I am creating a taglist. I will probably be writing for beyond dhurandhar too but based in bollywood. And perhaps stuff on feluda and byomkesh. So please. Kis kisko tag hona hay?
U know how tier ranking videos were really popular a while back. I feel like some1 really needs to make a tier ranking with all of Akshayeâs characters, rating how hot each of them is.
Took me until about halfway through college before I realized âstudyâ means âplay with the material in a variety of ways until you understand itâ and not just âread the assigned chapters and do the homeworkâ and I think that probably should have been discussed at some point prior to that.
âĄcharminarpaglu; it's not ur prodosh da unless you see the smoke rings of a cigarette escaping his lips, while he deeply ponders on a case. When you try to scold him, he smiles, and the crowfeet near his eyes, with his downturned smile makes you melt, as he adds, "Eirom shasti diyo na hiya(heart),case ta niye bhalo bhabe bibechona na korle kikore hoi boloto?" "Cha kore di darao, khali pet e esob koro na" you say, sighing, wondering how'd you even end up with your felu mittir in the first place.
âĄavid book collector, would never dare to put a flower inside, but has hoarded that one flower he tucked into your hair, the first time he asked you out on a date to Trinicas in Park Street, which with the passage of time, had dried and ended up on his fav book as a bookmark. "Boi porle tothyo r bodole sudhu tomaye mone pore eibhabe priyo", he says as he smells into the flower, a smug smile spreading at his face.
âĄIs the biggest sondeshpaglu. He even tried to make some at home with Topshe to impress you, but the jol bhora sandesh didn't come out that jol bhora. You still ate it though, for it was the effort that counts.
âĄIs a calm gentle man. Gets up everyday at 5, without fail, and chides, "kal raat e ja dhokol gelo priyo" and stretches his back, the hazy sun filtering in through the curtains in the wee hours of dawn falling on him as he subtly(and knowingly)flexed his sculpted v back, making you yearn for another dhokol for him(and you).
âĄis the most respectful, non impulsive man, except when it comes to his todonto(investigation). He's also had ur hand donned with a white string with the charm "hiya"(meaning heart) engraved on it, which he had carefully chosen from a curio shop back in Lucknow.
âĄWALKING ENCYCLOPEDIA. He pretty much knows everything and anything, ranging from Macbeth to Nihar Ranjan Ray. He loves to infodump to you as well as Topshe and Lal Mohan Babu, much to their annoyance yet happiness, for it is their favorite Felubabu/Feluda. You love the way his eyes lights up as he unlocks the last riddle, as he yells 'Eureka'. While explaining them to you, he paces up and down the room, saying, 'Isshh etokhon dhore amar chokher samnei nachchilo ei dhadhar somadhan, aar ami bokar moto..' but quickly comes before you, kneeling as u sat in the sofa in the living room, saying, "tumi chara amar ki hoto" and lightly kisses your hand, a "hopelessly in love" smile tugging at his lips.
âĄcarries a .32 colt revolver, but for the days he wanted to refine his shooting techniques, he'd use a practice pistol, or a shotgun, but the way his fingers were placed on the trigger, his eyes engrossed with the target, the way his veins popped on his years of practiced hand, on the firearm, made you feel something, different, perhaps wishing you were the gun-
âĄis like a father figure to Topshe, and the best friend to Lal Mohan Babu. He loves his family and puts them at a pedestal, which included you. A total family man, a man who'd kill if it promised your safety and wellbeing.
âĄhis love language would be gift giving and quality time. He loves to pamper you with thoughtful gifts. Maybe you had mistakenly uttered something you had wanted a long time ago, and the next day, you would find it under your pillow with a note written by him, with him always apologizing for the delay in getting it for you. "Sotti, amar chai na eta, you'd say, but his index would find ur lips, stopping you, "kintu tomar chokh toh onno kotha bolche priyo", which is another prime example of where he used his exceptional deductional qualities, somehow always knowing what you want.
âĄIs always doing khunsuti w Topshe, and riddles him on the breakfast table, saying, "mogojastro ta khata re, nahole ja gowal ghor marka budhi hoche tor, jodio tui emnitei ekta goru..." (use your brainpower Topshe, otherwise it is turning into a cowshed, although you urself quite resemble one of the cows) and thus starts their friendly fire while solving cases, eating gorom phulko luchi and alur torkari.
âĄbiggest supporter of Prokhor Rudra, aka the detective in Lal Mohan Babu's detective novels. Is always gifted with one copy of the same, but he always buys one more, unbeknownst to Lal Mohan Babu, to increase sales, and as he found out,he told Lal Mohan babu he was just checking if the publisher had erred or not, which always warmed your heart.
It's just as well that Eken Babu and Feluda don't exist in the same time period because I can guarantee you Feluda would attempt to chuck him over a cliff after the 4th time Eken Babu tried to arrange his marriage with a random woman while loudly and publicly lamenting his single-ness
@marlena-marlena is to blame for my sudden interest in Chaudhary Aslam sahabđ
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, absolutely based on the fictionalised version of SP Aslam from the Dhurandhar universe and is not intended to glorify the real people or the events linked with them.
Anyway, here's some basic ah hcs for arranged Husband SP Aslam.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who spends the first few months of your marriage treating you like something fragile. Not because he doesn't want you, but because he does, far more than he should. But he's thirty seven, married to a woman who is barely twenty five, and the last thing he wants is for you to feel trapped with a man like him.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who leaves the room whenever you enter it at first. Who mistakes distance for kindness, who thinks giving you space is the same thing as making you comfortable.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who tells you, "Don't feel obligated to spend time with me." And then spends the entire evening wondering why the house feels so empty.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who starts bringing home little gifts. A book from a roadside bookstore, your favorite mithai from a shop in Lyari Bazaar, a pashmina shawl, a tin of imported tea. Just random things he saw and thought you'd like, but he dare not say that.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who places them on your desk without a word. Then immediately says,"Don't expect this often." As though he isn't already planning the next gift to bring you.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who genuinely tells you he's not husband material. Who thinks he's too old, too busy and too damaged by the job. And that you absolutely deserve better.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who spends most nights away working cases. Who leaves before sunrise and comes home long after midnight. Who is married to his work almost as much as he's married to you.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who always comes home for breakfast anyway. No matter how late he slept, no matter how exhausting the case, he comes home and sits across from you, eats whatever you've made in silence, softly thanks you. And then disappears again.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who never realizes those breakfasts become your favorite part of the day. Because they're the only moments that actually feel like normal marriage.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who maintains a careful distance in bed. Always at an entire arm's length, to make you feel comfortable.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who wakes up every morning horrified to discover he's somehow crossed the gap anyway. One arm around your waist, your head tucked against his shoulder, your fingers tangled in his shirt.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who immediately moves away before you wake up. As though he committed a crime.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who is so restrained that sometimes you wonder if he even cares. Whether you're simply another responsibility or another duty and nothing more.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who accidentally destroys that theory the day you bring lunch to his task force headquarters.Because one of his officers gets a little too comfortable, a little too chatty, a little too interested in making you laugh. And suddenly the room temperature drops.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. His men are aware enough of what that stare means.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam whose men immediately begin finding very urgent reasons to be somewhere else.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who spends the rest of the afternoon glued to your side without even realizing it.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who compliments you by accident all the time. Who looks up from a file and casually says,"You look beautiful today." And then freezes, because he hadn't meant to say it out loud.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who becomes visibly embarrassed when you smile. Who suddenly finds the paperwork in front of him fascinating. Who clears his throat and refuses to make eye contact.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who never says "I love you." But he remembers your tea order, makes sure your side of the bed is warm during winter, checks whether you've locked the balcony door before sleeping, he's not a religious man but when he does pray he keeps you in it.
Arranged Husband!SP Aslam who claims he doesn't do love but still falls hopelessly in love with his wife.
My second headcanon on tumblr hehe :3 , Iâve always been a fan of hybrid auâs in other fandoms (especially the smut heheheheh). So hereâs my try to incorporate it in our dhurandhar bous đŒ
Credit: @chai-ke-sath-parleg for some of them, as discussed in one of my posts comment section.
Wolf! Major Iqbal who is jaded and old from his years in the intelligence and military . Still striking nonetheless with his murderous fangs (one of them being golden) and intimidating demeanour , had ventured to the picturesque mountains of Azad Kashmir for an ISI missionâŠ.which had turned into a personal one of his own as his eyes land on Bunny! Reader â frolicking in the lush fields where eons had seen the spilling of blood from both sides. You a softening addiction and addition to the seasoned wolfâs life.
Wolf! Major Iqbal immediately takes refuge in your home, just to be closer to you. Your parents being more than happy to accommodate him as he was the communityâs Messiah. While you on the other hand try to avoid him on every turn you see his jet black wolf ears or bushy unkept tail. Finding him terrifying for your bunny self, the way he stares at you as if heâs about to devour you ⊠especially your twitchy cotton tail.
Wolf! Major Iqbal, who starts pursuing you insistentlyâ in the sense that he loves to pull your little cotton tail and pinch those adorable bunny ears to gain your attention. Of course, he knows they are sensitive. Thatâs exactly why he does it: just to see that puffed-up cheek and pout of annoyance when you shoo him away while rubbing the sore spot.
Wolf! Major Iqbal who finally makes you open up to him by playing saviour â a wolf in sheepâs clothing.
On one of the rare sunny days, you had ventured to the village market for some sweet, juicy berries, only to be chased away by rough hybrids lurking in the shadows. Your terrified squeaks and cries had alerted the watchful Major, who, in no time, ripped them to shreds.
Wolf! Major Iqbal, who, after finally gathering you into his arms, found his rough hands trembling at the feeling of something so painfully soft and innocent tucked against his chest.
You cried quietly into his strong, comforting embrace, trembling as his scent â leather, gunpowder, and expensive oud â wrapped around you like safety itself, his large hand gently petting your impossibly soft ears while murmuring reassurances under his breath.
So overwhelmed by the warmth of finally being protected, so utterly drowned in his careful gentleness, you failed to notice the dangerous glint hidden deep within his tired eyes â that quiet, possessive sort of obsession blooming as he held you closer, already unable to imagine letting you go.
Wolf! Major Iqbal whoâs territorial about your scent too. If another maleâs smell lingers on you from that day forwardâeven from a handshakeâhe drags you to the nearby stream, strips you naked, comforting you with the context itâs normal for lovers to do this, and bathes you himself. Then he scents you again, head to toe.
Wolf! Major Iqbal when the moment your eyes well up, his cock twitches. He loves how vulnerable you look, how your pouty lips quiver, how your small body shakes when youre overwhelmed. From whatever has troubled you that day. Heâll push you past your limits just to see that sweet, wet face.
Wolf! Major Iqbalâs mind goes into a haywire the first time he sees you wearing his olive-green military jacket, his breath catches in his throat and his cock thickens instantly. The worn fabric swallowing your tiny bunny frame so completely that the sleeves hang past your fingertips and the hem brushes your knees, making you look even smaller. He stalks toward you with that predatory stillness in his shoulders, ears pinned flat, dark eyes burning as he circles you slowly, taking in the way the jacket carries his scentâleather and oudâmingling with your soft, sweet bunny smell. He growls low in his chest, grabbing the lapels and yanking you against him, pressing his nose into the collar where your neck meets the fabric, inhaling deeply, almost drunkenly. He loves when you wear his clothes.
Itâs cute how clueless you are about the blood of enemies that has splattered in the olive green cloth, thinking of it as nothing but a curry stain.
Wolf! Major Iqbal who loves you being tucked against him, whether it be you sitting on his lap or spooning against him. Your warm presence a comforting rest against the cold world.
He made you sit on his lap one day, while the house was an abode of silence, your parents being out for the day in the mountains. Petting your little tail, his ears twitching in predatory excitement while you cry like the little cry bunny you are.
Your parents had made you drop out of college due to the rising tensions in your locality, you being hidden from the fact that it was the major who convinced your parents for it.
His future plans including you as his little bunny bride, decked with finery in his Clifton mansion.
Wolf! Major Iqbal who comforts by whispering filthy promises into your floppy ears: âGonna put a litter in you, little bunny. Gonna see your belly swell with my pups and bunnies.â Heâs obsessed with the fantasy of you round with his young, your nipples dark and tender, as you prepare to nurse.
Just one more day, and heâll ask your parents for your hand. They will be elated to hear his proposal. After allâŠhe is a Major and you? A dumb little bunny.
idk how to explain this but his fingers are moulded for [redacted], feeling his thick digits deep inside my [redacted] oh yeah.... and those veiny godly hands ?? they pin me up while he [redacted] his cock in me
Ni Saiyon Asaan Naina Dey Aakhey Lagey (Final Part)
Uzair Baloch (Dhurandhar) X Fem Reader
Pt 2
Chapter 9 - Heraâs blessing
It rained. She could see the water droplets fall on the carâs windshield. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan played on the stereo. It had been a long day. First, at the shop and then with Faisalâs classes. She was exhausted, even a bit cranky from her periods. She could see his forearms from the corner of her eyes, his sleeves rolled up. It looked⊠for the lack of a better word⊠biteable.
âSuno,â Uzairâs soft voice broke through her thoughts, the man himself reaching out to lower the volume of the stereo.
âMm?â She half whined, annoyed at him for interrupting her music.
âNikah parhwalo.â
âHein?â Tara lost all her composure, âkYA?â
âNikah parhwalo mujhsey,ââ somehow Uzair still kept his composure, his hands moving the steering wheel, âBhai se baat karli mainey. Bhai aur Bhabi, dono ko tum pasand ho. Nikah karlo. Begum ban jao.â
âKyun?â
âKyun maatlab kya? Mohabbat hay tumse. Aur waise bhi, ye tailoring k yahan kaam karti ho tum, ye mujhe bilkul pasand nahi.â
âHa main agar kaam nahi karoongi toh khaungi kya?â She had gotten far comfortable with his presence over the past six months or so. That meant, she dropped her act of being a nervous mess around him.
âMere paisey pey,â Uzair continued, not understanding the fact that his mashooka probably was yet to properly register what he asked her for.
âWoh kaise ho sakta hay,â her mouth ran faster than her brain, âaisey kisi paraye mard k paisey pey nahi paal sakti.â
âArrey meri ammi ki bahu,â Uzair finally cut her off, his voice raising an octave, his entire demeanour exasperated, âIsiliye nikah karney ko keh raha hoon. Taki tum mere paisey loota sako. Samjhi?â
Their wedding happened exactly two weeks after that conversation. It was small, very intimate. Rehman had asked her if she wanted to invite her uncle and his family from Lahore. She had refused. Alaam bhai and Hamza stood in as her family, fulfilling all the responsibilities the brideâs side usually has.
It felt bittersweet. She remembered being a kid, seeing the boro didis around her get married. The daker saajer mukut, the laal benaroshi, the kalkaas made of khori mati and chondon, the ulu dhwoni, the soptopodi, the subho drishti. Everything was missing. Different religion, different culture, different traditions, different clothes.
That was the day she realised that (Y/N) was long gone. Only Tara Shah Mallik, now Tara Baloch remained.
That night, she observed the asleep Uzair, his skin naked, droplets of sweat visible across his back. She felt the dull ache between her thighs, her hands traced the reddish purple marks on her chest. He looked so calm. At least Tara felt happy, even if (Y/N) screamed in agony to go back to everything as they once were.
Chapter 10 â Saheb, Biwi aur ek Gaddar
Settling in the Baloch Haveli as a new bride was of no trouble. Rehman and Ulfat had long liked her. True to Uzair's words, they welcomed her into their own folds, even if she was not a Baloch. Finding a new family was easy. At least the idea of it was. Maybe (Y/N) would have felt the same if everything went right, if everything was still good. But this was Taraâs life and she was happy, in this new life, in this new home, with her new family members.
âArrey chodiye, Uzair,â the choti begum of the Baloch Haveli struggled against the tight grasp of her hattey kattey shohar. Said bull of a man refused, going as far as to wrap his arms tighter around her waist and throw one of his legs over her thighs, preventing any and all chances of her escaping.
âChodiye,â her voice rose in pitch.
âMera kamra. Mera bistar. Meri biwi,â he boasted, his hand coming up to pinch her cheeks.
âAhhh,â she yelled, hitting him, âchodiye. Subah ho gayi. Nichey kaam hay bohot. Bhabi akeli paar jayegi.â
He refused. She continued struggling against him, trying her best to get a few hits and kicks at him, until she did get one on him, elbowing him in his stomach. He immediately groaned, leaving her from his hold, âuff⊠Jaan.â
She wanted to say âthik hoyecheâ and âbesh hoyeche' to him so bad. But that would blow her cover. She chose to huff at him and immediately escape from their room, running down the stairs to seek refuge where would be the safest for her from his playful retribution (which was done either in the form of tickling her or teasing) - to Rehman and Ulfat downstairs.
Since her marriage, Tara didn't need to work to earn her living. She had more time on her hands, even amidst the some bits of housework that both the Baloch wives needed to do around the haveli. The men would usually be out from morning till at least 7 in the evening. Tara appreciated the peace and quiet, especially after months living amidst the chaos of the actual Lyari. The haveli was at its most silent during the afternoons. Ulfat would retire for siesta or in (Y/N)'s Bengali opinions for a bhaat ghoom (can you even consider it bhaat ghoom if you are having rotis and paranthas over bhaat?). Faizal would also be forced to take a nap too with his mother. That left Tara with ample time and to her own devices.
She wasn't in the habit of taking post lunch naps. She tried once, two days after her marriage - images still filled her mind - images from her actual life, her friend, what she did, her fatherâs reaction. She stopped trying to take a nap the same day. At night, she had Uzair. She slept better in his arms, especially after he tried her out doing Praptoboyoshko Jinishpotro (adult things). But the afternoons? She spent it roaming around the haveli, or just in her new bedroom.
During that time period, she noticed an anomaly. Akhlaq, the family cook often spent the afternoons speaking to someone in a hushed voice. She had accidentally stumbled upon it during one afternoon. It was clear that Akhlaq was passing out information regarding the family. She even saw him slip out the haveli a few times, taking the chance when every resident was either outside or asleep. When it happened the third time, she followed him out, clad in a black burkha. Following him took into the areas controlled by Arshad Pappu.
Fuck. She felt a chill run up her spine as she watched Akhlaq enter one of the homes. She had enough information to know it was Arshad Pappuâs home. Fuck fuck fuck. Internally a string of curses left her mind. She had to leave. If anyone discovered her, everything would be over. Rehman bhai had paid the front pages of the local newspaper to display a picture of her and Uzair - to announce the news of her wedding. Everyone knew her face.
Just as she was about to leave, a hand grabbed her, bringing behind one of the shops. She looked up in alarm and panic until her eyes softened when she saw the person who had grabbed her. It was Chandan. Or whom everyone in Lyari knew as Rizwan Shah - a member of Arshad Pappuâs gang. Chandan had been a dalit man from Haryana. He lost his entire family to caste violence. In retaliation, he had turned down the entire house of the perpetrators, with every single individual inside. The court has given him a death sentence, similar to the rest of them. And then he was kidnapped en route, before given a new purpose by Sanyal and Bansal, similar to the rest of them under Operation Dhurandhar.
âTum Yahan kya kar Rahi ho?â The taller man asked her, voice tight. He knew of her identity. They met the day, everyone was planning to save Naieem.
âYe Akhlaq kya Kar raha hay?â She asked instead, looking around for onlookers. The streets were mostly empty.
âMukhbari karta tumharey shohar k bhai ka,â came Rizwanâs answer, âtumhey yahan se jana chahiye. Ye ilaqa auraton k liye mehfoos nahi hay.â
âJa rahi hoon. Aur suno,â she looked at him, âmujhe ek cheez chahiye. Alaam bhai ko bolnay mujhe la deney k liye?â
âKya?â
âRat poison k ek choti dibiya. Kaam hay. Ek chuhey ko marna hay.â
Rizwan rolled his eyes and then escorted her outside the confines of Arshad Pappuâs areas until she got on an auto. She returned before anyone could even know that she was out. Discreetly, within a day, a small bottle of rat poison made its way into her cupboard.
Rehman had decided to finally enter Lyari politics. Uzair was getting busier than ever. So was Rehman. It was easy to slip just a bit of the Rat kill into Faizal's milk - enough to get him to fall sick, but not enough to kill him. It was cruel. She had grown to love the kid too. But she remembered having a conversation with someone before she entered Pakistan. The other person too had been deployed as a spy in Pakistan, during the 1971 war - Sehmat Khan. She had told her just one thing, âWataan k aagey kuch nahi.â
When Faizal felt sick at the dinner table, not responding, she immediately grabbed the boy, screaming for Ulfat Bhabhi and Rehman Bhai. The two women rushed out carrying the limp body. She had planted enough of the evidence in Akhlaqâs rooms to get him caught later. For now, she had to focus on making sure that the boy did not die.
What happened after was unprecedented. Their car was attacked and Rehman was abducted by the police. Donga and Siyahi too had been made to leave, or else the SP would have gunned them down too. She watched the police convoy take away Rehman. And then they were left in the middle of the road, their car with multiple bullet holes, Ulfat crying while clutching her voice. She immediately climbed onto the front seat, starting the car.
âBhabi Uzair ko phone karo,â she told her, pressing her foot down on the accelerator. Within minutes, they were at the Lyari Hospital, rushing the boy to the ICU. While in one part of the city the doctors worked on Faizal, in another part, Hamza walked in the Baloch Haveli screaming for Akhlaq. He had been made aware of Taraâs plan the day Alaam bhai had asked him to get the poison to her. This was their way of getting Hamza even closer to Rehman than he already was. It was past midnight when Rehman walked in the hospital, bloodied and bruised. Ulfat and Tara were still there, sitting outside the ward where Faizal slept, peaceful and out of danger.
After Faizal's return from the hospital, Tara spent the next few days cooking up elaborate meals for him. For others, it the chachi showing the kid love after the perils he underwent. For her, it was her way of apologising.
âTum Faizal ko mujhse zyada pyaar karti ho,â Uzair complained one night, glaring at the bread pudding that Faizal was eating on the other side of the table.
âBaccha hay woh Uzair,â she gasped and turned to look at her pouty husband. Faizal stuck out his tongue at his chachu from behind his chachi.
âAbbey teri toh,â Uzair was about to lunge at his nephew, ready to snatch away the bowl from his grasp, who immediately pulled it close to his chest.
âUzair,â she pulled him back, âkal aapko kuch accha bana dungi. Khaney dey usey.â
Rehman laughed, looking at his bickering family. Even Tara found her cheeks hurting from having to keep her smile away, lest her husband's pout grew bigger. She liked having this new family.
And then, 9/11 happened. She saw her husband and her brother-in-law celebrate. That night, when everyone slept, she stayed up, making up her mind. Rehman and Uzair too needed to die.
âWataan k aagey kuch nahi.â
When Rehman Baloch finally died, SP Aslam and Jameel Jamali knew that Hamza had diverted the car taking advantage of the fact that everyone in that car had fallen asleep. Wasn't it suspicious? How men so used to being alert and awake all the time fell asleep? It wouldn't have happened that day had Tara not added slow acting sleeping pills to Rehmanâs, Dongaâs and Siyahiâs breakfast that morning before they headed out. They wouldn't have fallen asleep. Neither would have Hamza and SP Aslam managed to kill them. Neither would have Uzair broken down in Hamzaâs arms, unaware of the silent message that passed between his wife and his best friend.
Chapter 11 - The Apple of Discord.
The funeral happened. Uzair inherited his brotherâs throne. Soon enough, Ulfat left for her brotherâs home, taking Faizal with her. She didn't wish to lose her Faizal to the mud pits of Lyari. The home suddenly grew emptier. Uzair grew more erratic. He started doing drugs. The gentle man she knew was completely gone. So was any tenderness she felt for him. Not after what he did during 9/11. She knew that the gang was planning on retaliation. And then⊠finally⊠Lyari burst into flames. The streets burned. Dead bodies were hung from the lamp posts. Not even a curfew could control the bloodshed. Uzair arrived most nights with the blood of others on him. She still helped him clean up, allowed him to hold her, to kiss her, to beg her for a baby.
âBaas jaan. Ek nanhi si gudiya dedo. Ek,â he begged her one such night, pressing her on the mattress, his lips on her shoulders and neck, their bodies joined.
âNahi,â she protested, trying to keep her head steady, âabhi nahi. Aap pehle Lyari ko shaant kijiye.â
âHo jayega,â he grunted, his fingers trailing beneath her thighs, searching for her clit, âuskey baad mujhe meri beti dogi tum. Ha jaan?â
âAh,â she whimpered, feeling him build the pressure on her nerves, âha. Dungi. Aapki- ah- beti.â
Uzair kept his promise. With Arshad Pappuâs public beheading, the fire that burned in Lyari finally settled down. But ATA had issued a warrant in Uzair's name. Uzair had to leave, even if unwillingly.
âTum theek toh hogi na?â He asked her. His flight was in 2 hours. He was ready to leave. She wasn't coming with her.
âHa.â She nodded, buttoning up his waist coat.
âTum bhi chalo merey saath.â
âNahi aa sakti,â she sighed, having had the conversation with him more than once by now.
âMujhe abhi bhi nahi samajh aa raha tum kyun aana nahi chahti,â he asked, a bit angry, grabbing her face.
âAh,â she hissed in pain, âchodiye Uzair. Dard ho raha hay.â
âBatao pehley,â he pressed her against the almirah.
âWalid banney waley ho aap,â she hissed out at him, âiss halat mein zyada idhar udhar Jana thik nahi hoga. Main aur hamaara baccha yahan sahi salamat rahengeyâ
He immediately pulled his hand away, pulling her in a hug, pressing apologetic kisses to her forehead. She allowed him, hugging him in return.
âBataya nahi tumney,â his voice sounded out, muffled by her hair.
âBataya hota toh aap jana nahi chahtey,â came her answer as she pulled away.
Uzair left, pressing kisses to her lips and her belly, promising to find a way to get her with him once he settled in Iran. She knew that promise would remain unfulfilled. Three hours later, Uzair Baloch was arrested at the Dubai airport. Another few weeks later, a blast shook the Baloch Haveli, taking out the pregnant begum of Uzair Baloch with it. In Dubai jail, Uzair felt his heart shatter when he received the news.
Chapter 12 - Happy Together/ Fallen Angels
Somewhere in Delhi, a decade later.
âMama,â a young girl in school uniform jumped down from the school bus, rushing inside the gates to her house, hands raised to hug the man who stood on the foyer, scar on his face and a pagdi on his head. She bumped into the manâs stomach, who immediately picked her up.
âJaskirat,â a womanâs voice was heard from inside the house, âphone.â
Jaskirat Singh Rangi yelled out an, âayaa,â holding his niece and stepping inside.
(Y/N) stood near the stairs, holding out his phone. Jaskirat set her daughter, Sitara down, who immediately rushed to hug her mother as he grabbed the phone. His rough fingers swiped up the green ringing button on his screen. On the other side, in Vancouver, faces of a smiling Yalina and Zayan appeared on screen.
âAbbu kaab aa rahey ho,â the older Zayan asked, impatient to see his father.
âBas beta. Ye nikalney wala hoon. Behen ki aaney ka wait kar raha tha.â
Sitara yelled out for her Zayan Bhaiyya, wanting her mama to carry her again, she needed to speak with her Zayan Bhaiyya. (Y/N) allowed Jaskirat to take her daughter, eyes crinkled in genuine happiness as she watched this new family of hers - her Sitara, Jaskirat, Zayan and Yalina on the other end.
She had faked her death that day in the Baloch Haveli, detonating the bomb herself before escaping amidst the crowds of Lyari. She worked from the shadows - working with Rizwan and Hamza. She lived in a bunker built directly under Hamzaâs living room, Hamza and Rizwan her only contact with the outside world. The night Omar had come asking for Hamzaâs truth from Yalina, she had emerged from the basement, hitting the back of Omarâs head with a rod, rendering him unconscious. Yalina had called her father. Jameel Jamali had in turn called the police commissioner, making the police forces retreat from Hamzaâs house. When Hamza and Rizwan returned from Muridke, they found a dead Omar in the living room, a bullet wound in his head; Yalina sitting with Zayan in his lap, Tara smoking a cigarette. Rizwan disposed of Omarâs body while the rest four left Pakistan. Tara set out for India, Hamza left for Vancouver - handing off all the responsibilities to Rizwan.
(Y/N) and Jaskirat still worked for RAW - their experience extremely important for preparing new agents. Jaskirat had negotiated about keeping his family with Sanyal. He split his time between Vancouver and Delhi. (Y/N) adopted her daughter, naming her Sitara - perhaps after her time in Pakistan as Tara - adopted because she never was pregnant with Uzairâs child. She was a great liar. She lied to get Uzair away and in jail. He needed to be alive. Her vengeance lay in framing Uzair as a spy for India. He had broken her heart when he had celebrated after seeing images of the Mumbai attacks on screen. She vowed she would only have her peace the day she shattered his soul.
Uzair lost everything. His soul was truly shattered. A decade later, in a suburban house in Delhi, (Y/N) let out a heaving sigh as she walked in the kitchen, opening the fridge door and looking at the bread pudding that kept inside, something empty fluttering in her rib cage, the funny feeling that refused to go away, even after all this time; always.
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