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⋆ 𝑼𝒛𝒂𝒊𝒓 𝑩𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒉 ⋆

– Dare Gone Wrong (series) –

PART 1 ~ Uzair Miyan Aur Unke Hone Waale Bacche Ki Ammi

PART 2 ~ Jhooth Bole Kauwa Kaate

PART 3 ~ Tera Hone Laga Hoon

PART 4 ~ (In process)

⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅⑅

⋆ 𝑷𝒐𝒆𝒎𝒔 ⋆

Poem I & II

Poem III (AGLE JANAM) — A poem from Ulfat to Rehman

[If you feel like it, then please like, reblog and comment. LOVE YOU ♡]

#dhurandhar #dhurandhar fanfic #dhurandhar fanfiction #uzair baloch #uzair baloch fanfic #rehman dakait #hamza ali mazari #yalina jamali

sunf1over

AGLE JANAM

A poem from Ulfat to Rehman.

(It’s a little too much hindi in the starting, idk what happened to me🫠 but I’ve tried to translate the meaning and have also provided a kind of glossary.)

𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙪 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙢 𝙠𝙚 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙫 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖, 𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙢𝙖𝙞 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙝𝙧𝙖 𝙢𝙤𝙙𝙝 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙣, 𝙖𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙫𝙞𝙧𝙖𝙝 𝙠𝙞 𝙥𝙮𝙖𝙖𝙨 𝙠𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖.

𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙪 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙢 𝙠𝙚 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙫 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖, 𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙢𝙖𝙞 𝙖𝙠𝙝𝙞𝙮𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙤𝙙𝙝 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙣, 𝙖𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙖𝙣𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙜 𝙠𝙚 𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙜 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙟𝙖𝙡𝙣𝙖.

𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙪𝙟𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙝𝙞 𝙫𝙞𝙮𝙤𝙜 𝙠𝙖 𝙨𝙝𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙥 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙚, 𝙈𝙖𝙞 𝙢𝙖𝙧 𝙟𝙖𝙪𝙣.... 𝙖𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙗𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙖𝙣 𝙠𝙞 𝙖𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙟𝙞𝙮𝙚.

𝙈𝙖𝙞 𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙞 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙚 (तले) 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙞 𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙤 𝙟𝙖𝙪𝙣, 𝘼𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙟𝙚𝙚𝙫𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙧 𝙣𝙞𝙮𝙖𝙩𝙞 𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙩𝙖 𝙧𝙖𝙝𝙚. 𝙈𝙖𝙞 𝙙𝙝𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙝 𝙗𝙖𝙣 𝙠𝙖𝙧 𝙗𝙞𝙠𝙝𝙖𝙧 𝙟𝙖𝙪𝙣, 𝘼𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙟𝙚𝙚𝙫𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙟𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙝𝙨𝙤𝙤𝙨 𝙠𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙖 𝙧𝙖𝙝𝙚.

𝙈𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙚 𝙠𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙖𝙙 𝙗𝙝𝙞 𝙩𝙪 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙬𝙖𝙯𝙖 𝙩𝙖𝙠 𝙩𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖, 𝙆𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙞 𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙖 𝙣𝙖𝙖𝙢 𝙙𝙤𝙝𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙖. 𝙃𝙖𝙧 𝙖𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙖𝙯 𝙥𝙖𝙧 𝙖𝙠𝙝𝙞𝙮𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙝𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙖, 𝘼𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙝𝙞𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙪𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙠𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙩 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖.

𝙃𝙖𝙧 𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙧e 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙠 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙪 𝙧𝙤𝙮𝙚, 𝙃𝙖𝙧 𝙙𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙣 𝙖𝙪𝙧 𝙠𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙡𝙞 𝙝𝙤𝙩𝙖 𝙟𝙖𝙖𝙮𝙚. 𝙈𝙖𝙞 𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙪𝙥 𝙠𝙖𝙧 𝙨𝙤 𝙟𝙖𝙪𝙣, 𝘼𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙖𝙨𝙢𝙖𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙪𝙟𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙩𝙖 𝙧𝙚𝙝 𝙟𝙖𝙖𝙮𝙚.

𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙪 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙢 𝙠𝙚 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙫 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖, 𝙆𝙞𝙨𝙞 𝙠𝙞 𝙮𝙖𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙣 𝙠𝙤 𝙖𝙥𝙣𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙠𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖. 𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙪 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙢 𝙠𝙚 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙫 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖, 𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙞 𝙠𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙩 𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙚 𝙠𝙞 𝙖𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙟𝙚𝙚𝙣𝙖.

[ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴅᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪʀꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ᴀᴠᴇʀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴜʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇʟᴏᴅʏ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ.

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴍᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ᴅɪᴇ…. ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴ.

ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇꜰᴜʟʟʏ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ, ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇ ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ. ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ꜱᴄᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍɪꜱᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ.

ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀᴡᴀʏ, ʀᴇᴘᴇᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴇᴍᴘᴛʏ ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛʏᴀʀᴅ. ᴀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴍᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴛᴜʀɴ ɪɴ ʜᴏᴘᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɴ ᴅɪꜱᴀᴘᴘᴏɪɴᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ.

ᴍᴀʏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴏᴜʀɴ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴅᴀʏ ᴍᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴇᴍᴘᴛɪᴇʀ. ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ʜɪᴅᴇ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀᴍᴏɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ, ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ.

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ’ꜱ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴛɪᴏɴ.

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʟɪᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ.]

ʙʜᴀᴀᴠ – ꜰʟᴏᴡ. ᴠɪʀᴀʜ – ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀᴄʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴇ. ᴀᴋʜɪʏᴀɴ – ᴇʏᴇꜱ. ᴀɴᴜʀᴀᴀɢ – ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄʜᴍᴇɴᴛ. ʀᴀᴀɢ – ᴍᴇʟᴏᴅʏ. ᴠɪʏᴏɢ – ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏʀ ʟᴏꜱꜱ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ. ꜱʜʀᴀᴀᴘ – ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇ. ᴍɪʟᴀɴ – ᴜɴɪᴏɴ. ᴛᴀʟᴇ (तले) – ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ. ɴɪʏᴀᴛɪ – ᴅᴇꜱᴛɪɴʏ, ꜰᴀᴛᴇ. ᴅʜᴜɴᴅʜ – ᴍɪꜱᴛ. ꜱʜᴏᴋ – ᴍᴏᴜʀɴɪɴɢ.

Taglist—

@miraclejin1204 @mainyahaankyunhoon @writrsblu @geometric-circle @desi-brownie @chocolate-and-trouble @twinblueflamee @seasonofthenerd @avasif @ppinkitten @cherryyelixir @scentedwolfdragon @rehmandakaitswife @goldenharrysworld @cloudyparadoxqueen @pleasetagmejaaneman @quillbyana @mrgrungusthefrog @kuch-toh-log-kahengeee @psychicpandadefendor @judespoision @sea-breeze-in-my-hair @gloriouspurpose01 @leftmakerpaperpie @debsreads21 @doresthings @cloudmast @youneversawmeherelol @curiousbutbored @falakrazzaq @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @gulaabjamun08

khoonaurkhanjar

A MASTERPIECEE! 🤌

To think that Ulfat went through all this alone and wished for Rehman to come back every single day! 😭💗

sunf1over

Thank you bbg❤️

Ulfat definitely did, she loved him too much to let go that easily🥹

AGLE JANAM

A poem from Ulfat to Rehman.

(It’s a little too much hindi in the starting, idk what happened to me🫠 but I’ve tried to translate the meaning and have also provided a kind of glossary.)

Taglist—

#dhurandhar #rehman dakait #rehman baloch #ulfat dakait #ulfat baloch #short poem #poems and poetry

sunf1over

I was feeling a little bad for not being able to post anything lately, so here are two short poems I ended up writing in between my classes, inspired entirely by the mango tree outside my classroom window. My quiet muse basking in the afternoon sun.

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POEM I

𝙅𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙪 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙚, 𝙬𝙖𝙝𝙞 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙞 𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙝 𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙚, 𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙦𝙖𝙙𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙠𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙞 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙞 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙝 𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙚. 𝙅𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙡 𝙙𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙮𝙤𝙣 𝙠𝙞 𝙘𝙝𝙝𝙖𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣, 𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙞𝙣𝙖 𝙠𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙖𝙨𝙖 𝙝𝙞 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙖 𝙟𝙖𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙣 𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙚.

[ᴡʜɪᴄʜᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴍʏ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ᴛᴏᴏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴏᴏᴛꜱᴛᴇᴘꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴍʏ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇ. ʟɪᴋᴇ ꜰʟᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ ᴡɪʟᴛɪɴɢ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ᴏꜰ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ, ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ʟɪꜰᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ.]

POEM II

𝙈𝙖𝙞 𝙠𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙯 𝙠𝙞 𝙢𝙪𝙧𝙟𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙮𝙞 𝙡𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙪, 𝙑𝙤 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙩𝙞 𝙩𝙖𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙞. 𝙈𝙖𝙞 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙩 𝙥𝙚 𝙠𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙞 𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙞 𝙝𝙪, 𝙑𝙤 𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙝𝙞 𝙠𝙖𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙞 𝙨𝙞. 𝙈𝙖𝙞 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙮𝙖 𝙢𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙗𝙩𝙞 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙮𝙞 𝙝𝙪, 𝙑𝙤 𝙖𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙠𝙚 𝙣𝙖𝙠𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣 𝙟𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙞.

~ from Hamza to Yalina (I guess)

[ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴅᴇᴅ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ꜰʀᴀɢɪʟᴇ ᴘᴀᴘᴇʀ, ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀɴ ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ɢʟᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ. ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴀ ᴍᴀʀᴋ ꜱᴄʀᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ʙʀɪᴇꜰʟʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀɴᴅ, ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴀᴍᴏɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀꜱ. ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴀ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴅʀᴏᴡɴɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪᴠᴇʀ, ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ꜱᴘʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ.]

ᴛᴀʜʀᴇᴇʀ – ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ, ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ. (ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀ ꜱʟᴀᴠᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴇᴛ ꜰʀᴇᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴄᴇʀᴛɪꜰɪᴄᴀᴛᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜰʀᴇᴇᴅᴏᴍ ᴡᴀꜱ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱ ᴛᴀʜʀᴇᴇʀ.) ᴀᴍʙᴇʀ – ꜱᴋʏ. ɴᴀᴋꜱʜᴀᴛʀᴏɴ – ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ.

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I am working on DGW part 4 – Hum Doo Hamare Doo (I will try my best to post it in a day or two.)

Tagging people because idk—

mrgrungusthefrog

OKAY SHAKESPEAREEEE

sunf1over

Awww thanks baby❤️ Sugar is definitely the second sweetest thing on Earth, because the first is YOU✨

mrgrungusthefrog

OKAY STOP I LOVE YOU

sunf1over

Okay I’ll stop, love you too💋

sunf1over

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POEM I

POEM II

~ from Hamza to Yalina (I guess)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

I am working on DGW part 4 – Hum Doo Hamare Doo (I will try my best to post it in a day or two.)

Tagging people because idk—

mrgrungusthefrog

OKAY SHAKESPEAREEEE

sunf1over

Awww thanks baby❤️ Sugar is definitely the second sweetest thing on Earth, because the first is YOU✨

Thank you to everyone who got me to 500 likes!

Ohmygod thank you guys🎀💖

#500 likes #tumblr milestone #thank you

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POEM I

POEM II

~ from Hamza to Yalina (I guess)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

I am working on DGW part 4 – Hum Doo Hamare Doo (I will try my best to post it in a day or two.)

Tagging people because idk—

#dhurandhar #uzair baloch #hamza ali mazari #yalina jamali #poetry #short poem

writrsblu

Alam Bhai's Backstory

This is a fan theory written in appreciation of the Dhurandhar films and Gaurav Gera's performance, which wrecked me. All historical context is documented and sourced: RAW's founding mandate and the Bangladesh operation are a matter of public record per former RAW official B. Raman's writings; the Balochistan insurgency of 1973-77 is extensively documented; inland groundwater salinity in UP and the broader Indo-Gangetic belt is covered in peer-reviewed hydrochemical studies. The interpretation of Mohammed Alam is entirely mine, and Aditya Dhar probably did not intend all of this, but I choose to believe he did.

I need to talk about Alam Bhai.

Specifically, I need to talk about two details that the Dhurandhar films throw at you almost in passing — details that, on the surface, seem totally unconnected, and that some people on the internet have actually flagged as a continuity error. I want to make the case that they are not a continuity error.

I want to make the case that they are, in fact, the most carefully constructed piece of characterisation in both films, and that if you sit with them long enough against the actual documented history of what RAW was doing in the 1970s, an entire life assembles itself.

The two details:

One:Alam Bhai drinks salty tea. In Dhurandhar, he tells Hamza that hamare yahan khara pani aata hai — the water where he comes from has always tasted like this. Hamza tries the tea and nearly chokes.

Two:Dhurandhar: The Revenge tells us, almost as an aside, that before he was an Indian spy handler in Karachi, Alam Bhai was a pickpocket from Bareilly.

Someone on X pointed out the obvious problem: "If Aalam was a pickpocket from Bareilly, then why did he say 'hamare yahan khara pani aata hai'? I don't think there is any saltwater river/lake in or around Bareilly." They tagged it #peakdetailing missed and moved on.

I went and looked this up. I went and looked a lot of things up. And I think what's actually happening here is something much more interesting than a writing oversight.

Bear with me.

So the X post assumes that hamare yahan means Bareilly. But does it? Alam says where I come from, not where I grew up working as a pickpocket. These are potentially two very different places. And here's the thing about Bareilly it's a city, it's a major railway junction, it's exactly the kind of transit hub where a young man who grew up somewhere else entirely might end up running pockets on the platforms.

The wallets were in Bareilly. That doesn't mean Bareilly was home.

So where is home? Where in India do people actually grow up drinking brackish, mineral-heavy groundwater?

Okay, this is where I fell down a research hole for an embarrassing amount of time. It turns out that inland groundwater salinity — the kind that makes borewell and handpump water taste mineral and slightly salty — is extensively documented across UP, Haryana, Rajasthan, and the broader Indo-Gangetic belt.

A 2020 study published in the Journal of the Geological Society of India on the Ramganga aquifer specifically (which covers Bareilly district, for what it's worth) found that nearly half of all groundwater samples in the region fall under "poor" or "very poor" quality categories, with high TDS and salinity flagged at multiple sites. A broader review in Environmental Science & Technology documents inland salinity as a "growing problem" across UP, Haryana, Punjab, Rajasthan, and Bihar — not from seawater, but from rock weathering, irrigation overextraction, and the simple geological composition of the aquifer.

What this means practically: in the 1960s and 1970s, before RO systems, before water trucking reached rural areas, before any state intervention got to these communities, poor villages across a very wide stretch of northern India were simply drinking whatever the ground gave them. And what the ground gave them was, in many places, mineral-heavy and vaguely saline. Rich families found alternatives. Poor families drank from handpumps and their palates adapted.

So when Alam says hamare yahan khara pani aata hai, I don't think he's describing a saltwater lake. I think he's describing the specific, ordinary, invisible poverty of a village where nobody ever fixed the water supply.

He left that village at some point ,we don't know when, we don't know why, the film never names it and ended up in Bareilly. Already displaced once. Already operating somewhere he wasn't from. Already practised, in other words, in being somewhere he didn't belong.

Now: The Pickpocket Question

Why Bareilly specifically?

Bareilly Junction is one of the most important railway stations in UP. It sits on the trunk line connecting Delhi to the hills — which means it has historically been a transit point for pilgrims going to Haridwar and Rishikesh, soldiers rotating to northern postings, traders, students, and everyone moving between the plains and the mountains. Constant crowds. Constant distraction. Constant opportunity for someone with quick hands and a talent for reading people to make a living.

Rohilkhand — the region Bareilly is the capital of — also has one of the largest Muslim populations in UP. Bareilly itself is home to the Dargah Ala Hazrat and is one of the most significant centres of the Barelvi tradition in South Asia. A youn man growing up in the mixed neighbourhoods around the station, or coming in from a village in the region, would have been code-switching between Hindi, Urdu, and the particular Bareillvi inflection of both before he was a teenager. He would have known how to talk to everyone. How to blend into any crowd on that platform — pilgrims, traders, soldiers, students, all of them.

This is not irrelevant. This is, I would argue, exactly the profile that RAW was looking for.

What RAW Was Actually Built to Do

A key member of the Indian Intelligence Community, R&AW's mandate includes surveillance of foreign politico-military developments that directly affect India's foreign policy, counterproliferation and counterterrorism.[5][6]

this is the part where the history gets genuinely fascinating and I cannot stress enough that all of this is documented.

RAW was founded in September 1968 under its first chief, Rameshwar Nath Kao, with Indira Gandhi's direct patronage. Kao laid out two founding priorities explicitly. The first was conventional: collect intelligence on Pakistan and China. The second was something else entirely: conduct covert action in East Pakistan.

What that meant, in practice, was that India's external intelligence agency was built from the ground up with a mandate to break Pakistan apart. And it worked. By 1971, RAW was training Mukti Bahini guerrillas in Indian refugee camps, providing intelligence and equipment support, facilitating the political conditions — and in December of that year, East Pakistan became Bangladesh.

The operation is now openly discussed by former RAW officials including B. Raman, who served as head of the Counter-Terrorism division, who has written about it frankly.

Here is the thing. After 1971, Indira Gandhi and Kao looked at what they had just accomplished and then looked west.

West Pakistan — the Pakistan that remained — was already fracturing. The Balochistan insurgency began in 1973 when Bhutto dismissed the elected provincial government and sent 80,000 soldiers in. It ran until 1977, killed thousands, and eventually pushed around 30,000 Baloch fighters into Afghanistan. Sindh had its own simmering discontents.

And Karachi — the country's great port city, its commercial capital — was a pressure cooker. Baloch, Sindhi, Mohajir, Pashtun communities, all competing for the same political oxygen, the same economic resources, in the same dense urban space. The fractures were real. They were deep. And from the then Prime Minister's strategic perspective, post-Bangladesh, they were opportunity.

It is now documented — including in academic research on RAW's historical operations — that during the 1970s, India began building human assets inside Baloch and Sindhi separatist-adjacent communities in Pakistan. Not soldiers. Not diplomats. People who could disappear into the fabric of Karachi. People who could build relationships across years, decades, feeding intelligence back to India and, where useful, quietly feeding the fires of discontent that Indira Gandhi needed kept burning at a manageable temperature.

This is, I believe, the mission Mohammed Alam was originally recruited for. Not to handle Indian spies. That came much, much later.

The Arrest That Wasn't

Here's what I think happened to a young Alam Bhai, and I want to be clear that this is my inference from the historical context — the film doesn't spell this out — but I think it fits the evidence better than anything else.

He was picked up at Bareilly station. Maybe arrested, maybe just detained, maybe just taken for a conversation in a room that wasn't quite a police station by a man who wasn't quite a police officer. This would have been the late 1970s — let's say around 1978-1980, given that Gaurav Gera was born in 1973 and Alam reads as being in his early-to-mid sixties during the events of the film, which places his birth around 1960 and his early twenties in that window.

And what RAW was looking for in this era. Not soldiers. Not graduates. Not anyone with a file, a record of government service, a traceable identity. What Kao's RAW needed for long-term deep cover in Pakistan were people who were already invisible — people who had learned, by necessity, to move through crowds unnoticed, to read strangers quickly, to be trusted without being remembered.

People whose lives had not left a paper trail because the state had never been interested enough in them to create one. People, in other words, exactly like a young man from a poor UP village, with no formal education on record, no employment history, no family connections to any institution — who had been surviving for years by reading people at a railway junction and taking things they would not notice were gone until he was already somewhere else.

The profile was not incidental. It was the point.

The man across the table from him would have explained, with the particular efficiency of someone who has done this before, that there was an option. The option involved going somewhere far from Bareilly. It involved becoming someone else. It involved work that could not be discussed, in service of objectives that would not be explained to him in full.

Now think about what Alam was weighing against that offer. He was in his early twenties. He had left — or been pushed from — a village that couldn't give him a future. He had no trade, no patron, no education, no land. He had been lifting wallets at a train station, which meant every day was one bad moment away from the kind of arrest that didn't end in a quiet conversation but in the system swallowing him whole. He had no one to call. Nowhere to go back to that wasn't, in some fundamental way, already a dead end.

He said yes. Of course he said yes. Not because the offer was good. Because the alternative — the one where he stayed, kept running pockets, kept waiting for the arrest that didn't come with an option attached — was not a life. It was just a slow version of the same ending.

The state was not doing him a favour. The state was recognising, with cold-eyed practicality, that a certain kind of person only becomes available for this work when desperation has already done most of the recruitment for you. RAW didn't find Alam in spite of who he was. It found him because of it. Because the village with the salty water and the years at the station had already stripped away every other option.

All RAW had to do was show up and offer one more.

Pickpocketing at a busy railway station already teaches you: Surveillance and counter-surveillance: you are constantly reading who is watching, where the plainclothes police are, who is paying attention to you and who isn't. You develop a paranoia that is actually just hypervigilance. RAW trains this deliberately. Alam already had it as muscle memory. Crowd psychology:you know exactly how to engineer the moment of distraction. You understand how people's attention works, where it goes under stress, what makes a person look left while you're on their right. This is the core of any field operative's toolkit. Physical composure : a pickpocket who looks nervous is a caught pickpocket. You learn to keep your face, your walk, your hands completely calm while doing something that should make your heart race. This is what intelligence training calls "legend maintenance" — holding your cover under pressure. Reading people in seconds: who is distracted, who is alert, who is carrying what where, who is alone, who is in a group. Alam could profile a mark in thirty seconds at a railway platform. In Lyari that becomes: who is ISI-adjacent, who is safe to talk to, who is being watched. Exit planning :every pickpocket knows three ways out of every situation before they move. Standard tradecraft. Operating without leaving traces:no records, no witnesses, no evidence. His whole livelihood depended on this.

What He Was Sent to Do in Lyari

Lyari, in the late 1970s and early 1980s, was not yet the full-blown gang war zone it would become. It was a dense, working-class, predominantly Baloch and Makrani neighbourhood — Karachi's oldest — with deep cultural roots and genuine political grievances. Exactly the kind of community where a patient, trusted insider could do the slow work of intelligence cultivation that RAW's post-Bangladesh strategy required.

A small business was the obvious cover. Cash, foot traffic, legitimate reason to be present in conversations across all social strata of the neighbourhood. Labourers, political workers, low-level criminals, police contacts — everyone needed somewhere to sit and drink something and talk. And the man behind the counter would have been, over years and then decades, simply there. Unremarkable. Trusted. Forgotten the moment you left, remembered warmly the next time you arrived.

I want to stress what "decades" means here. If Alam was deployed around 1980 and the events of Dhurandhar take place in the early-to-mid 2010s (consistent with the Operation Lyari timeline, which ran from 2012-2023), then Alam was in Karachi for thirty-something years before Hamza walked through his door. He arrived with a mission that was, in the strategic terms of Indira Gandhi's RAW, about cultivating Baloch and Sindhi separatist networks.

He would have still been operating under that mandate when Indira Gandhi was assassinated in 1984. When Rajiv Gandhi came and went. When the Khalistan crisis consumed RAW's bandwidth through the 1980s. When the Cold War ended. When the nuclear tests happened. When Kargil happened. When the whole geopolitical context of his original mission had quietly ceased to exist.

Nobody flew to Karachi to tell him it was over. He received new instructions as they came. He adapted as directed. The juice shop stayed open.

He became, over time, a general-purpose asset. A courier. A facilitator. A handler. Roles that accreted onto him across thirty years because he was there and he was trusted and institutional memory in any intelligence organisation is a kind of gravity — you use what you have, what you know works, what has survived.

The Tea, Again

And here is the thing about the salty tea that I keep coming back to.

In Karachi, it would have needed no explanation whatsoever. Pakistan has its own robust salted tea tradition — noon chai, the Kashmiri pink tea made with gunpowder leaves, milk, baking soda, and salt, is consumed several times daily across Kashmir and the mountain communities and carries associations of highland, of cold weather, of a certain kind of rootedness in a particular geography. In a port city built from migrant communities from every corner of the subcontinent, an older man with a preference for salt in his tea would have read as regional. As particular. As himself and nothing more.

But what it actually was — and this is the piece that I think is quietly devastating if you read it this way — is a habit so old that it predates his cover identity by decades. It is older than Hamza. It is older than Lyari. It is the taste of water from a nameless village in UP that the film never identifies because it never needed to, because Alam himself probably stopped saying its name at some point in the 1980s when it became clear that saying it was a form of risk he couldn't afford.

He is in his sixties. He has been someone else for longer than he was ever himself. And the one thing that survived all of it, the one habit that thirty years of being Mohammed Alam the Karachi juice shop owner never overrode, is the way he makes his tea.

Hamare yahan khara pani aata hai.

He was never really from Bareilly. He was never really from Lyari. He was from wherever the water tastes like that — a village that policy forgot, that the state never fixed, that he was taken from when he was young and brought back from only in the way you carry a flavour in your body long after the place that made it has become something you can no longer afford to remember.

Nobody interrogates old habits in old men. This is probably the only honest thing Alam ever got to say out loud, in a life that contained almost nothing else that was honest.

DISCLAIMER: disclaimer: this is not political propaganda. i am 17 years old. my prefrontal cortex is still under construction and i just think morally questionable men with guns and unresolved trauma make for compelling fiction.

sunf1over

The depth here is crazy👏✨☕

whyishekinda

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Hey guys donate if you can, even a small amount counts. And it's okay if you can't but please share it, so it can reach more people.

s4nzt

ajay sanyal husband headcanons ??

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laal-pari

Uzair Baloch and his Wasted Potential

A/N - In which Uzair Baloch has ADHD and I'm sorry if this is bit non canon but I read all the angst y'all were putting out and got inspired really hard. It is canon divergent. Idk why. I just started writing and here it is.

----- Everyone experiences ADHD differently other than the core struggles. It might vary from person to person and there are a lot of factors which are less spoken about. What I've covered is something I personally dealt with. And I'm sorry if this is triggering for some 😭

I'm sorry to all my neurospicy folks who had to deal with shit in a world that is not made to accomodate us. Trust me it'll get better. Sending you lots of love and hugs.

To all the people who have read my other Jassi X OC fanfic, trust me when I say this. I WANT TO WRITE AND POST IT SO Y'ALL CAN ENJOY IT. But I'm reworking quite a lot so give me some time, my babies! I love y'all!

Uploading Part 2 in an hour or so...

Part 1

Uzair prided himself on being indispensable to Rehman Baloch. He loved the fact that his was the first hand to touch the door that Rehman Bhai walked through.

He kept note of Rehman’s meetings, events, business deals and other happenings and while he did all this, he also knew that Rehman himself had a great brain and didn't need to be reminded about these scheduled meetings. He could never complain to his brother about how difficult it was for him sometimes to keep it all together.

To remember all the dates and the possibility of not remembering something that was said to him in passing. He never told anyone why he always had his diary with him. Because he forgot.

He knew that his brother knew and there were times when Rehman's irritation about him forgetting something bled through but then it would be wiped away with an understanding and acceptance so profound, Uzair’s shame would either evaporate into nothingness or become a living thing sitting in his chest.

But when he functioned to his full capacity and did everything the way it was meant to be, he was wiped out by day's end. Even if he didn't, the tiredness found him every night and made his brain feel like it was filled with cotton. He would come home and sit in his room with no capacity to do anything else.

He wanted to go and help his Bhabhi in the kitchen, or to go to Naeem and Faizal and ask them if they needed anything to eat that he could go out and get but the tiredness would answer with a big fat NO and make him stay in place. No matter how many times he told himself, “Uth Ja! Uth bhi ja! UTH Uzair! Get up, damn it!” He couldn't bring himself to move.

He remembered the first time it had happened in eighth grade, when he was supposed to submit some assignments. He had sat on Rehman Bhai's expensive soft couch and told himself to get the fuck up. No amount of mental scolding or telling himself that he would fail and have to repeat eighth grade had motivated him to get started on the project. He had eventually failed and Rehman Bhai still hadn't scolded him.

His aptitude in numbers and calculations conquered anything and everything but the shame of being a failure in performing even the basics of tasks made him feel like he wasn't enough. Instead he would spend his days engaging in tasks that would arrest his attention for hours, days and weeks on end.

He had read about a special type of stone that was found in Baltistan and read about them for days. He had heard one of Rehman Bhai’s henchmen talking about knife wounds causing infections so he had spent days visiting the utensil shops and his friend's father's steel factory to understand whether steel would not cause infections. His life was a trail of mini passion projects started for fun but were abandoned when his mind put a road block and said it didn't want to go that way again.

He might be an almost thirty eight year old man but the insecurity still gnawed at him. And when it got to him so much that he couldn't keep track of his failures and his brain kept pointing accusing fingers, he went to the kabootarkhana.

Hamza's kabootarkhana that Uzair didn't realise had become a sanctuary for him. He would walk into the place and get rid of his kurta while face planting himself on Hamza's bed as the long haired man cooked food and set the table without asking Uzair to do anything. He was simply allowed to exist. It's not like the Baloch Haveli demanded that he do anything more but not doing anything and seeing his family members reminded him that he SHOULD be.

Hamza would bring in piping hot Jeera rice and Aloo Gosht and try to shake Uzair to make him sit up. There were times when even that required a whole lot of effort. Hamza would grab Uzair by the nape of his neck, hold his opposite hand and pull him up in a sitting position.

They both shared a secret that they could never tell the world; that Hamza, while eating his own food, would feed tiny morsels to Uzair. He would swipe another hand on his chin if something stuck there and Uzair couldn't understand what he had done to receive this special treatment. Why wasn't Hamza telling him that he's a grown man and should eat on his own?

There was another secret that Uzair had never told Hamza but he had found out despite that. Uzair had trouble getting himself into the bathroom or brushing his teeth at times. The moment he would open his eyes, a hundred things and tasks would come rushing at him. The weight of the upcoming tasks was such that he couldn't do anything else.

He would be ready to enter the bathroom when he would remember the glocks from the factory were getting some negative feedback. He would remember the client who had given it and that he owned an Imphala. Imphalas in the eighties came in a beautiful moss green colour and that moss green colour would remind him of Hamza's eyes. His weakness. He would think of Hamza and his indomitable presence in the gang despite being a new member. He would remember that Hamza had been the one who had pulled Faizal out of the jaws of death and made sure Naeem was safe behind the food counter. Uzair would remember Hamza also had a stall there and they sold his favourite guava juice. Guavas reminded him of that one tree near his school that he spent time sitting underneath because, “Hoge tum Rehman Baloch ke bhai, lekin him gadhon ko humare saath nahi khilaate,” is what his classmate had said. Uzair never told his brother about it but his classmates' bitter words pierced through him like a dagger.

While Uzair would sit being lost in his rapidly forming thoughts, Rehman Bhai would call him out from the below, telling him it was time to go. The only option left would be a strong Nike deodorant that truly did its job and chewing on some saunf to battle bad breath.

One day, Uzair had been sitting in his bedroom on an arm chair, wearing a comfortable white kurta he had slept in with his legs extended on a small stool in front.

Hamza had walked in because Uzair had not responded to everyone calling his name. He was stuck in one of his loops of thoughts that had hijacked his executive function.

“Tu nahaya nahi ab tak?” asked Hamza.

The question had no answer but it successfully injected a healthy dose of shame in Uzair's veins and made his cheeks and hurt burn.

But such was the gentleness with which Hamza asked the question, that the answer spilled out of Uzair.

“Me uth nahi paa raha, Hamza,” he whispered.

“Matlab? Pair me dard hai? Tujhe kal bola tha shoutout ke baad patti karaane,”

“Nahi, Hamza. Mujhe koi chot nahi lagi hai! Mein bas -” he cut himself off when Uzair realised the futility of trying to explain to someone that there was something wrong with him.

“Uzair,” came Hamza's voice and this time it wasn't casual. It was spoken with intention. As if Hamza knew that he would make Uzair focus on him with just a word. “Bata mujhe,”

And so Uzair vomited out everything; every small thing he couldn't do until it absolutely needed to be done. He told him how he only entered the bathroom because Ulfat bhabhi would tell him that she brought two buckets of hot water on the first floor for him, all by herself. That if someone told him about something and he hadn't written it down, it would disappear in the labyrinth of his brain like it never existed. He would always ask Rehman Bhai to decide the dates or ask the workers how long they'll take because he couldn't for the life of him estimate how much time it would take to complete a consignment. That he was a dumbfuck who Rehman Bhai should've kicked out of his house long back.

When he was done talking, Hamza stood and walked out of the room. Uzair wanted to follow him, to bring back Hamza and tell him that he would be fine, that he wasn't broken but even that would take effort and his brain was drawing a massive fuck you to him if he even thought of performing a task as basic as getting up and walking.

He still tried, made a futile attempt to reason with his brain to please make him get up. Not just once but multiple times. So many times that before he knew it, sobs were making his chest wrack.

Why was he like this? He was useless. Rehman Bhai was charitable enough to keep him around only because no one in the world wanted the burden of having a failure around them. An adult who couldn’t even remember simple things. Who couldn't even stand up and walk without having to perform extreme mental gymnastics.

The door opened and Hamza walked in again. He didn't rush ahead or tell Uzair to shut the fuck up the way the kids at school would do long back. He just went and stood in front of the crying man.

Hamza didn't say or ask anything before pulling Uzair's head into the hardness of his belly. Uzair's shoulders shook as held onto Hamza's waist and continued crying as Hamza combed his hair with his fingers.

“Maine sabko jaane ke liye keh diya,” said Hamza when Uzair's sobs had subsided.

“Par kyu? Bhai ki meetings kaun dekhega? Hamza mujhe jaana hoga,” argued Uzair trying to pull himself out of Hamza's hold.

“Donga aur Siyahi sambhaal lenge. Donga jitna gadha dikhta hai, utna hai nahi,” reasoned Hamza.

Hamza stood straighter and pulled Uzair up by his arms. When Uzair was standing upright and towering over him, Hamza pulled him by the arm and took him to his attached bathroom. The warm yellow lights painted Hamza in a hue that made him look majestic. He walked around the place as if he owned it; knew where everything was.

Hamza turned on the tap on the marble counter which had a bowl-like basin in between. All Uzair had to do was bend and splash his face with water. When he was finished and the coolness had woken him up, there was a brush ready with toothpaste on it.

While he brushed his teeth, Hamza walked to the glass partition that formed the bathroom and turned on the geyser. The long haired man walked up and made Uzair gulp when he held the hem of Uzair's kurta and pulled it over his head. Goosebumps erupted across his body in response to the cold. Then he was being pushed into the shower and Hamza was gone.

The tears flowed again as if they were competing with water droplets from the shower. When Uzair stepped out with a towel around his waist, Hamza was standing on the balcony.

As Uzair dressed up, he couldn't keep his eyes off Hamza's back and the hair cascading down it. Uzair wanted to go ahead and touch his hair, to see whether it was as soft as he thought it would be.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when Hamza turned around and walked towards him. Uzair felt his breath pick up the moment Hamza stood close enough to touch. He had to slightly look down to look into his piercing moss green eyes that didn't miss anything.

“Aaj aapki chutti hai, Uzair miyan. Jo karna chahe wo kar sakte hai,” said Hamza.

“Mujhe bas ek jagah par baithna hai. Kabhi kabaar khayal bohot tez ho jaate hai par aaj mujhe unhe sunna hai. Ya phir…”

“Ya phir?”

Uzair moved on pure instinct. One minute, he could feel his hands hanging loose at his sides. The next, he lifted a palm and cupped Hamza's cheek, his beard ticking Uzair's palm. Uzair tried finding the words but nothing came out. It was impossible to put in words, how right this felt, how worth it. The sheer longing he felt threatened to crack his chest open because he wanted… God, he wanted.

“Agar tu kahe toh me ruk jaunga, Hamza,” whispered Uzair.

“Aur agar me naa rukna chahu toh?” asked Hamza, breathing visibly hitched.

“Toh mujhe nahi pata main kya kar baithunga,” said Uzair, touching his forehead to Hamza's. “Please,”

The word was enough for Hamza to grip Uzair's nape and pull him close so their lips were inches apart. It was surreal. Being so close to the man whose company Uzair had longed for ever since he had seen him the first time. He always heard young people talk about butterflies in their stomachs. So this is how it felt.

“Hamza, mein nahi– Mujhse nahi raha Jaa raha, please. Kya karke maanega, yaar. Mein tuj–”

Hamza finally gave in and sealed his lips to Uzair's, feeling tiny sparks shoot inside his chest. He wasn't supposed to. He had a mission to complete. But something inside him had given in to Uzair's helplessness.

The feeling of being needed and helping someone live their life. But it wasn't anyone though. It was Uzair. The stupid lamppost who had made it impossible to ignore him. Uzair, who listened and never questioned anything Hamza said and gave him his undivided attention and utmost trust.

The kiss was lava. Spreading through his system and charring everything inside him, till there was nothing left but Uzair's desperation with which he kissed back and pulled at Hamza's pathani kurta. The tiny moans of contentment sent Hamza's blood pumping to unimaginable degrees. His heart felt too big to stay inside. The way Uzair's skin felt under his fingers and the feeling of Uzair's pulse under his palm made Hamza feel powerful.

He knew that if need be, Uzair would give him his life. He would willingly lay it down for Hamza, that’s how much he trusted the man. Every part of his trained self might tell him to use the opportunity but this was the first time his honed instincts were fighting against their training.

Master manipulator

God, you're so good at what you do

Come for me like a savior

And I'd put myself through hell for you

Hear all the rumors lately

That you always denied

And I fell for you like water

Falls from the February sky

But now the current's stronger

No, I couldn't get out if I tried

But you convinced me, baby

It was all in my mind

Hamza couldn't explain it but maybe there was something about Uzair that brought out Jaskirat. When he was playing football with Uzair at the factory, he thought of Gurbaaz and how the boy used to defeat him at playing kanche. There were times when Jassi let him win and watched as Gurbaaz around in the soil laughing. He had loved the boy like he loved Harleen and Jasleen.

But whatever he was feeling for Uzair right now was a chapter that Jassi had not been fortunate enough to experience. A missed opportunity that any young adult should've gotten to experience. Instead here he was, in a lair of vipers, trying to mould himself into a viper himself so he could rule and command them all.

When Hamza pulled back, they were a pair of swollen lips, heaving chests and breathless lungs. The heat that had started pumping through his veins had now cooled down to serenity. When Uzair leaned his forehead on Hamza's shoulder, Hamza patted his neck and placed a soft kiss on head.

After that, Hamza showed up every morning. He would repeat his everyday routine and Uzair felt Hamza's understanding and acceptance crack open his heart that he had been so scared to expose.

Uzair's blind trust scared Hamza. He knew it was necessary to keep Uzair around but when he looked into those brown eyes that would already be staring at him with longing, lust, yearning and after a point, love, Hamza's guilt would threaten to burn him alive.

And to get rid of it, he would fall into a rabbit of masochism, that involved assaulting his brain with images of a burnt memory. He reminded himself of a lifetime of love and happiness that was broken and ruined way too soon. He would remind himself about why he was here through these memories.

But here were consequences to Hamza's hurtful trip down memory lane. He would be snapping at the boys at football and would ruthlessly negotiate with any dealer who tried to be too smart for his own good. Touch was poison and he would give off such unreachable vibes that Donga, Siyahi and everyone would give him his space.

Uzair did too but the coldness hurt him. Not because Hamza wasn't paying him attention but because he would not let Uzair help him. Until he did.

One such night, Uzair had followed Hamza to his kabootarkhana. Hamza had been sitting on his balcony, smoking like a chimney. When he saw Uzair from above, he had rushed to let the taller man in, his mind filled with worries about potential wounds or him being in one of his zones of major executive dysfunction.

Hamza had roamed his hands on Uzair’s body checking for injuries and blood but had only found his eyes full of curiosity, questions and love.

Love that he put there.

Love that he did not deserve.

Love that had no business pulling at Hamza's heartstrings as well.

After he had shut the door, Hamza had walked into his kitchen and started cooking. His favourite and most simplest recipe. Dal Gosht.

When he served it to Uzair and watched the man devour the food, Hamza wanted to feed him more and be the reason he was not hungry. It fucked him up that all he wanted to keep Uzair safe and away from the world. After Hamza had cleaned the dishes while Uzair had futilely tried to help, they had ended up sitting down. Hamza on the chair near the table and Uzair lounging on the bed.

While Hamza sat and looked out at Lyari, his mind churned plans on how to conquer the city, but they were soon replaced by whether or not he should try approaching Jamaali's daughter, but where would he find her? Then his thoughts drifted to his training days and Rizwaan, his brother in arms. When his brain slapped him with Harleen and Jasleen's tinkling laughter, Hamza felt a pang in his chest out of sheer longing.

And maybe whoever said this about love was right. It was easy to get attuned to someone. To tell just by looking at their body and posture, what they were thinking. To recognise and feel the undefeatable urge to touch, soothe and help them heal.

Uzair was right by his side when he had drifted out of his thoughts. The man had a habit of caressing the side of Hamza's face as if he was the most precious thing in the world.

Hamza's mind scrambled for semblances of righteousness and duty while his body drew the warmth of his palm and turned his face to kiss it. When Uzair pulled his Kurta over his head, Hamza felt his breath being knocked out of him by the beauty of the Baloch. And when the taller man went down on his knees, offered his vulnerability and gave Hamza the right to properly claim his body, Hamza… no, Jaskirat felt as if he was being emptied out of his very substance only to be put back together by the innocence and openness in Uzair's eyes and the way they seeked him even when Hamza thrust into him and made him squirm due to pleasure

Yalina Jamaali was an interesting character. Ever since he had picked her phone at her father's election party, he had been spending the day going over her contacts and messages. She was pretty simple. A rebellious eighteen year old who was desperate to leave the pressure her parents put on her.

When he had made that raid happen at Qasim Killa and taken her around the city with the cops chasing them down, he realised she loved the thrill of their little cat and mouse game. When Hamza returned her phone, his number was already in it.

Their conversations were enjoyable. Late night calls about Abbu aur unke siyaasati kaayde kanoon, while she told him who visited their house often and how they benefitted her father. Then she would tell him what SHE thought of them. Hamza realised that she might've been protected by her father's privilege all her life but there was a grit to her that would never let anybody knock her down.

The guilt threatened to swallow him thinking about leaving Uzair behind because Yalina Jamaali would benefit him more. His heart crushed itself every time he said no to Uzair for hanging out at the factory or getting drinks. Or when he would leave after getting a call from Yalina while Uzair looked at him like a kicked puppy.

Uzair had started to pick up on Hamza being away for hours on end. Hamza always had a believable lie but Uzair's patience was running thin. So when he caught Hamza sneaking Jamaali’s daughter into the factory, Uzair picked up his favourite desert eagle and went to the dumping ground on the outskirts of Karachi. He shot at piles of trash and expended bullets until the firearm had become hot to touch.

The next morning at the Baloch Haveli, Uzair wanted to scream and shove Hamza out, when the man walked into his room and started his ‘put Uzair together’ routine. But turns out Love doesn't make you resistant but tolerant.

Tolerant to such utter unfairness that you would watch your lover be with someone else but still long and yearn for his arms around you when you went to bed and soaked your pillows with tears.

It was pathetic. He was a thirty eight year old man who had lost his mind at the sight of his lover's deception. One day when his presence became too much and tied Uzair's feelings into knots of questions born out of cruel deception, Uzair threw the toothbrush Hamza had prepared for him. It hit the ground and bounced twice before landing on the ground.

Uzair hated the fact that Hamza looked guilty but clueless about what he should be doing next. Hamza had told him once that, “Tere liye ye sab karke mujhe mukammal mehsoos hota hai. Jaise mera koi aisa maqsad ho jo sirf mere haath me hai. Iss par sirf mera haq hai. Aur mujhse zyada tera. Mujhe behad khushi hogi agar ek din tujhe meri zaroorat na pade. Lekin uss baat ka khalipan mujhe khokla kar dega,”

Today was the day when Uzair had to do it. Leave the man hollow to make sure he didn't topple like a domino at the thought of Hamza creating a beautiful home with Jamaali's daughter.

So he touched his lover's cheek one last time that day. Then he held him by the wrist, dragged him out and made him stand outside the door while Uzair went inside standing opposite to him.

“Mujhe ab teri zaroorat nahi rahi,” said Uzair while his heart crushed itself into fine powder and tears made his voice break.

“Maine socha nahi tha ki ye din kabhi aayega bhi, par Ulfat bhabhi sahi kehti hai, Jo zindagi me aayega wo waapis chale jaane ke liye aayega. Lekin uhone ye nahi bataya ki kisi ko kho dena kaisa hota hai jab wo aapke nazron ke saamne saasein bhar raha ho.”

“Uzair,” Hamza's voice had cracked as his throat hurt from holding his explanations in.

“Hamza,” whispered Uzair. The devastation and despair in Uzair's eyes full of tears threatened to send Hamza crashing down on his knees, right before Uzair shut the door on his face.

Ulfat and Rehman noticed Uzair's moroseness but they signed it off as a friend's tiff that came from a man finding a lover that made his friend irate.

Uzair still spoke to Hamza but only when it was absolutely needed for work. He listened to the man's advice and paid it the same level of attention that Rehman Bhai did because what else was he supposed to do.

Hamza would be stopped by Ulfat and asked whether everything was alright between them, and Hamza told her that they were both handling two different branches of business that didn't let them spend time together often.

Hamza had tried to get Uzair to talk to him but Uzair was an immovable wall not interested in listening to any of Hamza's explanations. All he could do was watch as Uzair fell into his spells of executive dysfunction alone. He knew he WAS in the wrong but his loyalty to his nation would always have to take precedence.

I look so stupid thinking

Two plus two equals five

And I'm the love of your life

'Cause if rain don't pour and sun don't shine

Then changing you is possible

No, love is never logical

Logical, logical

Love is never logical

I know I'm half responsible

And that makes me feel horrible

Oh, logical, logical

Love is never logical

I know I could've stopped it all

God, why didn't I stop it all?

Taglist - @warnermeadowsgirl @noor-archive @harrystyleskiwi9 @layinglowkey @scentedwolfdragon @batata04 @clownoiogy

@onkar0027 @gumsumchandni @celestecelina @taliareads @niniismz @avasif @yaadonmein

wtafananya

BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 (or more) people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out <3

Thankyou so much for sending the ask 🩷

All the beautiful ppl : @sanajjjjjj @sanamkhanani @pine-breeze @debsreads21 @work-of-procrastination @dumdumdaisy @ppinkitten @baddiefication101 @cvclee @crazyyydaisyy @cvclee @fanaajnabi @gehra-hua @gulaabjamun08 @goodasaysboo @hereforfanfictionsfr @iamadelusionalwriter @kisswithknife @mango-dolly @majoriqbalkibiwi @prahelika-fics @rabbdaradio @shippingtheshippers @vcantwrite AND EVERYONE ELSE READING THIS

Mwah mwah mwah

U all are so very beautiful and I love seeing whatver u post and I hope you have an amazing and blessed day/night 🩷

iamadelusionalwriter

Tagging my beautiful people : @cloudmast @maladaptive-anxiety @riddhi-on-break @avasif @roohafterdark @torumii @maroonkurta55 @maroonphase @gulaabjamun08 @carmenred28 @chocolate-and-trouble @whyishekinda @roses-and-iron @dhoodhsoda

AND EVERYBODY I HAVEN'T TAGGED!!! YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL AND CUTE AND PRETTY AND YOU'RE PERFECT! LOVE YOUUU 🫶🫶🫶

avasif

Thank you Yani baby . You’re the loveliest 😘. Tagging my sweet sweet babies who are so beautiful inside & out and deserve all the happiness and love in the world @itsnotmai @pleasetagmejaaneman @riddhi-on-break @mainyahaankyunhoon @hum-suffer @chocolate-and-trouble @cloudmast @sinnoire

itsnotmai

omg right back at you gorgeous!! tagging the other beautiful cuties that regularly comment/reblog since i began posting n the fics/edits i love. if i’ve missed anyone im rlly sorry just know ily 🫶🏽 @eypresho @twinblueflamee @seasonofthenerd @rehmandakaitswife @roses-and-iron @riddhi-on-break @debsreads21

seasonofthenerd

Awww😭😭😭 RIGHT BACK AT YOU SWEETIEEE

@marlena-marlena @dilfconisuer @angelllk1ssed @sparksfromhell @bitchy-bi-trash @cloudmast @work-of-procrastination @goodnightkatherine @twinblueflamee @laal-pari @sunf1over and all of my Tumblr cuties 😭❤️

sunf1over

Awwie✨ thankyou (you are the sweetest and most gorgeous) @seasonofthenerd

Now my turn to tag other cuties ~ @miraclejin1204 @writrsblu @hamzair-is-my-otp @bitchy-bi-trash @mrgrungusthefrog @goldenharrysworld

And all the lovely, beautiful people out here on Tumblr who support eachother.

And a bigger love you to all those, who have ever commented, rebloged and hearted my fics. I LOVE YOU PEOPLE THE MOST🧚‍♀️❤️

rehmandakaitswife

im rly proud of the transition 😋😋

Brooo...Dare gone wrong part 4 kb....?Not forcing you.... But it's too good.... Really excited for next part...

Awww!! Glad you liked it 💖

And Iss week mai upload karne ka try karungi. Exams chal rahe hai tho time nhi mil raha likhna ka. Mere JALAAD college vale kal Sunday ko bhi bula rahe hai paper dene 😭😭😭

#thanks for the ask!#lovely people

MR SUN, STOP SHOWING OFF. WE ALL KNOW YOU’RE HOT.

SO PLEASE, (Hamza say that line)

MAI THO PAHADO KE BEECH REHATI HU PHIR YHA KYU ITNI GARMI HORI HAI 😭😭😭 SURYA DEVTA, THODA DURR SE PREM BARSAO AB SHAHA NAHI JAA RAHA.

Me all the time - It’s just summer, or I am in hell.

#dhurandhar #hamza ali mazari #summer #too hot to handle

rehmandakaitswife

can we get this a lot of likes pleaseeee

it took me three hoursss

sunf1over

I’m kinda obsessed with this edit ART, it’s so good🫶

Have u read anything frm @writrsblu @roses-and-iron @roohafterdark @whyishekinda @mainyahaankyunhoon if yes, what are ur fav from them?

I mostly read Uzair fics because he’s kind of my favourite, so my answers are solely based on that.

Yes, I’ve read the amazing works of all these wonderful writers, and sometimes they made me laugh, cry, and, most of all, made me want a man like soft Uzair in Love Baloch.

I really love —

MMBUPAW series by @mainyahaankyunhoon Hungama two-shot by @roses-and-iron

In Sickness and Health by @whyishekinda was such a beautiful read as well. His Silver Chain by @roohafterdark (I am yet to try the other works of these two, but unfortunately I have exams, so I barely have time😭)

And I’m yet to read the amazing work of @writrsblu especially Pehli Mohabbat. I still haven’t gotten the time to finish that incredible piece of writing yet, but even from what I’ve read so far, it genuinely made me want to read more about Jaskirat.

#lovely anon #thanks for the ask!#amazing writers

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