Before the Beginning
Hello, friends!
For months, I've eagerly devoured Dhurandhar fanfiction on Tumblr, and now, after much anticipation, I've finally mustered the courage to pen my very first story. So, here it begins!
Introduction :
Remember when Donga tells Hamza while showing him around Lyari, "Aur badle mein hum Lyari ke liye schools, aspatal aur colleges banate hain"? That one line stayed with me for a long time.
As an architect and an ardent admirer of Danish Pandor's Uzair Baloch, I found myself endlessly curious about the unsung builders behind those schools, hospitals, and colleges. That curiosity blossomed into Before the Beginning: a tale set years before Hamza arrives in Lyari, delving into the lives, relationships, and choices that quietly wove the world he would one day inherit. This is set to be a 7 part fic.
Disclaimer:
Before the Beginning is a fanfiction inspired by Aditya Dhar's two-part film Dhurandhar. All canon characters and the world of Dhurandhar belong to their respective creators and rights holders.
This story is an original, non-commercial work created purely for entertainment. While it features real locations and some historical figures, their portrayals, relationships, motivations, and events have been fictionalised for narrative purposes. The appearances and personalities of the characters are heavily inspired by the actors portraying them in Dhurandhar and are not intended to represent their real-life counterparts in any way.
I hope this story brings you as much joy in reading as it brought me in dreaming it up. ❤️
Tags:
I am tagging some of the amazing writers I have been following for months! Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list.
@yembarzal @prahelika-fics @miraclejin1204 @mainyahaankyunhoon @luvvkk @twinblueflamee @obsessedwidskincare @bitter-sweet-archive @roses-and-iron @euphorkive @tere-naal-nachna @iamadelusionalwriter @between-smoke-and-roses @abolitionistlawpluscoffee @rutvii
#dhurandhar
Chapter 1: The Architect (2000)
“Kamol? Itne subah kidhar ja rahi ho?” Donga's booming voice echoed through the narrow courtyard of the ageing apartment building just as Kamol wheeled her bicycle out from beneath the staircase.
Morning crept into the courtyard of Kamol’s old apartment, carried by the shouts of vendors and the whir of rickshaws from the street. Lyari was already alive and buzzing.
“Beg sahab ke firm mein naukri mili hai. Wahi ja rahi hoon,” Kamol replied, her eyes lighting up as she smiled at her bald landlord above. Pride flickered across her face—five years of hard work had finally paid off.
“Are waah! Badhiya! Sambhal ke jana. Aur shaam ko der mat karna. Chalo, all the best!” Donga said as he climbed onto his battered Hero Honda bike.
“Aur sunn, Beg sahab ne kabhi overtime kaam karwaya toh mujhe bata dena. Apne khaas hain,” Donga added on his way out of the gate.
“Kya aap bhi, Donga bhai. Mujhe lagta hai poori Lyari aapki khaas hai!” Kamol laughed, shaking her head at Donga bhai’s antics. She had grown to respect Donga like an elder brother in the year since she had moved into the tiny apartment.
Pedalling through Karachi’s Civil Lines, Kamol’s mind wandered back to Bela’s dusty lanes and her parents’ mud house. She remembered Quetta’s school days, the spark of inspiration at Mohenjo-daro, and the thrill of earning a full scholarship to Karachi University.
Kamol clung to her small victories, hoping they would one day fill the ache inside her—a hollow space haunted by a secret that could end her life in Lyari if ever revealed.
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Kamol had expected Mr Beg’s studio to be in a high-end glass façade building. Instead, she was greeted by an outhouse in Mr Beg’s own house garden that had been converted into a studio. Sunlight poured through wide windows onto a single enormous drafting table, workstations on both sides, and piles of sketches littered on top of it.
“Ah, you must be Kamol!” a silver-haired man with thick spectacles greeted her with a warm handshake as she stepped inside.
“Yes, sir. Good morning,” Kamol replied hesitantly, feeling uneasy under the unexpected attention.
“We love to share and discuss projects within the team all the time. An open office suits us best,” Mr Beg explained as he ushered her towards an empty workstation.
“ I have seen your portfolio. Your projects have a social aspect. We work with NGO’s and funded projects for the community from time to time. Your skills will be useful then.”
“ I look forward to them”, was Kamol’s warm reply.
“Yusuf will show you how things work here,” said Mr Beg as he returned to a sketch he had been working on. Kamol stole a quick glance at it, seeing only a jumble of lines that could make sense to no one but a designer.
“Alright then, let's get you settled in.” Yusuf, a broad fellow with a kind smile, rolled his chair over to Kamol’s new workstation.
Within half an hour, Kamol had asked nearly twenty questions. “You seem eager to learn. I see a bit of myself in you. I was the same eager-eyed fresher just a year ago!” Yusuf commented after Kamol had asked what felt like her twentieth question. “I'm sure you'll fit right in. Don’t fret. Mr Beg is strict and expects the best from everyone, but he's a softie on the inside. And, if I may add, a little eccentric too.”
“He seems alright,” Kamol commented as she glanced over to see Mr Beg disappear into his private office to take a call.
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Days blurred into routine as Kamol found her rhythm. Each morning began with steaming chai at the corner stall, then a four-kilometre ride weaving through Lyari’s chaos, Saddar’s markets, and finally the stately roads of Civil Lines.
Mr Beg’s studio buzzed in a sprawling outhouse beside his villa. On lazy afternoons, the garden turned into a cricket pitch, and after sun-baked site visits, everyone found solace beneath the wide neem tree’s shade.
Soon, the ten curious faces from Kamol’s first day became friends. Anayat restored the past, Farzana shaped interiors, and Nasir obsessed over every beam. The office felt more like a lively university studio than a workplace, with everyone huddled around screens, debating designs.
With Yusuf and Anayat by her side, Kamol dove into site visits, soaking up every lesson: the art of contractor negotiations, the clever fixes of labourers, the magic of blueprints turning into buildings. University taught theory; the field taught her the real craft.
One such day, as Kamol Yusuf, Anayat, and Kamol drove back from a site somewhere beyond the city's western edge, she finally gathered the courage to ask the question that had bothered her for weeks.
“Why does no one ever enter Mr Beg's office? I mean, he likes sitting with everyone on the open studio floor. Why even have a separate office then?” Kamol ventured cautiously.
“Well, you should know this,” Anayat answered, exchanging a dark look with Yusuf in the front seat. “Mr Beg is a talented designer. But never—and I repeat, never—go inside his office. You do not want to see his wrath. No one knows what he keeps in there. Whatever it is, never, ever go inside.”
“The last person to enter his office was fired on the spot,” Yusuf added, meeting Kamol’s eyes in the rear-view mirror with seriousness.
“Noted. Never enter the captain's cabin,” Kamol promised.
But as she turned her attention back to the mountains lining the road, Kamol couldn't help but wonder if she already knew why Mr Beg guarded his office with such ferocity.
Only time would tell if she would ever make it into that safeguarded sanctuary.
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As Kamol settled into her job, she discovered a new passion: cooking. Tired of street food, she began experimenting in her tiny kitchen after work. Whenever a dish turned out well, she’d proudly share it with Donga bhai—whether it was biryani or a pile of golden parathas.
One such evening, pleased with how well her latest batch of parathas had turned out, Kamol carried a warm, covered plate upstairs and knocked on Donga bhai's door, only to be greeted by Donga’s friend whom she knew as Siyahi.
The fair man looked from Kamol—a girl in a simple salwar kameez, her head lightly covered with a dupatta—to the covered plate in her hands. Recognising her, she said, “Achha, toh aap hain Donga bhai ki nayi kirayedar.”
“Haan. Khana le aayi thi,” Kamol said, offering him the plate.
“Are, aaiye andar. Khud de dena,” Siyahi replied, opening the door wider.
As Kamol stepped inside, her attention was drawn to the group of men gathered around the centre table on a mishmash of chairs and modhas, engrossed in a game of cards.
“Siyahi, jaldi aa, yaar! Teri baazi hai. Phir mat kehna ki challenge ka game nahi—”
A tall man dressed in a pathani suit called out to Siyahi, his words dying away the moment his gaze met Kamol's hazel eyes.
Silence descended over the room as cigarette smoke curled lazily towards the ceiling.
“Kamol. Aaj office se jaldi aa gayi?” Donga broke the silence, one hand holding a large fan of cards and the other clutching another smaller set.
Breaking her gaze away from the pathani suit, Kamol turned towards Donga, “Haan. Parathe banaye the, toh garama-garam le aayi hoon. Lekin aap shayad aaj inka maza na utha paoge. Challenge ke game mein jo itna haar rahe ho. Mor ki tarah jo pisara ikhatta kiya hai dono haathon mein!” Kamol teased, continuing the easy banter the two had developed over the past few months.
The room burst into laughter.
“Chal chal, tu mujhe sirf aur bhi mota bana rahi hai,” Donga laughed before adding, “Andar kitchen mein rakh de na, please. Hum baad mein kha lenge.”
Smiling, Kamol walked towards the kitchen as Siyahi returned to the game.
Still, Kamol felt the tall man’s gaze following her, every step prickling with his silent attention.
After leaving the plate in the kitchen, she bade everyone a quick goodbye. Reaching for the door, her eyes met the tall man's once more.
The name struck her a heartbeat later.
Uzair Baloch.
She had not expected to meet him this soon.
Heart pounding, Kamol slipped quietly downstairs, eager to vanish into the safety of her apartment.
As the door closed behind her, Mukka nudged Donga, “Pyari ladki hai, bhai. Meri kuch setting karwao.”
“Ae, chup lodu,” Donga shot back. “Meri behen jaisi hai Kamol. Aur padhi-likhi hai woh. Tujhe toh tera naam likhna bhi nahi aata. Tu karega ek architect se shaadi? Game pe dhyaan de.”
The room erupted into laughter once again before the card game resumed.
Much later that night, after the game had ended, several packs of cigarettes had been smoked, and the parathas had been reheated and eaten, Uzair Baloch found his thoughts drifting back to only one thing.
Hazel eyes, a quiet strength, and a witty tongue. - Kamol.
She wasn't what he had expected from someone living in Lyari. There was confidence in the way she spoke, warmth in the way she joked with Donga, and something quietly guarded behind those hazel eyes.
As he stepped out into the quiet Lyari night, he made up his mind. The next time he met Kamol, he would make sure they had a conversation. He had missed the chance to do so a year back. He was not going to make the same mistake twice.
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About a week later, as Kamol was packing up her bag to leave for the day, Mr Beg stopped her.
“There is an urgent school proposal that needs our attention. Could you stay back? “
“Of course, sir”, Kamol replied, and bidding goodbye to Yusuf and Anayat, she settled down once again into the chair across Mr Beg.
By the time they looked up from their work, it was well past ten. The large shared table had disappeared beneath a sea of tracing sheets covered in hand-drawn sketches and crumpled sheets of discarded ideas. Above them, the pendant lights bathed the studio in a warm glow. At one corner of the table, two plates of pilaf had long since gone cold.
“Finally... a design worth presenting,” exclaimed Mr Beg. “This will work.”
Kamol looked up from the tracing paper, now dotted with notes, corrections, and fresh ideas, and smiled.
“Kamol, let’s call it a day. Go home and get some rest. You can make the final drawing tomorrow. The client meeting is the day after,” Mr Beg said as he got up from the desk, yawning into his hand.
As Kamol gathered the tracing sheets and cleared the empty plates, her thoughts drifted. She knew exactly how important this proposal was.
As they locked the outhouse, Mr Beg stopped Kamol.
“Hoshyar rehna. Ek galati... aur woh tumhara aakhri din hoga,” Beg warned, his face hard with the weight of his words.
“I understand, sir,” Kamol answered with blazing determination.
Mr Beg peered over his glasses at Kamol. “Beti, I pray you know what you have signed up for.”
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The day of the meeting arrived bright and clear. Kamol was ready. The presentation was crisp, and the drawings were clean.
Mr Beg and Kamol found themselves seated inside the dimly lit office of Rehman Baloch's factory. Two wooden crates served as a makeshift table between them as Mr Beg explained the design of the school that the Robin Hood of Lyari was funding for the children of the Baloch community.
“Hmm. Ye design toh achcha hai, Beg sahab. Lekin construction toh hamare Lyari ke labour karenge. Design thoda hatke hai, woh hamare aadmi kar payenge?” Rehman asked.
“Sahi training se kar payenge. Dikhne me mushkil cheeze, thik se dekhi toh aasan banayi ja sakti hai.
“Aapki ray lenge hum,” Rehman smiled. He had confidence in Beg’s capability, their professional relationship stretching back to the very first days when Rehman started funding smaller projects around town.
“Meri team se Kamol site architect hogi is project ke liye,” Mr Beg explained. “Woh har roz site pe aadha din rahegi aur aadha din hamare office mein. Jo bhi mushkile ho, aap ke contractor ke sath sulzha sakti hai.”
“Achcha,” said Rehman, his unwavering gaze settling on Kamol. “Kahan se ho aap, Kamol?”
“Mera bachpan Bela mein guzra hai, bhai. Ab Lyari mein rehti hoon. Aapke Donga bhai ne mujhe unka chhota apartment kiraye pe diya hai,” Kamol answered.
“Achcha. Poora naam kya hai tera?”
“Kamol Peshwani Bugti.”
“Balochistan ki beti hai tu bhi,” Rehman smiled appreciatively. “Lekin yaad rakhna, Lyari mein kaam karna itna aasan nahi hai. Samajhti hai na?”
“Ji, bhai. Lekin kar lungi ye kaam.”
“Ye kar payegi,” Uzair agreed.
All this time, he had been a silent spectator through the conversation, unable to move his gaze away from Kamol.
“Tujhe kaise pata, Uzair?” Rehman asked suspiciously.
“Bas pata hai. Unke chehre pe confidence jo likha hai.” Uzair answered, meeting Kamol’s hazel eyes across the crates.
The factory kept operating, its mechanical sounds behind them, as Rehman considered this conversation.
Looking between Uzair and Kamol, he finally turned towards Mr Beg, “Thik hai toh phir, Beg sahab. Do hafte mein kaam shuru karte hain. Hamari taraf se Uzair paison ka hisaab dekhega.”
Kamol smiled at Rehman and Uzair as she and Mr Beg left the factory.
Today, the first piece of the plan had finally fallen into place. The position was secured, and trust was earned. The operation had begun.
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“Beg has lost it! Truly, utterly lost it!” Yusuf was in shock. “Lyari mein ladki ko site pe bhej rahe hain? Woh bhi har roz? That's a death sentence!”
“Are you doubting my skills?” Kamol deadpanned.
“No, of course not. But do you understand what you're getting into? Beg has designed buildings for Rehman Dakait before too, but never has there been a full-time site architect.”
“Well, it's a new technology, right? And Kamol has studied it. It makes sense,” Anayat interjected. “After all, she already lives in Lyari. It's not as though she'll be travelling into unfamiliar territory every day.”
Under the sprawling neem tree in Beg's garden, the trio huddled together, hands wrapped around steaming cups of tea. The chilly afternoon made every sip feel like a small rescue.
“Thank you, Anayat! Listen and learn, Yusuf. Friends support each other.”
Kamol was growing weary of Yusuf’s endless fretting.
Ever since he had learnt that Kamol had been assigned as the full-time site architect for the Lyari Children's School, he had done little except worry. His fears were not unfounded, given Lyari's reputation for crime and gang wars. But Kamol maintained a quiet faith that Donga bhai would help her if need be.
What Kamol did not tell her friends was that she suspected that if things ever went south, it would not be Donga bhai but Rehman's second-in-command who would protect her. Uzair had never been part of the plan, but he could prove useful. She was almost certain he would.
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Two weeks flew by in a blur. The studio pulsed with energy as everyone hustled to complete the construction drawings. With Nasir’s meticulous details, the project was finally ready to launch.
Mr Beg and Kamol were the last to leave, with Kamol rolling up the building blueprints to be taken to the site the next day.“Kamol, my office, please” , Mr Beg had already risen from his chair and unlocked his private office.
As he ushered her into his office, he pointed at the maps of Lyari town that were stuck on the wall.
This room felt worlds apart from the architectural studio outside. In one corner, a hulking steel safe stood guard. Cash and classified files sprawled across the table, while the walls were plastered with newspaper clippings, mugshots from Lyari’s underworld, and Karachi maps crisscrossed with urgent, handwritten notes.
“People imagine intelligence work is about stealing secret documents. It’s not entirely true. You must understand the subtleties that tie the fabric together. We already know who’s who. We need to understand their structure. Their weaknesses.”
“ I understand, sir.” Kamol had long since signed up for this. Since the day she approached Donga about his apartment, everything had been a strategic move.
“ We need to understand the scale of the warehouses that Rehman commands. I need a keen eye to measure buildings without a tape. Make sketch plans that are more or less to scale. We must understand the layouts of these places that are too cluttered to decipher from satellite images. “ , Mr explained, pointing at the locations where intel was missing.
“The land earmarked for Lyari Children’s School is between two such unmapped zones. Use your free time post-site work to walk through these. You now know what we need. Listen to the conversations around.
“ Shall I take up odd jobs around the area as a community service? That opens the door to people’s houses. What better way to gain access?” Kamol suggested, determined to get the job done right.
“Hmm. A good suggestion, but don't start straight away. Time is the key. Gaining the people's trust is your first priority.”
Taking a deep breath, Kamol voiced the largest concern, “ Uzair Baloch could pose a problem. “
“ Use his attention to your benefit.”, Beg smiled cunningly, “ But remember to keep him at a hand's distance. We do not have clearance for any other angle yet.”
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At dawn, Kamol stuffed her site supplies into a sack, the roll of drawings jutting out like a flag. She pedalled her cycle deep into Lyari’s tangled lanes, leaving behind the broad civil lines. The school’s future home was a lonely patch of earth, wedged between the Eidgah Masjid and the crowded settlements of Kumbhar Wara Road.
Kamol kept her cycle along the battered brick compound wall and walked around as she waited for Mr Khan, the contractor, and Uzair Baloch.“Aap kafi jaldi aa gayi ? “ , Uzair’s loud voice interjected her thoughts that had already started building the school in her mind.
Kamol turned around to see the tall and lanky Uzair walking towards her in a pathani suit, leather jacket, and aviators. Another man in his forties with greying hair came up the rear. Already talking over a Nokia mobile, calling up workers.
“Khan sahab, ye Kamol hai. Kamol meets Mr Khan. Ye karenge yaha ka construction” , introducing them, Uzair said.
“ Kaam shuru kare toh phir? Design samzhana aap muzhe toh me apne ladko ko kaam pe lagaunga.” Mr Khan did not want to waste a moment.
Kamol spread the drawings onto the old wooden table under the metal roof that served as the makeshift site office. She explained to Mr Khan the design vision, the landmark steps, and the potential snags. Thik hai. Foundation ka kaam shuru karte hain.”
“ Ji janab.” Kamol knew her next steps.
As Mr Khan walked over to instruct his team on the next steps, Uzair settled into a plastic chair opposite Kamol.
“ Aap kab se kaam kar rahi hai Beg sahab ke sath ? “
“ Ek sal ho gaya” , Kamol answered evenly.
“ Aur college khatam kiye kitne saal hue ? “ , Uzair was a curious guy.
“Wo bhi ek saal.” Kamol now smiled as she got out another set of prints from her bag. These were the construction estimates. “ Kaam ki baat karein ? “
In just ten minutes, Kamol walked Uzair through the building estimates. To her surprise, she discovered that behind his easy charm was a mind honed for numbers. Uzair spotted the critical details before she even mentioned them.
“ Dimag toh aapka bhi kaafi tej hai! Kab se kaam kar rahe ho Rahman bhai ke sath? “ , Kamol shot Uzair’s question back to him.
“ Paanch saal hogaye. B.Com ki padhai kar raha tha tabse kaam kar rah hu.” , Uzair answered, surprising himself. He was rarely one to open up that easily.
“ Chalo, baju ki tapri se chai peete hain? Us din ke parathon ke liye shukriya kehna tha, toh aaj chai mere taraf se.” , Uzair asked as he took out his bike keys from his pocket, placing his aviators on the bridge of his nose with a flair.
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As they rode to the chai tapri, Uzair eagerly pointed out shops and landmarks, hoping to catch Kamol’s interest. He would have circled the city twice just to hear her voice behind him. While Uzair stole glances at her in the side mirror, Kamol quietly soaked in every detail of the world passing by.
“ Karachi me aaye chaar saal hue, lekin Lyari ke galiyon mein me itni ghoomi nahi hu. Is project ke silsile mein ab Lyari aur thoda jaan lungi. Kyu, Uzaair sahab ? “
“ Beshak.” , Uzair answered as they got off the bike and settled onto the stone bench facing the road.
As the vendor handed them chai, Kamol wrapped the hot cup with her dupatta to keep her fingers from getting scorched and offered her handkerchief to Uzair to do the same with his cup.
“ Shukriya. Aur haan, muzhe sirf naam se pukarna” , Uzair settled his gaze on Kamol with a firmness that allowed no room for further conversation on this matter. “ Umar me hum me zyada pharak nahi hai. “
“ Aap ko kaise pata? Kamol asked suspiciously, “ Apne gundon se mera birth certificate bhi doondh ke le liya kya? “
“ That’s the witty girl I met in Donga’s house” , Uzair laughed, “ Pichle saal, tumhe Basheer ke walime me dekha tha. Jodi ke sath photo khichwane line me khadi thi tab.”
“ Haan, Basheer ki begum hostel mein bagal ke kamre mein rehti thi. Karachi University me. “
“ Basheer ko main college se jaanta hu.”
“ Duniya choti hai! “, Kamol smiled at Uzair as they handed their now empty cups back to the vendor.
When Uzair brought Kamol back to the site, the place was alive with activity. Workers bustled about with chalk powder and tools, while thin ropes stretched between pegs mapped out the school’s future. Mr Khan commanded his crew with the precision of a general.
“ Har teen-chaar din mein idhar kaam dekhne aata rahunga. Aur har hafte ke shaniwar ko accounts dekh lenge. “
“ Okay, that works. “ , Kamol agreed. “Chai ke liye shukriya”
As Uzair rode off towards the docks, Kamol turned to the task at hand.
Kamol traded her dupatta for a sturdy, pocketed jacket, nerves fluttering as she wondered if the crew would accept a woman at the helm. Helpers were women, but none had ever led. Armed with tape, pencil, and diary, she stepped forward, determined to prove herself.
Kamol spent her afternoon answering any questions that Khan and his team had. She corrected the building markings, verified the measurements, and insisted on precision in everything, trying to break away from the age-old lethargy that relied heavily on the ‘chalta hai, toh chalne do’ attitude. Even Khan lost his patience at one point. However worried that this project was under Rehman’s patronage, he grudgingly listened to Kamol’s suggestions.
Finally, after a day that felt endless, Kamol pedalled back to Beg’s office for another round of drawings. By the time she reached her Alma Iqbal Colony apartment, all she wanted was a hot shower and a comforting meal.
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Kamol settled into a new routine. Mornings were spent at the site and evenings at the office. As the foundation came up over a month’s time, Mr Khan and his workers came to appreciate Kamol’s guidance- it saved them from mistakes and any rework. Kamol herself had resorted to making quick sketches to explain to the workers how things needed to be done; after all, a picture is worth a thousand words! The insistence on quality and safety proved a boon when the rains in Karachi poured relentlessly, causing a wall of a nearby dargah to collapse. Many such incidents were reported across the city, yet Khan’s site was free of mishaps. Mr Beg would also visit once in a while with Anayat or Yusuf in tow. Rehman would always be there when Beg came.
“Meri aankhe taras rahi hai, is school me Lyari ke bachchon ko dekhne ke liye.”, Rehman told Beg. “Jaha government pohoch nahi paata, woh hum kar rahe hain. Ye kaam agle 6 mahine me pura hona chahiye”
“Ji bhai”, Uzair replied solemnly. He understood the weight of the situation; like countless Lyari children, he had also walked long distances to school each day in his childhood.
Uzair, Khan, and Kamol put their heads together; they planned and scheduled better and finalised decisions for critical items. The site worked day and night. Uzair, along with Donga, Siyahi and the gang, had arranged for lights, and the workers now worked in two shifts.
At the end of three months, as Beg sat across from Kamol at his office table, he graced her with words seldom heard from him , “ Good. The pace of work and construction till now is up to the mark. “
The classrooms were taking shape, and the central courtyard was slowly gaining the character that Beg’s sketches had intended.
“ How is the actual job? “, he asked, seriousness returning.
Kamol unfurled a bundle of sketches, spreading them over the table , pointing at areas and roads she’d mapped under the guise of searching for materials. Word had spread: a young woman was running the site. Khan respected her, and Rehman’s name opened doors. She now knew every hardware shop, paint store, and timber yard in Lyari, cycling at her own pace and noticing details others missed.
“Good. I’ll collate these and send them back to HQ.”, Beg commented as he studied a particularly nasty junction that otherwise had not made any sense before.
“ How much of a distraction is Uzair Baloch? “
“Mostly, he can be ignored.” Kamol shrugged nonchalantly, maintaining a poker face as she looked over at Beg.
“ But sir, I need a change in routine. It’s too much travel in a day to go to the site, then the office on the other side of town, and back home. Would it be alright if I did this the other way round? “ , Kamol was genuinely tired of how much she had to cycle around the city.
“Hmm, alright” , Beg agreed. He knew that Kamol lacked a military background. And a tired operative was susceptible.
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Kamol stepped into the cool night, exhaling a sigh of relief. She knew that the full truth about Uzair’s frequent visits to the children’s school in Lyari could not be revealed to Beg.
On Tuesdays and Saturdays, Uzair’s bike would be parked at the metal shed like clockwork. He would chit-chat with workers on their break, asking about their problems. When the site lacked tools, he personally arranged to acquire a new batch; any injury to labour was covered by the city’s general hospital at Rehman’s cost.
He would walk around with Kamol, his eyes following her every small movement as she continued her daily work. He would ask questions and patiently listen to the explanation that ensued, with his unwavering gaze set on Kamol’s hazel eyes. He had grown to find peace in her presence and genuinely looked forward to the two days when he could use legit reasons to meet her.
Saturdays were spent going over the ledger sheets and bills that Mr Khan submitted for material bought during the week. He appreciated that Kamol had started following his filing and sorting system after he had to help her reorganise the documents every time he studied ledger sheets during the first three weeks.
Uzair had even visited the timber market with Kamol to source material for the doors and windows. As they moved along the strawdust and chips-strewn floor of the warehouse, he remembered the days when he had done the legwork for Rehman in his early days in the gang. He appreciated Kamol’s quiet determination and steely temperament, qualities he had come to value in his men.
As weeks slipped by, Uzair saw the dark circles deepen beneath Kamol’s eyes, her clothes growing looser, and her cheekbones sharpening—a silent testament to her exhaustion.
“Kamol, kya tum thik ho? Bahut thaki hui lagti ho”, he asked her on a Saturday as she packed her satchel for the day.
“I’m managing Uzair.” , Kamol answered as she draped her dupatta around her head.
“Kya me tumhara dost hu? “ , he asked abruptly. “Itne mahino me utna toh mera hak banta hai ke tumhe sach batau”
Kamol had finally looked up at Uzair. He was standing close enough that his shadow loomed over her.
“Tum kehte ho toh dost hai.” Kamol smiled. Her wit unfrazeled by the exhaustion that persisted through her days.
“Toh apne dost ki raay maano,aur do-teen din chutti le lo”
“Aur chutti leke kya karu? “
“Thoda aaram karo. Neend puri karna. Doston ke sath ghoomna.”
“Achcha. To phir Anayat aur Yusuf ko bhi chutti leni padegi. Aur Beg sahab ki daant tino ko padegi. Aur to aur, tumhe bhi chutti leni padegi. Rehman bhai kya kahenge phir tumhe? ”, Kamol laughed, shaking her head. “Lekin idea bura nahi hai tumhara.”
“Chal, kaafi der ho gayi hai. Me thuzhe ghar chod deta hu. Aaj cycle idhar hi chod dena.”
Begrudingly, Kamol accepted this, too tired to say no.
As Uzair dropped off Kamol at her apartment, he waved at Donga, who was leaning on the balcony railing, a cigarette in hand.
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After months of running on empty, Kamol finally took Uzair’s advice. She rested, treating herself to small pleasures. One Sunday, she wandered through Saddar Bazaar’s lively lanes with Anayat and Yusuf, catching up on all the studio gossip she’d missed.
“Jaldi wapis aa, yaar. Yusuf muzhe bor kar raha hai.”, Anayat complained. “ I need some girl gang energy”
Kamol laughed, “ Tu bhi na. Kitni dramebaaj hai. Aur Yusuf, tune aisa kiya kya jo Anayat tuzhe itna kos rahi hai? ”
As the three friends crossed the road to buy movie tickets, they were completely unaware of the jeep discreetly parked on the other side. Inside, Siyahi, Donga, and Uzair were on watch, waiting for their target to exit the shop across the street.
Uzair no longer bothered to fake vigilance. He trusted his men, but his eyes followed Kamol. Watching her laugh with friends made him happy, yet jealousy stung—especially seeing the broad-shouldered man who couldn’t look away from her. Their laughter lingered in Uzair’s thoughts.
“Bhai, kya aap Kamol ko pasand karte hain? “ , Siyahi asked, his gaze following Uzair’s as he leaned towards the front seat.
“Ye kaisa sawal hua yaar?”, Donga added , “Aaj kal usko ghar bhi pahuchata hai, Uzair bhai ke site visit lambe hote ja rahe hai. Aur phir ye hafte Kamol ne chutti li, toh mooh sada baithe hai. Kyu bhai? ”
Uzair’s men had noticed the change in him for some time. Ever since he met Kamol, he had moved with a new energy. Every Tuesday and Saturday, Uzair was the first at the factory, eager to finish early so he could reach the Lyari school site. He was clearly smitten, though he hid it well behind his usual calm & stoic mask.
“Kuch bhi baakte ho”, Uzair had now pulled out a cigarette only to avoid looking either of them in the eye. As he stole yet another glance at Kamol before she disappeared into the theatre, Siyahi gave him unsolicited yet honest advice.
“Bhai, sach mein usko chahte ho toh baat age badhao. Har naye rishte ko thukrake aap Ulfat bhabhi ko aur dard nahi dena.” Siyahi had always been the quiet voice of reason. “Shagufta ko batane mein maine der kardi, aur us chakkar mein bhagake nikkah padha. Tab hum sab haas rahe the bhai. Lekin aaj, jab uske walid hamare ghar aane se inkar karte hain, toh Shagufta ka tuta dil dekha nahi jaata.”
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To be continued...
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