Veil of Allegiance.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎ
Major iqbal × Fem! Indian! Reader [chapter XIII]
Synopsis Forced into a life built on lies, she takes on a new identity and enters a world where nothing is what it seems. And at the center of it all is him-Major labal. Calm, unreadable, and feared by everyone around him, he is nothing like she imagined... and yet, somehow worse.
Cws age gap, flashbacks, guns, violence, blood, betrayal, sexual tension, slowburn etc etc [wc: 19.2k] sorry for alot of paras in this chaper i write on wattpad and forgot tumblr has this space limit smth
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The smell of simmering milk filled the kitchen, warm and sweet, curling through the house in lazy waves. You stood by the stove, stirring the kheer slowly while keeping an eye on the rice as it softened into the thick mixture. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, turning the steel utensils gold. A small stool scraped against the floor. You didn't even need to turn around.
"Laiba." Silence. Then another scrape. "Laiba."
"Ji?" came the innocent reply. You looked over your shoulder to find her getting on the stool, chin barely reaching the counter, staring into the pot as though she were supervising an important operation.
She pointed dramatically. "Dekh rahi hoon."
"Aayi hai tumhari ankho se pata chal raha hai."
You rolled your eyes. Laiba grinned proudly before peering into the pot again. "Mumma, yeh kya hai?"
Her eyes widened. "Papa ke liye?"
"Aapke ke liye." A pleased smile spread across her face. She loved when her father came home. For two days the house had felt quieter without him. Even though she had spent most of that time talking nonstop, somehow there had still been an emptiness.
"Apne pehle bhi ye bola tha."
"Haan tab vo nikle the Islamabad se."
Laiba sighed dramatically and rested her cheek against the counter. "Papa ko bolo na jaldi aa jae." Lunch had been eaten, Laiba's excitement had reached unbearable levels. Every five minutes she asked for the time. Every ten minutes she asked if Iqbal had called. Every fifteen minutes she asked whether she could wait outside the gate. Eventually you forced her into bed. She protested. You ignored her. Within three minutes she was asleep. Children were strange creatures. The house was quiet when you finally heard it. A car engine. Your hand froze over the dough you were rolling. For a second you simply listened. Then the front gate opened. You knew immediately. Iqbal. Wiping your hands on your dupatta, you stepped out of the kitchen. The evening sun painted the courtyard in soft gold. Iqbal was climbing out of the vehicle. A travel bag rested beside him while another paper bag hung from one hand. For a moment he simply looked at you and smiled. Something warm settled in his expression. The kind that had become far too familiar lately. You hated how easily it affected you. Hated how natural it felt. He walked toward you. "Toh meri begum sahiba ne mujhe bhoola hi diya."
You folded your arms. "Sirf do din ke liye gaye the."
"Do din bohat hote hain." He stopped in front of you. Without hesitation he bent slightly and pressed a kiss against your forehead. Your breath caught. It happened so quickly that you couldn't step away.
"Kaise ho?" he asked quietly.
He hummed. "Boht pyaari lag rahi hain aap." You looked away. His free hand settled briefly against your arm. "Mujhe yaad kiya?"
The question was teasing. Dangerously casual. You could have ignored it. Instead you muttered, "Laiba ne kiya."
His grin widened immediately. "Main ne aapke bare poocha tha." You refused to answer. Which somehow seemed answer enough. "Laiba kahan hai?"
"Aapka intezar karte karte so gayi."
"Es time?" You nodded. "Abhi tak uthaya nahi?"
He laughed. "Main uthata hoon." A little later he emerged from the washroom after cleaning up from the journey. His hair was still damp. The sleeves of his kurta were rolled up. You were setting the table when he disappeared toward Laiba's room. Few minutes passed then suddenly—
"Papa!" Followed immediately by, "Nahi!"
You couldn't help smiling. Iqbal stood beside the bed looking down at the sleeping child. Laiba had somehow managed to occupy nearly the entire mattress. One leg hung off the edge. The blanket was twisted around her waist. Her hair looked like a bird had built a nest in it. "Mere bugge." Nothing. "Laiba." Nothing. He shook her shoulder gently. No response. The child remained dead asleep. Iqbal sighed. Then looked toward the glass of water beside the bed. A terrible idea formed. He dipped his fingers into it. Then flicked droplets across her face. Immediately Laiba frowned. Another flick. Another. Finally her nose scrunched. Her eyes blinked open. She stared up at him. Confused. Then offended.
"Nhi sona hai." He leaned down and kissed her cheek. His beard brushed against her skin. Immediately she squawked. "Papa!"
"Kya hua meri daarhi ko?"
He looked entirely unapologetic. "Sahi hua." Laiba rubbed furiously at her cheek. Then finally noticed who was sitting beside her. Her face brightened instantly.
"Papa!" This time it was affectionate. She launched herself at him. His arms wrapped around her automatically. "Mujhko aapki boht yaad aayi."
"Mujhko bhi aapki boht yaad aayi ."
She yawned into his shoulder. "Aap late aaye."
"Jaisa aap kahein." Satisfied with this answer, she nodded solemnly. Iqbal carried her downstairs. Half asleep, hair messy, feet dangling. The moment he set her down she wandered straight into the kitchen. You were rolling rotis when suddenly tiny arms wrapped around one of your legs. You looked down. Laiba. Still sleepy. Still attached. One small hand stretched toward you expectantly. You already knew what she wanted. Without a word you pinched off a small piece of dough and placed it in her palm. Her entire face lit up. As if you'd gifted her treasure. She immediately began squishing it between her fingers. Behind her, Iqbal leaned against the doorway watching. A faint smile resting on his face. Neither of you noticed it. Laiba was already busy turning the dough into something unrecognizable. "Mumma."
You looked at the shapeless lump. "Wow boht pyaara boht sundar."
Iqbal glanced down at it. Then at her. Then back at the dough. "Beta."
"Apna flower toh saad gaya."
"Nahi! Nahi! Nahi!!" She marched over and smacked the dough onto his stomach. The kitchen erupted into laughter.
Dinner had been finished, the dishes were stacked beside the sink, and somewhere in the house Laiba's voice echoed as she showed Bashir a drawing for what was probably the tenth time that day. You carried the last plate toward the sink while Iqbal followed behind with the glasses. For a moment neither of you spoke. It wasn't uncomfortable silence. Just familiar. The sort that settled naturally between people who had begun sharing a life together. You rinsed a plate beneath running water before glancing over your shoulder. “Laiba ka birthday bhi aa raha hai."
Iqbal looked up from drying his hands. "Haan." A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Main bhool nahi gaya."
You rolled your eyes. "Achha? Mujhe laga tha Islamabad ja kar koi nayi begum dhund lenge fir mujhe aur laiba ko bhool jaenge."
He huffed a laugh. "Begum sahiba, aapko mere plan ke bare mein kaisa pata laga."
You shook your head before placing another dish aside. "Main soch rahi thi..."
"Laiba ke birthday par kuch khas karte hain."
Iqbal leaned against the counter. "Khas kaise?"
You shrugged lightly. "Party kar lete hain cake, family, friends, aur sab."
A thoughtful look crossed his face. Then he said casually, "Ya phir hum kahin chale jaate hain."
"Kahin bhi." He spread his hands. "Dubai, Europe, ya Kashmir vo aapke ammi abbu se bhi mil legi."
Your eyes widened. "Iqbal—"
"Kya?" He looked entirely serious.
"Birthday hai uska." You stared at him. "Laiba ko birthday manwana hai ya mulk ki sair karwani hai?"
He grinned. "Jo aapko badhiya lage." You laughed despite yourself.
He folded his arms. "Aur wajah?"
You placed another plate into the sink. "Wajah...Ye hain ki birthday aapno ke sath acha lagta hai."
"Hum sab saath honge." You continued quietly.
"Sakina hogi. Basheer hoga. Papa honge."
At the mention of his father, Iqbal snorted. "Abbu ko party wale din kamre mein bandh rakhna parhta hai aap nahi janti vo kya bol de."
"Taake sab ko tang kar sakein." That earned another laugh from you. Iqbal watched the smile spread across your face. For a second he simply looked. Then looked away.
"Aur," You glanced toward the doorway where Laiba's voice could still be heard. "Zayada yaad gaar rahega."
You frowned suspiciously. "Bas itni asaani se maan gaye?"
"Mujhe mana nahi karna chahiye tha?"
"Main itna bura hoon?" You raised an eyebrow. He raised one back. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then both of you started smiling. "Theek hai," he said. "Ghar par hi karenge." Relief settled in your chest so quickly that you nearly reacted. Nearly. Instead you kept your expression calm.
"Ab batao kitne logon ko bulana hai."
You pretended to think. "Close family."
"Laiba ke school ke kuch bachay."
That made him pause. "Mere colleagues?"
You forced yourself to sound casual. "Haan kyu nahi?"
He considered it. "Haan kyu nahi."
"Laiba ko acha lagega agar zyada log aaenge."
"Haan." His gaze lingered on you for a second. "Waise."
"Aap en sab mein kuch zyada hi dil chaspi le rahi hain."
Your heart skipped. A dangerous little beat. But your smile never faltered. "Meri beti ka birthday hai."
He stared another second before nodding. "Haanji." The conversation moved on. Guest lists. Cake flavors. Decorations. Small things. Ordinary things. Yet beneath every word, your mind was already somewhere else. Not with balloons. Not with gifts. Not even with Laiba's birthday. A room. A locked room. A meeting room that only opened when guests and colleagues gathered. And for the first time since meeting Mustafa and Alam, you finally had a way to get inside. The birthday discussion becomes a regular thing over the next week. Not with Laiba. With the two of you. Laiba was not told anything. The excuse was that it was supposed to be a surprise. The truth was that every time the subject came up, you found another reason to steer the conversation toward the house itself. The guest list. The decorations. The seating arrangements. Which rooms could be used. Who would sit where. Who would stay late. Who would leave early. And every answer brought you a little closer to what Mustafa needed.A little closer to the meeting room. A little closer to betrayal. The evening in following days had settled quietly over the house. A pleasant breeze drifted through the open veranda while the last traces of sunlight painted the courtyard in gold. You sat curled up in one of the outdoor chairs with a book resting open in your lap, though you had not turned the page in several minutes. Across from you, Iqbal occupied the steps with a cup of tea in one hand. Laiba sat cross-legged on the floor between you both, crayons scattered around her like a colourful explosion. For nearly fifteen minutes she remained suspiciously quiet. That alone should have worried everyone. Suddenly she looked up from her drawing.
“Agar Papa koi jaanwar hote na…” Iqbal immediately looked up. A bad sign. ”…toh kaunsa hote?”
You lowered your book. Iqbal lowered his tea. Laiba stared expectantly. A smile tugged at your lips. “Yeh kaisa sawaal hai?”
Iqbal pointed towards you. “Aap jawab dein.”
“Kyunke mujhe darr lag raha hai.”
You laughed. Laiba groaned dramatically. “Aap dono serious hi nahi hote.” She returned to her paper. A few moments passed. Then another. Then another. Every now and then she would glance toward Iqbal before continuing to draw. The more she looked at him, the more suspicious he became. Finally he leaned forward.
“Laiba.” No response. “Beta.” Still nothing. “Kya bana rahi ho?”
Immediately she covered the page with both hands. “Nahi dikhana!”
“Toh phir pooch kyun rahi thi?”
Iqbal sighed heavily. “Mujhe surprise ache nahi lagte.” You smiled into your book. Half an hour later she suddenly jumped to her feet.
“Ho gaya!” She proudly marched over. Iqbal accepted the paper. Looked at it. Then slowly raised an eyebrow.
You were already trying not to laugh. “Yeh kya hai?”
Iqbal stared at the large grey creature covering most of the page. “Yeh hathi hai.”
You failed completely and started laughing. Iqbal looked offended. “Mujhe hathi kyun banaya hai?”
Laiba answered without hesitation. “Kyunke aap bade ho.”
You laughed harder. “Aur?”
“Aur bade bhi bohat hain.” At that point even you had to look away.
Iqbal pressed a hand to his chest. “Meri hi beti hai na yeh?”
“Bilkul.” Laiba seemed very proud of her artistic choices. Then she pointed to another drawing. “Aur mumma.” You leaned forward. Expecting something elegant. Perhaps a cat. Perhaps a bird. Instead you found yourself staring at gazelle. Laiba had drawn you as a gazelle. Long legs, soft brown fur, and impossibly large eyes taking up nearly half the page.
You blinked. “Main hiran hoon?”
“Kyun?” Laiba demonstrated the exact expression. The resemblance was unfortunate.
Iqbal nearly dropped the drawing laughing. “Bilkul sahi banaya hai.”
You immediately smacked his arm. “Chup.” Unfortunately that only made him laugh more.
Then Laiba flipped to another page. “Aur dadu bhi.” Both of you immediately leaned closer. The drawing consisted entirely of an angry turtle. A very angry turtle. With enormous eyebrows. Iqbal actually wheezed.
“Dadu.” Almost on cue, Jahangir appeared in the doorway. The three of you looked at him. He looked back.His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Then Laiba enthusiastically held up the drawing. “Dadu! Main ne aap ko kachhua banaya hai!” A heavy silence followed. Jahangir stared.At the drawing. At Laiba. At Iqbal. Then turned his wheelchair around and left without a single word. Iqbal immediately buried his face in his hands. You were laughing too hard to breathe. Meanwhile Laiba looked genuinely confused. “Unko pasand nahi aaya?”
The agreement had been reached only after an exhausting amount of negotiation on Laiba’s part. The moment dinner was over and the dishes had been cleared away, she had begun hovering around both of you with the persistence only a child possessed, following first you and then Iqbal from room to room, reminding each of you every few minutes that tomorrow was the weekend and therefore she would not have to wake up early for school. At first neither of you paid much attention. Then she began presenting arguments. Then counterarguments. Then emotional appeals. Then dramatic sighs. By the time the evening settled fully over the house, even Iqbal looked exhausted by her determination.
“Bas ek film,” she pleaded for what felt like the hundredth time. “Kal school bhi nahi hai.”
You exchanged an amused glance with Iqbal. “Aur kal subah uth nahi paayi toh?”
The single word contained enough outrage to make you laugh. Beside you, Iqbal merely shook his head. “Theek hai.”
A beat of silence. Then she practically launched herself down the hallway before either of you could change your minds. The sound of her excited footsteps echoed through the house. “Main blanket laati hoon!” Her voice disappeared around a corner. You found yourself smiling despite yourself. Across from you, Iqbal noticed. His mouth twitched slightly. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything at all. Just something softer than usual. The drawing room had become strangely familiar over the past weeks. The large sofa faced the television mounted against the opposite wall, while warm yellow lamps cast a gentle glow across the room. Outside the windows, darkness had already settled over the garden, turning the glass into black mirrors that reflected the room back upon itself. Laiba returned carrying far more cushions and a blanket draped over her than any human being could reasonably need. Two fell before she even reached the sofa. One slipped from beneath her arm halfway there. She ignored all of them. “Film kaunsi dekhenge?” That was when the problem began. Iqbal chose. Immediately. Without consultation. Without democracy. Without mercy. The moment he announced the title, you knew exactly what kind of evening lay ahead. Laiba’s face fell. Your own expression probably mirrored hers. Iqbal, meanwhile, looked completely satisfied with himself. “Yeh wali achi hai.”
“Aap ne pehle dekhi hai?” you asked.
“Yaad nahi.” You stared at him. He stared back. Completely serious. Laiba groaned loudly enough for both of you to hear. The movie began a few minutes later. The opening scenes rolled across the screen while the three of you settled into place. Laiba stretched herself along the sofa first, claiming nearly half of it despite her small size. Within minutes her head found its way into your lap as naturally as if it belonged there. You barely noticed when your fingers moved into her hair. It had become habit. An unconscious thing. The same way you automatically checked whether she had eaten enough. The same way you remembered which side she preferred to sleep on. The same way you knew exactly where to find her whenever the house became too quiet. Your hand moved slowly through her hair while your attention remained fixed on the television. Or at least that was what you told yourself. Beside you, Iqbal settled back against the sofa. Not close. There remained enough space between you that neither shoulder touched the other. Enough distance to be proper. Enough distance to be safe. Yet his presence occupied the room regardless. Perhaps it always had. Perhaps you had only started noticing recently. The movie continued. Some dramatic scene unfolded on screen. Barely ten minutes passed before Iqbal started commenting on it.
Laiba groaned. You closed your eyes briefly. There it was. The running commentary had begun.“Film dekhne dein.”
“Main sirf bata raha hoon.”
“Nahi.” He sounded completely unbothered. You heard Laiba snort from your lap. The corners of your mouth twitched despite yourself. The room felt warm. Comfortably warm. Not because of the weather. Not because of the blankets folded nearby. But because of the strange domestic ease that had settled between the three of you over the past few weeks. It should have felt foreign. It should have felt temporary. Instead it felt dangerously natural. The television filled the room with shifting light. Blue. Gold. White. The reflections moved across Laiba’s sleepy-soft features and occasionally caught against the edge of Iqbal’s face. He seemed more relaxed than usual. The constant tension you had grown accustomed to seeing in his shoulders was absent tonight. There were no phone calls. No meetings. No men arriving with files tucked beneath their arms. No responsibilities demanding his attention. For one evening, he belonged entirely to this room. To his daughter stretched across the sofa. To the movie he insisted on criticizing. And, whether you liked acknowledging it or not, to you. The realization arrived suddenly. Unwelcome. You looked away from the screen. Outside the window, darkness pressed quietly against the glass. For a moment, you wished the guilt would return. The anger. The certainty. Anything was preferable to this uncomfortable confusion that had begun taking root inside your chest. Because it had become increasingly difficult to reconcile the man described in reports and intelligence files with the man sitting beside you now. The man who complained about unrealistic action scenes. The man who spent half an hour braiding his daughter’s hair. The man who insisted on making breakfast himself. The man who somehow kept making it harder and harder to remember why you were supposed to hate him. And perhaps that frightened you more than anything else. On screen, another dramatic scene exploded into existence. Immediately “Aisa toh bilkul nahi hota.” You sighed. Laiba groaned again. And for the first time that evening, all three of you laughed. The movie had long since lost whatever appeal it might once have possessed. On screen, someone was delivering an emotional speech that seemed determined to last forever. Every few minutes an orchestra swelled dramatically in the background as though the audience might otherwise forget that something important was happening. Iqbal, meanwhile, had not stopped criticizing it. “Yeh dialogue kis ne likha hai?”
You did not even look at him. “Aap hi ne film lagayi thi.”
“Mujhe kaise pata hota ke itni buri niklegi?”
“Aapne toh dekhi hui thi na?” A sleepy laugh escaped Laiba. For a while, the three of you fell silent again. The room was darker now. The only light came from the television, washing the furniture in shifting colours and shadows. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked steadily, almost drowned out by the sound of the movie. Without realizing it, Laiba had shifted further into your lap. One of her arms was draped carelessly across your waist while her face remained buried against your side. You adjusted the blanket covering her. Beside you, Iqbal shifted as well. At first you paid little attention. Then his arm settled along the back of the sofa. Not behind the cushion. Behind you. The movement was casual enough to appear meaningless. Perhaps it was. Yet you found yourself suddenly aware of the space around you. Aware of how close he was sitting. Aware of the warmth coming from his side. Aware of the fact that his sleeve brushed yours whenever either of you moved. You forced your attention back toward the television. A pointless effort. The movie continued. A few minutes later, Laiba stirred in her sleep. Her sudden movement nearly sent the blanket sliding onto the floor. Before you could reach for it, Iqbal leaned across and caught it first. His arm brushed your shoulder. Then remained there. Not for a second. Not accidentally. Just resting lightly against you while he adjusted the blanket around his daughter. When he finally settled back, his hand remained on your shoulder. Natural. Unthinking. As though it belonged there. As though he no longer felt the need to ask permission for every small touch. The realization made something tighten inside your chest. Because weeks ago he would have hesitated. Weeks ago he would have been careful. Now he simply did it. And somehow that made it worse. Or perhaps better. You were no longer certain.
“Aap film dekh rahi hain ya soch rahi hain?” His voice came quietly. Close enough that you could hear it over the movie without him raising it. You looked over. His gaze remained fixed on the television. As though the question meant nothing.
“Aap paas hain par main fir bhi aapke are mein soch raha hoon.” Despite yourself, you smiled. Immediately he noticed. Of course he did. He always seemed to notice. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Victory. A small one. But victory nonetheless. The movie dragged on. Laiba slept peacefully between the two of you, completely unaware of anything beyond her dreams. And perhaps that was why neither of you moved away. Because she was there. Because it was easy.Because there was always an excuse. When Iqbal’s hand slid from your shoulder to rest briefly against the back of your arm, steadying you as you shifted position, neither of you acknowledged it. When his thumb moved once, absent-mindedly, against the fabric covering your sleeve before withdrawing again, neither of you acknowledged that either. The television continued playing. The room remained quiet. Yet the distance that had once existed between you seemed smaller than it had ever been. And that frightened you far more than his touch. Because the truly dangerous thing was not that he had become comfortable enough to reach for you. It was that you had stopped immediately pulling away. “Yeh director khud bhi samajhta hai jo bana raha hai?”
A few minutes later “aisa koi operation nahi hota.”
Then “Agar asal zindagi mein itni galtiyan karain toh pehle das minute mein mar jaayen.” Under normal circumstances, perhaps you would have argued back. Perhaps you would have told him to stop ruining the film for everyone else. Tonight, however, you barely heard half of what he was saying. Laiba had fallen asleep almost an hour ago. One of her small hands remained curled around the edge of your kameez even in sleep, as though she feared someone might move her somewhere else. The ceiling fan still turned lazily overhead. But the noise no longer seemed important. Instead, you found yourself painfully aware of everything else. The weight of Laiba against your legs. The warmth radiating from Iqbal beside you. The arm resting along the back of the sofa behind your shoulders. The fact that every few minutes he would lean slightly closer whenever he wanted to point something out on the screen. None of it should have mattered. Yet somehow it did. And that frightened you more than it should have. Because this was not supposed to happen. You were never supposed to have evenings like this. Never supposed to sit in a living room after dinner while a child slept in your lap. Never supposed to listen to a man complain about a movie as though that was the greatest problem either of you faced. Never supposed to belong anywhere long enough for moments like this to become familiar. For a very long time, your life had been divided into simple categories. Mission. Duty. Purpose. Everything else came second. Everything else was temporary. But lately things had begun slipping out of those neat little boxes. Without realizing it, you had learned which sandwich Laiba liked before school. You knew exactly where Sakina kept the medicines. You knew which cupboard held Iqbal’s files and which one held his clothes. You knew what time the house woke up. What time it slept. Which floorboard creaked near the staircase. Which light Jahangir forgot to switch off at night. Tiny things. Meaningless things. The sort of things people only noticed when they belonged somewhere. The realization settled heavily in your chest. Because no matter how much you tried to deny it, part of you had stopped feeling like a visitor in this house. And that was dangerous. Dangerous enough that you found yourself staring blankly at the television without actually seeing it. For a brief moment, another thought surfaced. What would happen when all of this ended? The question appeared so suddenly that it caught you off guard. You pushed it away immediately.You had no right to ask it. No right to even think it. This family was never yours. This life was never yours. And the sooner you remembered that, the better. Beside you, Iqbal said something about the movie’s ridiculous ending. You didn’t hear a word of it. Then when the credits finally began rolling The movie ended with a dramatic scene that earned an irritated scoff from Iqbal. “Bakwas.” The single word broke the silence. The credits began crawling slowly across the screen. Laiba remained asleep. The room had grown dim except for the television’s fading light. For a few moments, nobody moved. Then Iqbal leaned forward to grab the remote from the table. You happened to reach for it at the same time. His hand touched yours. Nothing dramatic. Nothing meaningful. Just an accidental brush of fingers. Yet neither of you pulled away immediately. Barely a second passed. Perhaps less. Then he withdrew his hand first and picked up the remote instead. The television clicked off. Darkness settled across the room. As though nothing had happened. As though it had not even been worth noticing. You hated the fact that you noticed it anyway. Because long after everyone had gone to sleep, long after Laiba had been carried upstairs and the house had fallen quiet, your mind returned to that insignificant moment again and again. And each time it did, the irritation only grew. Not because of him. Because of yourself. Because you should have stopped noticing these things a long time ago. Before they started mattering.
Iqbal rose carefully from the sofa, one arm slipping beneath Laiba’s knees while the other supported her back. She barely stirred as he lifted her, only letting out a sleepy little sigh before instinctively burying her face against his shoulder. For a moment, he glanced down at her with the kind of expression that appeared only when he looked at his daughter—something softer, quieter, stripped of the sharpness he carried everywhere else. “Sojao sojao,” he murmured. Laiba’s fingers tightened briefly around the fabric of his shirt before going limp again. You watched them disappear upstairs, his footsteps slow and measured so as not to wake her. The sight lingered in your mind even after they had vanished from view. There was something strangely intimate about witnessing moments like these—not grand gestures, not declarations, just ordinary pieces of life unfolding in front of you. The living room felt emptier without them. The television had gone dark. A blanket was still half-folded on one end of the sofa. One of Laiba’s crayons had rolled beneath the coffee table. The remains of the evening sat scattered around the room, evidence of a family night that had ended naturally, comfortably. A family night. The thought made you look away. Gathering the empty glasses, you carried them into the kitchen. The familiar surroundings greeted you with an ease that should have unsettled you more than they did. Your hands moved automatically, placing things where they belonged without needing to think about it. Eventually your gaze landed on the spice shelf. And before you could stop yourself, you were already reaching for the saucepan. Iqbal would be heading to bed soon. He always liked hot milk before bed. No sugar. Never sugar. A few strands of saffron. Cardamom. A little cinnamon. Dried rose petals.You measured everything almost absentmindedly, watching the milk begin to warm over the flame. Months ago, you would have needed to ask Sakina how he preferred it. Months ago, you probably would not have cared enough to remember. Now your hands knew the routine on their own. The realization settled heavily in your chest. Because somewhere along the way, these things had stopped feeling like duties. You knew the rhythm of this house. The people in it. The habits. The routines. The small details nobody notices unless they belong. Steam rose from the saucepan, carrying the scent of saffron and cardamom through the kitchen. For a moment, you simply stood there watching it. And once again that uncomfortable feeling surfaced. Because this house had begun to fit around you far too easily. At first everything had felt temporary. Every conversation had been calculated. Every kindness had carried a purpose. Every smile had been measured. Now, without realizing it, you had begun leaving your books on the bedside table. Keeping your shawls draped over the same chair every evening. Remembering what groceries needed replacing before Sakina mentioned them. Making hot milk for your husband without being asked. Your husband. Even now the words felt strange. Yet not nearly as strange as they once had. The milk was ready. You poured it into a mug and scattered a few rose petals, and chopped pistachios over the surface. The fragrance was warm and familiar.
Looking down at the cup, you found yourself thinking of how normal this would appear to anyone else. A wife in the kitchen. A husband upstairs putting their daughter to bed. A quiet house settling into the night. Nothing unusual. Nothing remarkable. Just a family. You waited until the milk had cooled slightly before lifting the mug and taking a cautious sip yourself. The saffron was subtle. The cardamom wasn’t overpowering. No sugar. Exactly the way he liked it. Satisfied, you carried the mug upstairs. The bedroom door stood partially open. Iqbal was already there, propped against the headboard, one leg stretched out beneath the blanket while the other remained bent. The soft glow from the bedside lamp illuminated half his face while the rest remained in shadow. His attention was fixed on the phone in his hand, thumb scrolling lazily across the screen. Without interrupting him, you placed the mug on his nightstand. The scent of saffron and rose immediately filled the space between you. He glanced at it briefly. Then at you. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Shukriya.” You only nodded before moving to your side of the bed and settling beneath the blanket. For a few moments neither of you spoke. The room was quiet except for the occasional sound of him taking a sip from the mug. You turned slightly onto your side. Watching him. Waiting. He didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he did. Eventually, unable to tolerate being ignored any longer, you frowned.
“Apna phone rakh dein na. Mujhse baat karein.”
His eyes immediately lifted from the screen. A second later he locked the phone and placed it face-down on the nightstand. “Ji boliye, begum.” There was amusement in his voice. The kind that always made it difficult to tell whether he was genuinely listening or simply teasing you.
You rolled your eyes. “Laiba ke birthday ke baare mein socha aap ne?”
A groan escaped him instantly. He leaned his head back against the headboard. “Bas karein. Bas karein.”
“Itne dino se sirf birthday, birthday, birthday.”
“Woh aap ki beti ka birthday hai.”
“Aur meri biwi ka naya mission.” You couldn’t help laughing. That earned a pleased look from him. “Kuch aur baat karte hain.”
You pretended to think. Then tilted your head.
“Toh phir bataiye. Qaum ke liye kya bade plans hain aap ke?” The question was clearly meant as a joke.
Iqbal, however, immediately straightened. “Bohat saare.”
“Sab se pehle India fateh karna hai.”
“Ji.” He raised a finger as though presenting a very serious strategy. “Phir har sheher mein apni biwi ke bade bade idol banwane hain.”
“Kitni biwiyan hain meri?”
You shook your head, fighting a smile. “Aur yeh sab karenge kaise?” By then his mug was empty. He set it aside. The faint clink of porcelain against wood echoed through the room. Then his gaze returned to yours. Something about his expression changed. Not dramatically. Enough to make you suddenly aware of the distance between you. Or rather, how little of it remained. He shifted closer. Close enough that you could see the amusement lingering in his eyes.
The words were spoken lightly. Yet something about the way he said them sent an unexpected chill down your spine. Perhaps it was his gaze. Perhaps it was the fact that he seemed entirely aware of the effect he was having. Before you could formulate a response, his hand found yours beneath the blanket. Warm. Steady. Effortlessly familiar. Then he tugged gently. Pulling you closer. Not enough to startle. Just enough that the space between you disappeared.
“Chhodiye mera mansooba.” His voice had lowered slightly. “Mujhe apni planning bataiye.”
You looked away first. “Meri koi planning nahi.”
His thumb brushed absently across your knuckles. Such a small gesture. Yet somehow more unsettling than anything else. “Toh bataiye.” You hesitated. Because once upon a time, the answer would have been easy. You had known exactly what your future looked like. Exactly what you wanted. Exactly where you were heading. Now, for the first time in a very long time, the answer wasn’t so simple. And perhaps that was why you found yourself struggling to respond. Iqbal watched you quietly. Waiting. Patient. As though he had all the time in the world. “Future mein…” he prompted softly. “Aap kya chahti hain?” The question lingered between you. And for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, it felt far more dangerous than any question he had ever asked before. For a moment, you simply stared at him. Future. The word felt strangely foreign. As though it belonged to somebody else. Somebody who had the luxury of thinking years ahead. Somebody who knew where they would be tomorrow. Somebody who believed tomorrow was guaranteed. You weren’t that person. Your gaze dropped to your hands.
“Maine kabhi itna aage socha nahi.” The answer came quietly.
Iqbal studied you for a moment. “Kabhi nahi?”
You shook your head. “Nahi.” And it was true. At least partly. There had been a time when you had thought about the future. When you had imagined things. A home. A family. A life that belonged entirely to you. Then life had taught you how quickly futures could disappear. How one night could destroy years worth of dreams. How people could be there one moment and gone the next. So somewhere along the way, you had stopped looking too far ahead. It hurt less that way.
“Har insaan kuch na kuch toh chahta hai,” he said.
You managed a small smile. “Main bas itna sochti hoon ke jo din saamne hai, woh theek guzr jaaye.”
His expression softened slightly. “Aur us ke baad?” You wanted to answer. You really did. But the truth sat heavily inside your chest. Because when this was over, it would not end peacefully.There was no version of this story that ended well. Not for you. Not for him. Not for any of them. One day the truth would come out. One day choices would have consequences. One day everything you had built here would collapse. You knew that. You had always known that. Yet lately, against all reason, against all logic, you had begun pretending otherwise. Just for a little while. Just long enough to enjoy evenings on the sofa. Family dinners. Movie nights. Laiba’s laughter. The warmth of a hand reaching for yours without thinking. You swallowed. Then forced yourself to look at him. At the man waiting patiently for an answer. The man who had somehow become woven into the fabric of your days without your permission. “Shayad…” Your voice faltered. “Shayad main bas yeh chahti hoon ke…” You stopped. The confession felt dangerous. Even now.
A faint smile appeared on your lips. Sadder than you intended. “Ke jo log mere paas hain…” Your fingers tightened slightly around his hand. “Woh mere paas rahain.”
For a second, neither of you spoke. Then his thumb brushed across your knuckles. A simple gesture. So simple. “Yeh toh bohat aasaan si khwaahish hai.”
You laughed softly. If only he knew. Because to him, it probably was. To you, it felt impossible. Still, you found yourself looking at him. And for one brief, foolish moment, you allowed yourself to imagine it. A future. This house. His voice somewhere in the background. Laiba running through the halls. Maybe more children. More birthdays. More ordinary evenings. More years. The image lasted only a second before you pushed it away. Because dreams were dangerous. And some futures were never meant to belong to people like you. “Sona chahiye,” you said quietly. Before he could ask anything else. Before he could see too much. Before you could admit that somewhere along the way, the future you had stopped believing in had begun to take his face.
A month before Laiba’s birthday, before guest lists and cake discussions and secret planning sessions had taken over the house, Iqbal had done something that had caught you completely off guard. One afternoon, he had come home earlier than usual and announced that the darzi was coming. Not just any darzi. The kind whose appointments were booked weeks in advance. The kind who worked for wealthy families, politicians, and people who liked reminding everyone how expensive their clothes were. You had assumed he was there for Iqbal. Perhaps for a new kurta. Or something for one of his meetings. Instead, the man had walked into the sitting room carrying measuring tapes, notebooks, fabric catalogues, and enough professionalism to make it seem like he was conducting a military operation. And then he had looked directly at you. “Aap ke measurements lene hain.”
Before the darzi could answer, Iqbal had. “Ji, aap ke.”
“Laiba ki birthday aa rahi hai.” As though that explained everything. Apparently, in his mind, it did. The matter had already been decided. The darzi had spent nearly an hour discussing fabrics while you sat there wondering how you had somehow become involved in an operation you hadn’t even known existed. In the end, after far more discussion than you thought clothing deserved, you had decided on a saree. Not because anyone insisted. Not because anyone expected it. Simply because you wanted to. And strangely enough, that realization had startled you. Because somewhere along the way, without noticing, you had started imagining yourself standing beside Laiba on her birthday. Not as a guest. Not as an outsider. But as someone who belonged in the family photographs. The thought had lingered longer than it should have. Meanwhile, Laiba had been infinitely less helpful. The moment she learned new clothes were being made, she had transformed into a tiny dictator.
“Mera suit sab se achha hona chahiye.”
“Aur us mein chamak bhi honi chahiye glitter laga dena.”
“Kyun ke aap chalti phirti disco ball lagengi.”
“Main disco ball banna chahti hoon.” The darzi had nearly choked trying not to laugh. And somehow it had become worse when she decided that Iqbal needed matching clothes too. “Papa bhi mere jaisa pehnenge.”
“Main birthday girl hoon.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Then, to everyone’s surprise “Theek hai.”
Laiba had looked unbearably pleased with herself. As though she had just won a major political negotiation. From that day onward, the outfits became one more thing she asked about every few hours. She somehow snooped through Iqbal’s phone and found darzi’s number. “Mere kapde tayyar hue?”
Three hours later “Ab?” By the end of the month, even the darzi was probably tired of her. But whenever she spoke about the birthday, whenever she talked about the clothes, the decorations, the cake, or the gifts she definitely wasn’t hinting at, you found yourself listening with a smile. Because for the first time, she wasn’t counting down to a birthday. She was counting down to a celebration. And for the first time, you found yourself counting down with her.
Five days before Laiba’s birthday, the entire house seemed to revolve around one thing and one thing only. Laiba. Not that she knew exactly what was being planned. That was the difficult part. Both you and Iqbal had somehow managed to keep the actual celebration a secret from her, though it became increasingly difficult with every passing day because Laiba was physically incapable of going more than an hour without mentioning her birthday. She never outright asked for anything. Instead, she hinted. Constantly. Subtly, according to her. Painfully obviously, according to everyone else. That afternoon she had come home from school carrying a classmate’s notebook and had spent nearly ten minutes admiring it at the dining table. “Mama, dekhiye kitni achhi pens hain is ke paas.”
You had hummed absentmindedly while chopping vegetables. “Haan, achhi hain.”
“Aur dekhiye is ki handwriting bhi pen se hai.”
“Mujhe lagta hai main bhi ab bari ho gayi hoon.”
You had looked up. “Acha?”
“Ji.” A pause. “Mujhe lagta hai main pencil se zyada pen use kar sakti hoon ab.”
You bit back a smile. “Acha?”
“Ji.” Another pause. Longer this time. Waiting. Expecting. When no immediate offer of a new pen set arrived, she had dramatically sighed and slumped into her chair. You had nearly laughed. A few hours later she had done the exact same thing with a colouring set she had spotted in a shop window. Then with a storybook. Then with a backpack. Then with glitter markers. By the end of the week, you and Iqbal had a growing mental list of everything she “definitely wasn’t asking for.” The excitement practically radiated off her. And strangely enough, every time you saw it, something warm settled inside your chest. Because this birthday felt different. Not because of the gifts. Not because of the cake. Not because of the decorations. But because for the first time in a very long time, she would celebrate it surrounded by people who loved her. A family. The thought came uninvited. And as always, you pushed it away before it could linger too long. That night all three of you were sprawled across the large bed. Laiba had somehow claimed the exact center, leaving you and Iqbal on either side of her. The television was playing quietly in the background, ignored completely. Laiba was too busy discussing what she considered a far more important topic. Her birthday cake. “Mujhe teen layer ka cake chahiye.”
You looked up from your book. Across from you, Iqbal lowered his phone. “Teen layer?”
“Bohat bara.” She stretched both arms as wide as they would go. “Itna bara.”
Iqbal snorted. “Itna bara cake toh poori gali ko khilana padega.”
“Toh khila denge.” The answer came without hesitation. You laughed. Laiba sat up straighter. Clearly encouraged by the attention. “Neeche wali layer chocolate hogi.”
Then she stopped. Thinking. Very seriously. You could practically see the gears turning inside her head. “Aur teesri…” A pause. “Teesri…” Longer pause. “Aloo paratha.” The room fell silent. You stared at her. Iqbal stared at her. Laiba stared back confidently. As though she had just delivered the greatest idea in human history. You were the first to break.
“Cake aloo paratha flavour ka nahi hota.”
“Kyun ke cake meetha hota hai.”
“Toh meetha aloo paratha bana lo.”
Iqbal immediately turned away. His shoulders shaking. Trying not to laugh. You pointed at him. “Aap hansiye mat.”
That only made it worse. “Main nahi hans raha.”
Laiba crossed her arms. “Mujhe aloo paratha flavour chahiye.”
“Kyun ke duniya mein aisa cake nahi hota.” She looked deeply offended. As though the baking industry had personally betrayed her. Finally you sighed.
“Acha, teesri layer vanilla?”
She considered it. “Hmmm.” Still unconvinced.
“Ya phir chocolate?” you suggested.
That immediately brightened her mood. “Do chocolate!”
You nodded. “Theek hai.” Satisfied, she flopped dramatically backwards onto the mattress.
Iqbal shook his head. “Woh cake khatam kaun karega?”
She pointed at herself. “Ek layer meri.” Then pointed at him. “Ek layer Papa ki.” Then pointed at you. “Aur ek layer mumma ki.” The logic was flawless in her mind. You couldn’t help laughing. Even Iqbal gave up arguing. For a while after that she continued talking. About balloons. About presents. About decorations. About the exact number of candles she deserved. About why birthdays should probably happen every month. And while she rambled happily between the two of you, neither of you interrupted. Because the excitement in her voice was infectious. Because seeing her this happy made the house feel brighter somehow. And because every now and then, when she wasn’t looking, you would catch Iqbal watching her with a small smile on his face. The kind of smile that appeared only around her. The kind that softened all the harder edges of him. And despite yourself, despite everything you knew and everything you were supposed to remember, you found yourself smiling too.
The conversation came unexpectedly. It was four days before Laiba’s birthday, and invitations had already been sent out. The house had fallen into that strange state that came before any large family gathering. Every room seemed to contain something related to the celebration. Decoration samples sat on tables. Lists had been left lying around. Laiba spent half her day talking about birthdays and the other half trying to figure out what everyone was hiding from her. That evening, after dinner, you found yourself sitting with Iqbal in the sitting room while Laiba was asking Sakina random questions. Iqbal was going through a guest list one last time. Names. Numbers. Relatives. Colleagues. Family friends. Every few moments he would cross something out before writing something else. Then he suddenly looked up. “Ek baat poochun?”
“Aap ke walidain nahi aa rahe?”
For a second your heart stumbled. You recovered quickly enough that he didn’t seem to notice. “Nahi.”
He frowned slightly. “Kyun?”
You lowered your gaze to the cup in your hands. “Safar bohat lamba hai.”
“Lekin Laiba ki birthday hai.”
You forced a small smile. “Kashmir se yahan aana itna aasaan nahi hai.” That part, at least, wasn’t entirely a lie. “Aur waise bhi…” You paused. “Ammi ki tabiyat bhi pehle jaisi nahi rahi.”
Iqbal’s expression softened. “Kya hua unhein?”
“Joron ka masla hai.” You shrugged lightly. “Lamba safar karti hain toh bohat thak jaati hain.”
For a moment he seemed to consider it. Then he nodded. “Haan, yeh baat toh hai.” Relief loosened something inside your chest. Too soon. Because a second later he spoke again. “Ajeeb baat hai.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around your cup. “Kya?”
“Maine kabhi un se baat nahi ki.” You looked at him. He was still studying the guest list. Completely unaware of how dangerous the conversation felt.
“Aap baat kar sakte hain kabhi.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because there wasn’t really an answer to that. There never would be. “Kabhi…” you repeated vaguely. “Jab mauqa mile.”
He hummed. Not entirely convinced. “Maine aap ko bhi kabhi zyada baat karte nahi suna un se.” There it was. The question you had been hoping he wouldn’t ask. You felt your stomach tighten. Across the room, Laiba was still talking excitedly to Sakina. The ordinary domestic scene somehow made the lie feel worse.
“Hum…” You searched for the right answer. “Hum zyada baat nahi karte.”
Iqbal finally looked up. “Matlab?”
You stared at your tea. “Bas nahi karte.” A small laugh escaped you. Not because anything was funny. Because it bought you another second. “Main aur mere ammi-abbu kabhi bohat qareeb nahi rahe.” The words felt strange in your mouth. Because the people you were describing didn’t even exist. Yet somehow you had become skilled at inventing memories for them. Inventing a life. Inventing a childhood. Inventing entire relationships.
You shook your head. “Nahi.” Then after a moment “Bas…” You searched for something believable. “Soch alag thi.” Iqbal leaned back slightly. Still listening. “Abbu mujhe bohat pyar karte hain.” You hated how easily the lie came. “Lekin…” You smiled faintly. “Hum dono ziddi thay.” That, at least, was true.
“Woh bhi.” You laughed softly “Hamari zyada banti nahi thi.”
“Meri aur meri ammi ki boht ladai hoti thi.” You looked away. “Lekin bhi pyar bohat tha.”
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Iqbal nodded slowly. As though he understood. “Har ghar mein hota hai.”
You swallowed. Because he thought he was comforting you. And somehow that made it worse. “Hum baat kam karte thay,” you continued quietly. “Jab main padhne bahar gayi thi tab bhi.” You shrugged. “Kabhi kabhi haftay nikal jaate thay.”
“Phir ek call aa jaati thi.” A small smile touched your lips. “Jaise kuch hua hi na ho.”
Iqbal chuckled. “Toh matlab zidd aap ko un se mili hai.”
You rolled your eyes. “Ji nahi.”
“Ji haan.” And thankfully, mercifully, the conversation moved on. Yet long after it ended, the unease remained. Because every lie seemed harmless while you were telling it. Only later did it begin to grow. Layer upon layer. Until sometimes you couldn’t remember where the truth ended and the story began. And lately, that frightened you more than it should have.
Two days before Laiba’s birthday, the house had become a whirlwind of preparations. Lists were everywhere. Decorations were arriving. Sakina had already started planning the food as though an entire army was expected instead of a few dozen guests. Laiba, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly suspicious that everyone was hiding something from her. Fortunately, school kept her occupied for a few hours every day. Iqbal, on the other hand, had buried himself in work. Since he planned on keeping his schedule clear around the birthday itself, he was spending longer hours at the office, finishing whatever could be finished beforehand. Which left you with the perfect excuse. Return gifts. No one questioned it. Not when you came downstairs with a list in hand and announced that you were going to buy favors for the children attending the party. Not even Sakina.
“Zyada der mat lagaiyega.”
“Ji.” And just like that, you were free. The market was busy despite the afternoon heat. Vendors called out from every direction. Children ran between stalls. The scent of spices mixed with exhaust fumes and freshly fried snacks. You walked through it all calmly. As though this was exactly why you had come. Which, in a way, it was. Just not entirely. The small folded note sat sandwiched between two twenty-rupee notes inside your purse. Guest names. Expected attendees. A few coded details. At first glance it looked exactly like every other roadside juice corner. That was the point. Alam himself stood behind the counter. Nothing that would attract attention. Nothing obvious. Just enough. You eventually reached a juice stall tucked between two larger shops. Alam juice corner. Thinning hair. Ordinary clothes. The sort of face people forgot seconds after seeing. The sort of man nobody looked at twice. You stepped forward. “Ek doodh soda.” He nodded. Nothing more. No recognition. No greeting. No indication that either of you knew the other. A few minutes later you were seated at a small plastic table, slowly drinking while watching the crowd move past. When the glass was finally empty, you stood and approached the counter. The folded notes changed hands. Briefly. Naturally. Alam barely glanced down. Yet instead of placing the money inside the cash drawer, he slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt. Then continued serving another customer. As though nothing had happened. You turned and walked away. Mission accomplished. Or so you thought. You had barely taken a few steps when you collided with someone. Hard enough to make you stumble.
“Aray!” The familiar voice made your stomach drop. You looked up. Adeeb.
A handful of jamun occupied one hand. Another was already halfway to his mouth. For a second he simply stared. Then his face lit up. “Assalamualaikum, bhabhi jaan!”
Satisfied, he popped another jamun into his mouth. Then casually spat the seed toward a nearby drain. You blinked. He immediately offered you the remaining fruit. “Jamun khaengi?”
“Aap bohat kuch miss kar rahi hain.” Somehow every conversation with Adeeb felt slightly exhausting. The man possessed endless energy. “Aap yahan?” he asked.
“Acha.” His expression brightened immediately. “Invitation mil gaya mujhe.”
“Gudiya ka birthday haina.”
You smiled, “Haanji aap zarur aana.”
You were preparing to leave when his voice stopped you again. “Bhabhi jaan?”
A tiny knot formed in your stomach. “Main chali jaungi.”
“Main waise bhi us taraf ja raha hoon.” You hesitated. He noticed immediately. “Itna bhi bura nahi hoon.”
“Chehre pe likha hua hai.” You rolled your eyes. Unfortunately, he refused to surrender. Five minutes later, despite several polite refusals, you found yourself sitting inside his car. The driver sat in front. Adeeb occupied the back seat beside you. Thankfully not close enough to be inappropriate. Yet close enough that you could smell his cologne. Something warm. Something expensive. Rose layered beneath incense. The scent lingered heavily inside the closed vehicle. For a while he chatted about completely random topics. Traffic. The weather. A shopkeeper who had apparently tried to overcharge him. Then suddenly he turned toward you. “Aapse shikayat hai.”
He looked genuinely offended. “Iqbal miyaan ne invitation mail kar diya.”
“Toh?” He placed a hand dramatically over his chest.“Dusron ko call aayi.”
“Aur mujhe laga tha kam az kam bhabhi jaan khud phone karengi.”
You laughed softly. “Aap itni si baat pe naraz hain?”
“Bilkul.” Then he pointed accusingly. “Main expect nahi karta tha aapse.” The expression was so absurdly serious that for a moment it was difficult not to laugh. And as the car continued through Karachi’s crowded streets, you found yourself responding automatically. All while another part of your mind quietly catalogued everything around you. Every turn. Every landmark. And most importantly— Exactly where Adeeb intended to take you. The drive had already gone on longer than you had expected. At first, you had assumed Adeeb was taking a different route because of traffic. Then you had assumed he knew a shortcut. Then you had simply sat there quietly, watching the city pass beyond the tinted window. Only when the car reached a large intersection did you realize something was wrong. The road leading toward your house was straight ahead. Adeeb’s driver turned left. Immediately. Without hesitation. Your eyes shifted toward him. He was busy eating another jamun. You stared. Then finally spoke.
Adeeb popped another jamun into his mouth. “Tha.”
He chewed thoughtfully. “Main aap ko ghar nahin le ja raha.” For a second your stomach tightened. Your fingers instinctively curled around the handles of the shopping bags resting in your lap. Adeeb noticed. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Aray bhabhi jaan, itna pareshan mat hoiye.” He pointed ahead lazily. “Iqbal ke paas ja raha hoon. Socha aap ko bhi wahin chhor doon.” For a moment, caution warred with curiosity. You knew Iqbal would not be pleased. But another thought surfaced immediately. His workplace. An opportunity. A place you had only heard about. A place connected to everything. Everything you were trying to uncover. So instead of protesting, you simply nodded
“Achha.” Adeeb looked amused. Almost as though he had expected more resistance. The rest of the drive passed with surprisingly little conversation. You spent most of it watching the city outside. Memorizing roads. Turns. Buildings. Landmarks. Anything that might be useful later. Eventually the car slowed before a heavily guarded gate. Two armed guards stood outside. One stepped forward immediately. The moment he recognized the vehicle, he signaled for the barrier to rise. Adeeb leaned out of the window cheerfully.
The guard barely nodded. Not even a smile. You almost felt sorry for him. Almost. The car rolled forward. Past the gate. Past another checkpoint. And finally into a large compound. Your gaze lifted The building surprised you. You had expected something intimidating. Something modern. Something that looked important. Instead, it looked almost ordinary. The structure was old. The paint had faded in places. Thin cracks ran along portions of the walls. Green vines climbed over one side of the building. A carefully maintained garden stretched across the front. Flowers bloomed beneath trimmed hedges. From a distance, it looked less like a government facility and more like an old family estate. A strange contradiction. The sort of place where children might play cricket in the courtyard. Not the sort of place where men discussed national security. Or wars. Or covert operations. Your pulse quickened. Because now you were here. Actually here. And if Iqbal saw you— You pushed the thought away. The driver stopped. You stepped out. Still clutching your shopping bags. Adeeb glanced at them. Then immediately reached for the handles.
You pulled back instinctively. “Main utha sakti hoon.”
“Mujhe maloom hai.” Before you could protest further, he took them anyway. As though the matter had already been decided. You followed behind him. Trying not to appear nervous. Trying not to look suspicious. Trying not to stare too much. But your eyes were moving constantly. Every hallway. Every entrance. Every security camera. Every door. Every face. You were cataloguing everything. Inside, the atmosphere changed. People moved purposefully through the corridors. Some carried files. Others spoke quietly among themselves. A few wore uniforms. Others were dressed like ordinary office workers. Nobody paid attention to you at first. Until Adeeb opened his mouth. Which, unfortunately, happened almost immediately.
“Raasta dijiye bhai, Major sahab ki begum aa rahi hain.” Several heads turned. Your stomach dropped. Wonderful. Exactly what you needed. Attention. A middle-aged employee passing by immediately stopped. His expression softened “Assalamualaikum.”
Another woman nearby smiled politely. “Aap ko paani chahiye?”
You shook your head. “Ji nahin, shukriya.”
“Nahin, theek hai.” The moment people learned who you were, their behavior shifted. Respectful. Almost eager to help. You hated how useful that information was. And how much easier it made observing them. Adeeb continued forward. Completely oblivious to your tension. Or perhaps fully aware of it. With him, it was difficult to tell. Eventually you reached another corridor. Quieter. More secluded. The kind where important offices tended to be. Your heartbeat quickened. The feeling reminded you unexpectedly of your first day at the academy. Walking toward the dean’s office. Knowing one mistake could end everything. Knowing every step mattered. The same pressure settled over your shoulders now. At the end of the corridor stood a large wooden door. Beside it stretched a wide glass panel. The blinds were drawn shut. You couldn’t see inside. Adeeb walked straight toward it. Without knocking. Without hesitation. Without basic survival instincts. The door swung open. Inside sat Iqbal. Comfortable in his chair. A file open before him. Several men occupied the seats opposite him. The conversation stopped the moment the door opened. Iqbal looked up. Saw Adeeb. And sighed. Immediately. “Thori der bahar baitho. Main aata hoon.”
Adeeb opened his mouth. Probably to argue. Probably to annoy him further. But instead he stepped sideways. And revealed you. Everything changed. Instantly. Iqbal’s eyes landed on yours. For a moment he simply stared. As though trying to process what exactly he was seeing. You. Standing there. Inside his workplace. Beside Adeeb. Holding absolutely no logical reason to be there. The men seated before him looked between the two of you curiously. Iqbal blinked once. Then leaned back. “Darsal…” He glanced toward the officers. “Janab.” The meeting was apparently no longer the priority. “Main abhi aaya.” He rose from his chair. Buttoned his coat. And walked toward the door. Every step calm, controlled, and measured. Which somehow made you more nervous. When he finally stopped in front of you, his gaze shifted briefly to Adeeb. Then back to you. One eyebrow rose. Very slowly. “Aap yahan kya kar rahi hain?” The question itself wasn’t alarming. The tone was. Because it carried a second, unspoken question beneath it. ‘And why, exactly, are you here with Adeeb?’ You opened your mouth. Then closed it again. Because honestly, how were you supposed to explain this? You couldn’t exactly tell him that you had accepted the ride because you wanted to see where he worked. And judging by the look on his face, that answer would not improve your situation.
“Main… woh…” You glanced between him and the corridor. “Darsal…”
Before you could finish, Adeeb jumped in. As usual. “Aray, kuch nahin hua.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Bazar mein mil gayi thi. Main waise bhi tumhare paas hi aa raha tha. Socha bhabhi jaan ko bhi saath le aata hoon.”
Iqbal slowly turned his head toward him. The look he gave him was completely expressionless. Which somehow felt more threatening than anger. “Kyun?”
Adeeb blinked. “Kya matlab kyun?”
“Mera matlab kyun.” The silence stretched.
Adeeb immediately looked elsewhere. You almost felt bad for him. Iqbal turned back toward you. His expression softened slightly. “Aap theek hain?”
“Koi masla toh nahin hua?”
His gaze lingered another moment. “Bazaar mein kya kar rahi thi?”
“Laiba ke birthday ke liye kuch cheezein leni thi. Return gifts waghaira.”
He nodded. The answer seemed acceptable. “Achha.”
Then he glanced toward the office behind him. The meeting. The people waiting inside. The responsibilities he had temporarily abandoned. A faint sigh escaped him.
“Main driver ko bol deta hoon. Woh aap ko ghar chhor dega.”
“Theek hai.” You nodded immediately.
Perhaps a little too quickly. Because being here was making you nervous. Every second felt dangerous. Every corridor felt like a place you shouldn’t be. Iqbal seemed to notice. He studied your face for a moment. Then stepped closer. One hand settled lightly against your shoulder. Not possessive. Not forceful. Just reassuring.
You looked away. “Main ghabra nahin rahi.”
“Jhoot.” The word was quiet. Matter-of-fact. His hand squeezed your shoulder gently. “Aap ghabra rahi hain.”
You sighed. “Main bas yahan aane ki umeed nahin kar rahi thi.”
“Aur Adeeb ke saath aane ki?” There was the slightest hint of amusement in his voice now.
You frowned. “Unhon ne kaha tha ke woh ghar ja rahe hain.”
Iqbal closed his eyes briefly. As though this explained absolutely everything. Which, in fairness, it probably did.
“Haan. Yeh uski aadat hai.”
You couldn’t help smiling slightly. Just a little. The tension eased. A little. He motioned toward a nearby seating area outside the offices. A few chairs stood beside a small table.
You nodded. But before you could sit, he looked around and gestured toward a passing staff member. A young woman immediately approached.
“Madam ke liye chai le aaiye.”
You immediately shook your head. “Nahin, nahin.”
The woman paused. Looking between the two of you. Iqbal looked down at you.
“Mujhe chai nahin chahiye.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Toh phir?”
You folded your arms. “Kuch nahin.”
The woman was now trying very hard not to smile. Iqbal noticed too. “Theek hai.” Then, looking at the employee, he added, “Phir bhi kuch le aaiye.”
The poor woman hurried away before you could object again. You looked up at him.
“Aap meri baat kyun nahin sunte?”
“Aap bhooki lag rahi hain.”
“Main bhooki nahin hoon.”
“Theek hai.” He nodded. Completely unconvinced. A moment later, footsteps echoed through the corridor.
Adeeb emerged from the office area, hands in his pockets. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. Then he suddenly stopped. His eyes widened dramatically.
He pointed. “Bhabhi jaan.”
You looked down. Still confused. “Kya?”
Your heart dropped. The shopping bags. You had completely forgotten them. Adeeb sighed dramatically.
“Main soch raha tha ke aaj kal log itni shopping kaise kar lete hain.”
“Phir yaad aaya ke yeh sab aap ka samaan hai.”
Iqbal looked at the bags. “Aap yeh sab khud utha rahi thi?”
Before you could answer, Adeeb immediately said, “Ji haan.”
For once, Adeeb actually obeyed.
The glass of water arrived a few minutes later. You accepted it mostly because refusing again would only earn you another look from Iqbal.
The water was enough to steady the nervousness that had been sitting in your chest ever since you had stepped through those gates.
Iqbal remained nearby while you drank, occasionally answering a question from someone passing through the corridor, but his attention never seemed entirely elsewhere. Every few moments his gaze would return to you as though making sure you were still sitting exactly where he had left you.
When you finally set the empty glass down, he glanced at his watch.
The meeting was waiting. The work was waiting. But so were you.
“Main aap ko gaari tak chhor deta hoon.”
The answer came so simply that there was no point arguing. A few minutes later you found yourself walking beside him through the building’s corridors. People moved aside almost instinctively when they saw him approaching. Some greeted him. Some nodded respectfully. Others looked curiously toward you. You tried not to notice. Tried not to think about how out of place you felt here. The afternoon sun was bright when you stepped outside. The garden looked peaceful. Almost deceptively so. The driver was already waiting beside the vehicle. Iqbal opened the car door for you before you could reach for it yourself. A small gesture. One that still felt strange every time he did it.
You turned slightly. “Aap wapas meeting mein jaiye.”
“Main ghar pohanch jaungi.”
Yet he made no move to leave.
For a moment he simply stood there looking at you.
Calm, and observant. As though trying to memorize something. Or perhaps trying to figure something out. Then his eyes shifted beyond you. Toward the entrance. Instinctively, you followed his gaze.
Of course. Standing near the doorway. Watching. Very obviously watching. The moment he realized both of you had noticed him, he immediately looked away. Then looked back. Then pretended he had not been looking at all. Which somehow made it more obvious.
You almost sighed. Iqbal certainly did. A faint shake of his head. A look that seemed to say there is no saving this man.
Then his attention returned to you. For the briefest second something softened in his expression. The sort of softness he rarely allowed others to see. Before you could say anything, his hand lifted lightly to your jaw. Not enough to startle. Not enough to trap. Just enough to make you look at him. Your breath caught. And before you could process the gesture, he leaned forward and pressed a brief kiss against your lips.
Gone almost as quickly as it had happened. When he pulled back, you stared at him. Completely caught off guard.
Meanwhile, from the entrance, there came the unmistakable sound of someone choking. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. Adeeb had apparently witnessed everything. Iqbal looked entirely unbothered by this fact. If anything, he seemed mildly pleased.
“Ghar pohanch kar phone kar dijiyega.”
Your face felt warm. You nodded. Unable to find words. Satisfied with that response, he finally stepped back from the car. Closing the door behind you. As the vehicle began moving, you glanced out the window.
The car disappeared beyond the gates.
For a few moments, Iqbal remained where he was, hands resting loosely in his pockets as he watched it go. The afternoon sun had begun to soften, casting long shadows across the compound, and the guards at the entrance had already returned to their duties. Only when the vehicle was completely out of sight did he finally turn around. And immediately regret it. Because Adeeb was still standing there. Exactly where he had been. Watching. Staring, actually. With the expression of a man who had just been handed the greatest piece of gossip of the year.
Iqbal stopped. Looked at him. Then looked away. Then looked back again. Adeeb grinned. Wide. Unapologetic. The kind of grin that usually preceded a headache.
Iqbal sighed. “Khatam ho gaya tamasha?”
Adeeb placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Aray nahin, main toh bas dekh raha tha.”
Iqbal started walking toward the building. Adeeb immediately fell into step beside him. “Kya?”
Iqbal turned his head slowly. Very slowly. The look he gave him would have sent most people running in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, Adeeb was not most people. If anything, he seemed encouraged. The grin widened. They continued walking through the courtyard. Employees greeted them as they passed. Iqbal acknowledged them with brief nods.
Adeeb continued being a nuisance. “Waise bhabhi jaan bohot shareef hain.”
“Aur bohot khoobsurat bhi.”
“Mujhe yeh bhi pata hai.”
Adeeb laughed. A loud, delighted laugh. “Acha hai. Kam az kam aap ko nazar toh aa gaya.”
Iqbal said nothing. The silence stretched for several steps. Long enough that Adeeb assumed he had gotten away with it. A mistake. Because eventually Iqbal spoke. Quietly.
“Agli dafa meri biwi ko bazaar se utha kar mere daftar mat le aana.”
Adeeb immediately put on his most innocent expression. Which only made him look guiltier.
“Main toh madad kar raha tha.”
“Aap ko mujh par bharosa nahin?”
Without missing a beat, Iqbal replied, “Bilkul nahin.”
Adeeb nearly choked laughing. The sound echoed through the corridor as they entered the building. A few employees looked up from their desks. One of them immediately looked back down when Iqbal’s gaze drifted in his direction.
Meanwhile Adeeb was still laughing. “Yaar, itna bhi bura nahin hoon main.”
Iqbal continued walking. “Ho.”
“Kasam kha kar jhoot bol rahe ho.”
Adeeb looked genuinely offended. For approximately three seconds. Then he started laughing again. By now they had reached the corridor leading toward the meeting rooms. Iqbal adjusted the file in his hand and continued forward.
Adeeb, however, wasn’t finished. Naturally. “Aap waqai jalan mehsoos kar rahe hain!”
Several nearby employees suddenly became very interested in their paperwork. One man almost walked into a wall trying not to look. Iqbal didn’t even turn around. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t stop. He simply kept walking and said in the calmest voice imaginable,
“Mere office ke bahar intezar karo varna Afghanistan transfer karwa dunga.”
The effect was immediate. Adeeb shut his mouth. Straightened his posture. And followed. Because there were many things in life he wasn’t afraid of. Transfers were not one of them. From somewhere behind them, a muffled snort escaped one of the staff members. Iqbal ignored it. Adeeb pretended not to hear it. And the two disappeared down the corridor, one trying to return to work, the other already planning exactly how he would annoy him again tomorrow.
The evening before Laiba’s birthday felt impossible to survive for one very simple reason. Laiba herself. From the moment she woke up that morning, she had become a whirlwind of excitement that swept through the entire house. She talked during breakfast. She talked while getting ready. She talked while putting on her shoes. She talked while climbing into the car. And when she returned from school, somehow she talked even more. Every conversation eventually found its way back to one topic.
By evening, even Sakina had started laughing every time the girl appeared in a doorway. Because everyone already knew what was coming.
As though anybody could possibly forget. Around seven o’clock, Iqbal returned home from work carrying a small box. Naturally, Laiba spotted it immediately.
Iqbal smoothly moved it behind his back. “Kuch nahin.”
He sighed dramatically. Then held up the box. “Dawai hai.”
Laiba went back to whatever she was doing. You laughed.
Iqbal walked over to you and started talking so Laiba wouldnt be able to hear, “healthy cake hai.”
“Ji haan.” He began removing his shoes. “Khajoor se meetha kiya gaya hai.”
“Aur is mein walnuts bhi hain.”
If Laiba could hear this conversation she would be personally offended.
“Nahi yeh sehatmand hai.”
By dinner time, Laiba had somehow become even more excited. She bounced in her chair. She swung her feet. She kept asking questions.
How many guests would come?
Would there be more cake?
Could there possibly be even more cake?
At one point she placed both elbows on the table and announced,
“Mumma, kal school nahin jaungi.”
You exchanged a glance with Iqbal. Neither of you reacted. “Jaogi.”
Laiba looked betrayed. “Mera birthday hai.”
She immediately turned toward Iqbal. Seeking support. A terrible mistake. Because Iqbal was determined not to reveal the surprise. So he simply nodded. “Ammi theek keh rahi hain.”
The look Laiba gave both of you suggested she would remember this injustice for years. By bedtime she was still talking. Still planning. Still imagining. Lying beneath her blanket, she informed both of you that she wanted a giant cake, at least a hundred gifts, and possibly a pony.
You eventually managed to negotiate her expectations down to realistic levels.
And after nearly an hour of conversation, complaints, excitement, and yawning, she finally drifted asleep. Peace settled over the house. At last. You were exhausted by the time you climbed into bed yourself.
And sleep found you quickly. Which was why you were extremely confused when a hand gently shook your shoulder sometime later.
You groaned. Pulled the blanket higher. And opened one eye. Iqbal stood beside the bed. Fully awake. Looking suspiciously pleased with himself.
You glanced toward the clock. Then immediately sat up. “Iqbal!” It was midnight. Exactly midnight. “Aap pagal hain?”
He looked entirely unrepentant. “Birthday hai.”
You rubbed your face. “Kal chidh-chedi hogi.”
“Kal birthday bhi toh hai.”
There was no point arguing. You already knew that expression. So with a sigh, you climbed out of bed. Half asleep. Still trying to understand why your husband had suddenly become a child himself. You grabbed the nearest dupatta and draped it loosely over your shoulders before following him out. Only then did you notice the plate in his hands.
A single candle flickered softly on top. The hallway was dark. The rest of the house asleep. Even so, Iqbal walked with exaggerated caution, as though carrying a priceless treasure. When you finally reached Laiba’s room, he pushed the door open carefully. The little girl remained completely unconscious. One arm above her head. Blanket twisted around her legs. Mouth slightly open. A true master of sleep. You sat beside her first. Brushed her hair back. Then kissed her cheek gently.
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
A small grumble. Then silence. You tried again.
She turned her face into the pillow. Determined to continue sleeping forever. You glanced at Iqbal. He was already struggling not to laugh. Then an idea struck. You leaned down. Lowered your voice. And whispered,
The reaction was immediate. Two eyes flew open. Laiba sat upright so quickly that both of you nearly jumped. For several seconds she simply blinked.
Then she saw the candle. Saw the cake. And gasped.
The excitement in her voice could have powered the entire city. You smiled. “Ji.”
She looked around. Then toward the dark window. Then back at you.
Iqbal pulled a chair closer. “Barah baj gaye.”
Laiba frowned. Thinking. Trying to process this revolutionary information. “Matlab…”
“Matlab naya din.” Her eyes widened.
“Birthday shuru.” That was apparently all the explanation she needed. Immediately she straightened. Fixed her blanket. And looked very serious. Ready for official birthday business. The candlelight danced across her sleepy face as she closed her eyes and made a wish. Neither you nor Iqbal asked what it was. Then she blew the candle out. The room erupted into quiet applause. Mostly from Iqbal. Who looked far too proud of himself. The first bite went to Laiba.
She examined the cake suspiciously. Took a bite.
Then paused. “Yeh chocolate nahin hai.”
Iqbal looked smug. “Healthy cake hai.”
She took another bite. Then another. Eventually she admitted, “Theek hai.”
A tremendous victory. Until she discovered the dates. Immediately she began picking them out. One by one. Carefully setting them aside.
“Khajoor sehatmand hain.”
“Mujhe akhrot pasand hain.”
She happily ate those instead. The brown colour of the cake had fooled her at first, and she seemed mildly disappointed that it wasn’t chocolate after all. But between the walnuts, the excitement, and the fact that it was officially her birthday, she forgave the cake for its shortcomings. Eventually her head began drooping again. Her words became slower. Her eyelids heavier. And you knew it was time.
She immediately protested. Weakly. Sleepily.
“Aur isi liye sona bhi hai.” Within minutes she was tucked back beneath her blanket. Still smiling. Still clutching the tiny paper birthday hat Iqbal had somehow produced from nowhere. And before either of you reached the door, she was asleep again. As though the midnight celebration had never happened at all.
The house woke before the sun did. Long before guests would begin arriving, before the decorators hung the final ribbons, before the cooks claimed the kitchen as their territory, there was already movement in every corner of the house.
You were the first one awake. Laiba’s birthday had finally arrived. The realization alone was enough to push away whatever sleep remained. For a few moments you simply lay there listening to the quiet house, remembering the excitement on Laiba’s face the previous night when she had discovered that midnight technically counted as her birthday. A smile found its way onto your face before you could stop it. Beside you, Iqbal was still asleep.
For once. You slipped out of bed carefully. Today would be busy. Very busy.
By the time breakfast preparations had begun, Sakina was already directing workers, the kitchen was slowly filling with ingredients, and several calls had been exchanged regarding decorations and deliveries. The only person still sleeping peacefully through all of it was the birthday girl. Exactly as planned. You had specifically forbidden Iqbal from waking her early. Because the moment Laiba woke up, she would begin asking about clothes. And decorations. And cake. And gifts. And every other possible detail. The outfits from the tailor had not even arrived yet. There was no point beginning the chaos sooner than necessary. Which was why, after helping with the initial preparations, you practically pushed Iqbal out the door.
“Aap ja kar darzi se kapde le aaiye.”
He laughed. “Darzi kabhi apna waada nahin badalte.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Ji nahin. Woh bas waqt badalte hain.”
That earned a grin. Because everyone knew it was true. It did not matter whether the tailor worked from a tiny shop hidden inside crowded market lanes or owned an elegant boutique with framed certificates hanging on every wall.
Tailors possessed a universal talent. They always finished clothes exactly when they wanted. Never a day early. Never an hour early. And somehow always when your patience had already run out. By the time Iqbal left to collect the outfits, you decided to finally get ready yourself. The house was busy enough that nobody would notice your absence for a little while. The warm water felt wonderful after the long morning. You took your time.
And when you finally emerged from the bathroom, your hair was still damp from the wash. A simple cream cotton suit had replaced your nightclothes. Nothing elaborate. Nothing special. Just comfortable enough for the busy day ahead. The scent of bakhoor lingered softly in the room. You noticed it immediately.
Iqbal’s doing. Of course. The fragrance drifted through the air, settling into the curtains, the bedding, and even the garment covers hanging nearby For a brief moment the room felt strangely peaceful compared to the bustle outside. You stepped toward the balcony, opening the doors to let in fresh air. Morning sunlight spilled inside immediately. Your damp towel was shaken out and draped neatly where it could dry. Only then did you notice Iqbal. He had returned without you hearing him. The garment were on hangers now absorbing smell of bakhoor. The birthday outfits. All three of them. For a moment neither of you said anything. His gaze lingered on you before quickly moving away again. As though he had been about to say something and changed his mind. You smiled.
“Mil gaye.” His answer was immediate. Almost too immediate.
You narrowed your eyes slightly “Sab theek hai?”
That made you suspicious. Because he suddenly seemed very interested in arranging hangers that were already arranged perfectly.
You turned toward the mirror.
Meanwhile Iqbal stood by the wardrobe, his fingers resting against the metal of the clothing hangers. He purposefully kept his focus fixed on the neat row of clothes, staring at them with concentration as if they were the most important thing in the room. He was trying to give you space, yet he was deeply aware of you being there.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed the way your damp hair caught the light. The sight of you—relaxed and peaceful after your bath—struck him deeply. You looked truly mesmerized in the soft light of the room.
Iqbal felt a sudden wave of affection and admiration as he looked at his wife. There was a quiet beauty in the moment that made it difficult for him to simply look away. He felt a strong pull toward you, a sense of closeness and connection that he found hard to ignore.
Realizing he was staring, Iqbal quickly shifted his attention back to the hangers, trying to regain his composure and focus on the task at hand, though his mind remained fixed on your presence.
The room felt strangely peaceful compared to the rest of the house. Outside, people were moving constantly. Voices drifted through open windows. Someone was arranging decorations in the garden. Somewhere downstairs, utensils clinked together as preparations for the evening continued. The entire house seemed to be preparing for Laiba’s birthday. Yet for a few moments, none of that reached this room. The balcony doors remained open. Morning sunlight spilled across the floor. The scent of bakhoor lingered softly in the air, woven into the fabric of curtains and bedsheets. You sat before the dressing table, absentmindedly combing your damp hair while Iqbal remained nearby, sorting through the garment covers he had just brought from the tailor. For a while neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It hadn’t been for a long time now. You had stopped noticing when exactly that change happened. When being alone with him had stopped feeling like something that needed to be endured. When his presence had stopped making you tense. When his voice had become something familiar instead of something to prepare yourself for. The realization unsettled you every time it surfaced. Because comfort was dangerous. Comfort made people careless. And yet, despite knowing that, you found yourself seeking it. Seeking him. You watched him through the mirror. He seemed unusually distracted. A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
Iqbal glanced up. Then smiled. A quiet smile.The kind that always made him look younger than he actually was. “Ek cheez hai.”
You turned slightly. “Kya cheez?”
He shook his head. “Pehle idhar aaiye.”
Immediately suspicious, you narrowed your eyes “Iqbal…”
Despite yourself, you laughed softly. Then stood and walked closer. The moment you reached him, he gently took your wrist and guided you toward the chair near the window. The same chair where sunlight pooled across the floor.
You rolled your eyes. He looked entirely pleased with himself. For a second he simply stood there looking at you. And there was something unexpectedly warm in his gaze. Something that made you look away first. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small velvet box. Your eyebrows rose.
The answer came so naturally that it caught you off guard. You looked at the box, “Mere liye?”
You stared at him. Genuinely confused. “Magar kyun?”
His expression softened. Almost imperceptibly. “Har tohfa kisi wajah se nahin diya jata.”
The room fell quiet. Your fingers slowly opened the box. Inside rested a pair of delicate silver anklets. Tiny bells hung from them. Not loud enough to make noise with every step. Just enough to chime softly. Beautiful. Elegant. Timeless. For a moment you simply stared. Then looked back up at him. “Bohat khoobsurat hain.”
Iqbal smiled. The kind of smile that never quite reached anyone else. “Aap se zyada nahin.” Heat immediately rushed to your face. You looked away. And hated that he noticed. Because he always noticed. Every single time. Before you could think of a response, he lowered himself onto one knee. The movement startled you.
He looked up. Holding out a hand. “Paon.” Your heart skipped unexpectedly. Not because of the anklets. Not because of the gesture. But because of the way he said it. So casually. So naturally. As though there was nowhere else in the world he was supposed to be. As though this was exactly where he wanted to be. With you. You hesitated. Only for a second. Then carefully extended your foot. His hand closed around your ankle with remarkable gentleness. As though he feared hurting you. The silver clasp clicked softly into place. Neither of you spoke. The world outside continued moving. Voices. Footsteps. Preparations. Life. But inside the room everything felt strangely still. He adjusted the anklet carefully. Making sure it sat comfortably. Making sure it wouldn’t catch against the fabric. Focused entirely on what he was doing. The concentration on his face made something inside your chest ache unexpectedly. Because nobody had ever looked after you like this. Not really. Not without expecting something in return. Yet here he was. Treating something as simple as an anklet like it mattered. Like you mattered. Once satisfied, he glanced up. His gaze meeting yours. For a brief second neither of you moved. Then he lowered his head and pressed a light kiss against your ankle. The gesture was so unexpected that your breath caught. Not because it was inappropriate. Not because it was bold. Because it felt sincere. Painfully sincere. Before you could recover, he reached for the other anklet. The second one followed. The same careful hands. The same patience. The same tenderness. And when he finished, he remained there for a moment. Still kneeling. Looking up at you. Sunlight spilled through the open balcony doors. The scent of bakhoor lingered in the air. Outside, somewhere downstairs, somebody called out instructions regarding decorations. Yet the sound felt distant. Muted. As though it belonged to another world. For reasons you couldn’t explain, your chest suddenly felt tight. Dangerously tight. Because all at once you became aware of something. Not him. Not the anklets. Yourself. The fact that months ago this would have terrified you. Months ago you would have pulled away. Would have found an excuse. Would have reminded yourself why you were here. What your purpose was. Who you were. But now… Now you were looking at your husband kneeling before you. And instead of fear, all you felt was warmth.A warmth that had begun quietly. So quietly that you hadn’t noticed it growing. Until it had become impossible to ignore. Iqbal tilted his head slightly. Concern appearing in his expression. “Kya hua?”
You couldn’t answer. Because the truth frightened you. The truth was that for one terrifying moment, you had forgotten everything except this room. Except him. Instead, you simply shook your head. “Kuch nahin.”
His eyes narrowed. Clearly unconvinced. But before he could ask again, you leaned forward. The movement surprised even you. For a second you almost stopped. Almost pulled back. Almost remembered all the reasons why you shouldn’t. Then you didn’t. Your hand came up instinctively. Resting lightly against his shoulder. And before courage could abandon you, you pressed a brief kiss to his lips. Soft. Tentative. Barely lasting a second. Yet it felt as though the entire room had stopped breathing. When you pulled away, silence followed. Neither of you spoke. Iqbal simply stared. Completely still. As though his mind had failed to catch up with what had just happened. And somehow that made everything worse. Because he hadn’t expected it. Not from you. Not first. Heat flooded your face immediately. You looked away. Embarrassed. Suddenly very interested in the floor. In the balcony. In literally anything except him. Then quietly— “Aise mat dekhiye.” For the first time since you had met him, Iqbal looked genuinely speechless. Which only made you more embarrassed. A slow smile finally appeared on his face. Not teasing. Not victorious. Something softer. Something infinitely more dangerous. Because it looked suspiciously like happiness. And for reasons you didn’t want to examine too closely, seeing that expression made your own heart hurt.
Laiba woke up unusually fast. Normally it took several attempts, two threats, one promise of breakfast, and at least five minutes of bargaining before she would even consider opening her eyes. Today, however, the moment she remembered what day it was, she sat upright. “Mera joda kahan hai?” You barely had time to wish her a happy birthday before she was already looking around the room. The garment cover resting over your arm immediately caught her attention. Her eyes widened. “Mera hai?”
You laughed. “Ji haan, magar pehle nahaaiye.”
The smile disappeared instantly. “Nahin.”
“Birthday hai mera.” As though that explained everything.
“Birthday walay din nahaana zaroori nahin hota.”
You stared at her. She stared right back. Utterly convinced by her own logic. For the next ten minutes the two of you negotiated what was perhaps the most unnecessary battle in human history. Eventually, after repeated reminders that guests would be arriving and that nobody wanted to spend their birthday smelling like sleep, she finally surrendered. Grudgingly. Very grudgingly. The entire time she complained. “Paani thanda hai.”
By the time she emerged from the bathroom she looked thoroughly offended by life itself. But the moment the outfit came out, all complaints vanished. Just like that The dusty rose suit suited her perfectly. The embroidery glimmered softly in antique gold. Tiny details decorated the sleeves. The dupatta sat slightly crooked because she couldn’t stop moving long enough for you to fix it. She turned around twice. Then three times. Then immediately ran downstairs to show Sakina. Leaving you alone with a smile lingering on your face.Back in your room, the preparations were far from finished. Your own outfit waited carefully arranged on the bed. The sari was exactly what you had hoped for. Dusty rose. Soft and elegant. Neither too bright nor too dull. The antique-gold border caught the morning sunlight beautifully. The blouse was modest, cocoa colour with a graceful boat neckline and intricate gold embroidery climbing along the collar and sleeves. Elegant. Timeless. Exactly what you had imagined. You changed slowly, taking care with every pleat. The fabric slipped through your fingers like water. Outside, sounds from the house continued growing louder. Guests would begin arriving soon. Decorators moved through the garden. The cooks had fully taken over the kitchen. The entire house felt alive. And yet, somehow, this room remained calm. Iqbal still hadn’t gotten ready. Which was hardly surprising. So after checking on Laiba twice and the decorations three times, you finally marched back into the room. “Aap abhi tak tayyar nahin huay?”
He looked up from where he was sorting through something. Entirely unbothered. “Waqt hai.”
“Bilkul nahin hai.” You pointed toward the bathroom. “Jaiye.” He opened his mouth. You pointed again. More firmly. “Abhi.”That finally earned a laugh. Shaking his head, he grabbed a towel and disappeared inside. Almost half an hour later, you were standing before the mirror trying to perfect the final pleats of your sari. The folds still refused to cooperate. In the mirror, you watch your own hands working meticulously, adjusting the borders until everything sits perfectly. From the corner of your eye, the bathroom door clicks open. Iqbal steps out. Vapor follows him into the room, bringing the warm, clean scent of sandalwood and soap. A single white towel is hitched loosely around his waist, riding low on his hips. Water droplets still cling to his collarbones, tracking slow paths down his chest. He doesn't look up immediately, his eyes scanning the bed where his clothes for the day are neatly laid out. You catch his reflection in the glass, but before you can speak, he grips the knot of the towel, pulls it free, and tosses the damp cloth carelessly onto the mattress.
"Iqbal!" you gasp, turning around instantly to scold him. "Aapko kitni baar bola hai gila towel—" The words die in your throat. He is standing right there. Entirely, completely naked. Your eyes lock onto his body, then instantly drop before your brain can even register what you are looking at. Your breath hitches. A fierce, sudden heat floods up your neck, coloring your cheeks a violent crimson. You whip back around toward the mirror so fast your head spins, your hands flying up to cover your burning face. Your heart hammers against your ribs, and your lips move, but only a breathless, incoherent stutter comes out. “Main—aap—Aapne kapde kyu nahi daale—"
Behind you, there is a sudden, sharp intake of air. Iqbal freezes, his hand still extended in mid-air where he had been reaching for his trousers. He hadn't expected you to turn around. He thought you were completely focused on your saree, giving him the usual few seconds to pull on his clothes. "Oh," Iqbal blurts out. The silence that follows is thick and heavy, charged with a sudden, overwhelming embarrassment. "Mujhe laga nahi aap piche mudengi!" he says quickly, his voice a pitch higher than usual. You hear the frantic, rustling fabric of his trousers as he scrambles to pull them on.
"Aapne gila tolia bed par pheka!" you squeak to the wall, your eyes tightly shut, your hands still pressed to your face. "Mudti nahi toh kya karti!"
“Ghalti se phek diya maine.”
“Allah gawah hai ghalti se.” He was already smiling. Which meant he wasn’t remotely sorry.
“Uthaiye isay.” With exaggerated obedience, he picked it up. The entire time looking far too amused. Then he finally looked properly at you. And stopped. The teasing smile faded. Not completely. Just enough. For a moment his gaze lingered. Taking in the sari. The gold embroidery. The carefully arranged pleats. The bangles. The effort. All of it. Something warm appeared in his expression. The kind that always made you look away first. “Kya?” you asked quietly.
A small smile returned. This one softer. “Kuch nahin.” You immediately knew he was lying. And somehow that made your cheeks warm more than any compliment could have.
The birthday gathering had grown louder as the afternoon stretched on. Children ran across the lawn in little clusters, their laughter mixing with the music playing softly through the speakers. Colorful balloons swayed in the breeze. Somewhere near the dessert table, Laiba was enthusiastically showing her friends every corner of the house as though she personally owned the entire property. She probably believed she did. You stood beside the refreshments table for a moment, smiling as another guest wished Laiba a happy birthday. The dusty rose and cocoa-brown decorations looked even prettier than you had imagined. Across the lawn, Iqbal was surrounded by guests. One of them had just arrived. A short man- Mir Sajid pulled Iqbal into a brief embrace. “Assalamualaikum meri jaan, kaisa hain?”
Iqbal laughed. “Alhamdulillah sab theek hai. Tu bata?”
“Zinda hoon. Bas kaam ne jaan nikaal rakhi hai.”
Both men laughed. You watched them from a distance before another guest approached you. Adeeb. Of course. He appeared with a glass in one hand and his usual infuriating smile. “Bhabhi jaan.”
You nodded politely. “Assalamualaikum.”
His eyes drifted around the gathering. “Bohat achi tayyari ki hai.”
“Laiba khush hai. Bas wohi kaafi hai.”
“Haan…” His gaze moved briefly toward the crowd. “Bas afsos hua ke aap ke walidain nahin aa sake.”
The familiar tension tightened inside you chest. Before you could answer, Iqbal appeared beside them. Almost casually. Almost. “Safar mushkil tha.” His tone was calm. “Unki sehat bhi utni achi nahin.”
Adeeb nodded. “Haan, Y/N ne bataya tha.” Iqbal’s expression remained pleasant. But You knew him well enough now. There was a reason he had appeared the second Adeep started asking questions. Adeeb eventually drifted away toward another group. Only for Rashid Kareem to take his place. The older man watched Adeeb disappear into the crowd before lowering his voice. “Mujhe woh ladka pasand nahin.”
Iqbal sighed. “Rashid sahib…”
“Nahin. Main sanjeedgi se keh raha hoon.”
His eyes shifted toward you. “Bohat zyada baatein karta hai.”
“Aur nazrein bhi bohat chalti hain.” Iqbal’s jaw tightened. Only slightly. Enough for you to notice. Rashid snorted. “Khair. Tumhari biwi hai. Tum jaano.”
Laiba somehow managed to get icing on her own nose, two friends, and one very expensive tablecloth.
A perfectly normal afternoon. Exactly what you had been waiting for. Because as the celebrations continued, something else slowly began happening. One by one, certain guests started disappearing from the lawn.
People who had arrived separately. People who were now quietly excusing themselves. Moving toward the interior of the house. Toward the corridor. Toward the meeting room.
You felt her pulse quicken.
Without drawing attention to herself, you waited another fifteen minutes. Long enough. Then you leaned toward Sakina.
“Bas zara dekh loon kitchen mein sab theek hai ya nahin.”
Sakina waved you away. You slipped inside. The sounds of the party gradually faded behind you.
All becoming distant. The corridor felt strangely quiet after the noise outside. The meeting room door stood slightly open.
Exactly as Alam and Mustafa had predicted. Your heart began beating harder. Slowly you approached.
The meeting had not started yet. Carefully you pushed the door open.
The room was empty. Large. Formal. A long polished wooden table occupied the center. Leather chairs surrounded it. A projector hung from the ceiling. Several framed maps decorated the walls. A side cabinet contained files and folders arranged with military precision. The air smelled faintly of paper, wood polish, and old coffee. For a second you simply stood there.
Then you quickly moved. Your fingers slipped beneath the folds of your sari. Retrieving the tiny recorder. Then the miniature camera. Your mind raced.
Not the table. Too obvious.
Not the projector. Too visible.
Not the cabinet. People opened those regularly.
Your gaze landed on a decorative clock mounted high on the wall. Perfect.
Overlooking most of the room. Rarely touched. You dragged a chair quietly beneath it. Climbed up. Your hands trembling despite her efforts to stay calm. The camera disappeared behind the wooden frame.
You finally crouched beside the large conference table. Running your fingers underneath its edge. There. A recessed support beam. Hidden from sight. You attached it carefully. Then stood.
It was done. For the first time in weeks, hope flickered inside your chest. You turned toward the door— And froze.
The door was no longer empty. Someone stood there. Watching you.
For one horrible second neither moved. Neither spoke. The room seemed to shrink around you. Rashid’s eyes dropped briefly toward the chair you had moved. Then toward your hands. Then back to your face.
His expression unreadable.
You felt every drop of blood drain from your body. And Rashid quietly closed the door behind him.
Rashid did not raise his voice.
That was what made it worse.
If he had shouted, if he had looked angry, if he had accused you outright, perhaps you would have known how to react. Instead, he simply stood there.
The door clicked shut behind him. The sound seemed deafening.
You forced herself not to look toward the table.
Rashid noticed anyway. People like him always noticed. For a long moment neither spoke. Then Rashid sighed. Almost tiredly.
“Iqbal bohat acha aadmi hai.”
The words caught you off guard. Rashid slowly walked further into the room. Not threatening. Not hurried. Just a man taking a slow walk through a room he knew well.
His gaze drifted toward one of the chairs.
“Chota tha tab se jaanta hoon usay.”
You remained silent. Rashid pulled out a chair but did not sit. His hand rested against its back.
“Tumhein pata hai uski zindagi ki sab se bari baat kya thi?”
You said nothing. He continued anyway.
“Us ke walid aur dadi ne us ki walida ko kabhi poori tarah qabool nahin kiya.”
His voice remained soft. Matter-of-fact.
“Zulm nahin kehta main usay. Magar jo cheez insaan ko har roz mehsoos karwayi jaye ke woh ghar ka hissa nahin hai… woh bhi kisi saza se kam nahin hoti.”
Rashid looked down briefly. “Bachon ko sab nazar aata hai.”
His eyes returned to yours. “Iqbal ko bhi aata tha.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs.
“Us ne bachpan mein apni maa ko nazarandaz hotay dekha.”
“Us ne dekha ke kisi ko yeh ehsaas dilaya jaye ke woh ahmiyat nahin rakhta.”
“Aur shayad isi liye us ne qasam kha li ke woh kabhi kisi aur ko yeh ehsaas nahin hone dega.”
Rashid smiled faintly. “Laiba ko dekha hai na tum ne?”
“Aise hi ghar nahin le aya tha usay.”
“Har saal kitne jawan martay hain.”
“Kitni auratein dusri shadiyan kar leti hain.”
“Kitne bachay rishtedaron ke gharon mein bant jatay hain.”
“Magar us ne nahin hone diya.”
“Us ne us bachi ko uthaya aur kaha ke yeh meri zimmedari hai.” The room felt colder.
You did not trust yourself to speak. Rashid continued. “Isi liye us ne tum par shaq nahin kiya.”
That made you finally look up. Rashid was already watching you. “Us ki fitrat hi nahin hai.”
“Aapne ghar walo par shaq karna.”
A long silence followed. Then Rashid’s expression hardened slightly. Not angry. Certain.
The words landed like stones. You felt your stomach drop.
“Jab tumhari tasveer pehli martaba us ke desk par aayi thi.” Rashid looked toward the far wall as though remembering. “Sab log khush thay.”
His gaze returned to yours. “Mujhe nahin.” The room suddenly felt too small.
“Main us waqt samjha nahin.”
“Bas itna laga ke tum kisi aur cheez ko dekh rahi ho.”
“Jaise tumhara dimagh kahin aur ho.”
“Jaise tum sirf tasveer ke liye muskura rahi ho.” You forced yourself to remain still. Rashid took another step forward. “Phir tum se mila.”
“Tumhe dekha maine, market mein, us ladki ko school se aana-lejana, Iqbal ko kaam ke beech call karke puchna agar vo theek hai.”
“Sab karti thi jo ek biwi karti hai.” He paused. “Lekin phir bhi…”
You could hear your own heartbeat. “Aankhen jhoot bolna bohat mushkil samajhti hain.”
“Zaban jhoot bol leti hai.”
Rashid’s voice dropped lower. “Aur aaj…”
His eyes flicked briefly toward the conference table. Toward the hidden recorder you prayed he had not found.
“Aaj mujhe yaqeen ho gaya.”
For several seconds neither moved. Then Rashid looked at you with something unexpected. Not hatred. Not triumph. Disappointment.
“Mera masla yeh nahin ke tum ne jhoot bola.”
“Is kaam mein sab jhoot boltay hain.”
“Mera masla yeh hai ke tum ne us aadmi ko chuna.”
His voice became almost weary.
“Jo tum par yaqeen karta hai.”
“Jo tumhari taraf dekhta hai jaise tum uski duniya ho.”
The words hit harder than any accusation. “Aur phir bhi tum yahan khari ho.”
The moment Rashid finished speaking, the room fell silent. Not the comfortable kind of silence. The kind that sat between two people like a loaded weapon.
Your could hear your own heartbeat.
Every breath felt heavier.
Rashid stood near the conference table, watching you with the certainty of a man who believed he had finally solved a puzzle.
There was no point denying it anymore. You could see it in his eyes. He knew. Maybe not everything. But enough.
Enough to destroy the mission.
Enough to destroy Mustafa.
Enough to destroy everyone.
Rashid took another step. Then another. Slowly circling you. Like a hunter who had already cornered his prey.
“Iqbal ko abhi bhi tum par shaq nahin hoga.”
“Magar agar tum hi nhi rahogi toh shaq karne ki zarurat bhi nahi.”
You remained where you were. Balanced. Ready. If it came to that.
“Darzi ke paas bhi dekha tha tumhein.”
He continued circling. His eyes narrowed. “Aaj samajh aaya kyun.”
The room seemed smaller now. The air heavier. Rashid suddenly stopped moving.
“Tum log tilchatton ki tarah ho.” [tilchatton as in cockroach okie?]
The words came out sharp.
“Jitna saaf karo utni gandagi wapas aa jati hai.”
“Apna mulk sambhalne mein tumhari gand mein pasene aa-“ Before you could complete— His hand shot forward. Grabbing the back of your head.
Your forehead slammed against the edge of the conference table. Pain exploded through your skull. For a second all you saw was white. A ringing sound filled your ears.
Rashid didn’t release you.
“Tum logon ko lagta hai tum bohat hoshiyaar ho.”
He shoved you forward again. The edge of the table dug into your ribs.
If he walked out that door— Mustafa was dead. The mission was dead. Everything was dead.
So when Rashid dragged your forward again—
His shin. Rashid hissed. His grip loosened. Just enough.
You twisted free. Staggering backwards. One hand pressed against the table. Blood trickled somewhere near your hairline.
Rashid recovered immediately. Years of military training. Years of combat. Years of experience. He lunged.
You moved aside. His shoulder crashed into the table. The entire thing shook violently. A glass paperweight fell and shattered. You drove your elbow into his back.
Rashid grunted. But didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. The next few seconds became chaos.
A chair crashing sideways.
A strike narrowly avoided.
The room turning into a battlefield. Your sari was becoming a problem. The pleats loosened. A pin snagged. Fabric pulled. One sleeve tore near the shoulder. Hair slipped free completely.
The elegant birthday outfit darzi had spent weeks preparing now looked ruined.
You hit a chair. The chair overturned beneath you. Pain shot through your shoulder. Before you could stand— He was already there.
One hand wrapped around your throat. Driving you down onto the carpet. The air left your lungs. You struggled violently.
Trying to force space between them.
Rashid’s face hovered above yours.
No longer calm. No longer disappointed. Only angry.
The sounds of the party outside felt impossibly far away.
All of it distant. You could barely breathe. Barely move. Rashid leaned closer.
A gunshot. The sound ripped through the room. Everything froze.
Rashid’s expression changed.
His grip loosened. Something warm splattered across your cheek.
For a second neither understood what had happened.
Then Rashid slowly looked down. At the spreading stain across his chest. His lips parted. No sound came out. He swayed. And collapsed. The weight vanished from above you.
You sucked in a desperate breath. Coughing. Trying to understand. Trying to think. Trying to breathe. The doorway stood open.
His chest rising and falling heavily. His eyes were fixed on Rashid’s body. Then on you.
The bruises already forming around your throat.
The position in which he had found them. For one horrible second—
You saw exactly what conclusion he reached. The pistol lowered. Iqbal crossed the room in three long strides. Dropping to his knees beside you.
His voice sounded strangled.
You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. He reached for you immediately. Pulling you upright. One arm around your shoulders. The other cradling the back of your head.
His voice shook. Just slightly.
“Main aa gaya hoon.” You felt his hand against your hair. Steady. Protective. Furious.
The words repeated again. And again. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. For several seconds neither moved. Then Iqbal stood. Helping you up carefully. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might break.
He didn’t look at Rashid again. Instead he guided you toward the door. One arm around your shoulders the entire time.
As though afraid you might collapse.
Outside the room the sounds of the party continued.
Completely unaware that a man had just died. Iqbal stopped a passing staff member. His voice low. Dangerously calm. The man immediately paled. Then hurried away.
A few minutes later Sakina appeared. One look at you and her face lost all color. Another look at Iqbal. And she understood enough not to ask questions.
Iqbal spoke quietly. Too quietly for You to hear. Sakina nodded.
Then she stepped forward. Taking your trembling hands into her own.
You looked back. Toward the closed meeting room door. Toward the secret hidden inside.
But Iqbal had already locked the door. The key disappeared into his pocket. His face unreadable. Sakina guided you upstairs. Into the bedroom.
By the time the bath was ready, You was sitting exactly where Sakina had left you. On the edge of the bed.
The room smelled faintly of bakhoor.
Sakina approached slowly. No lectures. No questions. No demands. Just quiet understanding. She sat beside you. Placed a hand gently over your knee. And squeezed.
“Garam paani tayyar hai.” Her voice was soft. Motherly. “Chaliye.”
For the first time since the gunshot— You realized you were shaking. And downstairs, unbelievably, impossibly— Laiba’s birthday party continued.
Woah mu hands hurt alot very sad these days wifi stopped workinh some wire problem and that stupid wifi guy dowsnt come:( aap sabh enjoy karien
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