you go? Why didn't you come back? Did any of it mean anything? But Mahnoor didn't ask a single one. Ten years had taught her something cruel: some questions lost their meaning when they were asked too late, and some answers arrived long after they could change anything.
Her gaze remained on him for one last lingering second. Then, to his surprise, she smiled.
Not warmly.
Not bitterly.
Just sadly.
A smile that looked like a farewell. Like someone quietly mourning a future that had died years ago.
And somehow, that smile hurt Rehman more than hatred ever could.
Without a word, she stepped past him. The edge of her dupatta brushed against his sleeve—a fleeting touch, gone before he could register it. Then she kept walking, her footsteps echoing softly through the corridor.
Rehman didn't move.
He remained exactly where he was, staring after her long after she had disappeared from sight, listening to the sound of her footsteps grow fainter and fainter until there was nothing left at all.
Only silence.
His eyes closed briefly.
For ten years, he had imagined this moment differently. He had replayed old conversations, unfinished goodbyes, and all the things he would say if he ever saw Mahnoor again. But standing there now, listening to her footsteps disappear into the silence, Rehman finally understood.
Some distances were not measured in miles. Or years. They were measured in missed chances. In words left unsaid.
Now, beneath the pale moonlight, Rehman stood alone.
Still searching for the words.
And for the first time in ten years, he feared there were none left.
To diversify revenue streams of a business model; just model
A/N: a complete crack fic based on this post 😭✋🏽
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; all characters and events are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Warning: humour, fluff, smut, implied smut, making out (?), Uzair being eternally confused and bhondu, Rehman being eternally biwipaglufied and saxyyy, Ulfat the sass kween and tidbits of Hamzair
WC : ~ 5k
Uzair Baloch was, if nothing else, profoundly unaware of the effect he had on people, men and women alike. Running a gang and serving as second-in-command to the Sher-e-Baloch did not leave the younger Baloch with a great deal of time to stand in front of mirrors and contemplate his own face. He knew, vaguely and practically, that a man in his profession needed to know such things, that he was decent-looking enough to lure a stupid politician into a trap when the situation called for it. That was the extent of his relationship with his own appearance. A tool. Occasionally useful. Nothing more.
The idea that it could be anything else had simply never occurred to him.
Which was why Uzair Baloch, the fearsome gangster, kidnapper, arms dealer, general menace to civil society, found himself standing in the middle of a photography studio in clothes that had probably cost more than two months of his salary, unsure of what to do with his hands, or his arms, or his legs, or frankly any part of his body that he had previously operated without conscious thought.
He was gangly in the way that tall men sometimes were, all limbs and angles, and the limbs in question were currently arranged in a configuration that the director described, with remarkable diplomacy, as a work in progress.
“Bhai, kandhe relax karo.”
“Relax hi toh hain.”
“Relax nahi lag rahe.”
“Phir kaise lag rahe hain?”
The director squinted.“Jaise abhi kisi ko uthwaane wale ho.”
“Woh toh main aksar karta hoon.” Uzair laughed
An uncomfortable silence fell upon the set, some people sweating nervously, the others shaking slightly as they tried to work around this dangerous gangster, joking about kidnapping people as if he were conversing about cricket scores.
“...Theek hai,” the director said weakly. “Kuch aur try karte hain.”
Instructions were being offered. Uzair was trying to follow them and tt was, by any measure, not going well.
“Thoda aur intensity do.”
Uzair stared directly into the camera.
“Perfect... ab thodi kam qatl wali intensity.”
Uzair blinked, trying to appear less threatening.
“Abhi bhi qatl wali hai.”
The photographer lowered his camera. “Janab, aapke paas do expressions ke ilawa kuch aur bhi hai? Ek qatl wala aur ek qatl se pehle wala?”
“Abe oh dehd haddi, chup chaap se photo le nahi toh expression sirf qatl waali nahi bachegi, qatl kar bhi dunga.”
The photographer looked moments away from a nervous breakdown and was considering switching his career to nature photography. “Jee, ek haath jeb mein daaliye.”
Uzair complied, although begrudgingly; he was dying for a smoke at this point, and the contour on his cheekbones made him flush more than the blush could. Since when did gangsters wear makeup ??
“Arre nahi, aise nahi.”
“Aise kya masla hai?”
“Lag raha hai jeb mein pistol chhupa rakhi hai.”
Uzair frowned, Woh toh har dafa rakhta hoon.”
“...Kya?”
The director closed his eyes in resignation. Across the studio, the makeup artist leaned toward the stylist.
“Yeh waqai model hai?”
“Nahi.”
“Toh phir?”
“Allah jaane.”
“Lekin itna pata hai,” she sighed, practically fawning, “Is aadmi ko bilkul andaaza nahi hai ke yeh kitna khoobsurat hai.”
The stylist watched Uzair run a hand absentmindedly through his hair and accidentally capture the strongest shot of the entire campaign. Cameras started clicking furiously.
“HAAN! BAS! YAHI! BILKUL YAHI!”
Uzair immediately froze.
“Kya hua?”
“Main ne kya kiya?”
“Jo bhi kiya dobara kariye!”
“Lekin mujhe khud nahi pata maine kya kiya.”
It had all started, as so many of his problems did, with something entirely outside his control.
There had been a political event. Rehman had been away in Balochistan on business, and Uzair had gone in his place, stood at the back of a hall full of people he didn't like, representing interests he only partially understood, doing his job with the quiet competence that had always been his greatest professional asset. Someone from the Karachi Times had taken a photograph. Uzair had gone home and thought nothing of it.
He could not have known that a copy of that newspaper would somehow travel from Karachi to London, land on the editorial desk of a high-end desi clothing label, and somebody there had looked at the photograph and decided that what the fashion industry desperately needed was a six-foot-something Balochi gangster with a permanent resting murder face.
The offer had arrived within days of the photograph, and he had not known peace since. And so, as any reasonable man would do when the universe had stopped making sense, Uzair went to find the only person in the house who could reliably be counted upon to provide it — Ulfat.
Ulfat took another look over the contract, turning a page with the careful attention of someone who was absolutely not thinking about how funny this was, and then said, with great composure, "Uzi, mai toh Rehman se hamesha kehti thi dono bhai ekdum tabahi ho."
"Aap bhi na bhabhi," Uzair said, with the wounded dignity, he had come seeking sanctuary and found none. "Mai aapke paas moral support ke liye aaya tha, aur aap bhi mera mazaak uda rahi ho." He reached into his pocket and produced his third cigarette of the day. It was, by the clock on the wall, barely ten in the morning.
The cigarette did not survive long.
Ulfat reached over, plucked it clean from between his lips, and crushed it with the practiced efficiency. "Ayyyy, cigarette phenko," she said, the tone carrying tiredness as if it was sick of having this conversation with the entire Baloch household. "Dono bhaiyon ko apni sehat ki bilkul kadar nahi hai", she humphed.
"Bhabhiii —"
"Kya bhabhi bhabhi laga rakha hai." She looked at him, and this time she did not bother to fight the smile. "Allah ta'ala ne itni sundar shakal di hai ja, uska thoda istemaal kar logo ko darane ke ilawa."
Ulfat, to her credit, made a genuine effort to compose herself, straightening in her chair and smoothing her expression into something approaching professional neutrality. "Dekho," she said, with admirable steadiness. "Kitne paise de rahe hain?"
Uzair named the amount. The room went quiet.
Ulfat blinked once, then again, as if the number required a second pass to register fully. A long pause followed, during which she appeared to be conducting some silent internal arithmetic.
"...Aur tumne abhi tak contract sign nahi kiya?"
"Bhabhi!"
"Uzair, itne paise mein toh main khud model ban jaaun." She slid the contract across the desk with the air of authority leaving no open room for debate. "Sign karo."
"Lekin mujhe modelling nahi aati," he said, making one final, dignified stand.
He searched for a rebuttal and found, to his apparent frustration, that none was immediately available. "Bhabhi, modelling aur kidnapping mein farq hota hai," he said at last, with great solemnity.
Ulfat picked up her pen and returned to her paperwork. "Jee haan," she said simply. "Modelling legal hoti hai."
Uzair sat there in stunned silence, baffled by the casual confidence with which his bhabhi had solved the problem. Ulfat spoke about modelling the same way she spoke about arms routes, political alliances, or extracting information from unfortunate souls through creative interrogation techniques. To her, it was simply another business decision.
He was just opening his mouth to argue when Naeem wandered into the room, grabbed the contract off the table, and began skimming through it. A second later, the haveli echoed with a shriek.
“PAANCH MILLION RUPAY?!”
Both Uzair and Ulfat winced.
“Chaachu!” Naeem gasped. “Aapne kiska qatl kiya hai itne paise ke liye?”
“Abe shaanay,” Uzair deadpanned, “qatl hi hai. Bas is baar mera qatl ho raha hai.”
"Naeem," Ulfat supplied cheerfully, "tumhare chaachu ko London ke log modelling karwana chahte hain." She was already giggling again before she finished the sentence.
Naeem looked at the contract. Then at his uncle. Then, back at the contract, his teenage mind was moving at 150 miles/ hour, doing complex mathematical calculations.
“Ek shoot ke paanch million?”
“Haan.”
“Ek hi shoot?”
“Haan.”
“Kapde pehen ke?”
“NAEEM.”
The teenager ignored him completely.“Chaachu, apna nahi toh hum logon ka soch lo!” he pleaded dramatically, dropping to his knees beside the chair. “Itne paise toh abbu ek hafte mai kamate hai jitna aap ek shoot mai kamaoge”
Uzair rubbed his temples, a headache was slowly finding its way, “Naeem...”
“Nahi, meri baat suniye.” The boy clasped his hands together. “Aapko paise nahi chahiye? Mujhe de dena. Main invest kar dunga.”
“Invest?” Uzair repeated suspiciously.
“Jee.”
“Kahan?”
“Stocks,”, Naeem uttered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “aur aapke fashion stocks upar jaate dekh kar koi ache fashion label mai invest karunga, bohot ache returns milenge”
Uzair ignored the evil grin appearing on his nephew’s face, turning to Ulfat, who had another incentive ready, “Haan aur waise bhi,” Ulfat interjected, thoroughly enjoying herself, “hamari haveli mein kam az kam ek legal source of income toh hona chahiye. Sirf mere business ke sahare legal front maintain nahi kiya ja sakta.”
“Dekha?” Naeem pointed at her. “Ammi bhi keh rahi hain.”
Uzair looked at his nephew. Then at his bhabhi. Then at the contract sitting on the desk between them, representing five million rupees and what remained of his dignity.
Then he sighed. The sigh of a man accepting his fate.
“Theek hai,” he muttered. “Kar lunga.”
Naeem punched the air.
“YES!”
“Lekin,” Uzair warned, pointing a finger at him, “agar tumne ek baar bhi mera mazaak udaaya na, toh tumhe tumhari investment ke liye ek paisa nahi milega.”
Naeem immediately straightened, his voice gone completely innocent,“Main toh aapka sabse bara supporter hoon, chaachu.”
“Jhoota.”
Turning to Ulfat, Uzair added with great dignity, “Aur bhabhi, main yeh sirf aapke legal source of income mein haath bataane ke liye kar raha hoon.”
“Jo bhi kaho, Pretty Boy.” Ulfat grinned.
Uzair closed his eyes. He hated that nickname already.
“I can't wait,” Ulfat continued wickedly, “for Rehman to hear about this.”
For the first time that afternoon, genuine terror crossed Uzair Baloch's face. Because if there was one thing worse than becoming a model...It was becoming a model while Rehman was alive to make fun of him for it.
Two days later, Uzair found himself standing outside Rehman’s office with the same expression he had donned as a child when he used to be schooled by the principal.
Unfortunately, he had no choice.If he was going to London, he needed a visa. If he needed a visa, he needed political favours. If he needed political favours, he needed Rehman. And if he needed Rehman, then Allah help him.
“Bhai,” he began cautiously, stepping into the office.
Rehman glanced up from the files scattered across his desk, a cigarette permanently attached to his fingers, “Haan?”
“Mujhe ek kaam tha.”
Rehman immediately tensed, his eye brows furrouwed, whenever Uzair started a sentence with mujhe ek kaam tha, it usually meant his brother had messed up something with the shipping consignments or the gang had embroiled themselves in another mess; he could already sense the incoming headache.
“Kaisa kaam?”
“Woh... London jaana tha.”
The pen in Rehman's hand paused; he looked up now, curiosity flooding his eyes, “London?”
“Jee.”
“Kyun?”
Uzair remained silent, suddenly finding the carpet patterns of the office very interesting.
“Uzair.”
“Jee?”
“Kyun?”
The younger Baloch let out a long-suffering sigh and proceeded to explain the entire ordeal, from the newspaper photograph to the magazine contract to the studio shoot.
By the end of it, Rehman had become remarkably engrossed with his tea, constantly hiding his face behind the cup of tea, mostly because looking at Uzair directly would have caused him to laugh unrestrained.
“Bhai, hasiye mat.”
“Main nahi hans raha.”
“Jhoot.”
His shoulders were shaking, as he finally kept down the tea cup and a huge smile graced his handsome features, breaking into poorly hidden giggles.
Uzair narrowed his eyes.
“Bhai.”
“Of course, Uzair,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “Tumhein apne khwabon ka peecha karna chahiye.”
“...Mere kya?”
“Khwab.”
“Bhai.”
“Main Quetta wali shipping dekh lunga. Tum fikr mat karo.”
“Arey nahi bhai!” Uzair said immediately. “Main waise hi jaa raha tha. Kaam nipta ke wapas aa jaunga.”
“Haan haan.”
“Sach mein.”
“Bilkul.”
“Bhai!”
“Achha batao kitne paise de rahe hain?”
Uzair hesitated, “Paanch million,” he muttered the number.
Rehman's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline, “PAANCH MILLION?”
“Jee.”
“Ek shoot ke?”
“Jee.”
“Aur tumhein yeh paise sirf isliye mil rahe hain kyunke tum zara se chikne lychee ho?”
“Bhai!”
“Wah beta.”
Rehman leaned back in his chair and took a thoughtful sip of tea. Then the businessman inside him awoke.
“Hmmm.”
Uzair immediately recognised that sound. It was the same sound Rehman made before entering highly profitable criminal ventures.
“Bhai?”
“Main Jamali se baat karta hoon.”
“Visa ke liye?”
“Haan”, he paused for a moment,”par isme mere liye kya hai, tumhara mai visa agent ke kaam ke liye commission kya milegi?”, Rehman demanded, a sly smile appearing on his dangerous face.
“Uhhh…..commission bhai”, Uzair nervously laughed, scratching his head, trying to come up with ridiculous ideas but none seemed to hold up to his brother’s standards.
“Acha chalo mai bat deta hoon, mai kuch toh commission lunga”, Rehman stated firmly,” Har successful organisation ko diverse revenue streams ki zaroorat hoti hai.”
Uzair stared, slowly watching the cogs turn in his brother’s brain as he laid out an elaborate business plan as if they didn’t run an illegal arms business.
“Bhai, main modelling ki baat kar raha hoon.”
“Main bhi.”
“Mai bhi apne gang ke business model ko expand krne ki soch raha tha”, Rehman teased, “tere hisse se 20 taka commission.”
“BHAI.”, Uzair protested. Both father and son moved like their brains were in sync. One was asking for investment funds and the other for commission, “20 % taka ???”
“Family discount samjho.”
“Main mehnat karun, photo khichwaun, aur paise aap le jao?”
“Aakhir itne saalon se tujhe paala posa hai,” Rehman replied smoothly. “Kuch toh ROI milna chahiye.”
Rehman ignored him completely.
Truthfully, he had spent years thinking about expanding the gang's business portfolio. Every few months, he would sit down and consider new ventures, some legal, most illegal. This particular opportunity, however, had landed in his lap completely uninvited.
It was unconventional. Ridiculous, even. But money was money.
And if international fashion houses were willing to pay five million rupees to put his ridiculously idiotic (yet lovable) younger brother in expensive clothes and photograph him looking angry...
Well.
Who was Rehman Baloch to stand in the way of entrepreneurship?
“Ja London,” he declared. “Gang ke financial future ka sawaal hai.”
“Saath mein Hamza ko bhi le jaana,” Rehman added. “Kya pata usse bhi pasand kar lein.”
“Bhai par Hamza ky—-”, Uzair protested, almost blushing at Hamza’s mention.
“Qasam se, kabhi kabhi lagta hai main gundo ko paal raha hoon ya rajkumaron ko.”
Uzair finally stood up, shaking his head, “Haan haan, uda lijiye mazaak, par yaad rakhiye ga, mere good looks ki wajah se aap apna revenue stream expand kar rahe hain.”
Then Rehman slowly leaned back in his chair, assessing the various ways in which he would be allowed to bury his younger sibling, “Dekho zara.”
“Kya?”
“Do din modelling ka contract kya mil gaya, attitude dekho Pretty Boy ka.”
“Bhai... wait, what?” Uzair froze. “Aapko uske baare mein kaise pata? Wait...” His eyes widened in horror. “Bhabhi ne aapse iss baare mein pehle hi zikr krli?”
“Haan toh aur kya?” Rehman flashed a crooked smile. “Mere aur tere bhabhi ke beech koi raaz nahi chhupta. Teri modelling ka bhi nahi.”
“Toh aap bas acting kar rahe the?” Uzair trailed off, the realisation slowly setting in. “Aur mujhse 20% commission bhi le liya?”
Rehman let out a small laugh, butting his cigarette now, “Haan. Ab kahan gaya attitude?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Beta, aise thodi Sher-e-Baloch ban gaya tha.”
“Haan haan, theek hai,” Uzair replied, heading toward the door. “Call mat karna mujhe jab London se koi samaan chahiye hoga. Aur aapke Marlboro ke liye toh bilkul nahi.”
The smirk had barely left his face when the rest of his sentence was cut off by a half-finished cigarette hurtling toward his head. Uzair narrowly dodged it.
“QATL KI KOSHISH!”
“Abhi dikhata hoon qatl ki koshish!”
Laughing, Uzair practically sprinted out of the office before his brother could find something heavier to throw at him.
Behind him, Rehman shook his head and reached for the contract again. Five million rupees. For photographs. Perhaps crime really was the wrong industry after all. Maybe he should give it a shot, or was he too old? Ulfat always told him that he looked too handsome for his own good. A slow grin spread across his face.
Then another thought occurred to him. If Uzair was getting five million...
How much would he get? After all, between the two of them, Rehman was clearly the better-looking brother (Uzair would certainly debate that). The grin widened. Somewhere in the haveli, Ulfat sneezed. And for reasons she couldn't explain, she suddenly felt very concerned.
The first shoot had been titled Raw & Unfiltered, which the creative director had intended as a statement on authenticity, rugged masculinity, and natural charisma.
Unfortunately, the public had interpreted it as a personal invitation to show their debauchery. Within hours, the comments section resembled a crime scene.
My panties just flew off
Excuse me, who is he, and why are my panties wet
Raw & Unfiltered? The real question is, does HE like it raw and unfiltered?
Respectfully, bark bark.
I support women's rights, but more importantly, women's wrongs.
I'm straight, but I’d like him to set my back straight
Hamza had pulled him into a corner, showing a terrified Uzair the filth that gathered under the comment section. Uzair almost shrieked, as if he had witnessed an unspeakable crime,his hand trembling as his eyes travelled from one audacious comment to the other, “Yeh maine kya kardiye hamze?” Uzair heaved, “Yeh mujhe zinda kyu khaare hai?”
Hamza rubbed his back protectively, calming down the poor man, “koi nahi khote, woh kabhi nahi choo sakte tujhe par tune sabki tharak jagadi”, Hamza muttered, a small laugh escaping him “......par sirf mai tujhe le skta hoon…..raw and unfiltered”, Hamza whispered, a wolfish grin appearing on his tanned, handsome face as Uzair slowly went from a traumatised man to a blushing schoolgirl.
Hamza pinned him to the wall and kissed him stupid; “Hmmm, Hamzey, koi dekh lega”, Uzair moaned into the kiss, “Saale abhi tereko sharam ki padhi hai”, Hamza growled, his hands roaming everywhere across Uzair's lithe frame, the phone slipped from Uzair’s hand, he reached for Hamza’s mane, kissing him back with equal fervour.
They had been dating fucking each other ever since the night of the celebration of one of Rehman's many famous kills, alcohol had inhibited their pre frontal cortex and they had landed in bed clumsily, Hamza fucking the daylights out of Uzair and since then they had fallen into a dangerous pattern of fucking and making out all around the Haveli and the factory, the thrill of getting caught driving their desires which were now bordering near confessing their feelings that their stupid hearts harboured and couldn't hold in any longer.
Before long, Uzair had somehow become the fashion industry's favourite brooding mystery man, much to his own confusion and everyone else's delight, and nobody enjoyed the development more than Ulfat.
She religiously collected every cover shoot, editorial spread, and interview featuring him, carefully preserving them in the cosy library as though they were priceless historical documents rather than photographs of a gangster brooding aggressively.
Much to the ever-growing annoyance of Rehman, who couldn’t read anything in peace without being bombarded with his brother’s face in every nook and corner, he walked into the room one afternoon and found yet another magazine featuring his younger brother's smoldering face occupying prime shelf space.
“Ulfat.”
“Hmmm?”
“Yeh kya hai?”
“Magazine.”
“Woh mujhe bhi nazar aa raha hai.”
“Phir?”
“Har jagah Uzair hi kyun laga hua hai?”
“Areh,” she looked up from her book, “bacha itna acha kaam kar raha hai. Uski nishani toh honi chahiye ghar mein.”
“Bacha tees saal ka hai.”
“Hamare liye toh bacha hi hai…….uski nishani toh honi chahiye ghar mein.”
“Library hai yeh ya Uzair Baloch fan club?”
“Aapko jalan ho rahi hai?”
“Bilkul nahi.”
“Achha?”
“Bilkul nahi.”
The fact that Rehman immediately moved one magazine face down suggested otherwise.
The situation only worsened when Uzair discovered precisely how much the arrangement annoyed Rehman, at which point it stopped being a side effect and became the entire point.
Every new magazine cover found its way into the library within twenty-four hours of publication. This was not accidental. This was a coordinated operation with a clear chain of command, reliable logistics, and the quiet institutional support of Ulfat, who only demanded discount coupons in bulk in exchange for prolonging Rehman’s visual suffering.
“Allah ki qasam,” Rehman muttered one afternoon, stopping in front of the latest display of Ralph Lauren, “main library mein padhne aata hoon ya iss namoone ki aankhon mein doobne?”
After Uzair was declared as the brand ambassador for Levi's Pakistan, which, according to him, did not mean much other than getting discounted jean apparel, which he did not mind, word got out, as it always did, and the residents of Lyari began sharing their stories about Uzair and the Baloch gang, the other side of his reality.
When the news got out that Uzair was a full-time gangster and only a part-time model, he blew up even more, especially with the girls and media alike who were now hounding Lyari, carrying out investigative journalism.
Stories about the brutality of gang wars spread across the world of journalism, showering doubt and suspicion over the supposedly handsome and uptil now innocent Balochi hunk.
But then the residents of Lyari fiercely defended their Baloch boys, sharing and writing of anecdotes where the Baloch brothers had time and again proved to be more than kind and benevolent to the populace of Lyari and goes without mentioning that they lost count of the amount of times they had been safeguarded from the clutches of the rival gangs.
Soon, unbeknownst to Uzair, Vogue had reached out to Rehman as well, proposing a joint feature on the Baloch brothers. When the older man casually mentioned it over tea one evening, Uzair sat frozen in his chair, staring at him with an expression of profound betrayal.
“Aapko kitna dere hai ?” he demanded suspiciously.
“10 million”, Rehman mentioned with casual ease, ignoring the obvious shell-shocked expression of his younger brother, sipping in some more tea.
“Bhench-.......modelling main krta hoon, famous main hoon, aur double aapko pay kar rahe hai???”.
“Skill issue”.Rehman huffed, thoroughly enjoying Uzair growing through 5 stages of grief,” Par mujhe yeh sab mai koi dischaspi nahi hai, yeh sab natak tumhare layak hain”.
Truthfully, the magazine had offered him a substantially larger fee partly because they knew convincing Rehman Baloch to participate in a fashion shoot would require financial motivation bordering on bribery, and partly because of the stature he carried both within Balochistan and beyond.
Rehman himself, however, cared very little for the distinction. In fact, his first instinct had been to refuse the offer outright.
While Uzair spent his days stumbling into international modelling contracts through sheer accident, Rehman spent his contemplating political strategy, rebel alliances, funding networks, and the perpetual headache that came with attempting to work towards freeing Balochistan.
Vogue covers ranked somewhere below shipping paperwork and slightly above shooting traitorous gang members in terms of importance.
But unfortunately for Rehman, Uzair launched into a full-fledged PR presentation, being the unofficial, terribly unpaid marketing intern for the gang, that insufferable clown’s power had always been optics, and motherufcker had never left an opportunity to weaponise it, whether by deploying puppy eyes or playing the younger brother card.
Immediately launching in his soft yet gravelly tone, “Bhai, aap samajh nahi rahe.”
“Main bohot achi tarah samajh raha hoon.”
“Nahi, aap strategic angle miss kar rahe hain.”
“Kya matlab ?”, Rehman now leaned forward, quirked by Uzar’s frantic persuasion.
Uzair dramatically snatched the contract off the table and began gesturing with it as though he were presenting the decapitated head of Arshad Pappu, “Bhai, sochiye. An international cover. Laakhon log dekhenge. Hamari baat sunenge. Hamare maqsad ke baare mein padhenge. Balochistan ko coverage milegi. Sympathy milegi. International circles mein discussion hoga. Hum soft power build kar sakte hain.”
Rehman stared at Uzair as if the latter had grown 4 heads, and simultaneously hooked himself to cocaine, “Tu mujhe keh rahe ho ke main siyasat sexy poses dekar badal doon?”
“Haan bhai”, Uzair banged his palm on the table gleefully
“Saale kitna peeka aaya hai tu idhar”
Undeterred, Uzair leaned forward, “Bhai, humein bas kuch aise you know brooding poses dene hain”, vaguely gesturing towards his own body in weird choreographies, “handsome lagna hai, aadhi duniya ki larkiyon toh aise hee khtam ho jaegi-”
“Unke khtam hone se pehle teri bhabhi mujhe khtam kr degi”, Rehman cut him off. The image seemed so real in his head that he visibly shuddered.
Rehman continued, a slow blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks, almost shy, “Mera jism bas uske nazron ke liye hain, aur mujhe yeh baat qubool krne mai k—-----”
“OK OK YA YA YA AY”, Uzair visibly cringed, covering his ears, mumbling incoherent words, “ please don’t discuss your sex lives here, mere paas shareer main aur bleach lagane ki capacity nahi hai.”
Assembling his courage for the second time this day, “Dekho bhai aisa kuch nahi hoga, bhabhi ko maalum hai aap hamare zameen ke liye kar rahe ho, aur waise bhi yeh avtar mai dekhar mai kayde ke saath keh skta hoon bhabhi aapko ek naye perspective se dekhegi”, Uzair rambled off, wiggling his eyebrows playfully, giving a vague, suggestive implication.
Rehman's eyes narrowed.
“Uzair.”
“Jee?”
“Apni agli baat bohot soch samajh kar kehna.”
Uzair immediately realised he had wandered into a minefield. He gulped and straightened up, instantly finding the glass of whiskey placed in front of him very intriguing.
“Main chup ho jaata hoon.”
“Behtar hoga.”
Eventually, Rehman reluctantly acquiesced, as Uzair again emotionally manipulated him into doing this for their zameen and log. To be honest Rehman almost always folded to Uzair’s demands, he didn’t know whether it was a kink in his armour or just his beating heart needing Uzair’s wants to be fulfilled before it could circulate more blood
Everytime his brother pleaded for something, he saw an expression of the 6 year old baby Uzair who had come under his care, shivering, cold and with big brown eyes, silently asking for warmth and since then he did not have the heart to say no and neither did he have it now.
Sigh. Maybe he was really growing to be a softie, as Ulfat had mentioned.
So here they were, the Baloch brothers, posing for the front page of Vogue Arabia, the cover splashed with, “Joining with Us Today, the Baddies of Balochistan.”
They did a short piece, explaining what they do, why they do it, very conveniently leaving out the fact that they got another consignment of illegal arms yesterday or they were ordered to carry out a political assassination today or some fucker was definitely gonna die tomorrow in their factory for ratting out on them.
Then expanded diligently upon the love for their land which drives them everyday often resulting in them narrowly escaping death on many occasions.
Rehman, despite the baddie tag being imposed on him, insisted the only baddie in the family is his gorgeous wife, Ulfat.
While Rehman raved about being a proud joru ka gulam and the joy and blessings of fatherhood, Uzair did a small session on how he started with Rehman, his childhood, when he was taken in by Rehman after the Pathaan Gang murdered his parents.
How Rehman raised him, even when Rehman was himself a teenager, it was unconventional, but it was the closest he had come to having another parent, at which Rehman’s makeup needed a bit of touch-up since some stupid tears had conveniently left his eyes.
Discussions continued on brotherhood and the pains and sufferings of an elder sibling, earning Rehman a betrayed glare, followed by Uzair’s inevitable rant about the constant, albeit affectionate, bullying he faced at the hands of Rehman.
And the frequent squibbles and quarrels they had every day, much to the annoyance and constant source of headaches for Ulfat, which inevitably softened into brotherly love at the end of the day, Rehman had stated with utmost ease, casually ruffling the younger Baloch’s hair with paternal warmth.
It was to no one’s surprise that the shoot blew up, garnering thirst and empathy alike.
On one hand, people supported and empathized with the Balochi cause, on the other hand, it was completely and entirely unhinged because not one but two brothers, equally lethal and sexy with their smouldering stares, had caused the collective orgasmic explosion amongst their female fan following.
Especially Rehman, something to do with older men, loyal husband, and emotionally available father......., it had seemed, which had garnered judgmental stares and thorough critical analysis from sociologists about the concerning rise in internal orientalism trapping young women into loving rugged, morally grey men in the absence of soft masculine figures in mainstream media.
While Uzair had, through repeated exposure, gradually developed an immunity to the psychological damage inflicted by the internet's increasingly lustful comment sections, Rehman refused to engage with them altogether. He did not read them, did not acknowledge them, and most certainly did not click on them. Firstly, he valued what remained of his sanity. Secondly, and far more importantly, he valued his life for his jaan maybe the most beautiful woman to have graced this planet but she was undeniably terrifying making him tremble out of fear (or was it raging desire?), he hadn't quite figured that out.
The house had been overjoyed, Naeem had personally framed the cover shoot in five rooms, while Fazial was constantly bombarded with requests to distribute free magazines at school.
Meanwhile, Ulfat had gone quite the day she had gotten her hands on the magazine. The blush rose to her cheeks with as much speech as wet heat rushed to her core.
Her husband had never looked so edible, sure he had looked handsome before, maybe even hot (maybe ? hell, he looked like a piece of meat every day), but that was besides the point. Right now, she felt like a predator wanting to pounce upon the prey.
As soon as Rehman had gotten home that evening, he had rushed to Ulfat wanting to share the latest luxuries he had indulged in, splurging a chunk of his fee for her (he could really be a fashion diva at times), but before he could utter a word, he was kissed hard and dragged like a mop to the bedroom.
Rehman only stepped out of the bedroom the next morning, Ulfat wanted to appreciate him for the cover shoot, and she did it in ways which had resulted in exhaustion seeping into his bones, his very existence swallowed as Ulfat’s pussy had engulfed him for hours and hours last night, milking him dry for everything he had to offer in all the positions the Kamasutra had demonstrated.
Sometimes he thought were they even a middle-aged couple for two people who regularly lost control like horny teenagers with no impulse.
As he entered the kitchen, clutching his lower back, godamn, he was getting too old for these adventurous positions. The woman responsible for it was peacefully enjoying her slumber after breaking his back. If this was her reaction, he would commit to more shoots, he thought, smirking like an idiot, even if it meant returning home only to not have any functioning muscles the next day, it was acceptable to him. His mind wandered off to last night’s hedonistic activities……..
“Fuck meri jaan, tum joh qatliana nazar se dekh rahe the, I got so wet”, Ulfat whimpered as she rose, in all her naked glory, sinking on his cock, eliciting a loud moan from him. He threw his head back into the pillows, feeling her warm pussy swallowing his thick shaft. She rocked her hips, slowly gaining rhythm. Rehman looked up and groaned.
He took in the goddess riding him, her breasts lurching violently as he rammed his cock from below, her gorgeous hair flying with the movements, sweet cries escaping from her swollen, red lips, parted. “Fuck Ulfat, if I knew how you pussy cries for my smouldering stares, I would've shot a million covers to fuck your pretty pussy”, Rehman growled, his hands gripped her hips tightly, as he rose, taking her nipples in his mouth, his tongue swirling around her soft breasts, leaving dark bites across the valley of her chest.
“Tu aur kijiye na shouhar saab, aur har baar yehi nateeja hoga“, Ulfat muttered in a sultry tone, kissing him while pushing him down on the bed, her hands splayed on his chest as she continued to ride him fervently. Rehman almost came at her words.
He flipped her on her knees, snaking an arm around her, his fingers quickly finding her engorged folds, and rubbing her pearl as he rutted into her from behind, the slick sounds of their sweat-laden bodies mixed with the filthy squelching sounds of his girthy length dragging through the walls of her dripping cunt echoed across the walls of their room.
Ulfat came hard, tightly spasming around his throbbing cock, her screams muffled by his palm, “shhh meri jaan, poore haveli jaan legi ki tum mujhe kitne junoon se leri thi”, he whispered evilly, fucking her through her orgasm, a guttural moan escaped him as he painted her walls white and filled her to the brim with his hot load.
His thoughts got rudely interrupted as Uzair walked into the kitchen and saw Rehman massaging his back and neck muscles, and an unmistakable shade of red splattered on his cheeks. He immediately broke into a laugh, “Kyu bhai dikh gaya na bhabhi ko naya perspective”, Uzair teased, narrowly avoiding the saucer Rehman hurled at him.
“Aapka bhi pyaar dikhane ka tareeka ajeeb hai bhai, baaki log gale lagte hai aur aap mujhe maarne par tule rehte”, Uzair chided.
“Yaha se nikal iske phele ki mai teri aur Hamza ki poll kholdu sabke samney”
“Meri aur Ham—--”, the words got stuck in Uzair's throat, “AAPKO KAISE PAATA HUM DONO KE BAARE MAI”, Uzair immediately halted realizing what he had just said, “MATLAB HUM DONO KE BEECH KUCH NAHI HAI”, Uzair tried to backpedal, poorly trying to recover his lost dignity.
“abey lodu mere daftar ke samney tum dono ko makeout krne se fursat mile toh fir mujhe samjha dena”, Rehman muttered, shaking his head, as he walked off.
Ulfat had told him about catching Hamza and Uzair together, and for a moment Rehman had been so stunned that he simply sat there staring at her, wondering if she was hallucinating or was it him, his closest aides having the hots for each other ?? can he have one normal day without experiencing a heart attack ? But then an amused expression dawned on him as his mind had started racing with endless possibilities to blackmail Uzair.
God Bless Ulfat, and her constant stream of gossip and entertainment. Maybe he did have some strength left in him to go for another round.
