Samar was Iqbal's splitting image. Sehmat couldn't help feeling overwhelmed any more than she could help a painful trip down the memory lane.
He had been Iqbal’s spitting image since the day he was born. His every feature matched that of his father, and as Sehmat held him, she could not help but feel overwhelmed.
The infant’s wide eyes were strikingly like Iqbal’s, looking at her in wonder, his little hands reaching for her—giving her a familiar sense of calm while also making her heart give a painful throb. It had not sunk in completely, not yet—She was his mother, Iqbal his father. She wondered for a second how he’d have felt if he had known.
The little one was still looking at her, still trying to reach for her, and then, the most random thought crossed her mind. When had she last met Iqbal’s eyes? And then, For the first time since the last seven months, her mind went to the one moment she had locked away in the back of her mind. She exhaled sharply, averting her gaze from her son’s deep brown eyes.
She did not want to think about it. Not now, not ever. It would haunt her for the rest of her life, how these familiar pools of brown had searched her own, how his eyes had exhibited the betrayal he had so clearly felt. She didn’t know how she would ever be able to look into her son’s eyes without seeing Iqbal, his accusing gaze upon her, asking her, “Was any of it true, Sehmat?"
This is the end. She looks towards her father who is still smiling, albeit sadly. "What lies beyond it?"
"Everything. And Nothing. The Beginning and the End. Closure."
Warnings : Character death, afterlife.
There is a softness in the air when Sehmat goes to sleep that night, but there is also restlessness—as if the night was waiting for something. As if the night had been waiting for it since the beginning of time. The restlessness of the night does not disturb Sehmat, however. Instead its soft breeze and the gentle swaying of the trees lull her into a comforting slumber—one that feels blissful, free from the pain and agony her dreams usually subject her to.
When she was a little girl Sehmat had known bliss. She had known contentment. It had taken her too long to learn to appreciate her happy childhood. But by then it had been too late—it was gone; it would never come back. The Chinar groves, the lakes, the biting cold, the snow, her mother's special loquat, and … Abbu. They would never come back. And by now she has made peace with it. She too, has moved on.
This doesn't stop her throat from constricting when she finds herself in a familiar backyard, though, nor does it stop the tear that rolls down her face when she starts on a well worn trail, moving between huge trees and dodging uneven ground as if by reflex. It has been years, decades, since she had last been here. Been home.
For a moment she stops going wherever her feet are taking her and basks in the sheer melancholy of it all. The trees are taller than ever, the air cold and tinged with a spicy scent. There is a novel sense of exhilaration in her—happiness and excitement she had last felt in what feels like a different life. She's a little girl again. The world is exciting. Her soul is unmarred.
And on she goes, making her way to a tall figure standing at the end of the grove, at the edge of a pond, smiling expectantly. She knows who they are, she thinks, from their figure and their posture, but she slows down in her journey, losing some of her cheer. It has been years since she had last dreamt of Abbu. Her dreams are usually plagued by others.
There are perhaps a few meters between them when she stops. She can see him clearly now, can feel the warmth of his smile, can feel the overwhelming urge to run to her father, but she doesn't. Because although it has been a long time since he had last visited her, she remembers with startling accuracy how his visits end. And she does not have it in her anymore to lose him again.
"I've been waiting for you," Abbu says after some moments of heavy silence, smiling. Sehmat breathes out slowly, the action feeling strangely hollow. She puts a single foot forward, her steps feeling heavier than ever, and nods. Abbu beckons her forward, extending his arms in a warm welcome. Sehmat hesitates for a single moment, then moves forward again, her steps slow, her eyes set on her father, until she is standing right before him.
She doesn't know why she is startled to find tears in his eyes, his gaze holding the fondness a man could only have for his child. For the first time in an eternity Sehmat remembers again what it is like to have a father. For the first time in an eternity she feels her father envelope her into a hug, fuss over her the way he used to in uncomplicated days.
"You've done well," he says, eyes shining with proud tears that he doesn't hold back.
Sehmat swallows. How many years had she spent wondering? How many times had she wandered to the edge of insanity, wondering if her actions had been right? How many times had she wondered if she had done all that she could? But the pride in Abbu's eyes does away with those doubts. He pats her cheek fondly like he always had and it is right then that she realises that this is not a dream at all. This is something else. This is the end.
Abbu nods knowingly before she can even ask the question, and he turns her slowly towards the pond at the edge of which he is standing. She can't see the other end of it. It reflects the blue sky clearly in it, every cloud that passes overhead, even themselves. Except Sehmat is not how she had been when she had gone to sleep that night—there are no worry lines on her forehead, her skin does not show her age, her hair hasn't greyed—she is just the way she had been when she was twenty, when she had changed the course of her life.
She looks towards her father who is still smiling, albeit sadly. "What lies beyond it?"
"Everything. And Nothing. The Beginning and the End."
Sehmat turns back towards the body of water, a small sprout of uncertainty growing in her belly. If this is the end … Samar and Maa …
"They'll be fine," Abbu whispers softly beside her. He has been through this, she realises. He had to leave them behind too. "At the other end is closure. The life that you deserved. The life you could've had …" he trails off, then swallows. "It's time, child. The hardships that you have faced, they end now."
He extends a hand to her, and Sehmat takes it after a single moment. This really is the end. She turns back to look at the path she had traced for the last time, then nods.
They step into the pond together, Abbu guiding her across the vast expanse of the pond, it's water feeling cool but not wet. It's as if they were walking on a bridge made of water that connects two worlds, and with every step she takes she feels her connection to the other world ebb away.
The difference between the two worlds strikes her the moment she sets foot onto the shore of the pond. The world of the spirits is not different from that of people in its structure. But Abbu was right—he always is—on this shore lies closure.
On this shore lies hope. Hope that perhaps her worst crimes can be forgiven. Hope that perhaps she could lessen the burden that she has been carrying with her all these years. Hope that perhaps here life can begin anew.
Abbu pats her head fondly. "Someone has been waiting for you here."
She looks at him, then swallows. She is certain she knows who it is.
Abbu motions towards the Chinar grove before her, the mirror image of the world over there. "Go on," he says, smiling softly.
She steps forward slowly, steps still heavy, but not as heavy as her heart. It has been years. Thirty years. Thirty years in which she has spent every single day wondering what he would think of her. If he could feel her regret. If he could feel her remorse. If he had seen their son, who looked every bit his father's boy. Perhaps her crimes could be forgiven, but did she deserve that forgiveness after all that she had done? She couldn't find it in her to forgive herself in thirty years. But then it wasn't her place.
She finds him all too quickly. He hasn't seen her yet because of the large tree that shields from his sight. Iqbal looks just like he always had. Soft features, sharp eyes, a calm aura, and love. She had always wondered, and still does, how he could love so wholly, after everything that he had lost. Does he still love so consumingly? Would he ever love her so completely?
It is by chance that he happens to glance her way and see her, and Sehmat freezes, the motion so remnant of their wedding that she feels as if she is back in that moment. Iqbal doesn't move either, only looking at her with an expression she is too scared to decipher.
It is with apprehension that she finally steps forward and braves meeting his eyes. The last time she had looked into them they had been bitter, filmed with tears. But right then they are warm, and they speak a hundred things.
"Sehmat," he says softly, her name feeling at home on his lips.
"I'm sorry," she whispers to him, because there is nothing else that she can say. "For everything that I have done …" her voice breaks, and a lone tear rolls down her face. She looks away, shutting her eyes and sighing, bringing up her hands to her face.
"I am so sorry," she says again, tears now falling in earnest, thirty years worth of remorse and regret all crashing down on her. She can't bring herself to look at him at all for the fear of what may lie there.
"I know," he says softly, and his voice is not bitter the way she had feared it would be, nor does it have anger in it. Only remorse and regret, like her. He draws closer and slowly brings her hands away from her face, urging her to look at him.
His features are soft the way they have always been and his eyes hold the love she had never hoped to receive. "I know."
Sehmat had vivid dreams. It was not a new occurrence, unlike everything else that had been happening to her, but they were dreams, and while they were a constant in her life, they were not much in the way of company. Not when they managed to fool her brain into providing a false sense of security. And not when they were nightmares. She managed to wake up by herself from most of them. Other times they scared her into awakeness.
But right now she could do neither, when she was dreaming of her father. She was powerless when she saw him smiling at her, beckoning to her, walking merrily through the Chinar grove near their home, and she could only follow him as they walked her favourite path—well worn from years of treks—losing all semblance of sense and logic until she could only wonder what out of it all was fact, and how much of it fiction. This was real though, was it not? She could smell the spicy scent of Chinars and feel the stinging cold of a Kashmiri March.
They emerged from the grove at one of the many seasonal ponds that formed every year, the way Sehmat had known they would. Suddenly, suddenly there was an immensely crushing weight on her chest, a heavy sense of foreboding as she waited for something to go wrong. Abbu was standing at the edge of the pond, even though the water would be unbearably cold this time of the year. He stepped into the pond as she watched, and even as she dissented her father stepped further and further into the pool. The pool should have been shallow, but the water was up to his chest now. He wasn't looking at her anymore—he couldn't sense her distress. She tried calling out to him, but her voice was too small, words refused to leave her lips as she watched. And she watched as the water reached Abbu’s neck, then his nose, and she could only watch helplessly, only watch, not move and she was crying, crying—
“Sehmat!”
Firm hands on her shoulders, although there was no one there with her—not that she could see anything through her tears—gentle soothing voice and warmth. Her tears were brushed away and she could see clearly again. And suddenly she wasn’t there anymore.
It took her a few moments to realize where she was, and another few to realize whom the voice belonged to. Her cheeks were wet, and she was sitting up in bed, breathing heavily. She stared at the space in front of her first, not knowing what to do, even as Iqbal’s gaze lingered on her. His countenance would be worried, she knew, but she couldn’t look at him just yet. She had to comprehend, first, what she had dreamt. She heard movement beside her—rustling of fabric and clinks of glass—and then Iqbal was there beside her again, pressing a glass of water in her hands and looking at her expectantly. She took a sip, then another, and finally gathered courage enough to look up. Her hands trembled. She was shaking. Iqbal removed the glass from her hands and placed it on the side-table instead, then waited, hesitant.
Sehmat could feel the wetness on her cheeks again—she couldn't help crying right then. It had been horrible. So, so horrible. She averted her gaze again from Iqbal to her hands, which she hadn't realised she had clenched into tight fists. She couldn't remember much of her dream anymore, but that scene—her father—were etched behind her eyelids still. She could still feel the biting cold and smell the Chinar, but those memories from her childhood were tainted now. She gave an involuntary shiver as she slowly curled herself into a tight ball. She wasn't going to sleep tonight, she decided, or any other night.
Then, gently, she felt Iqbal draw her back from her bundle of misery—butterfly-soft touches as he seemingly gathered both her and her grief and drew her against himself, soft murmurs of words Sehmat cared not to decipher except they felt soothing. Warm reassurances that he was there for her. He was everything opposite to what she felt in that moment, and everything that she needed. And Sehmat hated it. She hated it because he was the enemy, and because it was bad enough that she was betraying him and the entire family, and because she was not deserving of the love that was extended towards her. Because no matter how much she wanted to, it wouldn't do for her to find comfort in the enemy.
It only deepened the wound that the truth had left in her, and she knew it would be more prudent for her to draw away, but right then she could not find the strength to face her demons, or to make it through the rest of the night alone, or to draw away from what was probably the only source of warmth or care or … love in her life. So she allowed herself this one night—this one embrace, this one chance of finding comfort—before she reminded herself that he was the enemy.
“Do goliyoon ka istamal kar lo, Sehmat. Ek mere liye, ek apne liye. Aur koi rasta nahi hai.”
--
“Use two bullets, Sehmat. One for me and the other for yourself. There is no other way.”
Alternate Universe Drabble. Warning : Character death.
Part 3 of Raazi AU Fics.
Perhaps in a different world there are no more Sehmat and Iqbal. Perhaps in another universe it ends differently. In a different world the crimson of blood blossoms quietly from wounds of love and hatred and paves way for the other's tears. In a different universe the blood and tears bear witness to the final testimony of love and loyalty, life and liberty. In a different world triggers are pulled twice. In a different universe neither lives to see the world after the other dies. In a different world their eyes are still set on each other, though they do not see. In a different world their end is a tragedy, but is remembered as naught but a casualty. In a different world life is sacrificed for the sake of love. In a different world the sun sets on the two of them for eternity, on two lovers torn apart by loyalty and brought together by the beginning of the end.
It is early evening when Sehmat wakes from what was supposed to be a nap but had turned into an actual dreamless slumber. It is certainly a welcome change from the usual uneasy sleep that she had been having lately. The sun is just about to set, and faint pink-golden light is flooding the room. She hears a door close and sits up to see Iqbal enter the room slowly, in uniform. It appears he has just gotten back from the station headquarters.
He sees her sitting up with some amount of surprise and says, “I didn’t mean to wake you up … sorry.”
Sehmat waves off his apology with a slight smile as she gets off the bed and the next moment stumbles and falls. She vaguely realises that she hasn’t really fallen—Iqbal has steadied her—and puts a hand to her temple as if that would do away with her lightheadedness. She closes her eyes with a grimace until she can bear to stand on her own feet, then opens them and lets out a short breath. Iqbal presses a glass of water into her hands, which she takes gratefully, and sips at it tentatively while she tries to make sense of what had just happened.
“Are you alright?” Iqbal asks, brow furrowed in concern. He’s still holding on to her as if she might fall again. He doesn't let go until she has answered.
“How did you fall?”
“I … don’t know. I suppose I got up too fast.”
Iqbal arches his eyebrows, and Sehmat is quick to dissipate his worries, even as she wonders herself. She sets about putting his things into place when unwittingly, Munira bhabhi’s words come to her. Sehmat swallows. It isn’t an entirely implausible idea, now that she thinks about it. It isn’t as if she and Iqbal haven’t been intimate, and it has been a while since she last bled. She had thought it was because of all the stress, but now she wonders. She turns towards the mirror in the bedroom and looks at herself properly for the first time in days. She doesn't look as though she has gained any weight recently. ‘Yet,’ a small part of her brain tells her, and she doesn’t know if she should shush it.
There are, however, other things to worry about. As Iqbal steps out of the bathroom, clearly in a hurry, he takes his bag and beret in preparation to leave. Sehmat’s heart stops for a moment. Mir Sahab had refused to tell her any specifics about their plant apart from what is absolutely necessary. If he were going to the Inspection Bureau or the Headquarters ...
“Where are you going?” she asks quietly as she follows him out of their bedroom with his wallet in hand.
“Station Headquarters. I need to fill out some paperwork and pick up some files,” Iqbal says as he accepts his wallet from her in the foyer, “I might be a while. Abba and Bhaijaan should be back soon, however.”
Sehmat nods, acutely aware of the speed with which her heart is beating, and she watches as he leaves, giving her a small smile.
She returns inside the house, but instead of returning to her bedroom she wanders aimlessly around. She moves from the living room to the kitchen, then to the dining room until she finds herself at the door of her bedroom once more. She sighs, then heads inside with a sick feeling in her stomach which she knows will not be alleviated until all members of the house are safely inside it.
_/\_/\_
Dinner is mostly uneventful, and Abba and Bhaijaan are back by the time it begins, but not Iqbal, and Sehmat worries.
“He will be late,” Bhaijaan says.
Evidently he notices how her eyes keep finding the clock and then the window. Sehmat nods, moving her food around her plate. She doesn’t really have the heart to eat. Still, under Munira’s watchful eyes she shoves some spoonfuls of rice down her throat and tries to rid herself of the ominous feeling that has begun to settle in her stomach. Abba and Bhaijaan seem to have resolved their conflict. They are making some conversation which she tries to concentrate on to distract herself, but decides that most of it is fluff—what relatives are getting married and what generals are getting promotions—until Abba asks about the metal piece and the inspection bureau.
“I visited there before coming home,” Bhaijaan says, “and submitted the piece to them. They say it might be another week before they can establish its origin and dust it for fingerprints.”
Abba nods, and no more is said on the topic. Sehmat breathes a small sigh. At least the piece has been submitted. Silence reigns the table after that, and Sehmat’s eyes move towards the wall clock again. 8 PM. He had left at six and had said he’d be a while. It’s been a while. The sick feeling in her stomach is starting to spread, and Sehmat finds that she cannot bear eating anymore—not that she has eaten much anyway—for fear of throwing up.
She looks up when the two men rise from the table, and it is only her and Munira left, the latter of whom is looking intently at the former. Sehmat, however, refrains from meeting her eyes, aware of what is going on in her sister-in-law’s head.
“Are you actually going to eat that?” Munira asks finally, and Sehmat looks up with a grimace.
“I don’t think I can,” she replies truthfully, “I feel as if I’m going to throw up.”
Munira rises from the table and begins collecting various dishes, Sehmat beside her, helping her carry them to the kitchen.
“Have you given it any thought?”
Sehmat doesn’t have to ask what ‘it’ is this time. She is fully aware of ‘it’ playing in the back of her mind.
“I’m still unsure …” she says after a moment, and Munira looks up at her from where she is crouched before the fridge.
“... but?” she prompts Sehmat further, and Sehmat swallows before coming out with the next part of her sentence.
“... the idea might not be completely without merit.”
Munira hums and gets up before shutting the fridge door.
“So we’ll have to be sure, wouldn’t we?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, and Sehmat nods slowly.
“We can go to my doctor,” Munira continues on the affirmative action, smiling, “I’ll get us an appointment tomorrow.”
Sehmat nods again.
“But you must not stress yourself too much. And don’t exhaust yourself over anything.” She places her hand gently on the younger woman’s shoulder before she leaves, still smiling.
Sehmat watches Munira leave silently, not entirely sure if she should be smiling too at the prospect of having a child.
_/\_/\_
She tries doing the accounts for the shop while waiting up for Iqbal but gives up on it after making the same multiplication error thrice. Half an hour has passed since dinner and her conversation with Munira bhabhi and five minutes since she last checked the clock. She puts away her notebook with a sigh and begins to prepare the bed. Her racing heart and pessimistic mind are her only company, and she knows she is not going to get any sleep. Not until Iqbal is also in bed beside her.
She picks up the book she has been reading the past week and slides under the duvet, trying to focus. She ends up having read the same page twice before her confusion, guilt, and fear catch up with her. She feels her eyes well up. She might lose Iqbal. Her head has begun to hurt now, and the only coherent thought that she can manage is that she might lose Iqbal. Not that anyone else from back home will think any of it. He’d be just another casualty among who knows how many others, to cover a stupid mistake that she had made. She sniffs, then turns off the lights in the room, goes back to bed, and lays tracing the ceiling with her eyes in the all-consuming darkness. It’d be her fault if he died, the same way it was her fault Abdul died.
She wipes her tear-stained cheeks and turns over so that she is facing his side of the bed. With her back to the door she lies still, very still, for who knows how long—worrying her lip as she watches the night outside the window, and finally she hears the sound of tires rolling on dirt and coming to a halt. A door opens and then closes. The doorbell rings, and her heartbeat quickens, the door opens, and closes again. The house is filled with silence for a few seconds, and it seems to stretch on forever. Finally, the bedroom door opens. Sehmat turns softly towards the door. The figure in the doorway is trying to close the door softly to avoid disturbing her, and he is lean and carries a briefcase. She breathes out slowly. Not a message about death. She reaches over to the nightlight on the bedside table and pulls it on—to the surprise of her husband. When she sees him, relief like nothing else floods her heart.
“I thought you were asleep,” he says to her softly as he walks over to the futon, and she shakes her head with a smile she cannot control.
_/\_/\_
Sehmat’s day begins early the next day. If she is honest, it’s barely even daytime at three AM. She is awoken by urgent knocks to her bedroom door. Iqbal sits up drowsily as she answers the door, and is met with a very worried looking Munira—who is still in her nightclothes—telling her to send Iqbal downstairs as soon as possible.
“Something has happened. We got a call; it’s urgent—all three have to leave now.”
Sehmat nods and turns to Iqbal, who is already out of bed and looking for his uniform. Sehmat puts on her dressing gown and descends the stairs to go to the kitchen, where Munira is making coffee. She greets her with a nod as she pours the coffee into mugs.
“I wonder what it is,” she says.
Sehmat heaves a barely audible sigh as she places the hot mugs on a tray and takes it outside to set them on the table. She knows what it is. Munira sinks heavily into a couch and yawns as Sehmat joins her, waiting for the menfolk to descend. They all arrive almost at the exact same time; the two younger officers make straight for their coffee. Abba storms towards the telephone and begins making calls, getting increasingly frustrated with each one, until he finally hangs up swearing loudly enough that none of the occupants of the room are able to look at each other.
“Those rogues from the Mukti Fauj set fire to the Station Headquarters, the Inspection Bureau, and no less than three of the city’s police stations,” he seethes when he comes back to the living room.
The two brothers’ eyes widen, as do Munira’s. Sehmat has to scramble to put an appropriately shocked expression on her face.
“Did we get any of them?” Bhaijaan asks, and Sehmat’s heart skips a beat.
“No. We almost had one, but he slipped away in the Chaos.”
The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop, until Iqbal asks, “How did they get in?”
Abba shakes his head in frustration and lets out a long breath. “They had it all planned,” he says. “We found a half-burnt discarded uniform. It had the name tag of a soldier who had deserted us a few months ago. They are still putting out the fire … but who knows how much material can be salvaged.
“We’ll have to go visit the Headquarters if they’re safe to go into, and then start investigating. We should move now—we don’t have much time before they leave the city, if they haven't already, that is.”
His coffee untouched, Abba makes for the door, his sons following. Munira collects the cups as Sehmat’s mind reels with the information she has unwittingly acquired. If Mir Sahab hasn’t yet left the city, he could be in danger—not that she can do anything about it. He had given her explicit instructions to lie low until this particular war gets over with, and then her ‘options will be discussed’.
_/\_/\_
Read Chapter 2
Read Chapter 1
_/\_/\_
Glossary:
Ma : Mother
Abba : Father
Bhaijaan : Brother
Miyaan : Here, husband.
Bhabhi : Sister-in-law (brother's wife)
Phool chadar : A sheet of knitted flowers used as offerings for worship.
Rajma : Kidney beans
Kabuli Chane : Chickpeas
Assalam aalekum : 'Peace be upon you', an Arabic greeting
Chachi : Aunt
Walaikum assalam : 'And unto you be peace', an Arabic greeting
Beta : here, Child
Ammi : Mother
Mohtarma : Madam
Choti Begum : 'Choti' means younger, and 'Begum' is the title of a married Muslim woman, equivalent to Mrs. Together in this context they refer to Sehmat being the younger daughter-in-law of the house.
In an alternate universe, Iqbal is able to meet his child and name him. Part 1 of Raazi AU Fics.
~~~~~~
The first time Iqbal holds his son he is awestruck. Awestruck at how tiny he is, and how perfect. At first glance he resembles him perfectly—same dark skin, same brown eyes—but on taking a closer look he can see Sehmat’s features in him. They are a lot more subtle than his own, but there is no mistaking that happy curve of lips when Iqbal strokes his cheek—exactly like the one that he is so accustomed to—or his high cheekbones and sharp nose which speak of his Kashmiri descent.
Their son is perfect, Iqbal decides, and he cannot believe that he has had a role in his creation. He slowly turns back towards Sehmat—who is lying in her hospital bed half asleep, tired from the long labor—and gently pads across the room towards her from where he is standing near the window. He is mindful of every step he takes, because he is holding a child—something he’s never done before—and any missteps could lead to disastrous consequences. Sehmat stirs as he approaches her, even as he tells her to relax, and sits up with some effort. Iqbal places the child into her arms gently, and both of them—Sehmat and he—sigh a collective sigh.
They sit like that for a while, mostly because Iqbal doesn't know what to say, and Sehmat is too tired to say anything. The baby fusses in her arms and takes hold of Iqbal’s finger when he traces his hand, and for a moment, for a single moment, Iqbal forgets about the war that is being fought outside this happy bubble that has enveloped him and Sehmat. The one that has enveloped his family.
It is Sehmat who breaks the silence as she gently strokes the child’s soft hair. “What will we name him?”
Iqbal looks up from the baby, and muses his wife’s question silently as he takes in truly how tired she is, and, in that particular moment, how vulnerable she looks. He slowly disengages his hand from his son’s, and brushes away a stray strand of hair from her face before returning his gaze towards the child.
“Samar,” he says after a while, looking at Sehmat intently while she ruminates his idea. She too turns to look at the child, then looks up at Iqbal and smiles.
“Hmm … He does look like a Samar.”
~~~~~
A/N: The war is the one of 71, and I know that then would be too early for Samar to have been born yet, but this wrote itself.
