A Hearth of Smokeless Ash (Major Iqbal ร Mallika)
~ Part 1 ~
WARNING - The characters are fictional. This content is strictly for 18+ peeps (None of the below 18 people are saint here though).
This story includes some mythological concepts of religion written with literary liberty. Take fiction as fiction.
I have tried to change my writing style and make it more descriptive for some of my future plans, so please give me your reviews about this chapter so that I can make up my mind for something.
Quite long chapter, 5.7k words, buckle up babies!
The summer in Karachi had broken every record, a relentless furnace that turned the city into a breathing inferno. The air outside was thick with sulphur, each inhalation a dry, choking gulp that seemed to scorch the throat before it even reached the lungs. Sunlight hammered the streets with a whiteโhot glare, making the asphalt shimmer and vibrate as if the very ground were trying to melt away.
Heat rose in visible waves, distorting the silhouettes of rickshaws and the distant outline of the Arabian Sea into trembling mirages. Sweat clung to skin the moment it appeared, evaporating instantly, leaving a salty crust that prickled like fine sand. The city pulsed with a low, oppressive hum, a collective sigh of exhaustion that rose from every balcony, every crowded market, every exhausted laborer who dared to step outside.
Then, as if the universe had decided to punish the heat with its own cruel joke, the heavy teak door of Major Iqbalโs Clifton mansion swung shut behind him, and the world outside ceased to exist. A violent, almost supernatural chill slammed into the hallway, dropping the temperature by what felt like thirty degrees in an instant. Condensation blossomed on the antique glass windows, thin silver threads tracing delicate lace across the panes.
The mansion exhaled a damp, icy breath that seemed to swallow sound, the usual clamor of Karachi, honking horns, distant calls to prayer, the relentless buzz of generators, was muffled into a reverent silence. Inside, the air was still, heavy with the scent of polished wood and a faint, almost metallic tang that hinted at the hidden chill of the houseโs ancient stone foundations.
Major Iqbal stood before a towering antique mirror, its gilt frame catching the weak, filtered light that managed to sneak through the heavy drapes. His reflection showed a man carved from command, broad shoulders, a jaw set in a perpetual line of authority, eyes that glittered with a cold, calculating fire. He moved with the precision of a soldier, each motion deliberate, each gesture a testament to years of honed discipline. His fingers, calloused from years of gripping weapons and steering jeeps through hostile terrain, fumbled over the heavy brass buttons of his ISI uniform. The metal was cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the furnace that seemed to burn beneath his uniform.
โAnother day, another battle,โ he thought, the words forming silently in his mind as he tightened the top button. โSleep is a luxury for men without targets!โ A flicker of fatigue brushed the edge of his consciousness, a deep, subconscious wave of exhaustion that felt like a phantom fever licking at his insides. He rubbed his temples with the heel of his palm, dismissing it as mere burnout from the relentless operations that had kept him awake for nights on end.
โStand up straight, Major Sahab,โ he told the tired face in the mirror, forcing his shoulders back into a perfect, textbook military posture. โThe enemy doesn't care if your chest burns.โ There was a raw, ugly kind of arrogance in it. He was not merely an officer, he was a force of nature, a tactical genius whose confidence was as unbreakable as the alloy of his sidearm.
The heavy door to the master suite opened without a sound, and the chill of the mansion seemed to deepen, as if the house itself were holding its breath. Mallika lay amid a nest of dark silk sheets, her long, midnightโblack hair fanned out like spilled ink across the pillow. The strands clung to her forehead, a few rebellious locks escaping to frame a face that was both ethereal and startlingly real. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open to reveal a depth of darkness that seemed to swallow the light.
In that instant, Iqbal felt the world tilt, the scorching pressure in his chest, the relentless thrum of his internal heat, met a sudden, shocking counterpoint.
She looked up at him, her disheveled state, rumpled silk slipping from one shoulder, the delicate lace of her camisole torn at the edge, a hint of her breast peeking through, igniting a feral spark in his gaze. Her lips, slightly parted, were a shade of rose that seemed to draw the very heat from his body toward them. โYouโre staring Major sahab,โ she whispered, her voice a soft, velvety caress that echoed in the silent room.
He did not answer with words, instead, he crossed the space between them in a single, fluid stride, the heat radiating from his skin like a living ember. The moment his lips crushed against hers, the contrast was explosive. His mouth was a furnace, scorching and demanding, while hers felt like absolute, soothing ice, a paradox that sent shivers down his spine and fire through his veins.
The kiss was brutal, possessive, a claiming that left no room for hesitation. His tongue plunged deep, tasting the cool mint of her breath, the faint trace of jasmine that clung to her skin, and underneath it all, the sweet, addictive flavor of surrender.
Mallikaโs bare arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers digging into the thick hair at his nape, pulling him closer as if she could anchor the blazing star that he was. The contact was intoxicating, a chemical relief that seemed to flatline the restless, burning pressure that had been building in his chest since dawn. Each press of her body against his was a wave of cold water crashing over a volcano, steam hissing where the two elements met. She was an endless abyss, quietly drinking his energy down to nothing, her coolness a silent promise that she could absorb his heat without ever being filled.
His hands roamed with a practiced urgency, sliding down her sides to grasp the curve of her hips, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin silk. He lifted her effortlessly, the silk sheets rustling like whispered secrets, and laid her back upon the bed. The mattress sighed under their combined weight, the springs protesting softly as they shifted. He hovered over her, his chest heaving, the heat of his breath fogging the air between them in short, visible bursts.
โYou feel like fire,โ Mallika gasped, her voice trembling with a mixture of awe and desperation. He smirked, a dark, predatory curve of his lips. โThen let me burn you until thereโs nothing left but ash of our love.โ His words were low, rough, a promise and a threat rolled into one.
He lowered his head again, this time tracing a path of searing kisses down her neck, his tongue lapping at the pulse point where her blood hammered like a drum. Each lick drew a moan from her throat, a sound that was both a plea and an affirmation. He nibbled gently at her earlobe, his teeth grazing the delicate skin before he sucked softly, eliciting a sharp gasp that mingled with the chill of the room.
His hands found the hem of her camisole, and with a swift, decisive motion, he pulled it upward, the silk sliding over her head to pool around her wrists. Her breasts were revealed, full and heavy, the nipples already peaked and aching for attention. He lowered his mouth to one, taking the hardened tip between his lips, sucking firmly while his tongue swirled around the areola. The heat of his mouth contrasted sharply with the coolness of her skin, sending electric jolts straight to her core. She arched her back, a silent cry escaping her lips as pleasure coiled tighter in her belly.
โMore,โ she breathed, her voice raw. โGive me all of it.โ He obliged, his free hand sliding down to cup her other breast, squeezing and rolling the flesh between his fingers. He switched sides, his mouth devouring the other nipple with the same fervor, his teeth lightly scraping before he sucked harder, drawing a loud, wanton moan from her. The sound was primal, a raw expression of need that seemed to vibrate through the very walls of the mansion.
His descent continued, his tongue tracing a wet line down her sternum, over the soft ridge of her abdomen, and finally to the slick heat between her thighs. He inhaled deeply, the scent of her arousal mingling with the faint trace of sandalwood that clung to her skin. Without hesitation, he spread her legs wider, his thumbs parting the delicate folds to reveal the glistening evidence of her desire.
He lowered his head, his tongue finding her clit with unerring precision. He flicked it rapidly, the sensation making her hips jerk involuntarily. Then he slowed, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth, his teeth grazing lightly as he drew it deep. Her back arched again, a hoarse cry tearing from her throat as waves of pleasure crashed over her. He alternated between soft, languid licks and fierce, sucking motions, each movement designed to push her closer to the edge while simultaneously drawing his own heat deeper into her cool embrace.
Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him tighter against her as she gasped, โDonโt stopโฆ Please!โฆ Iโmโฆ Iโm closeโฆโ
He felt the familiar tightening in his own pants, the scorching pressure building to a nearโpainful intensity. Yet he resisted the urge to rush, savoring the exquisite torture of giving her pleasure while feeling his own fire threatened to consume him. He slipped a finger inside her, feeling the velvety warmth clutch around him as he began a slow, deliberate thrust, curling his fingertip to stroke the spongy spot that made her moan louder.
โYouโre so wet,โ he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against her thigh. โYou're so tempting Mallika.โ She answered with a broken whimper, her nails digging into his shoulders. โThen take it allโฆ I want to feel youโฆ Inside meโฆโ
He withdrew his finger, slick with her essence, and positioned himself at her entrance. The head of his cock, engorged and throbbing, pressed against her slick folds. He paused, savoring the moment. Then, with a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
The sensation was explosive. His cock, a searing rod of pure heat, slid into her velvety depths, the friction creating an insatiable sensation, leaving them forever craving more. Mallika cried out, a sound that was half scream, half sigh, as her walls clenched around him, trying to hold the passion he brought. He began to move, each thrust a deliberate, powerful plunge that drove him deeper, his hips grinding against hers with a rhythm that was both brutal and reverent.
โFeel me,โ he commanded, his voice hoarse. โFeel how I burn inside you.โ She met his gaze, her eyes dark pools of desire and surrender. โI do! Ahh fuck! I do!โ
He increased his pace, the bed creaking in time with their frantic coupling. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a primal soundtrack to their dance of heat and ice. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in another searing kiss, their tongues dueling as he continued to thrust. Each time he pulled back, a rush of cool air brushed over his heated cock, only to be swallowed again by her tight, welcoming heat.
Her hands roamed over his back, nails raking lightly, leaving faint red lines that contrasted with the sheen of sweat that began to bead on his forehead despite the chill of the room. She could feel the heat radiating from their bodies. Yet she welcomed it, her own body responding with waves of slick pleasure.
โYouโreโฆ Youโre amazing,โ she panted, her voice breaking with each thrust. โDonโtโฆ Donโt stop!โฆโ He growled, a low, animalistic sound that resonated in his chest. โI wonโtโฆ Iโll take you until thereโs nothing left in your mind but me.โ
His movements became more urgent, his thrusts deeper and more forceful, the head of his cock striking the sweet spot inside her with unerring accuracy. Her moans grew louder, her body trembling as the pressure built to an almost unbearable crescendo. She could feel the familiar tightening in her lower abdomen, the coil of pleasure winding tighter with each thrust.
โIโmโฆ Iโm going toโฆโ she gasped, her words fragmented by the intensity. โCome for me, Jaaneman,โ he ordered, his voice a raw, feral whisper. โLet goโฆ Let me feel you shatter around me.โ
She obeyed, her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave of icy fire. Her inner muscles clenched violently around his cock, milking him with fierce, rhythmic contractions. A loud, unrestrained moan escaped her lips as waves of pleasure washed over her, her body arching off the bed, her back forming a perfect curve as she rode the peak.
The sensation triggered his own release. With a guttural roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mansion, he thrust one final time, burying himself as deep as he could before his cock began to pulse. Hot, thick streams of cum erupted, filling her with his scorching seed.
They remained locked together, both trembling, their breaths ragged and uneven. His forehead rested against hers, the heat of his skin contrasting sharply with the coolness of hers, a delicate balance of fire and ice that left them both dazed and satiated.
Slowly, he withdrew, his softening cock slipping out with a wet, slick sound that echoed in the quiet room. A trickle of his combined release trailed down her thigh, glistening in the dim light. Mallika lay there, her chest rising and falling, her hair fanned out like a dark halo, a satisfied smile playing on her lips despite the exhaustion evident in her eyes.
He moved to the side of the bed, his movements deliberate, his uniform still immaculate despite the heat of their encounter. He reached for the silver tray on the nightstand, where a delicate porcelain cup of chai waited, steam curling upward in fragrant spirals. He poured the steaming liquid into the cup, the aroma of cardamom and ginger filling the air, a warm counterpoint to the lingering chill of the room.
โHere,โ he said, his voice softer now, edged with a tenderness and teasing that belied his usual arrogance. โDrink this. Your morning ritual of energy.โ
Mallika took the cup with both hands, the porcelain cool against her palms. She brought it to her lips, sipping slowly, the heat of the tea spreading through her chest. She glanced up at him, her eyes soft, admiring the way the light caught the sweat on his brow, the way his uniform clung to his muscular frame.
He smiled, a rare, genuine curve of his lips that softened the harsh lines of his face. โYou are my home Mallika,โ he whispered, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.
He rose, smoothing the front of his jacket with precise, practiced motions, ensuring every brass button was aligned, every crease sharp.
Mallika watched him, her admiration evident in the way her eyes followed his every movement. She rose from the bed, the silk sheets whispering against her skin, and walked to him, her bare feet silent on the cool marble floor. She reached up, her fingers lightly tracing the line of his jaw, then slipped her hands beneath his jacket to feel the steady beat of his heart against his palm. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips cool against her skin.
With one final, lingering look, he turned and strode toward the heavy oak door, his boots clicking against the marble with a disciplined cadence. The door swung open, and the blast of scorching heat from the summer hit him like a wall, a stark contrast to the icy sanctuary he had just left. He paused on the threshold, taking a deep breath of the dry, furnaceโlike air, feeling it sear his lungs, then stepped out into the blazing day.
Inside, Mallika closed the door softly, the sound muffled by the thick wood. She returned to the bed, pulling the silk sheets over her shoulders, the fabric cool against her heated skin. She poured herself another cup of chai, the steam rising in delicate curls, and sat by the window, watching the city pulse with life and heat beyond the glass.
Even the usually bustling EโStreet, lined with colonialโera facades and modern glass storefronts, seemed to sigh under the weight of the heatwave. Pedestrians moved in slow, deliberate steps, their shirts sticking to their backs, their faces slick with sweat that evaporated almost as soon as it appeared.
Against this backdrop, Mallikaโs boutique stood like an oasis of restrained elegance. The shopfront was a deep mahogany door set into a limestone faรงade, flanked by tall, arched windows draped with sheer ivory curtains that fluttered lazily in the occasional breeze that managed to slip inside. A discreet brass plaque beside the door read, in elegant calligraphy, โMallika Atelier โ Couture for the Discerningโ. The glass panes revealed a glimpse of the interior, racks of raw silk in shades that ranged from the palest blush to the deepest midnight, each bolt catching the light and throwing it back in a soft, almost liquid gleam.
The air was cool, tinged with the faint, comforting aroma of sandalwood incense that curled from a small brass burner on the reception desk. Soft, ambient music, a slow, melancholic rendition of a classic ghazal, played from hidden speakers, its notes weaving through the space like a silken thread.
Mallika herself was the embodiment of the boutiqueโs refined aura. She moved with a grace that seemed to make the very floorboards sigh in admiration. Her midnightโblack hair was swept back into a low, intricate braid, a few loose strands framing her face like delicate ink strokes. She wore a simple, ivory linen palazzo kurti with dupatta draped over her shoulder. Her makeup was minimal, a touch of kohl that accentuated the depth of her eyes, and a nude lip that let her natural beauty shine through.
The first wave of elite clientele arrived just as the boutiqueโs clock struck ten. A sleek, black Mercedes pulled up, and out stepped three women whose presence alone seemed to command the streetโs attention. They were the wives of corps commanders, politicians, and intelligence chiefs, women whose lives were woven into the very fabric of Pakistanโs power structure. Their attire was a study in understated luxury, customโtailored chiffon sarees in muted pastels, delicate gold filigree jewelry that caught the light with every subtle movement, and designer sunglasses that hid eyes from the scorching sunlight.
Mallika greeted them with a warm, genuine smile that never quite reached the depths of her eyes, a smile honed by years of navigating the delicate dance between hospitality and discretion. She ushered them inside, her voice low and melodic, each word chosen with care.
โKhush Amdeed, ladies,โ she said, gesturing toward a plush chaise lounge arranged before a low coffee table. โPlease, make yourselves comfortable. Iโve prepared a selection of iced teas, hibiscus, mint, and a hint of rosewater.โ
The women settled, their silk sarees rustling softly as they adjusted themselves. Mallika moved with the practiced ease of a hostess who knew exactly when to refill a glass, when to offer a compliment, and when to simply listen. She poured the tea into delicate crystal glasses, the liquid catching the light and throwing tiny rainbows across the polished marble surface.
As the ice clinked against the glass, the conversation began, light at first, then gradually slipping into the currents of gossip that flowed through Karachiโs elite like an underground river.
โDid you hear about the reassignments at GHQ?โ began the wife of a corps commander, her voice a soft murmur that seemed to carry despite the boutiqueโs hushed ambience. โApparently, General Karim is being moved to the northern command. They say itโs a promotion, but the whispersโฆ they say itโs a quiet exile after the Balochistan incident.โ
Mallikaโs eyes flickered with interest, but her expression remained serene. She inclined her head slightly, as if to invite the speaker to continue, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her own glass.
โYes,โ replied the wife of a senior politician, her smile thin and knowing. โAnd thereโs talk of a new intelligence officer being appointed, someone from the ISIโs internal audit wing. Rumor has it heโs got a reputation forโฆ thoroughness. Some say heโs already digging into the recent arms deal scandal thatโs been making rounds in the press.โ
The third woman, the wife of an intelligence chief, leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her gaze intense. โYou havenโt heard the half of it. Thereโs a dossier circulating, classified, of course, about a covert operation in the Arabian Sea. Supposedly, it involves a joint venture with a foreign power, and the paperworkโs gone missing. If it surfaces, it could shake the entire naval command.โ
Mallika listened, her mind a quiet repository. She absorbed the snippets, the halfโtruths, the veiled threats, and stored them away like precious gems in a velvet pouch. Her role was not to react, not to interject, but to be the silent vessel that allowed these women to unburden themselves, to feel heard in a world where their voices were often filtered through layers of protocol and expectation.
When the tea was finished and the conversation had wound down to polite pleasantries, Mallika rose with a graceful ease that belied the intensity of her inner focus. She escorted the ladies to the door, her smile warm, her parting words gentle.
โThank you for coming,โ she said, her voice a soft caress. โDo let me know if you need anything else for the upcoming gala. Iโll have the samples ready by Friday.โ
The women nodded with polite exchanges. They stepped back into the blazing heat of EโStreet, their silhouettes disappearing into the shimmering haze as the boutiqueโs door clicked shut behind them.
Silence fell over the shop, thick and velvety, broken only by the faint hum of the airโconditioning unit and the occasional distant honk of a rickshaw. Mallika locked the front door, turned the brass knob, and slipped through the heavy curtain that separated the public showroom from the private atelier at the back.
The transition was instantaneous, the bright, curated displays gave way to a room bathed in softer, more intimate light, a sanctuary where creativity could breathe unfettered.
The back room was a study in controlled chaos. Shelves lined the walls, holding bolts of fabric in every imaginable hue and texture, raw silk, organza, brocade, velvet, each labeled with delicate handwritten tags. A large, antique wooden table dominated the center of the space, its surface scarred with years of use, ink stains, and the faint imprints of countless pins and needles. Upon it lay a sketchpad of thick, creamโcolored paper, a set of charcoal pencils ranging from soft to hard, a ruler, a compass, and a small tray of erasers that had seen better days.
Mallika settled into her chair, the leather creaking softly beneath her weight. She pulled the sketchpad closer, the paperโs texture inviting under her fingertips. Her mind, still humming with the fragments of gossip she had just heard, began to translate those whispers into lines and shapes. The charcoal pencil moved with a sharp, aggressive precision, each stroke deliberate, each line a manifestation of the idea she felt surging through her brain.
She began with a series of intersecting geometric patterns, triangles, hexagons, and overlapping circles. The lines were bold, dark, and unyielding, echoing the rigidity of the structures they symbolized.
The room seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the soft scratch of charcoal on paper, a rhythmic whisper that blended with the faint whir of the ventilation system. Mallikaโs eyes flicked occasionally to the window, where the harsh sunlight of EโStreet was filtered through the heavy drapes, casting a muted, amber glow across the floor. She was oblivious to the world outside, lost in the act of creation.
As she worked, a lone fly, drawn perhaps by the faint scent of sandalwood or the warmth of the lamp hovering over her desk, drifted lazily through the air. It circled once, twice, then, driven by some inexorable impulse, alighted upon the freshly drawn line of a hexagon she had just completed.
The instant its tiny legs made contact with the charcoal, a sudden, almost imperceptible flash occurred. The flyโs wings, delicate membranes that had moments before been beating in a frantic, desperate rhythm, shriveled and turned to a fine, gray ash that drifted downward like snowfall. Its body, no longer able to sustain the minuscule electrical charge that had coursed through it, curled inward, blackening and disintegrating into a speck of dust that settled upon the paper.
Mallika, absorbed in the flow of her sketch, maybe oblivious to the incident, glanced briefly at the spot where the insect had landed. She saw only a faint smudge, a darker fleck amid the charcoal lines, and, assuming it was merely a stray bit of graphite or perhaps a speck of soot from the lamp, she lifted her fingertip and gently rubbed it away. The smudge disappeared, leaving the underlying line untouched, and she resumed her drawing with the same quiet passion, her charcoal pencil moving as if nothing had interrupted the rhythm.
The flyโs demise went unnoticed, yet, in the subtle alchemy of the moment, something had shifted. The charcoal lines she drew now seemed to pulse with a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, as if the insectโs essence had been transmuted into the very medium she worked with.
Hours slipped by. The sun outside began its slow descent, casting longer shadows across EโStreet, the heat gradually easing into a warm, amber twilight. Inside the atelier, Mallikaโs focus never wavered. She shifted from the broad geometric framework to finer details, delicate filigree that would trace the edges of a ceremonial coat, a series of abstract symbols that would be embroidered onto the lining of a gala dress, each one a silent sigil meant to convey elegance, class and strength.
Her charcoal pencil, now worn to a blunt tip, left deep, rich marks that seemed to absorb the light around them. She paused occasionally to step back, her eyes scanning the evolving design with a critical yet appreciative gaze. A faint smile touched her lips when a particular arrangement of lines resonated with the design she imagined.
She folded the sketchpad gently, placed it inside a leather portfolio, and slipped it into her bag. The boutiqueโs lights dimmed as she turned off the main lamp, leaving only a soft glow from the emergency nightโlight that cast a faint, silver hue over the room.
She walked back through the curtain, entered the showroom, and flipped the sign on the door from โOpenโ to โClosed.โ The brass plaque caught the last of the waning light, its letters gleaming like a promise. With a final glance at the empty aisles, Mallika stepped onto the sidewalk and walked toward her car, her mind already drifting to the next day's tasks, the gala, the fittings, the whispered conversations that would once again find their way into her sketches.
The night had settled over like a thick blanket, the cityโs usual roar muffled by the oppressive heat that still clung to the streets despite the hour.
In the dining room, a long mahogany table stood beneath a single chandelier whose crystals threw soft, fractured light across the polished surface. A modest spread lay before them, steaming bowls of lentil dal, fragrant basmati rice studded with caramelized onions, and a plate of tender, spiced kebabs that still held a whisper of heat from the kitchen.
Mallika moved with the quiet grace of someone accustomed to orchestrating elegance. Her dark hair was pulled back into a loose bun, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face, and she wore a simple silk nightgown that fell just above her knees, the fabric whispering against her skin with each step. She set a crystal goblet of chilled water before Iqbal, the condensation beading on the glass like tiny pearls.
Iqbal, now in a loose kurta, sat opposite her, his posture rigid yet relaxed. โHow was the day?โ Mallika asked, her voice low and melodic, each syllable chosen to keep the atmosphere soft.
He took a sip of water, the liquid cool against his throat, and let the silence stretch for a heartbeat before answering. โIt wasโฆ routine. A few deals cleared, nothing out of the ordinary. I met Shafiq at the headquarters this afternoon. We went over some minor intelligence adjustments, nothing that would keep you up at night.โ He offered a small, soft smile. โHis wife stopped by your boutique today, looking for fabric for the upcoming gala. She seemed pleased with the designs you showed her.โ
Mallikaโs eyes lit up, a genuine smile touching her lips. โOh yes! She was there with her two friends. I set aside a few lengths of the midnight silk, she has an eye for the subtle.โ She reached across the table, her fingertips brushing his knuckles briefly before withdrawing. โYou should rest early. Tomorrowโs briefings will be long.โ
He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching. โI will. Thank you for the dinner, my love.โ He lifted his goblet in a quiet toast, the clink of crystal barely audible over the low hum of the refrigerator.
They ate in companionable silence, the occasional clink of cutlery the only sound breaking the stillness. The conversation drifted to mundane topics, the weather, a new boutique opening on Tariq Road, the latest episode of a drama serial she followed.
When the last bite was taken and the plates cleared, Mallika rose to collect the dishes, meanwhile helped to clear the table.
Later, after they had retired to their bedroom. Mallika lay on her side, keeping her palm on Iqbal's biceps, the rise and fall of her breathing steady and soft. Iqbal laid onto his back, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders, and let the darkness envelop him.
Sleep came unevenly, in the depths of his mind, images began to coalesce, sharp, jagged, and utterly alien.
He found himself standing in a narrow, stone-walled corridor, the air thick with a scent of silt and decay. The walls were slick, as if coated in a thin film of ice that refracted the dim light into eerie, shifting patterns. At the far end, a figure stood silhouetted against a faint glow, Shafiq, his posture rigid, his eyes wide with an unspoken terror.
Without warning, the shadows along the walls began to stir. They detached themselves like living ink, crawling forth in countless, minuscule tendrils that resembled as a swarm of insects. They moved with a purpose, slipping over Shafiqโs skin, seeking the seams where his flesh met the darkness.
Iqbal watched, helpless, as the tendrils did not merely bite. They latched onto the very essence of his shadow, gripping it with a insistent pressure. Slowly, agonizingly, they began to peel, drawing the darkness away from his body like a shroud being ripped from a corpse. Each pull elicited a guttural, soundless scream from Shafiq, his visage contorting as the shadow stretched thin, then tore, leaving behind a raw, luminous wound that pulsed with an inner light.
Shafiqโs form began to flicker, his edges blurring as the darkness that defined him was siphoned off, leaving a hollow, almost spectral outline that throbbed with a painful, internal pulse.
Iqbalโs own chest tightened, a sensation unlike any physical pain he had known. It was as if a furnace had been ignited deep within his veins, a searing heat that surged through his blood, threatening to burst forth. He tried to move, to shout, but his limbs felt anchored to the stone floor, his voice caught in a throat that burned with an inexplicable fever.
The nightmare reached its end when the last tendril of shadow was wrenched free, and Shafiqโs body convulsed, a silent explosion of light and ice erupting from his core. The corridor filled with a blinding, whiteโhot flash that seemed to swallow sound, then collapsed into an oppressive, suffocating darkness.
Iqbal jerked awake with a gasp, his eyes snapping open to the blackness of the bedroom. His heart hammered against his ribs, a sheen of sweat coated his forehead despite the icy air, and an intense, boiling fever raged through his bloodstream, a sensation so alien it made his thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.
He lay there for a moment, lungs heaving, trying to reconcile the visceral terror of the dream with the logical, disciplined mind that had guided him through countless operations. The heat inside him was a contradiction to the frost that clung to the walls, a paradox that left him both bewildered and frightened.
With a effort, Iqbal slipped from the bed, his bare feet contacting the cold stone floor. The chill rose up through his soles, grounding him just enough to steady his shaking limbs. He padded silently across the room, the door to the hallway sighing as he pushed it open, and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.
He reached for the glass cabinet, pulled out a thick tumbler, and filled it with water from the bottle. The liquid was icy, sending a sharp shock down his throat as he drank, the cold momentarily dulling the internal blaze that threatened to consume him.
He set the glass down with a soft clink, the sound echoing in the stillness, and leaned against the counter, eyes closed, trying to steady his breathing. The hum of the refrigerator was the only companion to his thoughts, a low, relentless thrum that mirrored the pounding in his chest.
Just as he began to feel the first tentative threads of composure returning, the secure phone on the wall, a sleek, black device reserved for urgent communications, burst into life. Its sharp, insistent ring cut through the damp silence like a blade.
Iqbalโs eyes snapped open. He moved with a reflex acquired by years of urgency, snatching the receiver and bringing it to his ear. His voice, though edged with the remnants of sleep, was steady.
โYes?โ
On the other end, a voice came through, strained and breathless, each word punctuated by sharp intakes of air that spoke of panic.
โMajor Sahab, we have an emergency. Itโs... It's Shafiq. He is behaving completely wild and violentโฆ Sir, weโve had to put him in solitary confinement.โ
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OKAY THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING FULL NOVEL STYLE STORY. PLEASE TELL ME IN COMMENTS WHETHER IT WAS BORING OR GOOD! CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS ALWAYS WELCOME <3
I JUST HOPE YOU ALL LIKE IT ๐ญ
In which Alia, a simple college girl with a predictable routine and quiet dreams, falls asleep in her cramped yet comforting apartmentโonly to wake up somewhere she has never been before.
Balochistan.
Not as herself, but as Asiyaโa Hindu Balochi girl living in a world far harsher, louder, and more real than anything she has ever known. The place, the story she saw on screen is now her reality.
But wait, wasn't she supposed to be the side character..? Why is suddenly so concerned about her...so worried about her..?...so obsessed with her..?
Chapter 2
"Toh tum ho Asiya."
Rehman's husky voice rolled through the drawing room, deep and measured, filling every corner of the space.
"J-Ji R-Rehman sahab."
Asiya stammered, her gaze instantly dropping to her feet. A strange nervousness settled in her chest, making it impossible to meet his eyes.
"Beti haklati hai?"
Rehman asked abruptly.
"Bhai nahi nahi! Bas thodi ghabrayi hui hai, pheli baar ghar se bade shaher ayi hai na isiliye..." Neel hurriedly explained, discreetly nudging his daughter.
"Course kya hai?"
"Phele PTC uske baad B.ed."
She answered timidly, twisting the edge of her dupatta between her fingers.
"Kahan rahogi?"
The question made her glance up. Rehman was studying her with unsettling focus, as though committing every detail to memory.
Why does he need to know that?
"College ke paas ek PG hai..."
"PG ka naam?"
He didn't relent. If anything, his attention sharpened.
"Afsana Hostel and PG."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"Tumhari beti ne top kiya tha na?"
Rehman turned toward Neel, who immediately launched into an enthusiastic recounting of his daughter's achievements.
Asiya resisted the urge to groan.
"Thik hai, acche se padhna, abbu naam roshan karna."
'Okay, gramps.' The thought flashed through her mind as she nodded obediently.
"Tumhare jese bache hi humare quam ko syahi se bacha sakti hai."
"Ji Rehman sahab."
She sighed softly, careful not to let her disinterest show.
Rehman smiled.
The expression never reached his eyes.
Those dark eyes lingered on her a moment longer than necessary.
Asiya shouted from outside the imposing Jamali mansion, waiting impatiently on her second-hand scooty.
She had bought it only two days after moving to the city. A gift from her loving father. Life was going surprisingly well.
At least on the surface.
The only thing that bothered her wasโ
She was beginning to forget.
The plot.
The life she had once lived felt increasingly distant, like a fever dream slipping through her fingers. The memories came in fragments now, blurry and incomplete.
A part of her was grateful.
There hadn't been much worth remembering anyway.
For months she had tried preserving those memories, writing them down before they disappeared completely.
But every attempt ended the same way.
Blinding headaches.
Distorted flashes.
Pieces she could never quite grasp.
Eventually, she stopped trying. The past remained buried somewhere in the fog of her mind.
A sudden kiss landed on her cheek.
Asiya nearly jumped. Heat rushed to her face. "Mein aa gayi!"
Yalina grinned as she slipped on the spare helmet Asiya bought for her and settled behind her.
Asiya swallowed.
"Bohot der kardi tumne aaj!"
She started the scooty before Yalina could tease her further. Yalina simply wrapped her arms around Asiya's waist.
"Maaf karde meri jaan!"
Asiya took a slow breath and focused on the road.
Meanwhile, Yalina happily rambled about her classmates and how one professor was apparently still targeting her.
Asiya still remembered the day she'd met her.
Or ratherโ
The day Yalina Jamali had decided they were going to be friends.
Asiya stepped through the college gates, equal parts excited and nervous.
Finally.
She was pursuing her dream course.
No judgment.
No suffocating expectations.
No fear.
The corridors buzzed with students. Conversations overlapped into a constant hum while laughter echoed through the building.
Clutching her books close to her chest, Asiya wandered through the crowd, trying to locate her department.
She barely noticed the girl coming from the opposite direction.
The collision sent her stumbling backward.
"Maaf kijiye ga mein dekh ke nhi chalโ"
"Freshie?"
The girl interrupted. There was a peculiar glimmer in her eyes.
"Ji haan."Asiya nodded enthusiastically
"Department?"
"PTC!"
"Class nhi pata na..?" The stranger asked sympathetically.
"Han ji."
"Chal mere sath."
------------------------------------------------
Asiya stood silently with her head lowered.
In front of her, two girls were being humiliated.
Forced to dance to cheap item songs while a crowd laughed and cheered.
According to the student beside her, they were third and fourth-year seniors.
She could have run.
Probably.
The problem was the boys stationed near the entrance, making sure nobody entered or left without permission.
Her fingers tightened around her dupatta.
She had never been good at standing up for herself.
Not in this life.
Not in the previous one.
Back then, she barely had friends.
Her parents had always been too busy to listen to what they considered petty complaints.
Summoning every ounce of courage she possessed, she finally spoke.
"Mam please jane dijiye na..."
The room fell silent.
Dozens of heads turned toward her.
Even the victims stopped dancing.
"Excuse me?"
A girl lounging atop an old wooden table tilted her head.
"Kuch bola tumne?"
The condescension in her voice made Asiya shrink.
She shook her head quickly.
"Oye! I asked you something!"
The girl jumped down from the table and stalked toward her.
With one finger beneath Asiya's chin, she forced her to look up.
"Class jana hai..?"
Mock concern dripped from every word.
Tears gathered in Asiya's eyes.
She nodded.
"Jao."
The order stunned everyone.
"Shafkat pagal hai kyaโ"
"Terese kuch bola Mariam?"
Shafkat shot the other girl a glare sharp enough to silence her instantly.
The juniors hurried toward the exit.
Relief flooded Asiya's chest.
Only for it to vanish seconds later.
"Kahan chali rani shaheba?"
Shafkat wrapped an arm around her neck.
The gesture felt less like affection and more like a snake coiling around its prey.
"Apne jaane ko bolaโ"
Asiya's voice trembled.
"Han lekin sirf unhe, tum toh abb special ho meri..."
Shafkat's fingers brushed against her cheek.
Asiya fought the urge to recoil.
"Chal Mariam, ganna laga!"
Music exploded through the room.
The lyrics were vulgar.
The atmosphere worse.
Every pair of eyes seemed fixed on her.
Watching. Waiting.
"Nach."
Shafkat commanded.
Asiya shook her head desperately.
"Nach warna tera akhri din hoga is college mein aaj."
"M-Mam p-please!" Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"Kya ho raha hai yahan?"
The unfamiliar voice cut through the room like a blade. Asiya looked toward the entrance.
A girl stood there.
Curly hair tucked beneath a scarf. Confident posture. Unbothered expression.
"Yalina Jamali..."
The name slipped from Asiya's lips. A very important character. Yalina walked inside as though she owned the entire building.
"Wow."
She clapped slowly.
"Bully juniors again to assert you non existent power."
Her gaze swept across the room before settling on Shafkat.
Shafkat rolled her eyes.
"Yalina Jamali. The Burger Bacchi! What are doing here? As you're clearly not invited here!"
Yalina ignored her completely. Instead, her eyes landed on Asiya. On the tear-stained cheeks.The trembling hands.The frightened expression.
Something unreadable flickered across her face.
Asiya immediately looked away.
For some reason, being watched by Yalina felt just as intense. Yalina smirked.
Then turned back to Shafkat.
"Well I clearly don't need an invite, because I definitely don't wanna be seen with you but yeah, right here..."
She pointed directly at Asiya.
"...is my bestfriend. My girl. Leave her alone, or the consequences will not be good, I can promise you."
Her voice dropped several degrees colder.
The room followed.
Shafkat gulped but stood her ground.
"Or what? You'll complain to your minister father! Oh please even you need appointment to see him!"
"Oh baby trust me baby, I don't need my father to send this photo to your industrialist father."
Yalina turned her phone screen toward her.
Whatever was displayed there drained every ounce of confidence from Shafkat's face.
Moments later, she and her followers were already heading for the door.
"Aur han yaad hain na Shafkat!"
Yalina called after her.
"Last time tumne jab meri chiz ko haat lagaya tha toh kya hua tha." The emphasis on meri chiz made several people uncomfortable.
Shafkat clearly understood the warning. She left without another word. The room emptied quickly.
Asiya finally breathed again.
"T-Thank you s-so much mam!"
Yalina merely nodded. "I don't know how repay youโ"
"From now on you'll stay with me."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.
"H-Hein?"
Asiya blinked in confusion.
"Well they're not gonna leave you alone after what happened today." The explanation made sense.
At least logically.
So she nodded. "Okay mamโ"
"Will you quit calling me mam!"
Yalina groaned.
"Say my name. Yalina."
"Y-Yes Ma- Yalina!"
For the first time, Yalina smiled.
A genuine smile.
Or perhaps something dangerously close to one.
She gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind Asiya's ear. For a fleeting moment, her gaze lingered.
Far too long.
"Let's go."
Her fingers briefly curled around Asiya's wrist.
"I'll show you your class."
_____________________________
She hung the helmet on the handle, earning an exaggerated gasp from Yalina.
"Ho bhi gayi toh koi dikkat nhi! Tumhe koi kuch nhi bolega! Meri sath jo rehti ho!"
Yalina declared proudly, slipping an arm around Asiya's waist as if it belonged there.
Asiya merely rolled her eyes.
Still, Yalina wasn't entirely wrong.
Being friends with the minister's daughter came with its own privileges.
Doors opened. Rules bent. People looked away.
Sometimes, they looked a little too closely.
"Accha apna khyal rakhna, lunch aaj ek sath nhi kar payenge! Mein jaldi ghar ja rahi aaj!"
The disappointment appeared instantly on Asiya's face.
A small pout formed before she could stop herself.
Yalina immediately reached forward and squished her cheeks.
"aaj Laila ke sath ghum lena! Kal pakaa! Abb ja rahi class okay!"
Without waiting for a response, she hurried toward her department.
Halfway there, she glanced back.
Only once.
Yet her gaze lingered long enough to ensure Asiya was still standing where she'd left her.
Only then did she disappear into the crowd.
Asiya didn't notice. 'Oh gosh...'
'Laila'
------------------------------------------------
"Arre pakka! Bas 15 min dur hai yahan se!"
Laila attempted to reason with an increasingly annoyed Asiya.
"Behen break hi 20 min ka hai."
Asiya deadpanned.
"Accha thik hai na ek lecture bunk mar ke! Bas aaj ke liye! Qais aaj mil ne aa raha hai! Please!"
Laila clasped her hands dramatically. At last, Asiya sighed.
She could never refuse her friends for long.
Moments later, the two girls were speeding through the busy streets on Asiya's bright pink scooty.
"Kahan haiโ"
"Yahan se left!"
Laila interrupted excitedly.
The city gradually shifted around them.
Bustling roads gave way to quieter lanes lined with old buildings and faded signboards.
A few minutes later they stopped in front of a modest juice shop tucked between two aging stores.
Asiya parked the scooty and glanced up at the sign.
AALAM JUICE SHOP
Almost immediately, a familiar voice echoed through the shop.
"Darling Darling Dil kyun todaa! Piyo Aalam dudh soda!"
The jingle struck something buried deep inside her memory.
A strange wave of nostalgia washed over her. She had heard it before.
Somewhere.
Then her eyes landed on the elderly man sitting behind the billing counter.
Grey hair.
Large spectacles.
A familiar smile.
Suddenly it clicked.
AALAM CHACHU!
"Oye baithe bhi ja!" Laila called out while pointing toward the empty seat beside her. Asiya hurried over and sat down. The shop felt warm and lively. Ceiling fans rotated lazily overhead.
The scent of fresh fruit lingered in the air. Customers chatted quietly while blenders hummed in the background.
For a brief moment, the place felt comforting.
Safe.
The waiter approached their table carrying a small notepad. He wiped the surface clean before pulling out his pen.
"Kya lengi aap?"
His deep, husky voice caught Asiya's attention. She looked up.
The man standing before her was tall and broad-shouldered, with a neat black bob framing his face. He scribbled down Laila's order before turning toward Asiya.
"Kya lengi aap?"
Their eyes met. For a second, the sounds around him faded.
The conversations. The machines. The customers.
Everything blurred into the background. All he saw were those dark eyes staring up at him. Something tightened unexpectedly in his chest.
"M-Mango shake..."
Asiya stuttered. Hamza quickly lowered his gaze and wrote down the order.
Then he walked away.
Yet for reasons he couldn't explain, he found himself glancing back.
Just once.
-------------------------------------------------
A little while later, the drinks arrived.
Asiya immediately noticed the small strawberry cut into the shape of a heart resting on the rim of her glass.
She assumed it was simply how the shop decorated its beverages.
So she paid it no mind.
Across the room, however, Hamza watched her notice it.
And watched her dismiss it.
The corner of his lips twitched.
Soon Qais arrived, and Laila's attention shifted entirely toward her boyfriend.
Their conversation quickly dissolved into affectionate teasing and whispered jokes.
Meanwhile, Asiya found herself watching Hamza.
He moved tirelessly between tables.
Taking orders.
Cleaning spills.
Carrying trays.
His expression remained calm despite the endless work. A strange heaviness settled inside her chest. Fragments of memory stirred.
Pieces of a story she could barely remember.
She couldn't explain why, but looking at him made her sad. As though she knew something painful about him.
Something important.
Yet every time she reached for the memory, it slipped away.
Asiya immediately stopped herself. Realization dawned on her face. She turned sharply toward her friend. "Mein na bohot marungi." The threat carried absolutely no weight.
What Asiya didn't notice was Hamza watching her leave.
His gaze followed her retreating figure through the glass window until she vanished completely.
Only then did he walk toward Aalam.
"Neel ki beti hai, jo Rehman ka admi hai."
The older man nodded slowly. Hamza's eyes drifted toward the road where she'd disappeared. Something dark settled quietly inside his chest.
Not love.
Not yet. Something colder.
Something far more dangerous.
A curiosity that had already begun rooting itself deeper than it should.
"She'll be very useful for the mission."
The words were practical.
Calculated.
Yet even Hamza wasn't entirely sure whether he was speaking about Rehman's plans.
Or his own.
Okie chapter kal post hone wala tha par meri didi ka thoda fucks ho gaya, (behen chinki aur diwaar se saar baj Gaya, aur sar thoda phat gaya, toh hospital gayi thi, par thank god kuch serious nhi hai โ๏ธ๐)
Aur han mereko tumlog thoda pareshan karo yaar thoda peche pado mere!! Warna update milni se rahi.
Genre: Angst, literally no fluff. I am incapable of writing Iqbal fluff.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to glorify any real life people or events linked with them.
Trigger warnings: mentions of death, sickness and grief. Iqbal being the pos that he is. Cheating.
P.S. this is longgggg. Probably my longest work ever. And this is the first time I am writing angst, so please lmk your thoughts below.
For eleven years, Y/N had been the heart of the Iqbal residence. Not just the mistress of the house, not just the lady of the manor.
But the heart.
There was a difference.
Anyone could hire staff, anyone with enough money could fill a house with cooks, drivers, cleaners and caretakers.
But very few people could make those people feel like family.
Yet somehow Y/N had managed exactly that.
The kitchen staff brought her vegetables from their hometowns because they knew she loved trying new recipes. Bashir chacha, who had worked for the family longer than Y/N herself had lived there, refused to let anyone else drive her to the market. The younger maids often sat with her after dinner, chatting about weddings, children and village gossip while she folded laundry alongside them despite having absolutely no reason to.
"Begum sahiba, leave that."
"I have two hands, don't I?"
"That's not the point."
"It is exactly the point."
And every single time, the conversation ended the same way.
With the staff sighing dramatically while Y/N continued helping anyway.
She was loved in that house. Truly loved.
The guards smiled when they saw her.
The cooks saved the crispiest pakoras for her. Even the gardeners brought her flowers because they knew she liked fresh blooms in every room.
Sometimes Y/N wondered if strangers would find it strange.
How a woman could be adored by an entire household and still feel lonely.
But loneliness did not care how many people loved you, It only cared about the people who didn't.
The master bedroom sat at the far end of the second floor.
It was large, beautiful, decorated with expensive pieces and empty.
Or half empty, rather.
Every morning, Y/N woke up on one side of the bed and found the other untouched.
Some nights Iqbal came home after midnight, some nights he didn't come home at all, sometimes she woke briefly at three in the morning to find him quietly removing his watch near the dresser, other times she woke to an empty room and the realization that another night had passed without seeing her husband.
The first few years had been good, really good. He loved her, cared for her, bought her small gifts, took her out on sweet dates, had silly fights with her. Their days blurred with soft kisses and sweet gestures and nights ended up with getting tangled on each other. Life was good.
And then, Laiba was born. The pregnancy, instead of bringing them closer, put a distance between them. Y/N was constantly feeling sick during the 9 months, Iqbal was always away with work.
And by the time Laiba was born, the distance was too big for them to cross.
The next few years after her birth, had been painful.
By the sixth year, Y/N had stopped waiting up.
By the seventh, she stopped asking questions.
Now, after eleven years of marriage, she simply folded his side of the blanket every morning and continued with her day.
And yet, after all this misery she still loved him. That was perhaps the saddest part.
Not desperately, not hopefully, just quietly.
The way people continued tending plants they already knew would never bloom again.
---
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway,
A moment later, Laiba burst into the room.
"Ammi!"
Fourteen years old, wild curls, one sock missing, and enough energy to power an entire city.
Y/N smiled immediately.
"There you are."
"I can't find my blue notebook."
"The one on your desk?"
"No."
"The one under your pillow?"
"No."
"The one you're holding?"
Laiba froze.
Looked down.
Then stared at the notebook in her hands.
"Oh."
Y/N laughed.
A real laugh, soft and warm.
Laiba immediately grinned.
There was something about her daughter that made even difficult days easier to survive.
Perhaps because Laiba loved so openly.
So completely.
She didn't understand pretending, didn't understand social masks.
When she was happy, everyone knew.
When she was sad, everyone knew that too.
And when she loved someone, she loved them with her entire heart.
Especially her father.
The front gates opened downstairs.
Instantly, Laiba straightened.
The change was immediate.
Like a sunflower turning toward sunlight.
"Baba!"
Without another word, she ran from the room.
Y/N followed at a much slower pace.
She found them in the foyer.
Iqbal had barely stepped through the front door before Laiba collided with him.
He caught her automatically and effortlessly, like he'd done it a thousand times before. Which to be fair he has.
"You promised you'd be home yesterday."
"I know."
"You missed movie night."
"I know."
"You always know."
Iqbal actually smiled, a genuine smile.
One that almost never appeared anymore.
Not for colleagues, not for guests and specially not for Y/N.
Only for Laiba.
"What punishment am I getting this time?" he asked.
Laiba crossed her arms.
"No dessert."
"That's harsh."
"You deserve it."
"I agree."
That earned a giggle.
Within seconds, all annoyance vanished.
Just like that.
Y/N stood quietly near the staircase watching them.
And despite everything,
despite the loneliness, despite the distance, despite the marriage that seemed to be fading a little more every year, she smiled.
Because if there was one thing nobody could ever accuse Iqbal of, it was being a bad father.
He adored Laiba. Not tolerated. Not cared for. Adored.
He attended every meeting with her therapists, memorized every medication, learned every trigger, every routine, every fear.
When relatives made insensitive comments about her condition, Iqbal stopped inviting those relatives.
When teachers underestimated her, he hired better ones.
When Laiba cried, he sat beside her until she stopped.
Sometimes until sunrise if necessary.
The entire world knew Major Iqbal as a feared man.
Laiba knew him as the man who cut fruit into heart shapes because she claimed it tasted better that way.
It was almost enough to make Y/N forget how different he became around her.
Almost.
His eyes found hers briefly.
"Morning."
"Morning."
That was all.
No smile. No warmth. No kiss on the forehead. Nothing.
Just a greeting. Polite. Distant.
The kind exchanged between acquaintances. Not husband and wife.
And yet Y/N still moved automatically toward the dining room.
Still poured his tea exactly the way he liked it, still remembered he preferred less sugar and extra milk.
Because eleven years of loving someone became habit eventually, even when the love stopped being returned.
The three of them sat together for breakfast afterward.
Laiba talking enough for all three, Iqbal listening patiently, Y/N quietly refilling cups and passing plates.
From a distance, they probably looked like a happy family.
Maybe they even were.
Just not in the way families were supposed to be.
Because somewhere over the years, husband and wife had become strangers connected only by the child they both loved more than themselves.
And neither of them seemed brave enough to say it aloud.
---
The days blurred together much like all the days before it.
Life inside the Iqbal residence moved according to routines.
Laiba's tutors arrived at nine.
Lunch was served at one.
Tea appeared at four.
Dinner was prepared regardless of whether Major Iqbal actually came home to eat it.
The house ran smoothly because Y/N made sure it did.
She remembered appointments, Birthdays, medicine schedules,the gardener's daughter's wedding, the cook's son's examinations, everything.
She carried the entire household on her shoulders so naturally that most people never realized how much work went into keeping a home feeling alive.
And perhaps that was why nobody noticed the little things.
Not when Y/N paused halfway up the staircase because she suddenly felt winded, not when a dry cough occasionally interrupted conversations, not when she found herself sitting down more often after finishing chores, exhausted.
She noticed them, of course, but only vaguely, The way people noticed a new creak in the floorboards.
Something mildly irritating but nothing worth worrying about.
After all, she was thirty six. Not eighty.
So she ignored it.
The same way she ignored everything else, the loneliness, the distance, the unanswered questions, the untouched side of the bed.
Especially the untouched side of the bed.
By now, she had memorized the pattern of Iqbal's absences.
He usually returned around two or three in the morning, sometimes later, sometimes not at all.
When he did come home, he moved quietly through the bedroom. Careful and polite, like a guest trying not to disturb another guest.
Gone were the days when he used to pull her closer in his sleep.
Gone were the nights spent talking until sunrise.
Gone were the random kisses pressed against her temple while she read books in bed.
Sometimes Y/N wondered when exactly it had happened.
When had affection turned into courtesy?
When had love become obligation?
She never found an answer.
One afternoon, she was helping Bashir chacha organize some documents in Iqbal's study when she noticed his wallet lying on the desk.
Nothing unusual about that.
He forgot things everywhere.
Keys, files, wallets, his reading glasses.
The entire household had become accustomed to finding and returning his belongings.
Without thinking much of it, Y/N picked up the wallet.
She intended to hand it to Bashir chacha.
Nothing more, but then it slipped open.
And a photograph slid halfway out.
For a moment, she almost ignored it.
Then she froze, a woman smiled back at her. Young, probably in her mid twenties or younger, beautiful...with auburn hair and greenish hazel eyes.
The photograph was tucked neatly behind another picture. Laiba's picture.
Y/N stared at it for a long moment, something cold settled into her stomach.
Years ago, there had been another photograph there.
Her photograph.
A small passport sized picture taken shortly after their wedding.
She remembered because Iqbal used to joke about it constantly.
Said he needed proof his wife existed, and he wasn't dreaming whenever he traveled.
She remembered laughing.
Remembered stealing the wallet and hiding it for an entire day just to annoy him,
back then, he had searched the entire house for it.
Now her picture was gone.
In its place sat another woman.
Y/N carefully slid the photograph back exactly where she found it.
Then closed the wallet and placed it precisely where it had been.
And continued sorting papers.
Her hands never trembled, not once.
Years of being Major Iqbal's wife had taught her many things, one of them was how to remain composed even when her heart was breaking.
The photograph stayed with her though.
She thought about it while watering plants.
While helping Laiba with homework.
While supervising dinner.
While folding laundry.
A friend, perhaps? A colleague?
A relative?
She repeated those possibilities so many times they almost sounded believable.
Almost.
But somewhere deep inside, she already knew, women always do.
The evidence merely arrived later.
After that, the signs became impossible to ignore.
Phone calls taken outside, messages answered with faint smiles, longer absences, new clothes, new cologne.
Tiny things that would mean nothing individually.
Together, however...
Together they painted a picture Y/N desperately wished she couldn't see.
Still, she said nothing.
Perhaps because she was afraid of the answer.
Or perhaps because she already had it.
The actual confirmation arrived three weeks later.
Ironically, on the most ordinary day imaginable.
Y/N had gone grocery shopping not because she needed to, the staff could have done it.
But she enjoyed choosing produce herself.
Always had.
The market was crowded that afternoon.
Vendors shouting, children running between stalls, cars honking impatiently from nearby roads.
Y/N stood near a fruit seller, comparing mangoes, when movement across the street caught her attention.
She almost looked away, but then her gaze stopped on a familiar figure.
Iqbal.
The world seemed to pause.
He stood outside a cafรฉ, dressed casually.
Smiling, actually smiling. She hasn't seen him smile like that in years...
The young woman from the photograph stood beside him.
And then leaned down and kissed her.
Not a friendly gesture, not something that could be misunderstood.
A kiss shared by people who belonged to one another.
For several seconds, Y/N couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
She just stood there, frozen with the fruits still in her hand.
Eleven years of marriage unraveling in front of her eyes.
The strange thing was that she didn't cry. She dropped the fruit on the vendor's cart,
turned around and walked back to the car.
And told Bashir chacha she wanted to go home.
The entire drive passed in silence.
When they arrived, she walked straight upstairs, ignored concerned greetings, ignored questions, ignored everything.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind her.
Finally. Alone. The room felt suffocating.
The same room where she had spent eleven years loving him.
Waiting for him, missing him, excusing him, defending him in silence.
The same room where she had convinced herself distance didn't necessarily mean betrayal.
A laugh escaped her. Small. Broken.
Then suddenly it became difficult to breathe.
Her chest tightened painfully.
The room tilted, she tried reaching the bed.
Didn't make it.
The last thing Y/N remembered was the carpet rushing toward her.
Then darkness swallowed everything.
And downstairs, life inside the Iqbal residence continued exactly as it always had.
Completely unaware that something inside its heart had finally cracked.
---
When Y/N opened her eyes again, sunlight was spilling through the curtains.
For a brief, disoriented moment, she couldn't remember why she was lying on the floor.
Then she remembered the photograph, the cafรฉ, the kiss, Iqbal's hand resting against another woman's face with a familiarity that had once belonged to her.
The memory returned all at once.
Y/N closed her eyes again.
The pain surprised her, not because it existed but because of how much of it remained.
After all these years of distance, after all these years of sleeping alone and eating alone and raising their daughter while her husband slowly drifted further and further away, she had genuinely believed there wasn't enough left between them to hurt anymore.
Apparently she had been wrong.
The floor beneath her felt cold.
Her neck ached from sleeping in an awkward position and her chest still felt strangely tight.
As though someone had wrapped invisible rope around her lungs, she ignored that part.
Focused instead on getting up.
The house would be awake by now.
People would be looking for her, Laiba would definitely be looking for her.
That thought alone forced Y/N to stand,
the moment she opened the bedroom door, she found Ruksana pacing anxiously outside.
"Allah!" the help nearly shouted. "Begum sahiba!"
Y/N blinked.
"What happened?"
"What happened?!" Ruksana repeated. "You locked yourself inside your room all day yesterday!"
Yesterday.
The realization hit immediately.
An entire day had passed.
Ruksana's expression softened with concern.
"You didn't answer anybody."
Y/N attempted a smile.
"I wasn't feeling well."
That much, at least, wasn't a lie, the explanation seemed sufficient for everyone else too.
By evening, the household had accepted that Begum Sahiba had simply been under the weather.
Only Laiba remained unconvinced.
She followed Y/N around the house like an anxious shadow.
"Are you sick?"
"No."
"You look sick."
"I just need rest."
"You hate resting."
That earned the smallest laugh.
"Maybe I'm growing wiser with age."
Laiba narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
Then promptly attached herself to Y/N's side for the rest of the day.
As though proximity alone could prevent anything bad from happening to her ammi.
The guilt nearly crushed Y/N.
Because all she could think about was the cafรฉ, the woman, the kiss and the fact that Laiba still adored the man responsible.
That night, Y/N sat alone in the dark long after everyone else had gone to sleep.
Including Iqbal.
He had returned home unusually early.
Asked whether she felt better, accepted her short answer and moved on.
That should have angered her.
Instead, she found herself staring at him while he slept, perhaps for the first time in years.
The faint lines near his eyes, the streaks of silver beginning to appear in his hair, the familiar face she had once known better than her own.
The face belonging to the man she had ever loved.
One question repeated endlessly inside her mind.
Why? Why her? Why now? Why after eleven years?
The urge to wake him was overwhelming, to demand answers, to throw the photograph onto his chest, to ask whether he had ever loved her at all.
The words sat at the back of her throat, burning and ready.
Then she heard soft footsteps in the hallway,the bedroom door opened slightly.
Laiba peeked inside, hslf asleep and hair messy, holding her stuffed rabbit.
Without a word, she shuffled toward the bed before climbing between them, like she had done during thunderstorms since childhood.
Laiba immediately curled against Y/N's side, safe and comfortable.
And just like that the confrontation died in Y/N's mind.
Because all Y/N could see was her daughter. Their daughter.
The one beautiful thing they had managed to create together.
How could she risk destroying that?
What would happen if the marriage ended?
Would courts become involved?
Would custody battles begin?
Would Laiba be forced to choose?
The thought alone made her feel sick.
No.
No matter how badly her heart hurt, she couldn't do that to her daughter.
Not Laiba. Never Laiba.
So she swallowed the questions, every single one of them nd buried them somewhere deep inside herself.
---
Meanwhile, the coughing worsened.
A little more each week.
Sometimes Y/N woke at night struggling to catch her breath, sometimes climbing stairs left her strangely exhausted, sometimes her chest felt heavy for reasons she couldn't explain.
She blamed stress, the weather, poor sleep, even Iqbal.
Until one morning, rhe day began normally enough, she was flowing along the daily chores. Breakfast, laundry, laiba's tutors.
Then she stood up from the living room sofa and the world suddenly tilted hard.
The room spun, a sharp wave of dizziness swept through her.
For one terrifying moment, her lungs seemed to forget how to work, she grabbed the edge of a nearby table before anyone noticed, the feeling passed after several seconds. Just enough for her to hide it.
"Ammi?"
Laiba looked up from her colouring book.
"You okay?"
Y/N smiled, the same smile mothers had been using to lie to their children for generations.
"Just stood up too fast."
Laiba accepted the explanation immediately.
Y/N hated herself a little for being relieved.
That evening, after ensuring Laiba was occupied with her evening tutors and the household had settled into its usual rhythm, she quietly asked Bashir chacha to drop her at a clinic.
And she genuinely believed that, at least at first.
The first doctor ordered tests, the tests led to more tests, blood work, scans, sppointments.
Weeks passed that way.
Y/N attended every appointment alone now, making excuses to Bashir chacha who insisted on dropping her off to whereever she was going every Thursday evening.
Y/N made an excuse everytime.
Each visit to the clinic chipped away at her certainty that everything was fine.
Until finally, one rainy afternoon she sat across from a pulmonologist whose expression told her the truth before he ever spoke.
People wore that expression when delivering bad news and the words that followed felt strangely distant.
Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis, scarring of the lungs. Progressive. Irreversible.
Terminal.
Only management, only time, and only waiting until death eventually took her.
The doctor's voice continued, telling her about possible treatment options, lifestyle changes, expected progression.
Y/N heard very little after that.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Too quiet. Too unreal.
Because moments ago she had been worried about a cheating husband.
Now she was being told she was dying.
And somehow,
the betrayal no longer felt like the worst thing that had happened to her.
When she finally stepped inside the Iqbal residence, dinner preparations were already underway.
Voices drifted from the kitchen, the smell of spices filled the air.
Laiba's laughter echoed somewhere upstairs.
Y/N paused briefly near the front door.
Then carefully wiped her face, straightened her dupatta, locked the medical reports inside her handbag.
And walked inside smiling.
Nobody noticed anything unusual and for the first time in her life, Y/N carried something entirely alone.
By the time she lay down that night, one truth had become painfully clear.
She had spent years mourning a marriage.
Years mourning a husband who no longer loved her.
But standing face to face with death had a way of rearranging priorities.
Suddenly, she found she no longer cared about being chosen, no longer cared about being loved, no longer cared about winning her husband back.
All that mattered now was one thing.
Laiba.
Whatever time she had left,
every second of it would belong to her light, her daughter.
---
For the first few weeks after her diagnosis, nothing appeared different.
At least not from the outside.
The house still woke to the smell of tea and fresh rotis, the staff still came to her with problems that somehow only Begum Sahiba could solve, Laiba still forgot where she left her notebooks, and Iqbal still came and went like a visitor instead of a husband.
Life carried on and nobody knew of Y/N's life leaving with each breath she took.
That was the remarkable thing, nobody knew, not Laiba, not the staff, not her friends, not even Iqbal.
The knowledge belonged solely to her.
And perhaps that was why she found herself becoming oddly calm.
The affair no longer haunted her the way it once had.
It still hurt sometimes terribly, there were nights when she stared at the ceiling and remembered the image of Iqbal kissing another woman, there were mornings when she caught herself wondering whether he had ever loved that woman the way he once loved her.
But those thoughts never lasted very long anymore because there was always a more pressing one waiting.
Laiba.
Everything came back to Laiba, every fear, every prayer, every plan.
Who would remind her to take breaks when she became obsessed with astronomy?
Who would know that thunderstorms overwhelmed her?
Who would understand that certain fabrics made her uncomfortable?
Who would sit beside her through meltdowns?
Who would love her enough?
The question followed Y/N everywhere.
And eventually, without realizing it, she began preparing.
The first thing to go was her jewelry.
Not all at once, gradually one piece at a time.
One afternoon, she was helping Ruksana fold clothes when the younger woman paused.
"These are beautiful, begum sahiba."
Y/N glanced up.
Ruksana was admiring an old pair of gold jhumkas that were a wedding gift from her mother.
She hadn't worn them in years.
Without hesitation, Y/N removed them from the box.
"Take them."
Ruksana blinked.
"What?"
"Take them."
The help immediately looked horrified.
"No, absolutely not."
"They'll look better on you."
"Begum sahiba!"
"I'm serious."
The argument continued for nearly ten minutes. And In the end, Ruksana left the room carrying the earrings and looking deeply uncomfortable about it.
Y/N watched her go with a small smile.
The smile faded almost immediately, not because she regretted giving them away.
Because she remembered why she was doing it.
After that, it became a habit.
A shawl to one person, a handbag to another, books she had collected over years, designer scarves, expnsive perfumes, inported tea sets, decorations.
Anything and everything.
God help the poor soul who casually mentioned liking something.
Because there was a frighteningly high chance they would leave the house carrying it.
"Bhabhi, your bracelet is gorgeous."
"Keep it."
"No, no, I was only sayingโ"
"Then say thank you."
People laughed, people protested, people eventually accepted it.
Nobody questioned it for very long because generosity had always been part of Y/N's nature, this simply seemed like an extension of that.
Only Y/N understood the truth.
Every object leaving the house was one less thing she would leave behind to collect dust.
One less memory for somebody else to sort through after she was gone.
Meanwhile, Laiba remained blissfully unaware, perhaps because Y/N worked very hard to keep it that way.
Movie nights became more frequent.
Astronomy discussions became longer.
Afternoons were spent baking together despite the fact that neither of them was particularly good at it.
The kitchen staff had learned to expect disaster whenever mother and daughter decided to cook.
Still, nobody complained.
The laughter was worth cleaning up afterward.
One evening, Y/N sat beside Laiba in the garden while the girl enthusiastically pointed toward the sky.
"There."
Y/N squinted.
"I don't see anything."
"The star, sirius!."
"There are millions of stars."
"No, that one, the shiny one."
"Laiba, that doesn't help, all of them are shiny."
The teenager groaned dramatically.
"You're impossible."
"And yet you love me."
Laiba immediately leaned sideways until her head rested against Y/N's shoulder.
"Obviously."
The answer came so quickly that tears nearly formed in Y/N's eyes.
She looked away before her daughter could notice.
Because how did one prepare for leaving behind someone who loved you so easily?
How did one prepare them?
That question haunted her more than death ever could.
So she began introducing the idea carefully.
"What would you do if I went somewhere for a while?"
Laiba looked genuinely alarmed.
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Then don't go."
Y/N laughed softly.
"Life doesn't work like that."
"Then life is stupid."
The answer was immediate.
Y/N kissed the top of her head.
And later that night cried alone in the bathroom.
Because every attempt ended like this.
Every attempt hurt.
Yet she continued, because she had to.
Because there would come a day when Laiba woke up and Y/N wouldn't be there.
And that reality terrified her more than her own death ever would.
---
A month passed and then another.
The coughing worsened, the breathlessness worsened, some days climbing stairs felt like running a marathon.
Still she told no one.
Still she smiled.
Still she carried on.
Until one evening, Iqbal came home early.
So early, in fact, that several members of the staff looked surprised to see him.
The sun hadn't even fully set.
Laiba was upstairs with her tutor.
The house was unusually quiet.
And Y/N sat alone in the library speaking on the phone.
"...I'm serious."
Her friend's voice crackled through the speaker,
"You need to leave him."
Y/N sighed. The conversation had become familiar lately, ever since she admitted she had seen Iqbal with another woman, ever since she finally stopped pretending everything was fine.
"He has a girlfriend, Y/N."
"I know."
"Then why are you still there?"
Y/N looked out the window.
The gardens stretched peacefully below.
Somewhere upstairs, Laiba's voice drifted faintly through the floorboards.
The sound softened something inside her.
"I have Laiba."
"You can fight for custody."
The suggestion almost made her laugh.
Fight Major Iqbal? For a child he adored perhaps more than anthing and anyone here?
No.
That wasn't a battle she would ever win.
Nor was it one she wanted Laiba caught in.
"I'll leave."
Her friend immediately sounded relieved.
"Good."
Y/N smiled a sad little smile, the kind nobody could see through a phone.
"Just...a few more months."
Outside the library, footsteps stopped.
Iqbal had just entered the hallway quietly moving towards their bedroom, but the words caught his attention immediately.
A few more months?
His frown deepened.
Inside the room, Y/N continued speaking quietly.
"I just need enough time."
Enough time.
The phrase lingered strangely.
Enough time for what?
To gather courage? To arrange a separation? To finally leave?
Iqbal wasn't sure.
And ultimately, he didn't care enough to ask.
After a moment, he simply continued walking.
The conversation forgotten almost immediately.
Meanwhile, Y/N remained seated by the window long after the call ended.
One hand resting lightly against her chest.
The familiar ache was there.
A few more months.
Nobody knew what those words truly meant, nobody knew she had already begun measuring her life in months instead of years.
---
The next week, Y/N was in the main living room with Ruksana and Bashir chacha, arguing over something pointless as they always did on lazy evenings.
The sound of the front gates opening barely registered in their minds,
Cars came and went constantly from the mansion, deliveries, visitors, business associates.
Nobody paid much attention, it was normal.
Until the front door opened, Y/N looked up and so did everyone else.
And suddenly the laughter died.
Iqbal stood in the foyer, beside him stood a woman.
Dressed head to toe in a bridal attire.
For a second, nobody moved, nobody breathed.
The entire room seemed frozen.
Y/N's gaze shifted from the woman to Iqbal.
Then to their joined hands.
And finally to the wedding ring glittering on the woman's finger.
Understanding settled over the room all at once.
Ruksana went white, one of the younger help dropped the tray she was carrying.
The crash echoed through the silence.
Nobody even looked at it.
Everyone was staring at Iqbal, and at the woman beside him.
At the audacity of bringing her here, into this house, into their begum sahiba's house, into Y/N's house.
Iqbal's expression remained unreadable.
Calm and cntrolled as always.
Finally, he spoke.
"This is Ayesha."
His voice cut cleanly through the silence.
No one answered, no one greeted her, no one even blinked.
Iqbal continued.
"She is my wife."
The words landed like a slap.
Around the room, several faces visibly hardened.
Bashir chacha's jaw tightened, Ruksana looked one sentence away from unemployment or death.
The younger helpers stared at Ayesha as though she had personally committed a crime. In their mind they had.
Nobody in the house was unaware of what Major Iqbal was capable of, they knew exactly what happened to people who crossed him.
Yet for one dangerous moment, several of them looked ready to do it anyway.
All because of Y/N.
Because everybody in this house loved her.
And everybody knew she deserved better than this.
The silence stretched.
Iqbal's eyes eventually found Y/N.
Perhaps he expected tears or anger or even humiliation.
Instead, Y/N simply stepped forward.
The movement startled everyone.
Including him.
She stopped in front of Ayesha.
The younger woman looked terrified, like someone awaiting judgment.
Y/N offered a small smile, the same smile she offered guests and strangers.
"Assalamualaikum."
Ayesha blinked and then quickly returned it.
"Walaikum assalam."
Y/N nodded.
Then turned toward the staff.
"Why is everyone standing around?"
Nobody moved.
"Tea should be prepared."
Still nobody moved.
Y/N raised an eyebrow, and immediately the room exploded back into motion.
People scattered, though several looked deeply unhappy about it.
Only then did she look back at Ayesha.
"Come."
The younger woman hesitated before following her.
Y/N led her upstairs.
Neither woman spoke.
Behind them, the house remained eerily quiet.
Word had already begun spreading.
By the time they reached the second floor, every staff in the residence probably knew what had happened.
Y/N stopped outside the master bedroom.
Her bedroom Or what used to be her bedroom even the night before. For eleven years.
She pushed the door open,
Sunlight spilled across polished floors.
The large bed sat exactly where it always had.
Ayesha stared at the room.
Y/N stepped aside.
"You'll stay here."
The younger woman's eyes widened.
"What?"
"You'll stay here."
Y/N continued,
"The staff will move my belongings to one of the guest rooms. They'll also bring your things upstairs."
The younger woman looked moments away from crying.
Y/N felt oddly detached from it all.
As though she were watching somebody else's life unfold.
Maybe because, in a way, she was.
The life she had built with Iqbal had ended long before today.
Today was simply the first day everyone else could see it.
She turned toward the door.
Then paused.
Without looking back, she spoke softly.
"If you need anything, ask Ruksana."
Ayesha swallowed.
"Why are you being kind to me?"
For the first time, Y/N's smile faltered.
Just slightly.
Because the answer was complicated.
Because anger required energy she no longer possessed.
Because she had bigger things to worry about than a husband who stopped loving her.
Because every day she woke up knowing she had fewer of them left.
Instead she simply said,
"Get settled."
Then she walked away.
Leaving the room.
Leaving her marriage.
And, though nobody knew it yet,
slowly beginning to leave everything else behind too.
---
The first few days after Ayesha's arrival were awkward for everyone, except Y/N.
The staff took it personally.
Ruksana refused to make eye contact with Iqbal unless absolutely necessary,
Bashir chacha's replies became painfully short, the kitchen staff lowered their voices whenever Major Sahab or choti begum shiba entered a room.
Nobody openly disrespected them, nobody was foolish enough for that.
But the warmth that once existed was gone.
And everyone knew why.
The strange thing was that Ayesha seemed just as uncomfortable.
She kept trying to help, trying to fit in, trying to speak to the staff.
Most attempts ended with polite responses and quick exits.
Not because they hated her, because loving Y/N made loyalty feel complicated.
Ayesha seemed to understand that, she never complained, never demanded respect, never acted entitled.
Instead she quietly endured the discomfort.
Which made disliking her increasingly difficult, for Y/N especially.
Because she watched.
And the more she watched, the harder it became to blame the girl.
Ayesha was not cruel, not arrogant, not malicious.
She looked guilty more often than happy.
Like someone who had gotten everything she wanted and somehow still felt bad about it.
The apology finally came a week later.
Y/N was sitting in the garden sorting through old books.
The pile beside her had grown considerably over the last month.
Some were destined for charity.
Some for the staff.
Some for Laiba.
All of them were part of a future Y/N no longer expected to see.
She heard footsteps approaching.
Y/N didn't look up but she could recognise the nervous footsteps pretty easily now, Ayesha.
The younger woman stopped nearby.
Neither spoke immediately, and the silence stretched.
Then, "I'm sorry."
The words were so quiet they almost disappeared into the wind.
Y/N closed her book.
Ayesha looked miserable, eyes red, hands twisting together in her dupatta.
For a moment, Y/N saw not the woman who married her husband.
Just a girl, A frightened girl carrying far more guilt than she knew what to do with.
"For taking him from you."
There it was.
The thing everyone had been avoiding.
The thing hanging over the house like a storm cloud.
Y/N studied her for several seconds.
Then smiled.
"He was never mine to begin with."
Ayesha's eyes immediately filled.
"No."
"Yes."
Y/N looked away.
Toward the flower beds.
Toward the afternoon sun.
Toward anything except the pity on Ayesha's face.
"I lost him years ago."
The words felt strangely easy to say.
Because they were true.
People thought marriages ended dramatically with explosions, arguments, betrayals.
But most didn't.
Most ended quietly in missed dinners, unasked questions, empty beds and forgotten anniversaries.
By the time another woman appeared, the marriage was often already dead.
Ayesha began crying.
Which honestly felt unfair.
Y/N should have been the one crying.
Yet somehow she found herself comforting the woman who married her husband.
Life was absurd sometimes.
After that conversation, things changed grafually.
Almost without anyone noticing.
Ayesha started joining Y/N during afternoon tea, sometimes they spoke.
Sometimes they didn't.
Neither seemed to mind.
The younger woman listened more than she talked.
Y/N appreciated that.
One afternoon she learned Ayesha liked astronomy.
The information lodged itself somewhere in her mind.
Two days later, she casually mentioned it during dinner.
"Laiba."
The teenager looked up.
"Hm?"
"Ayesha likes astronomy too."
Laiba immediately narrowed her eyes.
Suspicious.
Protective.
Very fourteen years old.
"No she doesn't."
Ayesha looked startled.
"I do."
"No you don't."
"I do."
"Name three planets."
Ayesha blinked then obediently named five.
Laiba looked genuinely offended.
Y/N nearly laughed into her tea.
That was the beginning.
After that came small things.
Tiny moments.
Little bridges built one day at a time.
"Show Ayesha your telescope."
"Tell Ayesha about your project."
"Ayesha knows how to make kheer."
"Ayesha likes documentaries too."
At first Laiba resisted every attempt, not aggressively. She wasnt capable of aggresion. Just stubbornly.
The way special needs children resisted change.
But Ayesha never forced anything, never demanded affection, never tried replacing anyone, She simply showed up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Patient. Consistent. Kind.
Eventually Laiba responded.
The first time Y/N heard laughter coming from the study and discovered Ayesha and Laiba sitting together over an astronomy documentary, she quietly backed out before either noticed her.
Then stood in the hallway crying.
Not because it hurt, because it didn't.
That was the shocking part.
It felt like relief. Pure relief.
For months she had been terrified.
Terrified of leaving Laiba alone.
Terrified of what would happen afterward.
Terrified that nobody would understand her daughter the way she did.
Now, for the first time, she could imagine a future where Laiba might be okay.
The realization settled something restless inside her.
And once it did,
Y/N began withdrawing.
She started excusing herself when Laiba asked to spend time with her and instead directed her to Ayesha.
Soon it became normal.
Laiba watched documentaries with Ayesha, had tea with Ayesha, went shopping with Ayesha.
And Y/N found herself watching from a distance.
Like someone slowly fading from a photograph.
One evening, she took things a step further.
Dinner had just ended.
Laiba and Ayesha were arguing over something involving Jupiter.
The debate sounded absurd.
Y/N smiled.
Then looked directly at her daughter.
"Stop calling her Choti Ammi."
The room immediately fell silent.
Laiba blinked.
Ayesha froze.
Even Iqbal looked up.
"What?"
Y/N's smile remained gentle.
"Call her Ammi."
Ayesha looked horrified.
"Noโ"
"There is enough room."
The younger woman's eyes immediately filled.
Laiba looked confused.
"But you're Ammi."
The words nearly shattered Y/N.
Still, she smiled.
Always smiling.
"Yes."
"Then she's Choti Ammi."
Y/N reached over and tucked a curl behind her daughter's ear.
After that evening she started easing the idea gently into Laiba's life.
Enough that when the truth finally came out, it would hurt them a little less.
Or at least that was what she hoped.
Unfortunately, fate had never cared much about her plans.
And somewhere inside the house, hidden beneath neatly folded clothes in a wardrobe nobody ever opened, a brown medical file was waiting patiently to be found.
---
Winter settled over the Iqbal residence quietly, the gardens were still beautiful, the staff still bustled through the halls.
Laiba still filled every room she entered with noise.
Life continued.
At least on the surface.
Beneath it, however, something was changing,
Y/N was disappearing, little pieces at a time.
She spent more time in her room or the garden, more afternoons resting,
More evenings sitting alone by the window watching the stars above.
Nobody questioned it much.
After all, everyone believed they understood why.
A woman whose husband had married again would naturally become quieter.
More withdrawn, more distant.
Even Iqbal assumed as much.
Whenever he noticed her absence from dinner, he attributed it to resentment.
Whenever he noticed her exhaustion, he blamed sadness.
Whenever he heard her coughing behind closed doors, he barely thought about it at all.
The truth never crossed his mind.
Because it never occurred to him that Y/N might be carrying something far heavier than heartbreak.
And Y/N never corrected him.
The discovery happened on an ordinary afternoon, Iqbal had been looking for some property documents.
Nothing important or memorable.
One of his associates needed copies of paperwork and Bashir chacha had informed him the files might have been moved during a recent reorganization.
So Iqbal searched his study first, then his office, then several cupboards upstairs.
Eventually he entered the guest room,
Y/N's room, the room she had moved into after Ayesha arrived.
The room he rarely entered, the room he had absolutely no reason to enter.
Until today.
The wardrobe was neatly arranged.
Of course it was.
Everything belonging to Y/N was always neat,
Iqbal moved a stack of folded shawls aside.
A brown file slipped free and hit the floor.
Papers spilled everywhere.
Annoyed, he bent to gather them.
Then froze, at first he didn't understand what he was looking at.
Hospital documents, medical reports, prescriptions, scan results, appointment records.
His frown deepened,
Slowly, he began reading.
One page. Then another. Then another.
The room became very quiet.
'Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis.'
The unfamiliar medical term appeared repeatedly. Progressive. Irreversible.
Terminal. The words blurred.
For a moment, Iqbal genuinely thought he was misunderstanding something.
This had to belong to somebody else.
Some mistake. Some error.
Because Y/N couldn't possiblyโ
No. Impossible.
His eyes jumped to the dates.
The earliest report was 9 months old.
9 Months.
His hands began trembling.
The realization arrived slowly and cruelly, like a knife being pushed deeper and deeper.
The coughing, the fainting spells, the exhaustion, the sudden extreme generosity, the way she kept giving her most prized possessions away, the way she encouraged Ayesha and Laiba to grow closer, the way she kept talking about the future without ever including herself in it.
The conversation he overheard.
'Just a few more months.'
The sentence slammed into him with horrifying clarity.
She hadn't been talking about leaving him.
She had been talking about dying, the file slipped from his hands.
This time he didn't pick it up.
He found her in the garden.
It was where she always went lately, the winter sunlight painted everything gold.
The flowers swayed gently in the breeze.
And Y/N sat beneath them looking strangely small.
For the first time, Iqbal noticed it.
The weight loss, the paleness, the exhaustion hidden beneath her smile.
How had he never noticed?
Or worse...Had he noticed and simply chosen not to look?
Y/N lifted her head.
Saw the look in his eyes and immediately understood that he knows.
A tiny smile touched her lips, not surprised, not frightened just resigned.
"You found it."
Four simple words.
Iqbal felt something inside his chest crack.
The pain unfolded, layer by layer, mistake by mistake, year by year.
"How long?"
His voice sounded wrong.
Hoarse and unsteady.
Y/N looked down at her hands.
"A while."
"A while?"
The words escaped harsher than intended.
She nodded.
Silently.
And suddenly Iqbal understood something awful.
She had gone through all of it alone.
Every appointment. Every test. Every diagnosis. Every terrifying conversation.
Alone.
While he was busy building another life.
While he was busy falling in love with someone else.
While he was busy convincing himself Y/N simply didn't care anymore.
A sickness spread through him.
Not grief, not yet but guilt.
The kind that clawed at your ribs, the kind that made breathing difficult, the kind that arrived when it was already too late.
"You should've told me."
Y/N laughed softly, a tired sound.
Almost affectionate.
"What would've changed, Iqbal?"
He opened his mouth, nothing came out.
Because he didn't know.
Maybe everything, maybe nothing.
Maybe he would've stayed, maybe he would've loved her properly again, maybe he would've spent her final months beside her instead of somebody else.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
The word was useless now.
The future had already happened, and there was no undoing it.
For the first time in years, Major Iqbal cried that night.
And for the first time in years, he understood exactly what he had lost.
Not his wife, not yet.
Something much worse.
The chance to love her.
And by the time he finally realized it,
there wasn't enough time left to try.
---
Major Iqbal did not sleep that night.
The reports remained spread across his desk long after midnight.
Every page felt like punishment.
Every date another reminder that while Y/N had been learning how little time she had left, he had been somewhere else.
By dawn, his eyes burned from exhaustion.
For the first time in years, his path seemed clear. No more distance,no more coldness, no more excuses.
Whatever time she had left, he would spend it beside her.
He would love her the way she deserved to be loved.
Not because she was dying, because he should have done it years ago.
The realization came far too late.
But it had come and he intended to spend every remaining day proving it.
As the first rays of sunlight spilled through the windows, Iqbal made his way toward Y/N's room.
For once, he wasn't carrying work, wasn't thinking about leaving, wasn't thinking about anything except her.
He would apologize, he would sit with her, maybe have breakfast together, maybe talk. Really talk.
Perhaps for the first time in years.
A small smile touched his face as he pushed the door open.
"Y/Nโ"
The word died in his throat.
The room was quiet, too quiet.
Y/N lay exactly where she had gone to sleep the night before, blankets neatly tucked around her.
One hand resting atop them, A faint smile still lingering on her lips.
As though she had fallen asleep thinking of something beautiful.
For one foolish second, he thought she was still sleeping.
Then he noticed she wasn't breathing.
The world stopped for him.
"No."
The whisper escaped before he realized it.
His feet carried him forward.
His hand found hers.
Cold enough to tell him the truth he was having a hard time believing.
Somewhere during the night, while he sat downstairs in his study, making promises to a future he thought they still had,
Y/N had slipped away peacefully.
Without waking anyone.
Iqbal sank beside the bed, his fingers wrapped around hers, his forehead pressed against her hand.
And for the first time, he understood the true weight of regret.
Because after years of not choosing her,
he finally had.
And she hadn't lived long enough to see it.
Outside, the sun continued rising.
Inside, the heart of the Iqbal residence had stopped beating.
๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ซ'๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ง- Major Iqbal Headcanons
this one's for @dhurander-paglu
Bhimber. Winter. A kitchen.
She is making roti. Her dupatta has slipped off one shoulder and she hasn't bothered fixing it. There is flour on her left cheek and she doesn't know about that either. The stove light catches the side of her face and makes her look like something in a painting โ the tired kind, the honest kind.
He is four years old and sitting on the cold floor beside her feet.
He is not doing anything. He is simply there, watching her hands, the way small children watch the people they love โ without embarrassment, without agenda. Just watching.
She notices.
She reaches down, without stopping the roti, and presses a floury thumbprint onto the tip of his nose. He wrinkles it. She laughs โ not the performance of a laugh, the real kind, the one that lives low in the chest. She turns back to the stove.
He goes back to watching her hands.
He will spend the rest of his life trying to remember exactly what they looked like. He will never quite manage it.
[What came firstโthe man or what was done to him? The rot or the wound?
I keep circling this question, and I keep coming back to the same place: Major Iqbal was not born what he became. He was built. Slowly. By a house that contained two completely opposing forcesโone that taught him he was worthy, and one that taught him worthiness was weakness.
The question is not whether his mother loved him. She did, extravagantly, in the way of women who love in the only direction they are permitted to.
The question is what happens to a boy when the person who loves him best also cannot protect him. What he learns from that. What he decides.]
momma's boy!Iqbal: who was the kind of child who cried quietly. Not loudly, not in a way that demanded attention โ the tucked-away kind, the sitting-in-corners kind. His mother always saw it anyway. She would not make a production of it. She would simply come and sit beside him until it was over.
He grew up to despise men who wept openly. The contempt was intimate. The contempt was something he had done to himself.
momma's boy!Iqbal: whose mother read to him every night. This sounds like a small thing. It was not a small thing. In a house where his father's voice was the loudest presence in every room โ always proving something, always on the edge of itself โ his mother's reading voice was an entirely different register. Slow. Patient. She did the voices differently for each character. When he fell asleep before the chapter ended, she would fold the page and start from the same line the next night.
He grew up believing that stories waited for you. But then again that was a time...a better time.
momma's boy!Iqbal: whose father โ Brigadier Jahangir, decorated, half-useless, proud of things that should have shamed him โ did not beat him. This is important to say plainly: he did not beat him. What he did was more precise than that. He used his voice the way other men use hands. You are soft. You are an embarrassment. You are nothing like what I needed you to be. He said these things at the dinner table. He said them in front of guests. He said them the way other fathers asked for the salt โ habitually, without looking up, without registering that there was a person receiving the words.
His mother, every single time, would reach under the table and press her hand over Iqbal's. Once. Briefly. I see you. I know. I cannot stop this and I am sorry.
She never said any of that out loud.
momma's boy!Iqbal: who brought her things. Stones from the road. A picture of a horse that looked more like a table with legs in the wrong places. A particularly good leaf. He would present these with both hands out, chin down, the full solemnity of a small person giving the only currency they have. She received every single one with equal gravity. She kept the drawings in a box under the bed.
The box was still there when she died. He left the house and left the box. He has not forgiven himself for that. He has also never said so out loud, which means it has nowhere to go.
momma's boy!Iqbal: whose last good day was a Thursday. He was eleven. His father was away on military business and his mother made halwa and let him eat it for breakfast and didn't say a word about it being improper. The winter light came through the kitchen window at a slant. She let him lean against her shoulder and she rested her cheek on the top of his head and they stayed like that until the halwa was done and neither of them spoke because there was nothing that needed saying.
He did not know, that Thursday, that she had been unwell for months and hadn't told anyone.
Older!Iqbal: who lost his mother at fourteen. A February. A quiet death, which is somehow the most violent kind โ no warning, no scene, just a neighbor woman with tight hands and that terrible watching-your-face sympathy. He said shukria and went inside. He sat on the floor of his room until dark. He lay down without eating. He looked at the ceiling until he fell asleep.
His father did not come to check on him.
He registered this the way a seismograph registers a tremor โ not with drama, just with precision. He wrote it in the ledger he kept in his chest: this man will not come for you. account for this. do not forget. He did not cry until three months later, alone in a classroom, over a line in a poem that had nothing to do with anything. He cried until he thought something would break. Then it stopped. He never cried again.
He thought that was grief finishing. He did not know it was grief being sealed behind a wall. Everything he built on top of that wall eventually sank and he never understood why
Older!Iqbal: who joined the military partly because his father expected him not to โ this is the pettiest and most honest thing about that decision โ and once inside it, found that violence had a framework here, and the framework almost felt like safety. He was brilliant at it. He had always suspected he would be. Violence has its own grammar and he had been absorbing it since before he had words for it. He became controlled. Precise. Utterly without mercy.
Every senior officer who praised him for those qualities thought they were praising a soldier.
They were praising a boy who had learned to survive.
Older!Iqbal: who married once. Her name was Maryam. He does not say this to anyone. He does not say it the way some widowers don't say the name of the dead โ not to protect the grief, but because the grief is still exactly where he left it, undisturbed, in a room he keeps locked. He was not a cruel husband. At least not in the conventional sense.
He was also not present.
He was always in the work, in the operation, in the plan โ he told himself that providing was the same as being there, which is something he learned from the very man he hated. Maryam tried. He has to give her that.
She tried in the small persistent ways of people who love difficult men, trying to find whatever was underneath. He did not pull away from her. He just never moved any closer. He has no good explanation for this. He suspects the explanation is that he was terrified.
She deserved better. He knew it then. He knows it more clearly now, which is the particular cruelty of clarity that arrives too late
Older!Iqbal: whose wife died in childbirth. He was not there. He was in Karachi. He was in a room full of men discussing things that do not bear describing, and somewhere in Lahore his wife was dying in a hospital and no one reached him in time. He arrived to a room that was too quiet and a baby in a nurse's arms โ small, furious, screaming with the full conviction of something new to the world.
He stood in the doorway.
He looked at her.
He sat down in a plastic hospital chair.
He did not make a sound.
The nurse had the good sense not to say anything.
Laiba. He named her Laiba. He does not remember deciding this. He remembers only that it felt like the only name there had ever been for her.
[Here is the thing I think about: Maryam left in the way that people leave by dying. His mother left in the way that people leave by dying. The mindโespecially the kind of mind that has been surviving since childhood by finding patterns, by constructing systems, by making the chaos legibleโdoes not always distinguish between the shape of a loss and its cause.
He built a logic out of the wreckage: the people I allow close do not stay.
It is irrational. It is also completely load-bearing.
You cannot argue someone out of a wall they built from their own grief.]
Older!Iqbal: who does not know how to be a father. He knows this. He has no model for it that doesn't include damage โ his own father was a presence defined primarily by what he withheld and what he weaponised. He has his mother, but she was not a father, and what she gave him was given in opposition to cruelty, not in place of it. He is building without a blueprint.
He decides, in a plastic hospital chair, that he will figure it out.
Older!Iqbal: who learns Laiba's world the way he once learned military intelligence โ exhaustively, without sentiment, with total commitment. Laiba has Down syndrome. She has her systems. She has textures she can't tolerate and sounds that undo her and a precise logic for how she needs the world arranged. He learns all of it.
He knows which fabric she'll wear. He knows the exact light level she prefers for eating. He knows that transitions need to be named before they happen and that the naming needs to be gentle and that gentle means his voice, specifically, which is a discovery that keeps catching him off guard.
He did not learn any of this from a book. He watched her. He paid attention. He adjusted.
This is his mother in him. He does not recognise it. The line of continuity is there anyway.
Older!Iqbal:ย who keeps everything she paints. He is not a sentimental man โ there are no soft surfaces in his life and he has been deliberate about that. But Laiba's paintings are not soft surfaces. They are documentation. They are the specific and honest record of how she sees the world, which is more than most people ever produce.
She painted a family portrait once: herself in the center, him beside her, and two spaces left unfilled โ her mother, perhaps, or his mother, or simply space for people she hadn't met yet, or people she knew were missing. He sat beside her when she showed it to him. He looked at the empty spaces for a long time.
He thought about a box under a bed in Bhimber full of his own drawings.
Older!Iqbal:ย whose daughter calls him Baba. Not Papa โ the older word, the softer one. He has never corrected this. She is the only person alive who calls him by anything other than his rank.
He is aware this is the most valuable thing he owns.
He is aware he does not deserve it.
Older!Iqbal: who sits sometimes, alone, in the room where he keeps her paintings. He is not a reflective man. He does not make a practice of sitting with what he feels. But sometimes the quiet gets in anyway.
He looks at the family portrait. He looks at the empty spaces.
He thinks about flour on a cheek and halwa on a Thursday and a reading voice doing all the different characters. He thinks about a box he left behind. He thinks about Laiba's hands when she paints โ very still, very sure of themselves, the brush finding the angle it wants โ and he has seen those hands before, he knows he has, they belong to someone older than both of them, some unbroken line that passed through disaster and came out the other side still reaching for things.
He doesn't know if it's mercy or damnation, inheriting the eyes.
He sits in the room.
He doesn't move.
For a moment โ just this โ he is only a boy who misses his mother.
fin.
author's note: This post is brought to you by insomnia, poor decision-making, and my inability to leave this man alone. I have never written headcanons before. This is my first attempt. Please clap.
Espionage ke itihas mein pehli baar, R&AW ne criminals, death-row convicts aur life-sentence prisoners ko recruit kiya, un logon ko jinke paas jeene ki koi wajah nahi bachi thi.
โHe didnโt betray me. At leastโฆ thatโs not what my heart believes.
He did what he did for something bigger than both of us. And somehow, despite all the lies, he still loved me. Maybe not completely. Maybe not honestly. But it was real. And that truth alone is enough for me.
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