veni vidi vici

and i will meet you where the sky ends, where the eternity begins

[maladaptive-anxiety]

anu | 18 |

future doctor (theory) | college student (practice) |

equal parts music and stories | overly caffeinated

Master List

The Garden & The Grave

[writrsblu]

The Real Dhurandhar: Ajit Doval

Welcome back to another episode of FAN-ALYSIS! A fan analysis written in appreciation of the Dhurandhar films and R. Madhavan's performance, which did something to me that I am not emotionally prepared to discuss. All historical context is documented and sourced: Doval's field operations are a matter of public record from his Kirti Chakra citation, contemporaneous reporting, and accounts in B. Raman's writings and The Caravan's investigative profile; the Mizoram and Sikkim operations are documented in IB institutional history; the "offensive defence" doctrine is on the record in Doval's own 2014 Nani Palkhivala memorial lecture. The interpretation of Ajay Sanyal is mine, and Aditya Dhar absolutely intended all of this.

I want to talk about Ajay Sanyal.

Specifically, I need to talk about what it does to every single scene R. Madhavan plays in Dhurandhar when you know — actually know, from the documented public record — what the man he's based on spent thirty-two years doing before he ever sat behind a desk.

The film is explicit that Ajay Sanyal, Director of the Intelligence Bureau, is based on Ajit Kumar Doval, India's longest-serving National Security Advisor. Wikipedia has a section on it. The discourse online is mostly about the transformation — the hair, the slight stoop, the way Madhavan made himself unrecognisable enough that Arjun Rampal reportedly didn't know it was him on set.

Nobody is talking about the biography. About what it means that the man in the chair sending Hamza into the dark is someone who went into the dark first.

Let me tell you about that man.

The Mountain Child Who Learned to Disappear

Ajit Kumar Doval was born on 20 January 1945, in Ghiri Banelsyun village, Pauri Garhwal — a district in the Himalayan foothills of what is now Uttarakhand. His father, Major Gunanand Doval, was an officer in the Indian Army's Bengal Sappers, and served for 36 years. The family were Garhwali Brahmins, and they were not wealthy. They were not connected. They were from a hill village, which in the context of post-partition India means they were from somewhere that the plains barely registered as existing.

This is where I want to start, because it explains something about the man that no biopic has quite gotten to.

The Garhwal Hills breed a particular psychology. The terrain is punishing and gorgeous and completely indifferent to your opinions about it. The communities that have lived there for centuries tend to produce soldiers and mountain men — the Garhwal Rifles are one of the most decorated regiments in the Indian Army — and the quality they share is a kind of unhurried toughness that reads, in flatter places, as inscrutability. You don't learn to read these people quickly. You learn to wait.

Doval grew up in a military household in that landscape, then was sent to the Ajmer Military School in Rajasthan for his education — one of five Rashtriya Military Schools designed to produce future officers and civil servants. He took a Master's in Economics from Agra University. He topped his class.

None of this is particularly unusual for an IPS officer of his generation. What is unusual is what happened next: he joined the IPS in 1968, was posted to Kerala, and within four years had been quietly pulled into the Intelligence Bureau. He was twenty-seven years old. He had barely spent time in his own cadre state. The IB had already identified something that his file didn't show.

The question of what exactly they identified is, I think, the key to understanding Ajay Sanyal.

 Mizoram, 1972–1977: The First Disappearance

His first major posting was Mizoram, between 1972 and 1977. Five years. Officially he led the IB's Subsidiary Intelligence Bureau in Aizawl. Unofficially, as multiple accounts confirm, he spent most of those five years undercover.

The context: the Mizo National Front, under its leader Laldenga, had been in active armed insurgency since 1966. They had Pakistani and Chinese support. They had around 4,000 armed men, operating from hidden bases in the Arakan hills of Myanmar. They had declared independence from India. The Indian Army had already tried the direct approach — airstrikes in 1966 on Aizawl, the only time the Indian Air Force bombed an Indian town — and created twenty years of burning grievance instead of peace.

The IB sent a twenty-seven-year-old IPS officer who had never worked a serious field assignment before.

What Doval did in Mizoram is, in a certain light, the most important thing he ever did, because it established the method he would use for the rest of his career. He didn't go in with force.

He went in with time.

He made friends with Laldenga's seven key commanders — the men who actually ran the MNF's military operations. He shared meals with them. He listened. He built trust the slow way, over years, the way you build trust with people who have been betrayed by the state before and have no particular reason to believe you're different.

And then, between 1972 and 1974, he walked six of those seven commanders out of the insurgency and into the Indian mainstream. When he was done, Laldenga himself admitted he had no choice but to follow. "When Doval left," Laldenga reportedly told interviewers later, "he took six of them with him and I had no choice but to come on board."

He negotiated the peace. Not with weapons. With dinner conversations and patience and what can only be described as a profound willingness to be present, in a specific place, for a specific purpose, for as long as it took.

Here is the thing that strikes me about this: Doval was, at the time of the Mizoram operation, younger than Hamza is when Dhurandhar begins. He was building trust with armed insurgents in a foreign cultural landscape, speaking languages he had learned specifically for this assignment, wearing an identity that wasn't his. He was doing, in other words, exactly what Hamza would do in Lyari — except Hamza had a handler, a network, a mission with a defined endpoint.

Doval was, in Mizoram, more or less alone. The IB had sent him. The IB trusted him. Beyond that, the decisions were his.

I keep thinking about what that does to a young man. The specific weight of knowing that the people you are building real relationships with — people you share meals with, whose children you watch grow up, whose trust you earn with what feels like genuine warmth — are being operated on, in a clinical sense, by your presence. The warmth is real. The outcome is engineered. Both things are true simultaneously.

That tension is what R. Madhavan is playing in every scene with Ranveer Singh. Ajay Sanyal doesn't look at Hamza with calculation. He looks at him with something that is indistinguishable from care.

And it probably is care.

Five Theatres, Thirty Years

After Mizoram: Sikkim. Doval's role in Sikkim's merger with India in 1975 is documented but still partially obscure. What is confirmed is that he was head of the IB's Subsidiary Intelligence Bureau there, that the operation involved countering American intelligence influence (the Chogyal's wife Hope Cooke was suspected of CIA connections), and that he conducted what is described as "political engineering, liaisoning and facilitation."

The referendum that led to Sikkim's accession produced 97.5% approval. Doval was there when the conditions for that number were being constructed.

After Sikkim: Pakistan.

He was in Pakistan for seven years in total.

The High Commission posting in Islamabad ran from 1983 to 1987, officially as head of the commercial section. The unofficial work is partially documented in the accounts that emerged after he became NSA. He visited mosques.

He made friends.

He had plastic surgery done on his pierced ears to fit his cover. Working undercover as a beggar, he collected hair samples from a barber shop frequented by scientists from the Kahuta nuclear research facility.

The hair tested positive for traces of uranium, helping expose Pakistan's nuclear programme to the international community.

He monitored Sikh pilgrims and the separatist messaging they received in Pakistani religious spaces.

Then Punjab. Then Operation Black Thunder. Then Kashmir. Then London. Then Kandahar.

Then, in 2004, the directorship of the IB itself.

This is a thirty-two-year career in which the man almost never, from what we can piece together, worked in a room with a nameplate on the door. He was almost always somewhere else. He was almost always someone else.

The Rickshaw Puller and the Pakistani Agent

The Caravan magazine ran a long, skeptical profile of Doval in 2017 called "Undercover," in which journalist Praveen Donthi examined the Operation Black Thunder stories carefully and found them — in some particulars — difficult to verify. Some witnesses contradicted the most cinematic versions. A journalist who was inside the Golden Temple during the siege doubted that Doval could have been there at the moment described.

I think this is worth sitting with, not because it discredits Doval, but because of what it says about the kind of career he had.

When you spend thirty years being officially not-there, the historical record of what you actually did looks, from the outside, like a gap where a person should be.

The stories that do circulate — the rickshaw puller, the barber shop, the defecting commanders boarding his plane — are things we know primarily because the people involved talked later, or because the man himself gave rare interviews after his retirement.

His official Kirti Chakra citation for Operation Black Thunder reads, in part: "there were long periods during which his whereabouts were not known, which even caused concern that he has been caught and possibly tortured." The state that sent him didn't always know where he was. He was that far out.

What is confirmed: he received the Kirti Chakra in 1989, becoming the first police officer to receive a medal previously awarded only to military personnel. The President of India gave him the second-highest peacetime gallantry award. You don't get that for nothing. You especially don't get that for a desk job.

The argument about which specific stories are precisely accurate feels, to me, like an argument about the difference between the map and the territory.

The territory is a man who spent the operational peak of his life in places he was not supposed to be, doing things that couldn't be officially recorded, for a state that needed him to not exist.

The Doctrine That Changed Everything

Ajay Sanyal's big scene in Dhurandhar — the one the discourse keeps clipping and reposting — is the one in 2008, after 26/11, where he tells his superiors there is no point giving them intelligence because whoever receives it is compromised, and all they can do is preserve evidence and wait for a political moment that will actually use it. "Preserve the evidence," he says. "Hopefully a politician comes in the future who will act." The film is not subtle about what this is referring to.

But the scene that interests me more is the quieter one, the one where Sanyal articulates what he believes about how India should fight.

The real Doval gave a lecture at Sastra University in February 2014, before he was appointed NSA, that has since been called the foundational text of the "Doval Doctrine."

He laid out three strategic postures for India in relation to Pakistan: defensive (what India had been doing since Partition, absorbing attacks, issuing dossiers), offensive (direct military engagement, which risked crossing the nuclear threshold),

and what he called "offensive defence" — carrying the fight to the source of the problem, through means that do not require crossing the nuclear line. Exploiting internal contradictions. Diplomatic isolation. Making the cost of sponsoring terrorism unaffordable.

"In the offensive defence," he said in that lecture, "we work on the vulnerabilities of the enemy. In the defensive mode, we can either get hurt or end up in a stalemate. There is no chance of victory. In the offensive defence mode, the enemy will find it unaffordable for them to continue the asymmetric terror war."

This is not abstract strategic theory. This is a man describing, in academic language, what he had actually been doing for thirty years. The Mizoram commanders who defected were Pakistan's vulnerability, exploited from inside by a man who ate their food and knew their children's names. The Khalistan militants at the Golden Temple were a vulnerability, penetrated by a man who spent ten days establishing the legend of a rickshaw puller before walking through the door. The Pakistani nuclear programme was a vulnerability, mapped by a man who sat outside a barber shop and waited.

The lecture was the doctrine written down. The career was the doctrine in practice.

What Ajay Sanyal is frustrated by, in every scene where he looks at a minister or a bureaucrat with that particular expression Madhavan has perfected — a kind of cold, patient despair — is this: he has been fighting the offensive-defence war his entire working life. He has delivered results. He has sent men into Lyari and they have done impossible things. And the political establishment he serves cannot hold its nerve long enough to use what he gives them.

He has been fighting the right war in the right way. The problem is the room he has to report back to.

The Things That Cannot Be Expensed

Here is what nobody says in the Doval hagiographies, and what Dhurandhar — to its credit — does not entirely look away from:

This is a man who spent his thirties being a person who did not exist. Who went to Pakistan in his late thirties and built relationships and gathered intelligence and was almost certainly responsible for things that will never appear in any official record under his name. Who came back from Pakistan and immediately went to Punjab, where he put on another face and walked into a besieged temple complex and became, for ten days, a Pakistani ISI agent in the eyes of the people he needed to trust him.

Who then spent years in Kashmir turning militants into counter-insurgents — a process which, if you think about it carefully, involves becoming trusted by men who are prepared to kill, and then using that trust to redirect them toward killing other people.

He said in a 2015 lecture that his family is vegetarian. His work required him to eat non-vegetarian food as a matter of operational necessity, of blending in. This is the smallest possible example of what the life costs, and it's the one he was willing to say out loud.

In that same talk, he mentioned, in passing, that there were long stretches where his family didn't know what country he was in.

I want to sit with that sentence. His family didn't know what country he was in. He was a person with a wife, two sons, a village in Garhwal where he grew up. And for years at a time, the people who loved him could not have found him on a map.

Hamza gives up his name, his Punjabi identity, his family. The film treats this as the central sacrifice of his character. And it is. It's enormous.

But Hamza had a mission with a beginning and an end. He was sent. He would be brought back.

Doval did that for thirty-two years. He did it in theatre after theatre. He came back from one disappeared identity and stepped into the next one. And then, when he retired in 2005 and thought it was over — when he spent nine years writing op-eds and running a think tank and being on record for the first time in his adult life — they called him back. Made him NSA. Put him in charge of the entire architecture.

The man who spent his career not being in rooms is now the person in the most consequential room in Indian national security.

R. Madhavan's performance understands this. He plays Sanyal as someone who has very few involuntary reactions left. When Hamza breaks down, Sanyal watches. Not coldly — the warmth is there — but with the particular quality of a man who has already been through the thing in front of him, who does not perform his empathy because he does not need to. He knows.

He knows because someone, once, sent him into the dark, too.

What the Silence Costs

There is a version of Ajay Sanyal that the film is careful not to make: the tortured man, the guilt-wracked spymaster, the Le Carré figure creaking under the moral weight of what he has done. Aditya Dhar is not interested in that version. He is interested, I think, in something more accurate: a man who believes, completely and without irresolvable conflict, that what he does is necessary. Who made his peace with the cost of the work at the age of twenty-seven in the Mizo jungles, and has not unpacked it since because unpacking it serves no operational purpose.

This is the thing about Doval that his critics and his admirers both sometimes miss: the doctrine is not cynicism. He genuinely believes in the offensive-defence posture. He gave the Sastra lecture not as a political statement but as a strategic argument he had been making, in retirement, for years — arguing with anyone who would listen that India was fighting the wrong way. The lecture was not propaganda.

It was the conclusion of a career's worth of watching defensive restraint fail to prevent Mumbai 2006, Mumbai 2008, Pulwama, attack after attack.

He watched it fail. He had a different answer. He waited for the political conditions to change until he got to implement it.

Ajay Sanyal in 2008, preserving the evidence for a future politician, is Doval in 2005-2014, writing op-eds in the Indian Express and giving lectures and running the Vivekananda International Foundation and waiting.

The man who waited in Mizoram for years for Laldenga's commanders to trust him. The man who waited outside a barber shop for scientists' hair. The man who spent ten days establishing a rickshaw puller's cover before walking through one door. Waiting is the core technology. Waiting with a clear objective is not passivity. It's the most active thing he knows how to do.

The Character the Film Earned

Here is what I think Aditya Dhar did with Ajay Sanyal that nobody had done with this particular template before: he made the architect the point.

The figure of the spymaster in Indian cinema before Dhurandhar was either a villain, a bureaucratic obstacle, or a symbolic father figure standing in for the nation. He was the man who sent heroes, not a character with a biography.

Sanyal has a biography. Not spelled out — Dhar is too good a writer for that — but legible, if you look. The stillness that Madhavan plays is the stillness of a man who has had to be very, very still in circumstances where stillness was survival.

The patience he shows with Hamza is not the patience of a man who is uninvested.

It is the patience of a man who has done what Hamza is doing, who knows what the other end of it looks like, and who cannot protect Hamza from that knowledge because the only way Hamza gets to the other end is to go through the middle.

The real Doval said, in that 2015 lecture: "You can never defeat an enemy that you cannot define."

He spent his career defining enemies by becoming the kind of person they trusted. He built relationships that were genuine and deployed them strategically. He made men defect not through coercion but through the steady pressure of a real friendship that also happened to serve an intelligence objective.

Ajay Sanyal does this with Hamza. The relationship is real. The objective is larger. Both things are true.

That's not cynicism. That's not corruption. That's the particular moral universe of a man who decided, somewhere in the Mizo hills in 1972, that the work was worth what it cost — and who has been making that calculation, continuously, ever since.

The calculation doesn't break him. That's the character. That's why Madhavan's performance is the one I keep thinking about.

The man who sends Hamza into the dark is someone who knows exactly what the dark is like. He went there first. He went there first in every single theatre. And then he came back, and the next time he went by proxy, because the state now needed him to direct rather than descend.

Whether that is advancement or loss is a question the film asks and does not answer.

Whether Doval himself knows is a question I find myself thinking about more than I expected.

DISCLAIMER: this is a fan analysis written in appreciation of publicly documented history and two films that I am not over. All factual claims about Ajit Doval are sourced from public record, his own statements, his Kirti Chakra citation, and contemporaneous journalism. The analysis of Ajay Sanyal is my own. I am a fan with research instincts and too much time. I apologise for nothing.

COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED!!

@roohafterdark,@manjari08,@st4rmiist,@anxiousbeeing, @jameeljamals-blog, @riddhi-on-break, @gulaabjamun08, @dhurander-paglu,@pn28,@peonies7002, @maladaptive-anxiety, @khoonaurkhanjar, @sinnoire, @goldenharrysworld, @laal-pari @debsreads21,@precioussophia,@miraclejin1204, @littlestxli, @araasa, @theuselessdaydreamingidiot, @carmenred28, @mainyahaankyunhoon, @crimsontraditiongolem, @bitchy-bi-trash @mrgrungusthefrog, @ib-gremlin @idonthavechatpateusernamed, @sea-breeze-in-my-hair, @torumii, @harrystyleskiwi9, @misteriadare @pleasetagmejaaneman @sunf1over @prahelika @twinblueflamee @moonstrxk @obsessedwidskincare @mujhekoimarsbhejdo @prettylady2006 @cloudmast @chocolate-and-trouble @tere-naal-nachna @copeop @tobitoooo, @itstiaofficial @vaari-javaan, @sarcastic-ravenpuff, @filmy-totoro, @chai-ke-sath-parleg, @sahaar, @oinswiftie @abolitionistlawpluscoffee @bittermiseryy @dhinkaachika @marvelfamily3000

[diyak11]

The first video did something to my uterus 😩🫠

[vaari-javaan]

Donga bhai dropping recipes rather than grenade.... hehe

@donga-hu-mai

[wtafananya]

Why is he so 🥹🩷

[maladaptive-anxiety]

The superior version of "major iqbal dropping beats instead of bombs"

[maladaptive-anxiety]

BAEEEE WHERE WERE UUUUU

Here and there 🤷‍♀️

Mainly in the dms of @rabbdaradio

But IM SO GLAD U WERE THINKING OF ME MY BBG

[maladaptive-anxiety]

my father, my god

a belated father's day present to the one who won't ever receive it

When I was a toddler, my father, my Appa, held a monopoly over me.

“Ulysses kadhai, Ulysses kadhai,” I would cry, asking to be told the tale of Ulysses for the hundredth time.

So it would begin: there was a horrible one-eyed monster named Ulysses who would wreak havoc and a hero would arrive in time to kill him.

Today, I can tell him that the one-eyed monster is called a cyclops and his name is actually Polyphemus. Ulysses is the hero who drives a spear through the single eye, thereby slaying him. All Appa can do is shrug and repeat that I would cling to him in return for the story. Now, he is the one who needs the story and I am the one he comes to.

To me, my father is a religion, another god in the long list of those I worship. Perhaps, he is the closest one to me. Whether that makes him the dearest one, I know not. He is the one who hand-built my world, and he encompasses all of it. I cannot see anything beyond his shoulders. Every book I have read has been brought by him. Every principle of mine has been adopted from him. Every thought of mine is shaped by him. I am born from him, therefore I am him.

I am the devotee and I am at the whim of my god.

When he snaps at me, I am forced to cry and mope for the rest of the day. When my god decides to be merciful, we laugh together and repeat each other’s jokes from days ago, words that only we remember. He is my puppeteer, the one who decides how I feel and how our relationship is. I have no say in the matter, but to bow my head like the sacrificial goat. I live in his shadow, and am more him than I am me. My mother tells me he has programmed me in a way that only I understand his words and find meaning in it—and I am proud to be so beloved to him that his language has become mine.

my father, my god

But like all followers, my time for rebellion comes. How could he have beat me when I was little, leaving only the remnants to my memory? How could he have told me I was adopted at the mere age of five, for his own amusement? I accuse him of hurting me intentionally. He does not have my well-being at heart, I think. He cannot be trusted when his anger rules him, I insist. He does not question me. I am allowed to scream and blame him and hate him, because there is the awareness that we will always remain the same distance away from each other and neither can step away. He texted me once:

Hi Paapa,

At times I acted in ways you didn't like it. On many occasions I did it without caring how you feel about it. I anyway did it for you based on my personal experiences which you may not understand.It'll end now and if I do it may be due to habit.. but honestly doesn't mean anything.. But I'm here for anything.. you can claim your success and blame me for the fall and I accept it. Show me what we got.

But how do I tell him it is the other way around? My success is his and the fall is mine. There is no other way it has ever been. How can I blame the one who has given me everything, for what I do not have? I cannot speak up to the only god who cannot read my mind.

We exist in different times: I with tears in my bedroom, he with his sleep-deprived mind on the couch. In our loneliness, we each reach out only to be left unheard. I dismiss his texts as a drunk man’s thoughts and he will never read everything I have ever penned for him.

I blame him for my mother's tears and pain, when she says he doesn't defend her against his family. It is his fault for not helping around the house when she works and manages the household, until she collapses from fatigue. Who told him to let his anger hold him captive by the neck until he too is a victim to it?

But I forget, it is easier to hate yourself than anything else.

And I forget, have I ever seen my father cry?

My father, the first giant I ever saw.

When did you lose your hair? When did your fingers grow fat with age? When did you stop carrying me? When did I stop hugging you? When did I become separate from you?

In the end, despite all my resistance, I must still come to your altar and kiss the ground of your feet. It is who I was, who I am, and who I will be. There is nothing that can change that, not any act of yours nor mine.

What a pity

What a relief

While it is Lord Krishna we pray to, it is Kanhaiyya who is dearer to the heart.

I want to hear about Kaveri, your first friend.

I want to know what it felt like when your little brother first came home from the hospital.

I want to watch you play cricket, running under the sun everyday.

I want to know if you felt jealous that your brother went to the same school as your mother when she worked, while you didn't.

I want to know if your heart broke every time your father moved you from village to village.

I want to know if you truly were an expert at mimicry, so much so that you became famous in your school for it.

I want to know if you wiped your tears away and clenched your jaw when you came home to find out your father sold your motorcycle.

I want to see the six fingers on each of your hands, before you wrapped your mother’s hair around them and they had to be amputated.

I want to hug you every time your father's belt kissed your skin.

I want to see you at your wedding, bending to whisper a stupid joke to your bride.

I want to know Raju, when that was the only name you answered to, the little boy who was there before everything.

[maladaptive-anxiety]

Not the usual fanfic stuff so do let me know if you don't want to be tagged in this type of thing, and I do apologize.

Taglist:

@misteriadare @twinblueflame @majoriqbalkibiwi @tere-naal-nachna @eternalstarrynight @euphorkive @majoriqbalkaekbal @angelllk1ssed @desigal-26 @between-smoke-and-roses @cloudmast @golgappalicious @rabbdaradio @iamadelusionalwriter @moonysscar @ninnimouse @precioussophia @azulafirelord1224 @angelicyuna @maroonphase @tanipartner @aoyamaj3711 @anxiousbeeing @hhhjjjddghj @idek19291 @mango-dolly @sonasarchive @afortoru @prettyprettypleaseplease @minnielovesme @yoopizz @mellowgrungeweasel @i-am-yourmom @curiousbutbored @dudihate @iloveakshyekhanna @tanneile2 @laal-pari @cakiebleh @lavenderwinkle @salt66241 @leherology @giantfirefly @gulaabjamun08 @cloudyparadoxqueen @velvetdakait @wanderingquillarchive @starrysugargrace @st4miist @ooopssssu @writrsblu @neelom @pleasetagmejaaneman @abolitionistlawpluscoffee

[maladaptive-anxiety]

my father, my god

a belated father's day present to the one who won't ever receive it

When I was a toddler, my father, my Appa, held a monopoly over me.

“Ulysses kadhai, Ulysses kadhai,” I would cry, asking to be told the tale of Ulysses for the hundredth time.

So it would begin: there was a horrible one-eyed monster named Ulysses who would wreak havoc and a hero would arrive in time to kill him.

Today, I can tell him that the one-eyed monster is called a cyclops and his name is actually Polyphemus. Ulysses is the hero who drives a spear through the single eye, thereby slaying him. All Appa can do is shrug and repeat that I would cling to him in return for the story. Now, he is the one who needs the story and I am the one he comes to.

To me, my father is a religion, another god in the long list of those I worship. Perhaps, he is the closest one to me. Whether that makes him the dearest one, I know not. He is the one who hand-built my world, and he encompasses all of it. I cannot see anything beyond his shoulders. Every book I have read has been brought by him. Every principle of mine has been adopted from him. Every thought of mine is shaped by him. I am born from him, therefore I am him.

I am the devotee and I am at the whim of my god.

When he snaps at me, I am forced to cry and mope for the rest of the day. When my god decides to be merciful, we laugh together and repeat each other’s jokes from days ago, words that only we remember. He is my puppeteer, the one who decides how I feel and how our relationship is. I have no say in the matter, but to bow my head like the sacrificial goat. I live in his shadow, and am more him than I am me. My mother tells me he has programmed me in a way that only I understand his words and find meaning in it—and I am proud to be so beloved to him that his language has become mine.

my father, my god

But like all followers, my time for rebellion comes. How could he have beat me when I was little, leaving only the remnants to my memory? How could he have told me I was adopted at the mere age of five, for his own amusement? I accuse him of hurting me intentionally. He does not have my well-being at heart, I think. He cannot be trusted when his anger rules him, I insist. He does not question me. I am allowed to scream and blame him and hate him, because there is the awareness that we will always remain the same distance away from each other and neither can step away. He texted me once:

Hi Paapa,

At times I acted in ways you didn't like it. On many occasions I did it without caring how you feel about it. I anyway did it for you based on my personal experiences which you may not understand.It'll end now and if I do it may be due to habit.. but honestly doesn't mean anything.. But I'm here for anything.. you can claim your success and blame me for the fall and I accept it. Show me what we got.

But how do I tell him it is the other way around? My success is his and the fall is mine. There is no other way it has ever been. How can I blame the one who has given me everything, for what I do not have? I cannot speak up to the only god who cannot read my mind.

We exist in different times: I with tears in my bedroom, he with his sleep-deprived mind on the couch. In our loneliness, we each reach out only to be left unheard. I dismiss his texts as a drunk man’s thoughts and he will never read everything I have ever penned for him.

I blame him for my mother's tears and pain, when she says he doesn't defend her against his family. It is his fault for not helping around the house when she works and manages the household, until she collapses from fatigue. Who told him to let his anger hold him captive by the neck until he too is a victim to it?

But I forget, it is easier to hate yourself than anything else.

And I forget, have I ever seen my father cry?

My father, the first giant I ever saw.

When did you lose your hair? When did your fingers grow fat with age? When did you stop carrying me? When did I stop hugging you? When did I become separate from you?

In the end, despite all my resistance, I must still come to your altar and kiss the ground of your feet. It is who I was, who I am, and who I will be. There is nothing that can change that, not any act of yours nor mine.

What a pity

What a relief

You told me to wait until the day I am 46, the same age you are. That is when I will understand, you say, so as your obedient servant I will wait patiently.

Did you know we are more alike than we are different?

I don't mean the obvious: the same tiny eyes and round face.

My mother's father died when I was 16 and your mother's father died when you were 16.

Your paternal grandmother would wake up in the middle of every night when I would cry, and would hold me in her shaky hands that couldn't bear to lift me. And now, I look like her, says everyone. I look like the one who you would tease and whose cheeks you would pinch, and you tease and pinch my cheeks.

Am I your mirror?

I hope not, because I want to give you everything you couldn't take for yourself.

While it is Lord Krishna we pray to, it is Kanhaiyya who is dearer to the heart.

I want to hear about Kaveri, your first friend.

I want to know what it felt like when your little brother first came home from the hospital.

I want to watch you play cricket, running under the sun everyday.

I want to know if you felt jealous that your brother went to the same school as your mother when she worked, while you didn't.

I want to know if your heart broke every time your father moved you from village to village.

I want to know if you truly were an expert at mimicry, so much so that you became famous in your school for it.

I want to know if you wiped your tears away and clenched your jaw when you came home to find out your father sold your motorcycle.

I want to see the six fingers on each of your hands, before you wrapped your mother’s hair around them and they had to be amputated.

I want to hug you every time your father's belt kissed your skin.

I want to see you at your wedding, bending to whisper a stupid joke to your bride.

I want to know Raju, when that was the only name you answered to, the little boy who was there before everything.

[maladaptive-anxiety]

Ye behen log aese kyu hamesha pareshan karte sabko?

Haan main maalum ki main "chunnari chunnari" ek din mein paanch bar sunti hoon

LEKIN TEREKO KYA DIKKAT HAI BHAI

(if u ever see this sorry for dragging u into this amma)

[maladaptive-anxiety]

Lutt Le Gaya

Master List

Table of Contents

title: the hypocrites' dilemna

summary: lyari's very own mob boss meets his match in a fiery journalist during the early phases of an arranged marriage set-up

authors note: finally recovered from burnout from school, guys. please be kind idk what bakwaas this is 🙏

“Not done, jaana! Roz late kar dete ho! Log intezaar kar rahe honge aur tumhein zara si bhi fikr nahi?”

The irritated scolding buzzed out of the small mobile device in Laila’s hand. She looked down at the caller ID, seriously considering the risk of hanging up on her mother.

“Haan, haan…Mujhe pata hai,” she mumbled, shifting around in her seat to catch a glimpse out of the window. Karachi was not known to be the quietest of cities, and she was insistent on living up to her name today. The vast majority of the bus ride, on a route from Tower to Lea Market, had been spent listening to the constant honking of rickshaw drivers and civilian vehicles alike. Laila, at one point, had wondered if she had started hallucinating the tune of ‘Kajra Re’ until the bus driver adjusted the volume and began singing along. Between the ill-fitting tunes and the pungent scent of sweat in the air, Laila didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or gag. Karachi tended to have that effect on her inhabitants.

“Tumhe sab pata hai, lekin kya faida? There’s never even the slightest attempt to change from your side,” her mother’s sharp voice rang out again.

Laila stretched out her neck, struggling over the heads of multiple bus-riders, taking in the messy rows of vehicles piled up on the city road. The conclusion was exactly the same as the honking competition conveyed—nobody would be going anywhere. She glanced down at the inside of her wrist where the delicate arrow of her watch indicated she was already running late.

Collecting the worn leather handbag from its place near her feet, Laila pushed and shoved her way to the front of the bus. There, the conductor, leaning against the metal bars, looked up at her as she approached. 

“Accha suno—”

Her mother’s ravings would have to be saved for another time, Laila decided.

“Bhai, how much longer until we reach Bolton Market stop?” Laila asked, fighting to be heard over the suddenly rising melody of the Bollywood radio station.

“We’re just a bit away…” The conductor pointed out the metal caging of the windows, while his other hand absently raked through his scruffy beard, “Is traffic jam mein toh thoda zyada waqt lagega,”

Laila fought the urge to sigh again, twisting around to find her seat already occupied by a random man. He steadily avoided eye contact with her, even while readjusting himself from falling off the seat edge, until she gave up and turned back around.

“Never mind, I’m getting off here!”

Before the conductor, who had already spaced out, realized she was talking to him, Laila pushed through the crowded floor. She easily descended the bus stairs, glancing around before beginning the trek towards the road borders. Now on the ground, the city’s noises seemed even more irritating, as she replaced her phone in the crook between her shoulder and ear—truly a choice between two evils.

Navigating between the rows of cars and bikes all stagnant, Laila tuned in to catch the tail end of her mother’s yelling: “—tere hone wale shauhar ke barre main baat kar rahi hoon tujhse aur tum kisi aur mard ke saath kya kar rahi hain?!?!”

Laila narrowly dodged a stupid biker, who had been sneaking past the smaller gaps of the vehicles, only able to level him with a glare. “Arrey, woh bus conductor waale bhaiya the, koi boyfriend-woyfriend nahi jaese aap soch rahi ho,”

“Jo bhi ho, Khuda qasam, if you meet this boy and still somehow refuse the proposal—”

“Hum baad mein dekhte hain, abhi jo bolna hai woh bolo na,” Laila neatly diverted, knowing her mother could make up hundreds of threats on the spot if needed.

“Laila, I’m telling you, this is an excellent opportunity for all of us. Shareef khandaan ka hai, log uski bohot izzat karte hai. Aur wahan jaake oversmart matt banna, samjhi? Seedha jao, seedha milo, aur wapas aa jao,”

“Fine, Ammi, mil leti hoon,” Laila sighed, turning the corner across from the famed Bolton Market. Picking up the pace, she readjusted the phone once she caught sight of the simple banner sign. “Pahunch gayi, baad main aapko call karti hoon”

Of course, any goodbye with the desi mothers involved multiple warnings for good behavior, followed up shortly by a random tangent, before the actual act of hanging up the phone. Laila managed to cross the crowded street, and snuck under the gap between two aged buildings.

Cafe Sarmast was tucked neatly on the edge of Kharadar, spelling out a story of old lovers and antique memories. Like its neighbors, the single-storied shop consisted of peeling paint and decoration that attempted a refreshing look. Laila tucked her cellphone into a pocket in her handbag, ducking into the entrance. The inside wasn’t crowded or busy, with waiters strolling around lazily in the same manner that the outside betrayed a simple carelessness. It was just a few tables arranged around each other, meant for people who had come upon this place by chance. Customers were scattered throughout, commonly accompanied by a newspaper or plated delicacy.

Laila hadn’t lived in Lyari long enough to walk into places like this, where the walls upheld their age with a quiet nobility as if they were buffing out their chests with pride at what they had withstood. Perhaps this was the reason why she startled, clutching at her handbag tighter, when a squat, oily-faced man approached her. She glanced away immediately, focusing only through the corner of her eye, unsure of what provoked the encounter, but he only lowered his own head respectfully. He stretched out a sun-tanned hand towards the inside of the cafe, “Idhar aaiye, bibi,”

Laila glanced over his shoulder, where the lightbulb was flickering, sending shadows dancing across the abandoned tables in that direction. “Nahi, I’m here to meet someone,” she hesitated.

The waiter had already begun to move, but he looked back just once—not confused, just confirming, “Haan ji, Bhai ne bata diya tha,”

She watched him hobble through the aisles until he disappeared behind a stone wall. She looked upwards for a second, praying for the patience to put up with whatever shenanigans her mother had landed her in this time. Then, she traced the same path behind the solid wall into the depths of the cafe.

Walking past the front tables, where cups clinked often and men lounged in their easy conversations, Laila felt the sudden vacuum created behind the cafe’s regular section. The noise thinned out gradually, giving space to the brittle chill of the air. Even the lighting was dimmer in the very back, as if this area had been left untended for a long time.

The waiter had stopped at a small table near the back wall, before gesturing, “Aap baithiye.” He disappeared just as he had approached, leaving Laila to take in the strange amalgamation of new and old within the same location. She had been stuck on a black-and-whiteport scene, sitting framed above the mint green wall she had just crossed. By the time the quiet creeped back in, her attention first flew to the glass of water already placed on the table, resting on top of a flower-patterned circular coaster.

The time it took for her to connect the occupant of the booth and the identity of her to-be suitor, was frankly, embarrassing. Fight or flight pulled at her in equal measures, leaving her helpless to this encounter that she wished would never have happened. For someone who claimed to rely on her quick wit and accurate hunches, Laila found herself unable to move past her initial steps past the doorway, staring dumb-foundedly at the trail of cigarette smoke leading to a singular figure stretched out across the window seat. 

“Aap Laila hain?” He asked, kohl-rimmed eyes fixed sternly on her as if they had been that way since she placed foot into the cafe.

She nodded. 

Laila didn't know what to say or even if she could say anything at this moment. It all felt a little too surreal, from the darkness of his kurta to the reflective surface of the watch on his hand.

Truly, she had to applaud her mother—because how had she managed, out of all the eligible bachelors left in Karachi, to bring Uzair Baloch before her?

She had seen his face before. 

Plastered across every wall. 

Hanging from posters above stores. 

But never in person, and certainly not without the armor of his Balochi topi and traditional clothes. Everyone who lived in the city knew of this man well enough to recognize him on sight.

“Baithiye,” his palm was facing upwards across the narrow table, referring to the spare seat across from him.

Laila stared at it, practically picturing the way they must have wrapped around a gun in someone's last moments. She didn't want to even think about what else those hands—carved through with veins that betrayed pure violence—could be capable of. 

Bada aaya, she thought to herself while biting down on the edge of her lip, kya kaha tha ammi ne? Shareef ladka hain? Agar gundae shareef hote hain toh main hoon Denmark ki raani.

Tearing her eyes away from his hands, she looked up to meet his own and instantly regretted it. Now that she had made contact, there was no way of backing out, no way of cooking up an excuse that would allow her to escape from this uncomfortable scenario straight out of someone’s nightmare. Swallowing the vague feeling of anxiety climbing up her spine, she eased into the seat, folding her hands over each other on her lap.

She narrowed in on the clear glass of chai sitting on the plain table, offset at the top with small ridges. Trying to ignore the reflection of his watch on the edge, she fumbled with the navy embroidery on the ends of cotton kameez. “Look, I don’t want this arrangement to proceed any further than it already has,” Laila proposed nervously, keeping her voice soft.

“Kyun?” came the instant reply, “Aapka koi banda hai kya?”

“No, it just seems to be that…we may not be a good match for each other…”

“Do minute na baitha aur seedhe ye faisla kaise kar liya?” The man seemed only slightly inconvenienced, continuing to lounge lazily, to Laila’s further irritation. It seemed more like his friend had refused to give him a cigarette, rather than her desperately trying to leave. At her silence, he rephrased: “I mean, how do you even know what kind of match this is?”

“Aapke inkaar ki wajah kya hain?” Uzair Baloch inquired, leaning forward to draw attention to his revealed forearms resting on the table’s edge. Laila blinked, flickering between the motion and his face. She wanted to curse him for it. “Koi cheez agar kharidi jaati hain aur usme kami nikalti hain toh wapas karne se pehle wajah batai jaati hain, haina?

“Please, I don’t want to come off as offensive…” Laila tried to put an end to the questioning, knowing how unpredictable this entire situation was. This could go south with no notice, leaving her to manage a man who was known to be hot-blooded.

“Ji bilkul nahi.” He assured, eyebrows coming together as he shook his head confidently. “Kahiye,”

Laila grimaced, unimpressed by how much this man refused to let the situation go. If he truly had a need for a woman in his life, she assumed he could just go to one of the haunts where the members of the Balochi gang were known to frequent in the evenings. Instead, he was here, bothering her with a poor attempt at an arranged marriage. 

Completely eager and utterly clueless.

She didn’t know which trait was worse in this scenario.

Laila took in a breath, shifting closer to the edge of her seat so she mirrored Uzair Baloch’s posture with the forearms resting on the table and shoulders coming up  defensively. She tried to channel the assertive nature she had been on the receiving side of multiple times. Uzair Baloch didn’t seem to be intimidated by her gestures, from the casual way he rubbed at his scruffy beard. Clearly, this man needed to be told in big and bold letters, in order to comprehend the meaning of her words. 

“Janab, aap…. gunda gardi ke peshe mein hain ,” Laila let her words drawl out, condemning and derisive in its entirety. She almost felt bad when his face twisted into a squint, but it was too late to swallow the words back up. “Maine apni zindagi ko behtar banaane ke liye bahut mehnat ki hain aur main nahi chahti ki phir se bigad jaaye,”

The outburst she had expected did not come. Neither did the insults or accusations, the almost-confirmed retaliation that was customary from any man in their society. Still, she waited for the slow processor to complete its work and release the output. The hand at his jaw had dropped down now, making space for the stunned stillness that overcame his features. 

Uzair Baloch’s pupils were blown wide, the dark brown banished to the borders as the iris turned all consuming. All the fight had dropped out of his face, leaving his cheeks to retreat, as his mouth drooped slightly in a gaping gesture. He hadn’t been like this before, when she had unwillingly shuffled into his presence, but Laila couldn’t tell what was the exact moment when the change had occurred—from stark insistence to whatever shock he was going through.

Perhaps she would be able to startle him enough to steal enough time to jump through the window, through which the ray of light peeked through onto them.

“Bibi, main apke lien kuch laun? Chai? Coffee? Ya aur kuch?” Laila looked up as a shadow fell over her, revealing the same waiter from earlier. He appeared to be sweating bullets now, fidgeting with the spare cloth that was on his shoulder. Constantly glancing between her and the opposite side of the table, he seemed even more worried about the direction of the conversation than Laila herself.

Glancing back at Uzair Baloch, who was steadfastly ignoring the waiter’s look to seem as they were not connected in any way, Laila refused, “Ji nahi, main theek hoon,”

The waiter’s poor state seemed to worsen after hearing that: “Bibi, humare paas menu mein aur kuch hai jo aapko pasand hoga. Chai coffee ke alawa…juice ya lime soda ya… pastry khayenge?”

Upon Laila’s fixing an indifferent look up, Uzair Baloch finally intervened, coming out of his strange trance, “Mohtarma ne bola na ki kuch nahi chahiye! Kyun aesa tang kar rahe ho usko? Hasan—abhi ke abhi—idhar se hatt!”

Laila watched as the waiter succumbed to confusion, at the sight of the gang member’s scoldings, before disappearing again to the kitchen area. Uzair Baloch’s silly show of his power was in no way remarkable—if anything, it made her even more sure that she wanted nothing to do with this man who lived in his own world where only he was crowned as king.

Turning back to the conversation at hand, Uzair Baloch palmed at the surface of the lower part of his face with his mouth, as if in a move to wipe the remnants of the past few moments clean. He looked down at the table frantically before coming back to the insult he had been leveled with. “Boliye phir aap kya kaam karti hain?”

If he hoped to be able to walk in here and woo some village maid who was neither aware of the world nor possessed any self respect, he would be proved wrong. “Journalist hoon main,”

Laila could see him mulling that over in his mind, tossing the idea around like it was a cricket ball. Sadly, the farthest he could only hope to come was a gully cricketer, not Imran Khan. “So, you cover the recent stories and write articles about them?”

“ Ji haan,”

“So, tell me, what kind of issues are you covering right now?” He implored, setting aside the old topic completely.

Pagal admi mil gaya hain mujhe, Laila decided, agar main uski beizzati karoon toh ye kush ho jata. Kaunsa nasha karke aaya hai idhar?

“Abhi…” Laila racked her mind for an appropriate topic, before settling on the subject of tomorrow’s edition, figuring nothing could go too badly with a little spoiler, “The Ahmadiyya community is facing severe persecution—they are legally barred from identifying as Muslims, and they are frequently subjected to attacks. Tomorrow’s edition comprises the recent attack at one of their places of worship, while also delving into the deeper political and social effects.”

“Is se kya farq padta hain aapko? Kya aap khud ek Ahmadi hain?”

Laila sighed. This ill-fated meeting had somehow transformed from a hopeless cause into a job interview. “Nahi, main Ahmadi nahi hoon. But, if any group faces injustice it becomes the duty of journalists to bring it to the attention of the general public in hopes of some improvement.”

“But, why do you want to help them in the first place, when you have no apparent ties or relations to them? Jo ho raha hain use hone do na?”

“What is the point of this?” Laila sighed. 

“Aap nahi bolenge toh main bolunga—nahi roka toh nainsaafi hain. Waise aapko uske baare mein nahi pata toh research kar lete. Hai na? Yehi toh kahne waali thi na aap?” Uzair Baloch barked out, startling Laila. She was tempted to glance around the remaining tables, because the real Uzair Baloch might be hiding and had brought in his doppelgänger who was secretly a lawyer. 

She nodded faintly, head spinning at the twists and turns of this conversation. It was a good thing he had forced her to sit down with his blazing eyes, or she would've collapsed by now.

“ When you make it your duty to be responsible for all sorts of people…how did you gather the courage to label me as a ‘gunda’ and classify me automatically out of your standards?” That snapped Laila out of her confusion, finally seeing how this stupid interrogation had been weaponized into an argument. More than that, it was the pointing finger she was more concerned with. “Isn’t this the same stereotyping and discrimination that you are against?”

She sneered down at the accusing digit, “Alag baatein ko jodne se aap sahi nahi hojayenge, Uzair saheb,”

“I’m not claiming the superior moral ground, I’ll leave it to you to decide what is fair here. Bus meri taraf se bhi dekhiye,” He retracted the hand, tucking it back to the very borders of the table. His eyebrows were raised, giving him a look of putting his utmost effort into salvaging this. “Haan main ek Baloch gang ka member hoon, lekin humne bohot kuch accha bhi kiya hain. Lyari ke liye school, haspatal hum banate hai. Balochistan ke har ek bacche ke liya davayia hum muft dete hain. Hamare karobar se toh hazar-dohazar logon ka ghar chalta hain. Jitna lete hain us se das guna waapas dete hain hum.”

“Aap ye nahi decide kar sakte,” Laila fumed, finding her fingers digging into the soft skin of her palm at the superiority complex of this ridiculous man. “Theek hai, I’m aware that your gang is responsible for all this, but you simply cannot claim all the credit. The way you’re phrasing it, it appears you yourself mix the cement and lay the bricks of every such resource! Lekin gun to ap khud hi chalate hon, aur kisi ko maut ke ghat aap hi laate ho, na? Iska matlab nahi hai ki ye dono cancel hojayega!”

He nodded at that, as if accepting the rationale of the point she made. He seemed almost docile for a moment, facing down at his hands with his long lashes casting shadows against the narrow frame of his face. Then, he looked up and Laila forgot that thought, deciding he was more like a leopard—agile and unpredictable.

She expected another onslaught of the unyielding, argumentative tone but he only settled for a slow rumble that barely carried out of his chest: “Kaha rehti aap, Laila ji?” When she turned to blankly glance out the window, he got the message. She wasn't going to partake in his spectacle, certainly not by feeding him information to turn against her. He started listing out places, hoping to catch a slip, “Agra Taj colony…Shah Baig Lane…Ali Muhammad Mohalla…Chakiwara…”

“Chakiwara!” He exclaimed, snapping a finger at the discovery. He had somehow caught the barely perceptible flicker of her eye, the little tell that gave her away. “Why do you live in Chakiwara? Sunna hai ki Singho Lane mein rent kaafi kam lagta Chakiwara se,” 

“Sach ye hai ki…tum Baloch gang ko pasand karo ya na karo, faida tumhe hi hota hai. Jin ilaqon par humara qabza hai, wahan auraton ke liye zyada mehfooz mahaul hota hai…and the state of the place is also maintained,”

“Main pura gang se shaadi nahi karni, aap se hi karni!” Laila gave up on her vow of silence before it had truly set in. She slammed her palms on the table now, further angered by how easily he was riling her up with logical reasoning. 

Feeling the bitter taste of criticism on her tongue, she felt emboldened to speak her mind now. Uzair Baloch had questioned her ideals. Now, Laila Bugti was duty-bound to lash back. 

“It is easy to build a perfect world with just words, but it is the reality that matters. Jo ab bol rahein the…ki kya sach hai…sachi hai ki hum dono ek jaise nahin. I put my complete effort into even the smallest of things even when it is difficult to do so—paanch waqt ki namaz aur apne ghar ki izzat ka khayal. Tumhare liye shayad yeh sab itna matter na karta ho magar mere liye karta hai. Aur main badalne ke liye bhi tayyar bilkul nahi!”

Laila could feel her chest heaving as the quiet once more assumed the considerable, yet minuscule, gap between them. The unsettling pendulum-like motion of their conversation was, intentionally or not, being maintained. They traded bouts of screaming for petulant silences, and then back again while leaving the heat of the clash to simmer in the midst. Laila had taken her turn with both muteness and anger, but she was sure Uzair Baloch was not ready to abandon the dispute as of yet. Still, he appeared pacified again. The stubborn set of his jaw had loosened, allowing his face to return to the casual air she had first encountered. He was fidgeting with the silver kada on his right hand, weaving his long fingers under and above the bowing curve of the cuff. The unbalanced glint of his eye had faded away too, leaving behind a still awareness that brought about a trail of goosebumps down the length of her arm.

Uzair Baloch moved slowly, as if his limbs were machinery whose grease had run out and prevented any hint of nimbleness. He placed his hands palm-down directly across from where hers had paused, mirroring her exact posture. They were both balancing precariously on the seat’s edge, a bearing that could not be held for long. Laila took in the scene with steadily increasing panic, not able to see much over the looming figure of the man himself, but she couldn't find anything in her to move away. He exhaled deeply once, a sound barely audible over the distant hum of the cafe kitchen. It filled the air on her face with a sheer warmth, fading too soon. 

Laila watched the wobble of the Adam’s apple in the bronze landscape of his throat, almost missing the dashing swipe of his tongue across his lips. Caught in the middle of the two, she had unknowingly provided the perfect opening for the enemy. He didn't know her well enough to recognize this, of course, but Uzair Baloch knew his way around words well enough that he knew passing up this swell in pressure would be a mistake. 

He spoke under his breath, each word deliberate as if he had already seen how this would end, “Kya aap jaanti hain ke har cheez seedhi ya ghalat nahi hoti? Aapko kya pata hai mere baare mein? Main bhi padha likha hoon, lekin aapka khayal nahi hai ki mera soch kaise hai ya mera zindagi kaise chalta.”

True to his business acumen, he didn't let the hitch of Laila’s breath stop him from striking the stake to the core. He did give it a second, pleased at the little warm flutter that ran down his stomach at the sight. 

“Ek baar mere saath chai piyenge, tab do-teen baar saath mein khayein, aur jaan se thoda guzarenge mere saath, phir hi aapko pata chalega na ki yeh konsa insaan hai. Uske baad bhi aapko rishta mana karna ka mann hai toh main bilkul kuch nahi bolunga,”

It was Laila who leaned back now, crossing her arms over her chest loosely. 

She looked down, her fingers tracing the rim of the worn wooden table without thinking. She had answered him—she was sure she had. Point for point, argument for argument. And yet something lingered heavy in her chest, something that refused to settle.

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

That was the problem.

The thought had unsettled her more than anything he’d said out loud. She replayed the conversation in fragments. The way he had spoken, calm and then frenzied. The certainty in his voice at all times, like he was certain he had it in him to flip the switch on her And then, strangely, the shift she hadn’t noticed in the heat of the moment.

At first, he had remained distant and respectful, with the usage of the word “aap” to refer to her.

When had it become tu?

The change had occurred so quietly it flew straight over her head; she hadn’t even caught it, despite how the space between them had narrowed without her permission. He had stepped past the invisible line she had drawn and she had only realized it long after the fact.

Laila exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a moment. His voice was still there at the forefront of her mind, low and steady, threading through her thoughts.

The worst part was that somewhere along the way, her voice had softened, turning from offensive to defensive. In her head, she had accidentally turned him from a target of derision to the wishing well of her desires. That swift change ought to have been a warning sign, telling her she had been carefully manipulated.

But where was the bold journalist in her? 

The one that never hesitated to disobey her superiors’ orders when it meant she could cover the more sensational story. 

The one that mouthed off to whoever stood in her way and never feared for the consequences.

The one that spent late nights and early mornings blinking the sleep out of her drooping eyes because she was willing to gamble with her time and energy if she had even the smallest chance of brilliance.

Laila focused back again on the current situation, reaching up once to rub gently at her eyebrow. She was yet to take her attention off the breathless figure in front of her, awaiting judgement. Taking in the dark circles that indicated he had sweated through his dark kurta, she suppressed a smile. She had put up a good fight and she deserved to catch the fruit of her efforts. “Hasan bhai, ek noon chai mere liye!” She called back, angling her head slightly towards the back wall. 

Uzair’s face broke its serious composure, not unlike how the dry earth cracked at the first rainfall of monsoon, giving way to a boyish grin.

[maladaptive-anxiety]

Taglist:

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[maladaptive-anxiety]

Lutt Le Gaya

Master List

Table of Contents

title: the hypocrites' dilemna

summary: lyari's very own mob boss meets his match in a fiery journalist during the early phases of an arranged marriage set-up

authors note: finally recovered from burnout from school, guys. please be kind idk what bakwaas this is 🙏 also shoutout to @writrsblu for helping with the Hindi and @rabbdaradio i thought of noon chai because of u

“Not done, jaana! Roz late kar dete ho! Log intezaar kar rahe honge aur tumhein zara si bhi fikr nahi?”

The irritated scolding buzzed out of the small mobile device in Laila’s hand. She looked down at the caller ID, seriously considering the risk of hanging up on her mother.

“Haan, haan…Mujhe pata hai,” she mumbled, shifting around in her seat to catch a glimpse out of the window. Karachi was not known to be the quietest of cities, and she was insistent on living up to her name today. The vast majority of the bus ride, on a route from Tower to Lea Market, had been spent listening to the constant honking of rickshaw drivers and civilian vehicles alike. Laila, at one point, had wondered if she had started hallucinating the tune of ‘Kajra Re’ until the bus driver adjusted the volume and began singing along. Between the ill-fitting tunes and the pungent scent of sweat in the air, Laila didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or gag. Karachi tended to have that effect on her inhabitants.

“Tumhe sab pata hai, lekin kya faida? There’s never even the slightest attempt to change from your side,” her mother’s sharp voice rang out again.

Laila stretched out her neck, struggling over the heads of multiple bus-riders, taking in the messy rows of vehicles piled up on the city road. The conclusion was exactly the same as the honking competition conveyed—nobody would be going anywhere. She glanced down at the inside of her wrist where the delicate arrow of her watch indicated she was already running late.

Collecting the worn leather handbag from its place near her feet, Laila pushed and shoved her way to the front of the bus. There, the conductor, leaning against the metal bars, looked up at her as she approached. 

“Accha suno—”

Her mother’s ravings would have to be saved for another time, Laila decided.

“Bhai, how much longer until we reach Bolton Market stop?” Laila asked, fighting to be heard over the suddenly rising melody of the Bollywood radio station.

“We’re just a bit away…” The conductor pointed out the metal caging of the windows, while his other hand absently raked through his scruffy beard, “Is traffic jam mein toh thoda zyada waqt lagega,”

Laila fought the urge to sigh again, twisting around to find her seat already occupied by a random man. He steadily avoided eye contact with her, even while readjusting himself from falling off the seat edge, until she gave up and turned back around.

“Never mind, I’m getting off here!”

Before the conductor, who had already spaced out, realized she was talking to him, Laila pushed through the crowded floor. She easily descended the bus stairs, glancing around before beginning the trek towards the road borders. Now on the ground, the city’s noises seemed even more irritating, as she replaced her phone in the crook between her shoulder and ear—truly a choice between two evils.

Navigating between the rows of cars and bikes all stagnant, Laila tuned in to catch the tail end of her mother’s yelling: “—tere hone wale shauhar ke barre main baat kar rahi hoon tujhse aur tum kisi aur mard ke saath kya kar rahi hain?!?!”

Laila narrowly dodged a stupid biker, who had been sneaking past the smaller gaps of the vehicles, only able to level him with a glare. “Arrey, woh bus conductor waale bhaiya the, koi boyfriend-woyfriend nahi jaese aap soch rahi ho,”

“Jo bhi ho, Khuda qasam, if you meet this boy and still somehow refuse the proposal—”

“Hum baad mein dekhte hain, abhi jo bolna hai woh bolo na,” Laila neatly diverted, knowing her mother could make up hundreds of threats on the spot if needed.

“Laila, I’m telling you, this is an excellent opportunity for all of us. Shareef khandaan ka hai, log uski bohot izzat karte hai. Aur wahan jaake oversmart matt banna, samjhi? Seedha jao, seedha milo, aur wapas aa jao,”

“Fine, Ammi, mil leti hoon,” Laila sighed, turning the corner across from the famed Bolton Market. Picking up the pace, she readjusted the phone once she caught sight of the simple banner sign. “Pahunch gayi, baad main aapko call karti hoon”

Of course, any goodbye with the desi mothers involved multiple warnings for good behavior, followed up shortly by a random tangent, before the actual act of hanging up the phone. Laila managed to cross the crowded street, and snuck under the gap between two aged buildings.

Cafe Sarmast was tucked neatly on the edge of Kharadar, spelling out a story of old lovers and antique memories. Like its neighbors, the single-storied shop consisted of peeling paint and decoration that attempted a refreshing look. Laila tucked her cellphone into a pocket in her handbag, ducking into the entrance. The inside wasn’t crowded or busy, with waiters strolling around lazily in the same manner that the outside betrayed a simple carelessness. It was just a few tables arranged around each other, meant for people who had come upon this place by chance. Customers were scattered throughout, commonly accompanied by a newspaper or plated delicacy.

Laila hadn’t lived in Lyari long enough to walk into places like this, where the walls upheld their age with a quiet nobility as if they were buffing out their chests with pride at what they had withstood. Perhaps this was the reason why she startled, clutching at her handbag tighter, when a squat, oily-faced man approached her. She glanced away immediately, focusing only through the corner of her eye, unsure of what provoked the encounter, but he only lowered his own head respectfully. He stretched out a sun-tanned hand towards the inside of the cafe, “Idhar aaiye, bibi,”

Laila glanced over his shoulder, where the lightbulb was flickering, sending shadows dancing across the abandoned tables in that direction. “Nahi, I’m here to meet someone,” she hesitated.

The waiter had already begun to move, but he looked back just once—not confused, just confirming, “Haan ji, Bhai ne bata diya tha,”

She watched him hobble through the aisles until he disappeared behind a stone wall. She looked upwards for a second, praying for the patience to put up with whatever shenanigans her mother had landed her in this time. Then, she traced the same path behind the solid wall into the depths of the cafe.

Walking past the front tables, where cups clinked often and men lounged in their easy conversations, Laila felt the sudden vacuum created behind the cafe’s regular section. The noise thinned out gradually, giving space to the brittle chill of the air. Even the lighting was dimmer in the very back, as if this area had been left untended for a long time.

The waiter had stopped at a small table near the back wall, before gesturing, “Aap baithiye.” He disappeared just as he had approached, leaving Laila to take in the strange amalgamation of new and old within the same location. She had been stuck on a black-and-whiteport scene, sitting framed above the mint green wall she had just crossed. By the time the quiet creeped back in, her attention first flew to the glass of water already placed on the table, resting on top of a flower-patterned circular coaster.

The time it took for her to connect the occupant of the booth and the identity of her to-be suitor, was frankly, embarrassing. Fight or flight pulled at her in equal measures, leaving her helpless to this encounter that she wished would never have happened. For someone who claimed to rely on her quick wit and accurate hunches, Laila found herself unable to move past her initial steps past the doorway, staring dumb-foundedly at the trail of cigarette smoke leading to a singular figure stretched out across the window seat. 

“Aap Laila hain?” He asked, kohl-rimmed eyes fixed sternly on her as if they had been that way since she placed foot into the cafe.

She nodded. 

Laila didn't know what to say or even if she could say anything at this moment. It all felt a little too surreal, from the darkness of his kurta to the reflective surface of the watch on his hand.

Truly, she had to applaud her mother—because how had she managed, out of all the eligible bachelors left in Karachi, to bring Uzair Baloch before her?

She had seen his face before. 

Plastered across every wall. 

Hanging from posters above stores. 

But never in person, and certainly not without the armor of his Balochi topi and traditional clothes. Everyone who lived in the city knew of this man well enough to recognize him on sight.

“Baithiye,” his palm was facing upwards across the narrow table, referring to the spare seat across from him.

Laila stared at it, practically picturing the way they must have wrapped around a gun in someone's last moments. She didn't want to even think about what else those hands—carved through with veins that betrayed pure violence—could be capable of. 

Bada aaya, she thought to herself while biting down on the edge of her lip, kya kaha tha ammi ne? Shareef ladka hain? Agar gundae shareef hote hain toh main hoon Denmark ki raani.

Tearing her eyes away from his hands, she looked up to meet his own and instantly regretted it. Now that she had made contact, there was no way of backing out, no way of cooking up an excuse that would allow her to escape from this uncomfortable scenario straight out of someone’s nightmare. Swallowing the vague feeling of anxiety climbing up her spine, she eased into the seat, folding her hands over each other on her lap.

She narrowed in on the clear glass of chai sitting on the plain table, offset at the top with small ridges. Trying to ignore the reflection of his watch on the edge, she fumbled with the navy embroidery on the ends of cotton kameez. “Look, I don’t want this arrangement to proceed any further than it already has,” Laila proposed nervously, keeping her voice soft.

“Kyun?” came the instant reply, “Aapka koi banda hai kya?”

“No, it just seems to be that…we may not be a good match for each other…”

“Do minute na baitha aur seedhe ye faisla kaise kar liya?” The man seemed only slightly inconvenienced, continuing to lounge lazily, to Laila’s further irritation. It seemed more like his friend had refused to give him a cigarette, rather than her desperately trying to leave. At her silence, he rephrased: “I mean, how do you even know what kind of match this is?”

“Aapke inkaar ki wajah kya hain?” Uzair Baloch inquired, leaning forward to draw attention to his revealed forearms resting on the table’s edge. Laila blinked, flickering between the motion and his face. She wanted to curse him for it. “Koi cheez agar kharidi jaati hain aur usme kami nikalti hain toh wapas karne se pehle wajah batai jaati hain, haina?

“Please, I don’t want to come off as offensive…” Laila tried to put an end to the questioning, knowing how unpredictable this entire situation was. This could go south with no notice, leaving her to manage a man who was known to be hot-blooded.

“Ji bilkul nahi.” He assured, eyebrows coming together as he shook his head confidently. “Kahiye,”

Laila grimaced, unimpressed by how much this man refused to let the situation go. If he truly had a need for a woman in his life, she assumed he could just go to one of the haunts where the members of the Balochi gang were known to frequent in the evenings. Instead, he was here, bothering her with a poor attempt at an arranged marriage. 

Completely eager and utterly clueless.

She didn’t know which trait was worse in this scenario.

Laila took in a breath, shifting closer to the edge of her seat so she mirrored Uzair Baloch’s posture with the forearms resting on the table and shoulders coming up  defensively. She tried to channel the assertive nature she had been on the receiving side of multiple times. Uzair Baloch didn’t seem to be intimidated by her gestures, from the casual way he rubbed at his scruffy beard. Clearly, this man needed to be told in big and bold letters, in order to comprehend the meaning of her words. 

“Janab, aap…. gunda gardi ke peshe mein hain ,” Laila let her words drawl out, condemning and derisive in its entirety. She almost felt bad when his face twisted into a squint, but it was too late to swallow the words back up. “Maine apni zindagi ko behtar banaane ke liye bahut mehnat ki hain aur main nahi chahti ki phir se bigad jaaye,”

The outburst she had expected did not come. Neither did the insults or accusations, the almost-confirmed retaliation that was customary from any man in their society. Still, she waited for the slow processor to complete its work and release the output. The hand at his jaw had dropped down now, making space for the stunned stillness that overcame his features. 

Uzair Baloch’s pupils were blown wide, the dark brown banished to the borders as the iris turned all consuming. All the fight had dropped out of his face, leaving his cheeks to retreat, as his mouth drooped slightly in a gaping gesture. He hadn’t been like this before, when she had unwillingly shuffled into his presence, but Laila couldn’t tell what was the exact moment when the change had occurred—from stark insistence to whatever shock he was going through.

Perhaps she would be able to startle him enough to steal enough time to jump through the window, through which the ray of light peeked through onto them.

“Bibi, main apke lien kuch laun? Chai? Coffee? Ya aur kuch?” Laila looked up as a shadow fell over her, revealing the same waiter from earlier. He appeared to be sweating bullets now, fidgeting with the spare cloth that was on his shoulder. Constantly glancing between her and the opposite side of the table, he seemed even more worried about the direction of the conversation than Laila herself.

Glancing back at Uzair Baloch, who was steadfastly ignoring the waiter’s look to seem as they were not connected in any way, Laila refused, “Ji nahi, main theek hoon,”

The waiter’s poor state seemed to worsen after hearing that: “Bibi, humare paas menu mein aur kuch hai jo aapko pasand hoga. Chai coffee ke alawa…juice ya lime soda ya… pastry khayenge?”

Upon Laila’s fixing an indifferent look up, Uzair Baloch finally intervened, coming out of his strange trance, “Mohtarma ne bola na ki kuch nahi chahiye! Kyun aesa tang kar rahe ho usko? Hasan—abhi ke abhi—idhar se hatt!”

Laila watched as the waiter succumbed to confusion, at the sight of the gang member’s scoldings, before disappearing again to the kitchen area. Uzair Baloch’s silly show of his power was in no way remarkable—if anything, it made her even more sure that she wanted nothing to do with this man who lived in his own world where only he was crowned as king.

Turning back to the conversation at hand, Uzair Baloch palmed at the surface of the lower part of his face with his mouth, as if in a move to wipe the remnants of the past few moments clean. He looked down at the table frantically before coming back to the insult he had been leveled with. “Boliye phir aap kya kaam karti hain?”

If he hoped to be able to walk in here and woo some village maid who was neither aware of the world nor possessed any self respect, he would be proved wrong. “Journalist hoon main,”

Laila could see him mulling that over in his mind, tossing the idea around like it was a cricket ball. Sadly, the farthest he could only hope to come was a gully cricketer, not Imran Khan. “So, you cover the recent stories and write articles about them?”

“ Ji haan,”

“So, tell me, what kind of issues are you covering right now?” He implored, setting aside the old topic completely.

Pagal admi mil gaya hain mujhe, Laila decided, agar main uski beizzati karoon toh ye kush ho jata. Kaunsa nasha karke aaya hai idhar?

“Abhi…” Laila racked her mind for an appropriate topic, before settling on the subject of tomorrow’s edition, figuring nothing could go too badly with a little spoiler, “The Ahmadiyya community is facing severe persecution—they are legally barred from identifying as Muslims, and they are frequently subjected to attacks. Tomorrow’s edition comprises the recent attack at one of their places of worship, while also delving into the deeper political and social effects.”

“Is se kya farq padta hain aapko? Kya aap khud ek Ahmadi hain?”

Laila sighed. This ill-fated meeting had somehow transformed from a hopeless cause into a job interview. “Nahi, main Ahmadi nahi hoon. But, if any group faces injustice it becomes the duty of journalists to bring it to the attention of the general public in hopes of some improvement.”

“But, why do you want to help them in the first place, when you have no apparent ties or relations to them? Jo ho raha hain use hone do na?”

“What is the point of this?” Laila sighed. 

“Aap nahi bolenge toh main bolunga—nahi roka toh nainsaafi hain. Waise aapko uske baare mein nahi pata toh research kar lete. Hai na? Yehi toh kahne waali thi na aap?” Uzair Baloch barked out, startling Laila. She was tempted to glance around the remaining tables, because the real Uzair Baloch might be hiding and had brought in his doppelgänger who was secretly a lawyer. 

She nodded faintly, head spinning at the twists and turns of this conversation. It was a good thing he had forced her to sit down with his blazing eyes, or she would've collapsed by now.

“ When you make it your duty to be responsible for all sorts of people…how did you gather the courage to label me as a ‘gunda’ and classify me automatically out of your standards?” That snapped Laila out of her confusion, finally seeing how this stupid interrogation had been weaponized into an argument. More than that, it was the pointing finger she was more concerned with. “Isn’t this the same stereotyping and discrimination that you are against?”

She sneered down at the accusing digit, “Alag baatein ko jodne se aap sahi nahi hojayenge, Uzair saheb,”

“I’m not claiming the superior moral ground, I’ll leave it to you to decide what is fair here. Bus meri taraf se bhi dekhiye,” He retracted the hand, tucking it back to the very borders of the table. His eyebrows were raised, giving him a look of putting his utmost effort into salvaging this. “Haan main ek Baloch gang ka member hoon, lekin humne bohot kuch accha bhi kiya hain. Lyari ke liye school, haspatal hum banate hai. Balochistan ke har ek bacche ke liya davayia hum muft dete hain. Hamare karobar se toh hazar-dohazar logon ka ghar chalta hain. Jitna lete hain us se das guna waapas dete hain hum.”

“Aap ye nahi decide kar sakte,” Laila fumed, finding her fingers digging into the soft skin of her palm at the superiority complex of this ridiculous man. “Theek hai, I’m aware that your gang is responsible for all this, but you simply cannot claim all the credit. The way you’re phrasing it, it appears you yourself mix the cement and lay the bricks of every such resource! Lekin gun to ap khud hi chalate hon, aur kisi ko maut ke ghat aap hi laate ho, na? Iska matlab nahi hai ki ye dono cancel hojayega!”

He nodded at that, as if accepting the rationale of the point she made. He seemed almost docile for a moment, facing down at his hands with his long lashes casting shadows against the narrow frame of his face. Then, he looked up and Laila forgot that thought, deciding he was more like a leopard—agile and unpredictable.

She expected another onslaught of the unyielding, argumentative tone but he only settled for a slow rumble that barely carried out of his chest: “Kaha rehti aap, Laila ji?” When she turned to blankly glance out the window, he got the message. She wasn't going to partake in his spectacle, certainly not by feeding him information to turn against her. He started listing out places, hoping to catch a slip, “Agra Taj colony…Shah Baig Lane…Ali Muhammad Mohalla…Chakiwara…”

“Chakiwara!” He exclaimed, snapping a finger at the discovery. He had somehow caught the barely perceptible flicker of her eye, the little tell that gave her away. “Why do you live in Chakiwara? Sunna hai ki Singho Lane mein rent kaafi kam lagta Chakiwara se,” 

“Sach ye hai ki…tum Baloch gang ko pasand karo ya na karo, faida tumhe hi hota hai. Jin ilaqon par humara qabza hai, wahan auraton ke liye zyada mehfooz mahaul hota hai…and the state of the place is also maintained,”

“Main pura gang se shaadi nahi karni, aap se hi karni!” Laila gave up on her vow of silence before it had truly set in. She slammed her palms on the table now, further angered by how easily he was riling her up with logical reasoning. 

Feeling the bitter taste of criticism on her tongue, she felt emboldened to speak her mind now. Uzair Baloch had questioned her ideals. Now, Laila Bugti was duty-bound to lash back. 

“It is easy to build a perfect world with just words, but it is the reality that matters. Jo ab bol rahein the…ki kya sach hai…sachi hai ki hum dono ek jaise nahin. I put my complete effort into even the smallest of things even when it is difficult to do so—paanch waqt ki namaz aur apne ghar ki izzat ka khayal. Tumhare liye shayad yeh sab itna matter na karta ho magar mere liye karta hai. Aur main badalne ke liye bhi tayyar bilkul nahi!”

Laila could feel her chest heaving as the quiet once more assumed the considerable, yet minuscule, gap between them. The unsettling pendulum-like motion of their conversation was, intentionally or not, being maintained. They traded bouts of screaming for petulant silences, and then back again while leaving the heat of the clash to simmer in the midst. Laila had taken her turn with both muteness and anger, but she was sure Uzair Baloch was not ready to abandon the dispute as of yet. Still, he appeared pacified again. The stubborn set of his jaw had loosened, allowing his face to return to the casual air she had first encountered. He was fidgeting with the silver kada on his right hand, weaving his long fingers under and above the bowing curve of the cuff. The unbalanced glint of his eye had faded away too, leaving behind a still awareness that brought about a trail of goosebumps down the length of her arm.

Uzair Baloch moved slowly, as if his limbs were machinery whose grease had run out and prevented any hint of nimbleness. He placed his hands palm-down directly across from where hers had paused, mirroring her exact posture. They were both balancing precariously on the seat’s edge, a bearing that could not be held for long. Laila took in the scene with steadily increasing panic, not able to see much over the looming figure of the man himself, but she couldn't find anything in her to move away. He exhaled deeply once, a sound barely audible over the distant hum of the cafe kitchen. It filled the air on her face with a sheer warmth, fading too soon. 

Laila watched the wobble of the Adam’s apple in the bronze landscape of his throat, almost missing the dashing swipe of his tongue across his lips. Caught in the middle of the two, she had unknowingly provided the perfect opening for the enemy. He didn't know her well enough to recognize this, of course, but Uzair Baloch knew his way around words well enough that he knew passing up this swell in pressure would be a mistake. 

He spoke under his breath, each word deliberate as if he had already seen how this would end, “Kya aap jaanti hain ke har cheez seedhi ya ghalat nahi hoti? Aapko kya pata hai mere baare mein? Main bhi padha likha hoon, lekin aapka khayal nahi hai ki mera soch kaise hai ya mera zindagi kaise chalta.”

True to his business acumen, he didn't let the hitch of Laila’s breath stop him from striking the stake to the core. He did give it a second, pleased at the little warm flutter that ran down his stomach at the sight. 

“Ek baar mere saath chai piyenge, tab do-teen baar saath mein khayein, aur jaan se thoda guzarenge mere saath, phir hi aapko pata chalega na ki yeh konsa insaan hai. Uske baad bhi aapko rishta mana karna ka mann hai toh main bilkul kuch nahi bolunga,”

It was Laila who leaned back now, crossing her arms over her chest loosely. 

She looked down, her fingers tracing the rim of the worn wooden table without thinking. She had answered him—she was sure she had. Point for point, argument for argument. And yet something lingered heavy in her chest, something that refused to settle.

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

That was the problem.

The thought had unsettled her more than anything he’d said out loud. She replayed the conversation in fragments. The way he had spoken, calm and then frenzied. The certainty in his voice at all times, like he was certain he had it in him to flip the switch on her And then, strangely, the shift she hadn’t noticed in the heat of the moment.

At first, he had remained distant and respectful, with the usage of the word “aap” to refer to her.

When had it become tu?

The change had occurred so quietly it flew straight over her head; she hadn’t even caught it, despite how the space between them had narrowed without her permission. He had stepped past the invisible line she had drawn and she had only realized it long after the fact.

Laila exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a moment. His voice was still there at the forefront of her mind, low and steady, threading through her thoughts.

The worst part was that somewhere along the way, her voice had softened, turning from offensive to defensive. In her head, she had accidentally turned him from a target of derision to the wishing well of her desires. That swift change ought to have been a warning sign, telling her she had been carefully manipulated.

But where was the bold journalist in her? 

The one that never hesitated to disobey her superiors’ orders when it meant she could cover the more sensational story. 

The one that mouthed off to whoever stood in her way and never feared for the consequences.

The one that spent late nights and early mornings blinking the sleep out of her drooping eyes because she was willing to gamble with her time and energy if she had even the smallest chance of brilliance.

Laila focused back again on the current situation, reaching up once to rub gently at her eyebrow. She was yet to take her attention off the breathless figure in front of her, awaiting judgement. Taking in the dark circles that indicated he had sweated through his dark kurta, she suppressed a smile. She had put up a good fight and she deserved to catch the fruit of her efforts. “Hasan bhai, ek noon chai mere liye!” She called back, angling her head slightly towards the back wall. 

Uzair’s face broke its serious composure, not unlike how the dry earth cracked at the first rainfall of monsoon, giving way to a boyish grin.

[maladaptive-anxiety]

Dropping my mom to work and I catch myself thinking "solpa late hogaya"

Three different words from three different languages

And not a single one is my mother tongue 😭

What is happening to me and why

[cherryyelixir]

a baby y'all 🐣🥹

i want to be at ranveer's place🫠🙂‍↕️🥺

tags: @saniisinsane @twinblueflamee @lutt-le-gaya @eternalstarrynight @angelicyuna @maroonphase @gehra-hua @kajuuuukatliiiiii @kisswithknife @sea-breeze-in-my-hair @gloriouspurpose01 @s4nzt @pleasetagmejaaneman @manjari08 @kamalkafool @mainyahaankyunhoon @harrystyleskiwi9 @afortoru @miraclejin1204 @diyak11 @vaari-javaan @sanamkhanani (I think it's time to update the taglist too.. please dm or comment if you want to be added or removed 🥰)

[maladaptive-anxiety]

Thank you to everyone who got me to 250 likes!

This is the closest im getting to fame so thamks guys 💗

[lutt-le-gaya]

Bina kuch kiye kaise thak jati hu 💗💗💗

[maladaptive-anxiety]

Main coffee peeke thak jati hoon aur neend bhi aati 🥀

[diyak11]

I wanna be inside that auto 😩

[wtafananya]

And I wanna be inside whats inside the auto

[maladaptive-anxiety]

And I want what's inside that auto to be inside me

[maladaptive-anxiety]

My neighbors son is freaking manchild who can't get his face out of his phone

My blood is literally boiling watching his highness who can't get up from his chair while my mom runs around to get him his 2nd serving while she hasn't eaten yet

Hub sub normal log pe reham kariye nawaabzade 🙏

[whereissanz]

Guys, meet my husband... Isn't he cute? 🥺🎀😘

[gehra-hua]

@work-of-procrastination MAMA COME PICK ME UP IM SCARED😭😭

[maladaptive-anxiety]

SAME MAMA @afortoru I DONT FEEL SAFE HERE