The nonchalant and intimidating major iqbal is seen tinkering with the dj and having an early drink as he sends his minions to work
@miriqbalpaglu the diligent husband and host he is ,guides the guests and offers them kind smiles and directions before the madness of the party sets in. The iqbal kids: @chaotickittydreamer , @y0uneversawmehere and @adityami in there cool and nonchalant fits help their abbu’s by assisting the servants set up the once Americanised mansion into something of an underground rave.
@misteriadare and @major-vihaan-shergill are taken as additional helpers for any last minute hiccups, which obviously won’t happen cause the ISI soldiers are patrolling every vicinity and corner of the house.
And we have our famous @aalamdudhsoda along with his minions @hamzaalimazari and @rizwanshah setting up his juice stall.
*after taking a puff of a newly lit cigar and the microphone from a blushing Mir *
Salam Sabhiko ,
Aap sabko Major Iqbal ke mehfil mein swagat hai. Lyari vaasi ho ya non-Lyari vaasi, aaj ki raat hum sab ek hi mehfil ka hissa hain.
Agar kisi ko song request deni hai to DJ booth ke paas aa kar bata dein, hum koshish karenge ke aapka gana bhi aaj raat baj jaye. Drinks aur refreshments right side ke counter par rakhe hue hain, aur khana peeche ke tables par arranged hai—aaraam se lijiye, mehfil ka lutf uthaiye.
Bismillah
(Maal corridor ke last do kamre main hai, Aur the master bedroom is closed to all. If I see one person wondering near my canopy bed I’ll personally tie them down on @iqbalsvivisectiontable)
(Please reblog, comment, and do whatever the fuck you wantttt…admin will try to reply to all 😼😭)
Genre: Angst, literally no fluff. I am incapable of writing Iqbal fluff.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to glorify any real life people or events linked with them.
Trigger warnings: mentions of death, sickness and grief. Iqbal being the pos that he is. Cheating.
P.S. this is longgggg. Probably my longest work ever. And this is the first time I am writing angst, so please lmk your thoughts below.
For eleven years, Y/N had been the heart of the Iqbal residence. Not just the mistress of the house, not just the lady of the manor.
But the heart.
There was a difference.
Anyone could hire staff, anyone with enough money could fill a house with cooks, drivers, cleaners and caretakers.
But very few people could make those people feel like family.
Yet somehow Y/N had managed exactly that.
The kitchen staff brought her vegetables from their hometowns because they knew she loved trying new recipes. Bashir chacha, who had worked for the family longer than Y/N herself had lived there, refused to let anyone else drive her to the market. The younger maids often sat with her after dinner, chatting about weddings, children and village gossip while she folded laundry alongside them despite having absolutely no reason to.
"Begum sahiba, leave that."
"I have two hands, don't I?"
"That's not the point."
"It is exactly the point."
And every single time, the conversation ended the same way.
With the staff sighing dramatically while Y/N continued helping anyway.
She was loved in that house. Truly loved.
The guards smiled when they saw her.
The cooks saved the crispiest pakoras for her. Even the gardeners brought her flowers because they knew she liked fresh blooms in every room.
Sometimes Y/N wondered if strangers would find it strange.
How a woman could be adored by an entire household and still feel lonely.
But loneliness did not care how many people loved you, It only cared about the people who didn't.
The master bedroom sat at the far end of the second floor.
It was large, beautiful, decorated with expensive pieces and empty.
Or half empty, rather.
Every morning, Y/N woke up on one side of the bed and found the other untouched.
Some nights Iqbal came home after midnight, some nights he didn't come home at all, sometimes she woke briefly at three in the morning to find him quietly removing his watch near the dresser, other times she woke to an empty room and the realization that another night had passed without seeing her husband.
The first few years had been good, really good. He loved her, cared for her, bought her small gifts, took her out on sweet dates, had silly fights with her. Their days blurred with soft kisses and sweet gestures and nights ended up with getting tangled on each other. Life was good.
And then, Laiba was born. The pregnancy, instead of bringing them closer, put a distance between them. Y/N was constantly feeling sick during the 9 months, Iqbal was always away with work.
And by the time Laiba was born, the distance was too big for them to cross.
The next few years after her birth, had been painful.
By the sixth year, Y/N had stopped waiting up.
By the seventh, she stopped asking questions.
Now, after eleven years of marriage, she simply folded his side of the blanket every morning and continued with her day.
And yet, after all this misery she still loved him. That was perhaps the saddest part.
Not desperately, not hopefully, just quietly.
The way people continued tending plants they already knew would never bloom again.
---
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway,
A moment later, Laiba burst into the room.
"Ammi!"
Fourteen years old, wild curls, one sock missing, and enough energy to power an entire city.
Y/N smiled immediately.
"There you are."
"I can't find my blue notebook."
"The one on your desk?"
"No."
"The one under your pillow?"
"No."
"The one you're holding?"
Laiba froze.
Looked down.
Then stared at the notebook in her hands.
"Oh."
Y/N laughed.
A real laugh, soft and warm.
Laiba immediately grinned.
There was something about her daughter that made even difficult days easier to survive.
Perhaps because Laiba loved so openly.
So completely.
She didn't understand pretending, didn't understand social masks.
When she was happy, everyone knew.
When she was sad, everyone knew that too.
And when she loved someone, she loved them with her entire heart.
Especially her father.
The front gates opened downstairs.
Instantly, Laiba straightened.
The change was immediate.
Like a sunflower turning toward sunlight.
"Baba!"
Without another word, she ran from the room.
Y/N followed at a much slower pace.
She found them in the foyer.
Iqbal had barely stepped through the front door before Laiba collided with him.
He caught her automatically and effortlessly, like he'd done it a thousand times before. Which to be fair he has.
"You promised you'd be home yesterday."
"I know."
"You missed movie night."
"I know."
"You always know."
Iqbal actually smiled, a genuine smile.
One that almost never appeared anymore.
Not for colleagues, not for guests and specially not for Y/N.
Only for Laiba.
"What punishment am I getting this time?" he asked.
Laiba crossed her arms.
"No dessert."
"That's harsh."
"You deserve it."
"I agree."
That earned a giggle.
Within seconds, all annoyance vanished.
Just like that.
Y/N stood quietly near the staircase watching them.
And despite everything,
despite the loneliness, despite the distance, despite the marriage that seemed to be fading a little more every year, she smiled.
Because if there was one thing nobody could ever accuse Iqbal of, it was being a bad father.
He adored Laiba. Not tolerated. Not cared for. Adored.
He attended every meeting with her therapists, memorized every medication, learned every trigger, every routine, every fear.
When relatives made insensitive comments about her condition, Iqbal stopped inviting those relatives.
When teachers underestimated her, he hired better ones.
When Laiba cried, he sat beside her until she stopped.
Sometimes until sunrise if necessary.
The entire world knew Major Iqbal as a feared man.
Laiba knew him as the man who cut fruit into heart shapes because she claimed it tasted better that way.
It was almost enough to make Y/N forget how different he became around her.
Almost.
His eyes found hers briefly.
"Morning."
"Morning."
That was all.
No smile. No warmth. No kiss on the forehead. Nothing.
Just a greeting. Polite. Distant.
The kind exchanged between acquaintances. Not husband and wife.
And yet Y/N still moved automatically toward the dining room.
Still poured his tea exactly the way he liked it, still remembered he preferred less sugar and extra milk.
Because eleven years of loving someone became habit eventually, even when the love stopped being returned.
The three of them sat together for breakfast afterward.
Laiba talking enough for all three, Iqbal listening patiently, Y/N quietly refilling cups and passing plates.
From a distance, they probably looked like a happy family.
Maybe they even were.
Just not in the way families were supposed to be.
Because somewhere over the years, husband and wife had become strangers connected only by the child they both loved more than themselves.
And neither of them seemed brave enough to say it aloud.
---
The days blurred together much like all the days before it.
Life inside the Iqbal residence moved according to routines.
Laiba's tutors arrived at nine.
Lunch was served at one.
Tea appeared at four.
Dinner was prepared regardless of whether Major Iqbal actually came home to eat it.
The house ran smoothly because Y/N made sure it did.
She remembered appointments, Birthdays, medicine schedules,the gardener's daughter's wedding, the cook's son's examinations, everything.
She carried the entire household on her shoulders so naturally that most people never realized how much work went into keeping a home feeling alive.
And perhaps that was why nobody noticed the little things.
Not when Y/N paused halfway up the staircase because she suddenly felt winded, not when a dry cough occasionally interrupted conversations, not when she found herself sitting down more often after finishing chores, exhausted.
She noticed them, of course, but only vaguely, The way people noticed a new creak in the floorboards.
Something mildly irritating but nothing worth worrying about.
After all, she was thirty six. Not eighty.
So she ignored it.
The same way she ignored everything else, the loneliness, the distance, the unanswered questions, the untouched side of the bed.
Especially the untouched side of the bed.
By now, she had memorized the pattern of Iqbal's absences.
He usually returned around two or three in the morning, sometimes later, sometimes not at all.
When he did come home, he moved quietly through the bedroom. Careful and polite, like a guest trying not to disturb another guest.
Gone were the days when he used to pull her closer in his sleep.
Gone were the nights spent talking until sunrise.
Gone were the random kisses pressed against her temple while she read books in bed.
Sometimes Y/N wondered when exactly it had happened.
When had affection turned into courtesy?
When had love become obligation?
She never found an answer.
One afternoon, she was helping Bashir chacha organize some documents in Iqbal's study when she noticed his wallet lying on the desk.
Nothing unusual about that.
He forgot things everywhere.
Keys, files, wallets, his reading glasses.
The entire household had become accustomed to finding and returning his belongings.
Without thinking much of it, Y/N picked up the wallet.
She intended to hand it to Bashir chacha.
Nothing more, but then it slipped open.
And a photograph slid halfway out.
For a moment, she almost ignored it.
Then she froze, a woman smiled back at her. Young, probably in her mid twenties or younger, beautiful...with auburn hair and greenish hazel eyes.
The photograph was tucked neatly behind another picture. Laiba's picture.
Y/N stared at it for a long moment, something cold settled into her stomach.
Years ago, there had been another photograph there.
Her photograph.
A small passport sized picture taken shortly after their wedding.
She remembered because Iqbal used to joke about it constantly.
Said he needed proof his wife existed, and he wasn't dreaming whenever he traveled.
She remembered laughing.
Remembered stealing the wallet and hiding it for an entire day just to annoy him,
back then, he had searched the entire house for it.
Now her picture was gone.
In its place sat another woman.
Y/N carefully slid the photograph back exactly where she found it.
Then closed the wallet and placed it precisely where it had been.
And continued sorting papers.
Her hands never trembled, not once.
Years of being Major Iqbal's wife had taught her many things, one of them was how to remain composed even when her heart was breaking.
The photograph stayed with her though.
She thought about it while watering plants.
While helping Laiba with homework.
While supervising dinner.
While folding laundry.
A friend, perhaps? A colleague?
A relative?
She repeated those possibilities so many times they almost sounded believable.
Almost.
But somewhere deep inside, she already knew, women always do.
The evidence merely arrived later.
After that, the signs became impossible to ignore.
Phone calls taken outside, messages answered with faint smiles, longer absences, new clothes, new cologne.
Tiny things that would mean nothing individually.
Together, however...
Together they painted a picture Y/N desperately wished she couldn't see.
Still, she said nothing.
Perhaps because she was afraid of the answer.
Or perhaps because she already had it.
The actual confirmation arrived three weeks later.
Ironically, on the most ordinary day imaginable.
Y/N had gone grocery shopping not because she needed to, the staff could have done it.
But she enjoyed choosing produce herself.
Always had.
The market was crowded that afternoon.
Vendors shouting, children running between stalls, cars honking impatiently from nearby roads.
Y/N stood near a fruit seller, comparing mangoes, when movement across the street caught her attention.
She almost looked away, but then her gaze stopped on a familiar figure.
Iqbal.
The world seemed to pause.
He stood outside a café, dressed casually.
Smiling, actually smiling. She hasn't seen him smile like that in years...
The young woman from the photograph stood beside him.
And then leaned down and kissed her.
Not a friendly gesture, not something that could be misunderstood.
A kiss shared by people who belonged to one another.
For several seconds, Y/N couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
She just stood there, frozen with the fruits still in her hand.
Eleven years of marriage unraveling in front of her eyes.
The strange thing was that she didn't cry. She dropped the fruit on the vendor's cart,
turned around and walked back to the car.
And told Bashir chacha she wanted to go home.
The entire drive passed in silence.
When they arrived, she walked straight upstairs, ignored concerned greetings, ignored questions, ignored everything.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind her.
Finally. Alone. The room felt suffocating.
The same room where she had spent eleven years loving him.
Waiting for him, missing him, excusing him, defending him in silence.
The same room where she had convinced herself distance didn't necessarily mean betrayal.
A laugh escaped her. Small. Broken.
Then suddenly it became difficult to breathe.
Her chest tightened painfully.
The room tilted, she tried reaching the bed.
Didn't make it.
The last thing Y/N remembered was the carpet rushing toward her.
Then darkness swallowed everything.
And downstairs, life inside the Iqbal residence continued exactly as it always had.
Completely unaware that something inside its heart had finally cracked.
---
When Y/N opened her eyes again, sunlight was spilling through the curtains.
For a brief, disoriented moment, she couldn't remember why she was lying on the floor.
Then she remembered the photograph, the café, the kiss, Iqbal's hand resting against another woman's face with a familiarity that had once belonged to her.
The memory returned all at once.
Y/N closed her eyes again.
The pain surprised her, not because it existed but because of how much of it remained.
After all these years of distance, after all these years of sleeping alone and eating alone and raising their daughter while her husband slowly drifted further and further away, she had genuinely believed there wasn't enough left between them to hurt anymore.
Apparently she had been wrong.
The floor beneath her felt cold.
Her neck ached from sleeping in an awkward position and her chest still felt strangely tight.
As though someone had wrapped invisible rope around her lungs, she ignored that part.
Focused instead on getting up.
The house would be awake by now.
People would be looking for her, Laiba would definitely be looking for her.
That thought alone forced Y/N to stand,
the moment she opened the bedroom door, she found Ruksana pacing anxiously outside.
"Allah!" the help nearly shouted. "Begum sahiba!"
Y/N blinked.
"What happened?"
"What happened?!" Ruksana repeated. "You locked yourself inside your room all day yesterday!"
Yesterday.
The realization hit immediately.
An entire day had passed.
Ruksana's expression softened with concern.
"You didn't answer anybody."
Y/N attempted a smile.
"I wasn't feeling well."
That much, at least, wasn't a lie, the explanation seemed sufficient for everyone else too.
By evening, the household had accepted that Begum Sahiba had simply been under the weather.
Only Laiba remained unconvinced.
She followed Y/N around the house like an anxious shadow.
"Are you sick?"
"No."
"You look sick."
"I just need rest."
"You hate resting."
That earned the smallest laugh.
"Maybe I'm growing wiser with age."
Laiba narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
Then promptly attached herself to Y/N's side for the rest of the day.
As though proximity alone could prevent anything bad from happening to her ammi.
The guilt nearly crushed Y/N.
Because all she could think about was the café, the woman, the kiss and the fact that Laiba still adored the man responsible.
That night, Y/N sat alone in the dark long after everyone else had gone to sleep.
Including Iqbal.
He had returned home unusually early.
Asked whether she felt better, accepted her short answer and moved on.
That should have angered her.
Instead, she found herself staring at him while he slept, perhaps for the first time in years.
The faint lines near his eyes, the streaks of silver beginning to appear in his hair, the familiar face she had once known better than her own.
The face belonging to the man she had ever loved.
One question repeated endlessly inside her mind.
Why? Why her? Why now? Why after eleven years?
The urge to wake him was overwhelming, to demand answers, to throw the photograph onto his chest, to ask whether he had ever loved her at all.
The words sat at the back of her throat, burning and ready.
Then she heard soft footsteps in the hallway,the bedroom door opened slightly.
Laiba peeked inside, hslf asleep and hair messy, holding her stuffed rabbit.
Without a word, she shuffled toward the bed before climbing between them, like she had done during thunderstorms since childhood.
Laiba immediately curled against Y/N's side, safe and comfortable.
And just like that the confrontation died in Y/N's mind.
Because all Y/N could see was her daughter. Their daughter.
The one beautiful thing they had managed to create together.
How could she risk destroying that?
What would happen if the marriage ended?
Would courts become involved?
Would custody battles begin?
Would Laiba be forced to choose?
The thought alone made her feel sick.
No.
No matter how badly her heart hurt, she couldn't do that to her daughter.
Not Laiba. Never Laiba.
So she swallowed the questions, every single one of them nd buried them somewhere deep inside herself.
---
Meanwhile, the coughing worsened.
A little more each week.
Sometimes Y/N woke at night struggling to catch her breath, sometimes climbing stairs left her strangely exhausted, sometimes her chest felt heavy for reasons she couldn't explain.
She blamed stress, the weather, poor sleep, even Iqbal.
Until one morning, rhe day began normally enough, she was flowing along the daily chores. Breakfast, laundry, laiba's tutors.
Then she stood up from the living room sofa and the world suddenly tilted hard.
The room spun, a sharp wave of dizziness swept through her.
For one terrifying moment, her lungs seemed to forget how to work, she grabbed the edge of a nearby table before anyone noticed, the feeling passed after several seconds. Just enough for her to hide it.
"Ammi?"
Laiba looked up from her colouring book.
"You okay?"
Y/N smiled, the same smile mothers had been using to lie to their children for generations.
"Just stood up too fast."
Laiba accepted the explanation immediately.
Y/N hated herself a little for being relieved.
That evening, after ensuring Laiba was occupied with her evening tutors and the household had settled into its usual rhythm, she quietly asked Bashir chacha to drop her at a clinic.
And she genuinely believed that, at least at first.
The first doctor ordered tests, the tests led to more tests, blood work, scans, sppointments.
Weeks passed that way.
Y/N attended every appointment alone now, making excuses to Bashir chacha who insisted on dropping her off to whereever she was going every Thursday evening.
Y/N made an excuse everytime.
Each visit to the clinic chipped away at her certainty that everything was fine.
Until finally, one rainy afternoon she sat across from a pulmonologist whose expression told her the truth before he ever spoke.
People wore that expression when delivering bad news and the words that followed felt strangely distant.
Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis, scarring of the lungs. Progressive. Irreversible.
Terminal.
Only management, only time, and only waiting until death eventually took her.
The doctor's voice continued, telling her about possible treatment options, lifestyle changes, expected progression.
Y/N heard very little after that.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Too quiet. Too unreal.
Because moments ago she had been worried about a cheating husband.
Now she was being told she was dying.
And somehow,
the betrayal no longer felt like the worst thing that had happened to her.
When she finally stepped inside the Iqbal residence, dinner preparations were already underway.
Voices drifted from the kitchen, the smell of spices filled the air.
Laiba's laughter echoed somewhere upstairs.
Y/N paused briefly near the front door.
Then carefully wiped her face, straightened her dupatta, locked the medical reports inside her handbag.
And walked inside smiling.
Nobody noticed anything unusual and for the first time in her life, Y/N carried something entirely alone.
By the time she lay down that night, one truth had become painfully clear.
She had spent years mourning a marriage.
Years mourning a husband who no longer loved her.
But standing face to face with death had a way of rearranging priorities.
Suddenly, she found she no longer cared about being chosen, no longer cared about being loved, no longer cared about winning her husband back.
All that mattered now was one thing.
Laiba.
Whatever time she had left,
every second of it would belong to her light, her daughter.
---
For the first few weeks after her diagnosis, nothing appeared different.
At least not from the outside.
The house still woke to the smell of tea and fresh rotis, the staff still came to her with problems that somehow only Begum Sahiba could solve, Laiba still forgot where she left her notebooks, and Iqbal still came and went like a visitor instead of a husband.
Life carried on and nobody knew of Y/N's life leaving with each breath she took.
That was the remarkable thing, nobody knew, not Laiba, not the staff, not her friends, not even Iqbal.
The knowledge belonged solely to her.
And perhaps that was why she found herself becoming oddly calm.
The affair no longer haunted her the way it once had.
It still hurt sometimes terribly, there were nights when she stared at the ceiling and remembered the image of Iqbal kissing another woman, there were mornings when she caught herself wondering whether he had ever loved that woman the way he once loved her.
But those thoughts never lasted very long anymore because there was always a more pressing one waiting.
Laiba.
Everything came back to Laiba, every fear, every prayer, every plan.
Who would remind her to take breaks when she became obsessed with astronomy?
Who would know that thunderstorms overwhelmed her?
Who would understand that certain fabrics made her uncomfortable?
Who would sit beside her through meltdowns?
Who would love her enough?
The question followed Y/N everywhere.
And eventually, without realizing it, she began preparing.
The first thing to go was her jewelry.
Not all at once, gradually one piece at a time.
One afternoon, she was helping Ruksana fold clothes when the younger woman paused.
"These are beautiful, begum sahiba."
Y/N glanced up.
Ruksana was admiring an old pair of gold jhumkas that were a wedding gift from her mother.
She hadn't worn them in years.
Without hesitation, Y/N removed them from the box.
"Take them."
Ruksana blinked.
"What?"
"Take them."
The help immediately looked horrified.
"No, absolutely not."
"They'll look better on you."
"Begum sahiba!"
"I'm serious."
The argument continued for nearly ten minutes. And In the end, Ruksana left the room carrying the earrings and looking deeply uncomfortable about it.
Y/N watched her go with a small smile.
The smile faded almost immediately, not because she regretted giving them away.
Because she remembered why she was doing it.
After that, it became a habit.
A shawl to one person, a handbag to another, books she had collected over years, designer scarves, expnsive perfumes, inported tea sets, decorations.
Anything and everything.
God help the poor soul who casually mentioned liking something.
Because there was a frighteningly high chance they would leave the house carrying it.
"Bhabhi, your bracelet is gorgeous."
"Keep it."
"No, no, I was only saying—"
"Then say thank you."
People laughed, people protested, people eventually accepted it.
Nobody questioned it for very long because generosity had always been part of Y/N's nature, this simply seemed like an extension of that.
Only Y/N understood the truth.
Every object leaving the house was one less thing she would leave behind to collect dust.
One less memory for somebody else to sort through after she was gone.
Meanwhile, Laiba remained blissfully unaware, perhaps because Y/N worked very hard to keep it that way.
Movie nights became more frequent.
Astronomy discussions became longer.
Afternoons were spent baking together despite the fact that neither of them was particularly good at it.
The kitchen staff had learned to expect disaster whenever mother and daughter decided to cook.
Still, nobody complained.
The laughter was worth cleaning up afterward.
One evening, Y/N sat beside Laiba in the garden while the girl enthusiastically pointed toward the sky.
"There."
Y/N squinted.
"I don't see anything."
"The star, sirius!."
"There are millions of stars."
"No, that one, the shiny one."
"Laiba, that doesn't help, all of them are shiny."
The teenager groaned dramatically.
"You're impossible."
"And yet you love me."
Laiba immediately leaned sideways until her head rested against Y/N's shoulder.
"Obviously."
The answer came so quickly that tears nearly formed in Y/N's eyes.
She looked away before her daughter could notice.
Because how did one prepare for leaving behind someone who loved you so easily?
How did one prepare them?
That question haunted her more than death ever could.
So she began introducing the idea carefully.
"What would you do if I went somewhere for a while?"
Laiba looked genuinely alarmed.
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Then don't go."
Y/N laughed softly.
"Life doesn't work like that."
"Then life is stupid."
The answer was immediate.
Y/N kissed the top of her head.
And later that night cried alone in the bathroom.
Because every attempt ended like this.
Every attempt hurt.
Yet she continued, because she had to.
Because there would come a day when Laiba woke up and Y/N wouldn't be there.
And that reality terrified her more than her own death ever would.
---
A month passed and then another.
The coughing worsened, the breathlessness worsened, some days climbing stairs felt like running a marathon.
Still she told no one.
Still she smiled.
Still she carried on.
Until one evening, Iqbal came home early.
So early, in fact, that several members of the staff looked surprised to see him.
The sun hadn't even fully set.
Laiba was upstairs with her tutor.
The house was unusually quiet.
And Y/N sat alone in the library speaking on the phone.
"...I'm serious."
Her friend's voice crackled through the speaker,
"You need to leave him."
Y/N sighed. The conversation had become familiar lately, ever since she admitted she had seen Iqbal with another woman, ever since she finally stopped pretending everything was fine.
"He has a girlfriend, Y/N."
"I know."
"Then why are you still there?"
Y/N looked out the window.
The gardens stretched peacefully below.
Somewhere upstairs, Laiba's voice drifted faintly through the floorboards.
The sound softened something inside her.
"I have Laiba."
"You can fight for custody."
The suggestion almost made her laugh.
Fight Major Iqbal? For a child he adored perhaps more than anthing and anyone here?
No.
That wasn't a battle she would ever win.
Nor was it one she wanted Laiba caught in.
"I'll leave."
Her friend immediately sounded relieved.
"Good."
Y/N smiled a sad little smile, the kind nobody could see through a phone.
"Just...a few more months."
Outside the library, footsteps stopped.
Iqbal had just entered the hallway quietly moving towards their bedroom, but the words caught his attention immediately.
A few more months?
His frown deepened.
Inside the room, Y/N continued speaking quietly.
"I just need enough time."
Enough time.
The phrase lingered strangely.
Enough time for what?
To gather courage? To arrange a separation? To finally leave?
Iqbal wasn't sure.
And ultimately, he didn't care enough to ask.
After a moment, he simply continued walking.
The conversation forgotten almost immediately.
Meanwhile, Y/N remained seated by the window long after the call ended.
One hand resting lightly against her chest.
The familiar ache was there.
A few more months.
Nobody knew what those words truly meant, nobody knew she had already begun measuring her life in months instead of years.
---
The next week, Y/N was in the main living room with Ruksana and Bashir chacha, arguing over something pointless as they always did on lazy evenings.
The sound of the front gates opening barely registered in their minds,
Cars came and went constantly from the mansion, deliveries, visitors, business associates.
Nobody paid much attention, it was normal.
Until the front door opened, Y/N looked up and so did everyone else.
And suddenly the laughter died.
Iqbal stood in the foyer, beside him stood a woman.
Dressed head to toe in a bridal attire.
For a second, nobody moved, nobody breathed.
The entire room seemed frozen.
Y/N's gaze shifted from the woman to Iqbal.
Then to their joined hands.
And finally to the wedding ring glittering on the woman's finger.
Understanding settled over the room all at once.
Ruksana went white, one of the younger help dropped the tray she was carrying.
The crash echoed through the silence.
Nobody even looked at it.
Everyone was staring at Iqbal, and at the woman beside him.
At the audacity of bringing her here, into this house, into their begum sahiba's house, into Y/N's house.
Iqbal's expression remained unreadable.
Calm and cntrolled as always.
Finally, he spoke.
"This is Ayesha."
His voice cut cleanly through the silence.
No one answered, no one greeted her, no one even blinked.
Iqbal continued.
"She is my wife."
The words landed like a slap.
Around the room, several faces visibly hardened.
Bashir chacha's jaw tightened, Ruksana looked one sentence away from unemployment or death.
The younger helpers stared at Ayesha as though she had personally committed a crime. In their mind they had.
Nobody in the house was unaware of what Major Iqbal was capable of, they knew exactly what happened to people who crossed him.
Yet for one dangerous moment, several of them looked ready to do it anyway.
All because of Y/N.
Because everybody in this house loved her.
And everybody knew she deserved better than this.
The silence stretched.
Iqbal's eyes eventually found Y/N.
Perhaps he expected tears or anger or even humiliation.
Instead, Y/N simply stepped forward.
The movement startled everyone.
Including him.
She stopped in front of Ayesha.
The younger woman looked terrified, like someone awaiting judgment.
Y/N offered a small smile, the same smile she offered guests and strangers.
"Assalamualaikum."
Ayesha blinked and then quickly returned it.
"Walaikum assalam."
Y/N nodded.
Then turned toward the staff.
"Why is everyone standing around?"
Nobody moved.
"Tea should be prepared."
Still nobody moved.
Y/N raised an eyebrow, and immediately the room exploded back into motion.
People scattered, though several looked deeply unhappy about it.
Only then did she look back at Ayesha.
"Come."
The younger woman hesitated before following her.
Y/N led her upstairs.
Neither woman spoke.
Behind them, the house remained eerily quiet.
Word had already begun spreading.
By the time they reached the second floor, every staff in the residence probably knew what had happened.
Y/N stopped outside the master bedroom.
Her bedroom Or what used to be her bedroom even the night before. For eleven years.
She pushed the door open,
Sunlight spilled across polished floors.
The large bed sat exactly where it always had.
Ayesha stared at the room.
Y/N stepped aside.
"You'll stay here."
The younger woman's eyes widened.
"What?"
"You'll stay here."
Y/N continued,
"The staff will move my belongings to one of the guest rooms. They'll also bring your things upstairs."
The younger woman looked moments away from crying.
Y/N felt oddly detached from it all.
As though she were watching somebody else's life unfold.
Maybe because, in a way, she was.
The life she had built with Iqbal had ended long before today.
Today was simply the first day everyone else could see it.
She turned toward the door.
Then paused.
Without looking back, she spoke softly.
"If you need anything, ask Ruksana."
Ayesha swallowed.
"Why are you being kind to me?"
For the first time, Y/N's smile faltered.
Just slightly.
Because the answer was complicated.
Because anger required energy she no longer possessed.
Because she had bigger things to worry about than a husband who stopped loving her.
Because every day she woke up knowing she had fewer of them left.
Instead she simply said,
"Get settled."
Then she walked away.
Leaving the room.
Leaving her marriage.
And, though nobody knew it yet,
slowly beginning to leave everything else behind too.
---
The first few days after Ayesha's arrival were awkward for everyone, except Y/N.
The staff took it personally.
Ruksana refused to make eye contact with Iqbal unless absolutely necessary,
Bashir chacha's replies became painfully short, the kitchen staff lowered their voices whenever Major Sahab or choti begum shiba entered a room.
Nobody openly disrespected them, nobody was foolish enough for that.
But the warmth that once existed was gone.
And everyone knew why.
The strange thing was that Ayesha seemed just as uncomfortable.
She kept trying to help, trying to fit in, trying to speak to the staff.
Most attempts ended with polite responses and quick exits.
Not because they hated her, because loving Y/N made loyalty feel complicated.
Ayesha seemed to understand that, she never complained, never demanded respect, never acted entitled.
Instead she quietly endured the discomfort.
Which made disliking her increasingly difficult, for Y/N especially.
Because she watched.
And the more she watched, the harder it became to blame the girl.
Ayesha was not cruel, not arrogant, not malicious.
She looked guilty more often than happy.
Like someone who had gotten everything she wanted and somehow still felt bad about it.
The apology finally came a week later.
Y/N was sitting in the garden sorting through old books.
The pile beside her had grown considerably over the last month.
Some were destined for charity.
Some for the staff.
Some for Laiba.
All of them were part of a future Y/N no longer expected to see.
She heard footsteps approaching.
Y/N didn't look up but she could recognise the nervous footsteps pretty easily now, Ayesha.
The younger woman stopped nearby.
Neither spoke immediately, and the silence stretched.
Then, "I'm sorry."
The words were so quiet they almost disappeared into the wind.
Y/N closed her book.
Ayesha looked miserable, eyes red, hands twisting together in her dupatta.
For a moment, Y/N saw not the woman who married her husband.
Just a girl, A frightened girl carrying far more guilt than she knew what to do with.
"For taking him from you."
There it was.
The thing everyone had been avoiding.
The thing hanging over the house like a storm cloud.
Y/N studied her for several seconds.
Then smiled.
"He was never mine to begin with."
Ayesha's eyes immediately filled.
"No."
"Yes."
Y/N looked away.
Toward the flower beds.
Toward the afternoon sun.
Toward anything except the pity on Ayesha's face.
"I lost him years ago."
The words felt strangely easy to say.
Because they were true.
People thought marriages ended dramatically with explosions, arguments, betrayals.
But most didn't.
Most ended quietly in missed dinners, unasked questions, empty beds and forgotten anniversaries.
By the time another woman appeared, the marriage was often already dead.
Ayesha began crying.
Which honestly felt unfair.
Y/N should have been the one crying.
Yet somehow she found herself comforting the woman who married her husband.
Life was absurd sometimes.
After that conversation, things changed grafually.
Almost without anyone noticing.
Ayesha started joining Y/N during afternoon tea, sometimes they spoke.
Sometimes they didn't.
Neither seemed to mind.
The younger woman listened more than she talked.
Y/N appreciated that.
One afternoon she learned Ayesha liked astronomy.
The information lodged itself somewhere in her mind.
Two days later, she casually mentioned it during dinner.
"Laiba."
The teenager looked up.
"Hm?"
"Ayesha likes astronomy too."
Laiba immediately narrowed her eyes.
Suspicious.
Protective.
Very fourteen years old.
"No she doesn't."
Ayesha looked startled.
"I do."
"No you don't."
"I do."
"Name three planets."
Ayesha blinked then obediently named five.
Laiba looked genuinely offended.
Y/N nearly laughed into her tea.
That was the beginning.
After that came small things.
Tiny moments.
Little bridges built one day at a time.
"Show Ayesha your telescope."
"Tell Ayesha about your project."
"Ayesha knows how to make kheer."
"Ayesha likes documentaries too."
At first Laiba resisted every attempt, not aggressively. She wasnt capable of aggresion. Just stubbornly.
The way special needs children resisted change.
But Ayesha never forced anything, never demanded affection, never tried replacing anyone, She simply showed up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Patient. Consistent. Kind.
Eventually Laiba responded.
The first time Y/N heard laughter coming from the study and discovered Ayesha and Laiba sitting together over an astronomy documentary, she quietly backed out before either noticed her.
Then stood in the hallway crying.
Not because it hurt, because it didn't.
That was the shocking part.
It felt like relief. Pure relief.
For months she had been terrified.
Terrified of leaving Laiba alone.
Terrified of what would happen afterward.
Terrified that nobody would understand her daughter the way she did.
Now, for the first time, she could imagine a future where Laiba might be okay.
The realization settled something restless inside her.
And once it did,
Y/N began withdrawing.
She started excusing herself when Laiba asked to spend time with her and instead directed her to Ayesha.
Soon it became normal.
Laiba watched documentaries with Ayesha, had tea with Ayesha, went shopping with Ayesha.
And Y/N found herself watching from a distance.
Like someone slowly fading from a photograph.
One evening, she took things a step further.
Dinner had just ended.
Laiba and Ayesha were arguing over something involving Jupiter.
The debate sounded absurd.
Y/N smiled.
Then looked directly at her daughter.
"Stop calling her Choti Ammi."
The room immediately fell silent.
Laiba blinked.
Ayesha froze.
Even Iqbal looked up.
"What?"
Y/N's smile remained gentle.
"Call her Ammi."
Ayesha looked horrified.
"No—"
"There is enough room."
The younger woman's eyes immediately filled.
Laiba looked confused.
"But you're Ammi."
The words nearly shattered Y/N.
Still, she smiled.
Always smiling.
"Yes."
"Then she's Choti Ammi."
Y/N reached over and tucked a curl behind her daughter's ear.
After that evening she started easing the idea gently into Laiba's life.
Enough that when the truth finally came out, it would hurt them a little less.
Or at least that was what she hoped.
Unfortunately, fate had never cared much about her plans.
And somewhere inside the house, hidden beneath neatly folded clothes in a wardrobe nobody ever opened, a brown medical file was waiting patiently to be found.
---
Winter settled over the Iqbal residence quietly, the gardens were still beautiful, the staff still bustled through the halls.
Laiba still filled every room she entered with noise.
Life continued.
At least on the surface.
Beneath it, however, something was changing,
Y/N was disappearing, little pieces at a time.
She spent more time in her room or the garden, more afternoons resting,
More evenings sitting alone by the window watching the stars above.
Nobody questioned it much.
After all, everyone believed they understood why.
A woman whose husband had married again would naturally become quieter.
More withdrawn, more distant.
Even Iqbal assumed as much.
Whenever he noticed her absence from dinner, he attributed it to resentment.
Whenever he noticed her exhaustion, he blamed sadness.
Whenever he heard her coughing behind closed doors, he barely thought about it at all.
The truth never crossed his mind.
Because it never occurred to him that Y/N might be carrying something far heavier than heartbreak.
And Y/N never corrected him.
The discovery happened on an ordinary afternoon, Iqbal had been looking for some property documents.
Nothing important or memorable.
One of his associates needed copies of paperwork and Bashir chacha had informed him the files might have been moved during a recent reorganization.
So Iqbal searched his study first, then his office, then several cupboards upstairs.
Eventually he entered the guest room,
Y/N's room, the room she had moved into after Ayesha arrived.
The room he rarely entered, the room he had absolutely no reason to enter.
Until today.
The wardrobe was neatly arranged.
Of course it was.
Everything belonging to Y/N was always neat,
Iqbal moved a stack of folded shawls aside.
A brown file slipped free and hit the floor.
Papers spilled everywhere.
Annoyed, he bent to gather them.
Then froze, at first he didn't understand what he was looking at.
Hospital documents, medical reports, prescriptions, scan results, appointment records.
His frown deepened,
Slowly, he began reading.
One page. Then another. Then another.
The room became very quiet.
'Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis.'
The unfamiliar medical term appeared repeatedly. Progressive. Irreversible.
Terminal. The words blurred.
For a moment, Iqbal genuinely thought he was misunderstanding something.
This had to belong to somebody else.
Some mistake. Some error.
Because Y/N couldn't possibly—
No. Impossible.
His eyes jumped to the dates.
The earliest report was 9 months old.
9 Months.
His hands began trembling.
The realization arrived slowly and cruelly, like a knife being pushed deeper and deeper.
The coughing, the fainting spells, the exhaustion, the sudden extreme generosity, the way she kept giving her most prized possessions away, the way she encouraged Ayesha and Laiba to grow closer, the way she kept talking about the future without ever including herself in it.
The conversation he overheard.
'Just a few more months.'
The sentence slammed into him with horrifying clarity.
She hadn't been talking about leaving him.
She had been talking about dying, the file slipped from his hands.
This time he didn't pick it up.
He found her in the garden.
It was where she always went lately, the winter sunlight painted everything gold.
The flowers swayed gently in the breeze.
And Y/N sat beneath them looking strangely small.
For the first time, Iqbal noticed it.
The weight loss, the paleness, the exhaustion hidden beneath her smile.
How had he never noticed?
Or worse...Had he noticed and simply chosen not to look?
Y/N lifted her head.
Saw the look in his eyes and immediately understood that he knows.
A tiny smile touched her lips, not surprised, not frightened just resigned.
"You found it."
Four simple words.
Iqbal felt something inside his chest crack.
The pain unfolded, layer by layer, mistake by mistake, year by year.
"How long?"
His voice sounded wrong.
Hoarse and unsteady.
Y/N looked down at her hands.
"A while."
"A while?"
The words escaped harsher than intended.
She nodded.
Silently.
And suddenly Iqbal understood something awful.
She had gone through all of it alone.
Every appointment. Every test. Every diagnosis. Every terrifying conversation.
Alone.
While he was busy building another life.
While he was busy falling in love with someone else.
While he was busy convincing himself Y/N simply didn't care anymore.
A sickness spread through him.
Not grief, not yet but guilt.
The kind that clawed at your ribs, the kind that made breathing difficult, the kind that arrived when it was already too late.
"You should've told me."
Y/N laughed softly, a tired sound.
Almost affectionate.
"What would've changed, Iqbal?"
He opened his mouth, nothing came out.
Because he didn't know.
Maybe everything, maybe nothing.
Maybe he would've stayed, maybe he would've loved her properly again, maybe he would've spent her final months beside her instead of somebody else.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
The word was useless now.
The future had already happened, and there was no undoing it.
For the first time in years, Major Iqbal cried that night.
And for the first time in years, he understood exactly what he had lost.
Not his wife, not yet.
Something much worse.
The chance to love her.
And by the time he finally realized it,
there wasn't enough time left to try.
---
Major Iqbal did not sleep that night.
The reports remained spread across his desk long after midnight.
Every page felt like punishment.
Every date another reminder that while Y/N had been learning how little time she had left, he had been somewhere else.
By dawn, his eyes burned from exhaustion.
For the first time in years, his path seemed clear. No more distance,no more coldness, no more excuses.
Whatever time she had left, he would spend it beside her.
He would love her the way she deserved to be loved.
Not because she was dying, because he should have done it years ago.
The realization came far too late.
But it had come and he intended to spend every remaining day proving it.
As the first rays of sunlight spilled through the windows, Iqbal made his way toward Y/N's room.
For once, he wasn't carrying work, wasn't thinking about leaving, wasn't thinking about anything except her.
He would apologize, he would sit with her, maybe have breakfast together, maybe talk. Really talk.
Perhaps for the first time in years.
A small smile touched his face as he pushed the door open.
"Y/N—"
The word died in his throat.
The room was quiet, too quiet.
Y/N lay exactly where she had gone to sleep the night before, blankets neatly tucked around her.
One hand resting atop them, A faint smile still lingering on her lips.
As though she had fallen asleep thinking of something beautiful.
For one foolish second, he thought she was still sleeping.
Then he noticed she wasn't breathing.
The world stopped for him.
"No."
The whisper escaped before he realized it.
His feet carried him forward.
His hand found hers.
Cold enough to tell him the truth he was having a hard time believing.
Somewhere during the night, while he sat downstairs in his study, making promises to a future he thought they still had,
Y/N had slipped away peacefully.
Without waking anyone.
Iqbal sank beside the bed, his fingers wrapped around hers, his forehead pressed against her hand.
And for the first time, he understood the true weight of regret.
Because after years of not choosing her,
he finally had.
And she hadn't lived long enough to see it.
Outside, the sun continued rising.
Inside, the heart of the Iqbal residence had stopped beating.
Disclaimer: This series is inspired by the 2025 movie Dhurandhar by Aditya Dhar. This is in no way meant to idolize the real people the movie is about; they are bastards, and this is just a fanfic for the appreciation of the movie and the lovely actors who brought the characters to life. SO TAKE A FUCKING CHILL PILL and enjoy <3
Warnings: Cursing, Angst, Drinking
Masterlist
Author's Note: GUESS WHO'S BACK? BACK AGAIN! DSKVS IS BACK. TELL A FRIEND....Now that that's done, let's go back to the pain :)
Can you believe that I was going to go day by day? This chapter would have taken a fucking century. Also, I have been waiting to use this gif of Rehanna for AGES. I was waiting for this chapter, actually.
Chapter 16. Ek mahina ya sau saal?
The morning after the ending of chapter 15 @ 10 am on December 1st
The sunlight cuts through the ornately carved windows of Rehman’s master bedroom. It slices through the heavy linen curtains. It violently pierces through Rehman's closed eyelids. Last night he collapsed heavily in his bed drunk and angry out of his mind. Not even bothering to undress from his day-worn clothes. As soon as his head hit the pillow he was out like a light.
Now the sunlight violently pierces Rehman's eyes. He groans in pain. His eyes hurt, his head hurts, his body hurts. How much did he have to drink last night? Rehman's hand automatically reached to the other side of the bed. It was second nature to him, like breathing, especially after all these months.
The ritual was that before he even opened his eyes he always pulled her close. His morning never began without the feeling of her pulled flush against him. He would bury himself in her hair, breathing deeply. She always smelt like the most intoxicating mix of sleep and her perfume long with faint remnants of their love. Rehman's hand reaches to the other side of his bed, expecting her warm sleepy body. But all he is met with is cold forest green silk sheets.
Rehman's eyes shoot open, it takes a moment for his eyes to focus. The blankets are crumpled. Could she be tangled in them? He pulls at the blankets expecting her body to be revealed. He is met with nothing but air. He wakes up even more, sitting up in his bed. Rehman's head pounds violently as he tries to understand what the hell was going on.
Flashes burst through his hungover mind. Flashes of the argument. Flashes of his anger. Flashes of him yelling. Flashes of her horror. Flashes of her tears. Flashes of her leaving. No no no no thinks Rehman. He breathes hard as he stumbles out of bed.
His alcohol-addled body sways violently. He feels the world lurch violently to the side. The floor feels unstable below him. He looks around the room, his eyes dart around the half dark room. He looks for anything, something, that will tell him his worst fears aren't true. He is looking for her clothes on the floor, sounds from the bathroom, her soft breathing as she sleeps.
Nothing. Rehman sees nothing. The world tilts again. Rehman feels like something is crushing his ribs. Breathing feels difficult. He huffs for breath as he looks around the room. Then his eyes spot a puddle of maroon and white cashmere on the floor. The same cashmere shawl he had given to her last night when she felt cold in her saree.
Yesterday afternoon he had seen that she was wearing a maroon and white cotton saree. Rehman had smiled to himself as he went to his closet and pulled out a cashmere shawl he had ordered on demand from Kashmir. For her.
Now the next morning he spots the shawl he demanded back from her last night. It was lying crumpled on the floor. Dead. It looked dead. He stumbles to it and falls onto the floor.
His shaky hands fist into the cold embroidered cashmere shawl. He clutches it to his chest. He brings it close because it holds her scent. As he brings it close something tumbles out of it. A dead chan chan sound and a hard thunk.
He sees her payals, her beautiful emerald diamond and platinum payals he gave her on her birthday, on the floor. The payals she never took off. Ever. The clasps crusted with blood from where she ripped them off her delicate ankles. Then Rehman's eyes went to the pendant on the floor, the diamond crusted platinum letter R and a tiny platinum lion lion, her initials and his symbol. Another thing she never took off, ever. The platinum chain snapped from where she had yanked it.
No. no no no no. He stumbles out of his room. His head pounding wildly, his hands shaking slightly as they fist tighter in the shawl. The payals and the pendant rest in his other hand. She was probably in her room right? She was just angry at him right? He deserved it. Rehman would beg for forgiveness until the day he dies.
Rehman crosses the hallway between their rooms. He opens the door. Her bedroom is a mess like it had been ransacked and she had left. It was empty. Devoid of any of her. “Meri jaan?” Rehman's hoarse wrecked voice rings through the room. Was she under the covers? He rips them off the bed. Thin air. Was she in her bathroom? He knocks on the door and it swings open on its own accord.
With each moment he is getting more and more scared. Fear and paranoia claw through him. Where was she? Where was his jaan? She has to be in her office right?
Maybe she packed up. And then decided she didn't want to leave, then she spent the night in her office to scare him? To make a point. The point, that she could leave if she wanted. Point fucking made my love he thinks as he walks out of her room.
Rehman bursts into her office. Her books are gone from the bookshelves. And that. That was more painful than anything Rehman had seen that morning. Her desk is empty, papers scattered. “Rehanna?” he calls out. “Meri jaan kahan hain aap?”
He looks around. He waits. There is no response. Rehman falls to his knees onto the plush navy blue persian carpet of her office. Breathing hard. The full scale of it hits him. She was gone.
He kicked her out. He told her he hates her. He made her cry. He made her sad, he made her cry, he broke her heart. He told her to leave….then one more point hits him. He told her to leave when she doesn't have another home to go to. When she moved into the haveli with him months ago when her life was in danger, she had given up her home. Now she had nowhere to go. Rehman took away her security, Rehman had taken away her home. Rehman had thrown out the love of his life.
What had he done?
—-------------
Meanwhile at the same time
Rehanna Randhawa’s Apartment, Hindu colony, Lyari, Pakistan
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The wall clock sounds off steadily. There is a faint electrical buzz in the air from the refrigerator in the kitchen. Outside the window lyari is wide awake. You can hear the vegetable vendors roll their carts calling their customers. You can hear the faint yelling of kids playing in the street.
When Rehanna Randhawa finally wakes up her head is pounding. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks. She groans as she tries to turn deeper into the covers. Hoping that sleep would take her again. Hoping that the fucking pounding would stop. She isn't brave enough to open her eyes.
The empty whiskey bottle rolls off the bed. It clinks hard onto the tile of her bedroom floor, rolling under the bed. Her eyes are swollen shut. And she knows they are red and blood shot before she even opens them. For a moment. Just a moment. Her mind is kind to her just for a moment, it doesn't let her remember what happened last night.
Another groan pulls from her throat as her hands reach to the other side of the bed. Expecting to find a warm sleepy body waiting for her. Her legs shift slightly and the lack of sound is deafening. She pauses her movement midway. She can't hear them. She can't hear her payals. All Rehanna can feel is a stinging scrape on her foot, running jagged across her ankle.
And then everything hits hard. All the events of yesterday hit her hard enough in the face to sting like a slap. She can feel the imaginary burn on her cheek. Her eyes flutter open. She half hopes it was a terrible nightmare. The sun in her room is too bright.
The warm sunlight fills her room. This isn't her room, but this is her house. Her old apartment. Not the baloch haveli. She is back in her own bed where she never hoped to be again. But thank god Rehanna had kept her apartment all those months ago.
Rehman had taken her to the haveli sure, but she kept paying the rent for this house, she had the locks changed and the house made more secure. Maybe because somewhere deep inside of her she knew that everything would fall apart. Maybe because she knew she didn't deserve an easy fairytale kind of love. Love. What a funny and juvenile thing. Maybe she kept her apartment, because she knew that the man she wasn't supposed to fall in love with would hurt her one day.
Rehanna loves being right. Why did she have to be right this time? Her eyes finally adjust to the sunlight. The swimming in her head won't stop. She can smell the whisky fumes in the small room. The throbbing at her temple and above her eyebrows doesn't seem to stop. Then she hears it again. His voice.
‘Nafrat karta hun mai tumse’ She feels salty tears sting in her sensitive eyes again. It hurts, the salty solution coating her bloodshot eyes. She hadn't expected that. She hadn't expected hate from lips that only sang love sonnets for her. A bitter huff leaves her body. Rehman hadn't even said the words to her. Ever. He had never told her that he loves her but she could feel it anyway. She could always feel the love in his eyes, in his touch, in his acts of service to her. She could feel it.
The salty tears pool enough that the surface tension keeping them in her eyes burst. They fell down her tired face in warm salty streaks. She felt them flow down her face and into her hair. Fuck. She wasn't supposed to fall in love with him. But somewhere along the way she did. She fell in love with Rehman Dakait.
‘Nafrat karta hun mai tumse’ That's all that she can hear now. The same voice that always sang meri jaan, meri rooh. The same voice and all its memories were now written over by pain. Rehanna uses her palms to wipe the endless tears away. The man she loves told her he hates her and she is crying in bed. Crying in bed like a pathetic loser.
A -severely mistimed for the situation- laugh pulls out of her body. The sound is not melodious and bright as laughter should be. It's raw, rough, and jagged. “Fuck yaar” she giggles. Her body sways slightly as her hand clutches her now even worse throbbing head. She is now sitting up in her bed. “R&AW ki maa ki….” she trails off as she breaks out into broken tear soaked maniacal laughter.
‘Nafrat karta hun mai tumse……Nikal jao MERI haveli se’
—-------------
Same day- December 1 @ 11 am
Segment suggested songs: No particular order
O bedardya
Bekhayali
Ik lamha
Rehanna was trying to force normalcy. Kyunki iss dukh me doobke kya hi hone wala hai? Every waking second she felt hot tears pool in her eyes. Every time her body moved a fraction she could hear the cluttering and clanking of the broken pieces of her heart rattling against her ribcage. The keyword attached to the world normalcy here was ‘try’. She was trying.
Rehanna was trying when the first thing she did after stumbling out of bed was reach for another bottle of whiskey from her liquor cabinet. She was trying when she took it to the bathroom with her. She was trying when she used it as mouthwash after she brushed her teeth. She was trying when she took greedy gulps of it as she shed her clothes.
She was trying when she stood under the shower. She was trying when she ignored the hot tears mixing with the shower water. She was trying when she had the bottle attached to her lips as she sank down onto the bathroom floor under the warm spray.
Rehanna was trying when she dressed herself in a plain shirt and some short cotton shorts. She was trying when she stuffed toast in her mouth. She was trying when she spiked her coffee with whiskey. She really was trying. That didn't mean she was going to be successful.
She hummed to herself lightly as she stumbled to her record player. Half a bottle of whisky down already. The pain felt slightly bearable now that all her senses had been dulled. Her fingers flicked deftly through her record collection as she looked for a particular album. Her hazy eyes search lazily. She can't see it.
She scoffs to herself. Of course she can't find something when she needs it. Typical. She walks to her sofa in the small living room. The tears drip out of her eyes lazily. She doesn't even register it anymore. It's as normal as breathing. She lands onto her sofa with the grace of a newborn giraffe.
Whiskey spiked coffee threatens to spill out of the cup but she balances it. She hums the melody of the song she was looking for in her records. She brings the cup up to her lips. Tears fall into it mixing with the contents of the cup. The song really would have been perfect if she had found it “Sobbing into my cup of coffee……because I fell for another looserrr” she slurs with a chuckle.
She reaches over to the table and her cup lands on it with a thud, more rough than she had intended. Her fingers fumbled for her pack of cigarettes, she brought one to her lips. As her lips held the cigarette in place, her thumb fiddled with the lighter. She clicked it once. Then twice, then three times. Finally on the fourth attempt the flame finally lit “Haat maadarchod” she scoffed drunkenly as she tossed it across the room.
She took a deep drag of the Marlboro, the tendrils of smoke caught in the afternoon light. She exhaled as her head hit the headrest. She watched them swirl around her with hazy unfocused eyes. Rehanna’s eyes flicked to the half empty bottle of whiskey on her coffee table.
Its the same thing that got Rehman drunk enough last night to tell her that he hates her. It's also the same thing dulling the pain enough to keep Rehanna sane. She takes lazy drags off of her cigarette as she stares into the abyss. All she could think about is how much she hates herself. How much she hates herself for still loving Rehman even though he hurt her.
All of a sudden there is a series of rapid and panicked knocks on her door. She has a certain feeling pool deep in her gut. She has an idea of who was outside. No she will not open it. Rehanna ignores the door. She sips her spiked coffee again. 3 more rapid knocks make her door shake on its hinges. Still no. Rehanna will not open the door.
Just as she was about to ignore the door again a feeling crawls up her spine. What if it was someone else? What if it was Hamza? She sighs as she stands up and walks to her door. She hates how fresh tears threaten to fall when she can't hear her payals chan chan chan with each step. Once she reaches her door she looks out the peephole.
Rehanna’s breathing stops immediately. No. No. No, absolutely not. It's Rehman. She backs away from the door trying to come to terms with what she was seeing outside. He is still wearing the clothes he was wearing yesterday. He looks like a wrecked mess. He looks like he just woke up and rushed out of the house frantically. In his arms rested a massive bouquet of white roses.
As she backs away her hand hits the doorknob making it rattle slightly. “Fuck!” she curses softly under her breath. Rehman perks up outside her door. She was right there, she was watching him through the peephole. “Rehanna? Meri jaan?” he calls out knocking on the door again. Rehanna freezes at how he calls her.
How dare he? How can he? How does he dare to call her by her name or by the title of endearment he just used? She can't believe it. She can't believe the way his words wrap around her heart. She can't believe the way her heart thrums out of her ribcage begging to go to him.
Outside the door Rehman's hand runs through his hair for the nth time. She was right there. She wasn't opening the door. He deserved it, yes, he deserved every jab she would throw at him. But he needed to see her. He needed to beg for her forgiveness. But she isn't opening the door “Meri jaan….mai darkhuast karta hun darwaza kholo.” The desperate rasp in his voice is painfully audible.
—---------
Desperate is the right word. Rehman was desperate to see her. The moment he had realized what he had done he knew he needed to make it right. He was beginning to hear Ulfat’s voice in the back of his mind again. Rehman remembers how bitter ulfat had become before she had left him. He was beginning to hear the constant chanting of monster, monster, monster once again. Ulfat used to call him a monster.
He didn't want to become that again. That part of him even scared him. He didn't want to go back to the darkness after he had had a taste of the light.
He needed Rehanna, she was the one who stayed with him even after knowing how much of a horrible man he was. She never called him a monster. She understood the darkness. She wasn't afraid of him. She was the one who he truly loved. She was the one who kept the monster in him tamed. Rehman needed Rehanna.
He had run out of his haveli fumbling with the keys of his maroon corvette. Where had she gone? Was the only question in his mind as he pulled out of the haveli at terrifying speed. Rehman's mind began cycling through every possible option: Hamza's house, the fancy burger bachha hotels in the city, a friend's house.
While he scrambled in his mind to figure out where she might be, his muscle memory had begun driving to her old house again. Once he realized where his body was going Rehman decided it was worth a chance. He stopped the car at the first flower shop he spotted and picked up the biggest and most expensive bouquet. A bouquet of big brilliant white roses.
The same kind that he himself had picked from the haveli gardens to thread through her hair yesterday afternoon. His mind keeps going back to yesterday afternoon. Everything was fine yesterday afternoon. Everything was fine until yesterday after dinner too. Then he had gone and fucked it all.
Rehman pulls his car into the Hindu Colony of Lyari where her old apartment used to be. As soon as he pulls into the street he sees her black mercedes parked outside the quaint standalone building. The sigh of relief that pulls out of him is immense in its own right. Here she was. She hadn't gone too far.
Rehman launches out of the car with the bouquet. He walks to the staircase of the building and climbs it as fast as his legs will take him. She lived on the second floor. Rehman remembers. The second floor, the last house on the right side of the hallway. The dark brown wooden door, the out of control leafy monstera and the navy blue fabric toran with copper bells attached to it which swayed in the wind.
Rehman's fist bangs against the door. No poise, no charisma in his knock. Pure raw desperation to see the woman he had hurt so he could beg for her forgiveness. He knocks six times, and he hears nothing. “Rehanna? meri jaan?” And just as he is about to give up he hears a faint rattle behind the door. She was there. “Meri jaan….mai darkhuast karta hun darwaza kholo.”
—-----------
The wooden door swings open and there she is. Rehman stops breathing. Because this isn't his Rehanna. It's a husk of herself. A wave of self-hatred pulls through him, the wave almost powerful enough to make his knees buckle.
Her beautiful eyes are red and broken. Tear-tracts are etched into her cheeks from how many tears had flown down them. Her eyes are dead. He can smell the pungent cloud of whiskey surrounding her, he can see how she sways ever so slightly as the alcohol deepens its hold on her. And worst of all she isn't speaking. She isnt yelling at him, she isnt killing him. What hurts the most is how she is looking at him. Like he was a stranger.
Immediately Rehman holds out the bouquet of expensive flowers in front of him. He holds it out to her, expecting her to reach out and take it. Rehanna blinks in shock. At the flowers, at Rehman. Rehman looks like shit. His clothes rumpled and crumpled, his hair a mess, his own eyes red and blood shot. His hands shake slightly as he looks at her with steadily diminishing hope in his eyes. He looks genuinely haunted. The white roses emit their sickeningly beautiful scent in between them.
Rehman steps forward and gently places the bouquet in her hands before he steps back. The plastic and crumpled tissue of the wrapping crinkles in her arms as she holds the bouquet in the crook of her arm. She leans her head towards the flowers and takes in their scent for a moment.
Rehman watches. He expects her to say something. He wants to hear her voice. Because he remembers the last thing she said to him.
—------------
Chapter 15 flashback
“Jo mujhse nafrat karta hai uska kuch nahi chahiye…” her voice cracked violently now. “In payalon aur iss pendant me manlo ki apna ek dil ka tukda bhi chhord ke ja rahi hun.”
—---------
Rehman remembers it so clearly. He remembers the pain in her voice, the restrained anger. Most importantly he remembers the way she looked at him. Every second she looked at him it felt like she was severing each string that connected them together. So now. He expected her to speak.
Rehanna keeps her mouth shut. Because she knows if she will speak right now she will burst into tears. She would break down, and Rehman would take her into his arms. And she is too afraid she will forgive him. She doesn't want to forgive him. The pain slices through her body, she swallows down the words she wants to say and it feels like she is trying to swallow a cactus.
Rehman takes a deep breath. She isn't speaking. His shaking hand runs through his hair as he takes a shaky breath. “Meri jaan mujhe maaf kardo” that's the first thing he says. And then the words don't stop. “Sachai yeh hai ki mai apne aap se khfa tha….aur aap pe bewajah hi malal aya” the look in his eyes begs her to believe him.
(Thoda sa mai khafa hogaya apne aap se. Thoda sa tujh pe bhi bewaja hi malal aye)- Bekhayali
Rehannas fingers trace the powdery soft petals of the white roses in her arms. She watches him with wide blank eyes. But she is paying close attention at the same time. Rehman continues speaking “Yeh koi azar nahi hai lekin sach baat yeh hai ki jab hum Khanani ke ghar se wapas aa rahe the aapki ek baat mujhe chubhi” he says as he watches her reaction.
Her reaction reveals nothing. So he continues speaking “Aapne bola ki mai apka kitna khayal rakhta hun. Haan mai rakhta hun aapka khayal. Kyunki mai aapse be intehaan mohabbat karta hun-”
He said it. Rehman said it. Rehanna’s fingers against the rose petals freeze. Rehman himself freezes as he realizes what he had just said. Rehanna can't stop the small huff of disbelief that falls out of her body. Yesterday he hated her. Today he loves her? For a moment her eyes soften when she looks at him. Rehman catches it. He hoped she would break her silence and speak. And just as quick as her eyes softened they hardened again. Rehanna hates that her heart soared for a few moments before it crashed and shattered into a million pieces once more.
“H-Haan mai aapse mohhobat kara hun…be intehaan mohhobat. L-lekin, jab- jab aapne mujhse khayal rakhne wali baat kahi thi” Rehman resumes unsteadily. Unsure if he should address what he just blurted out or continue with the apology. Maybe he should have practiced. Fuck it “Tab mujhe yaad agaya ki maine jo deal Iqbal ke saath banai, use wajeh se mai kisi aur ka khayal bhul raha hun. Balochon ka khayal.”
“Jinhone mujhe yeh sher e baloch ka taj diya unhi se dagabazi kar raha hun mai. Yeh yaad agaya tha mujhe.” He looks at her with genuine apology in his eyes hoping she would speak now. She stays quiet. “Sabko pata hai ki maine kitni pi rakhi thi kal raat. Zaroorat se zyada pi rakhi thi maine.” he admits.
“Phir Hamza ne gaadi se nikalte hi chillaana shuru kardiya. Aap bhi beech me agayi usko bachane ke liye…aur jab maine aapki akhon me whoh…woh jhatka dekha sachai pe. Toh mujhe khud nahi pata kya hua mere andar” Rehman admits the last part rather quietly. Like he was ashamed that the immense control he kept on himself slipped clean out of his hands like the leash of a runaway dog.
Rehanna’s face betrays nothing. But she can feel the words she wants to scream at him bubble through her throat. He looks up at her with his broken eyes as he speaks again “Meri jaan… Rehanna.. Kya hum andar baith ke baat karsakte hain?”
Rehanna’s eyes narrow at the pure audacity. His own guilt made him lash out at her and now he thinks a sob story apology would give him access to her again? A cold tear drips down her face, sadness, anger and the words she wants to scream all mixed within it. Her nimble fingers wrap around a brilliant white rose. They rip off the petals violently and throw them at him.
This isn't how he was supposed to tell her that he loves her. This isn't how it was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be a romantic moment full of love. It wasn't supposed to be this. How can he ruin the moment? How could he take the experience she deserves away from her?
Rehman blinks in shock as the petals rain down on him. Another tear. Another rip. Another flower is thrown square at Rehman. Then five more flowers in succession are thrown the same way. Rehman breaks his stunned silence “Meri jaan, yun khamosh na raho” he begs as another flower gets thrown at him.
“Mujh pe gussa karo, chillao, maaro-peto, gali do. Lekin khamosh mat raho, Rehanna mai darkhwast karta hun.” He begs desperately, his hand on his heart as he looks into her red and dead eyes. Each tear that sheds feels like a gunshot to his heart. He caused those tears. Rehman would never forgive himself.
Finally she seems to have had enough. Rehman had brought her 30 white roses. She seemed to have decapitated 20 of them. Suddenly she violently throws the expensive bouquet or whatever is left of it to his feet. Rehman looks down and before he can look up again he hears a door slam shut.
He stands there for a moment. He stands there unable to register what had just happened. Then Rehman hears it. He hears muffled sobs coming from behind the door. Like Rehanna had sunk down against the door crying. The volume of the sobs made it seem like she was muffling herself with her hands. She was behind the door. Sobbing. Crying. Because of him.
And in this moment in time Rehman Baloch Dakait realizes one thing. Even if she finds it in her angelic heart to forgive him, if Allah finds it in his heart to forgive him, even if the devil finds it in his heart to forgive Rehman for every sin he has committed. Rehaman would never forgive himself.
—---------------
December 5 @ 5 pm
Bada bazar, Lyari, Pakistan
Segment suggested songs: No particular order
Duaa
Koi si
Jaan se guzarte hain
The natural course for pain is to subside gradually day by day. So then maybe what both Rehanna and Rehman were experiencing was not pain. It was not pain in the simple sense. Because it just seemed to grow second by second. Like each atom of their beings realised they were separated from each other.
Each morning both of them woke up with a smile on their face. Hoping what had happened was just a bad dream. In fact when the both of them finally succumbed to pain induced sleep they dreamt of each other. They dreamt of holding each other, being with each other, loving each other.
Both of them detested the morning. Because in the morning, reality hit the both of them hard across the face. With Rehman it was waves of guilt and self hatred for ruining his relationship with a woman he loved so much that the magnitude of it scared him. With Rehanna it was a deep aching sadness, bitter anger, and self hatred for herself. She hated how badly she still wanted him after he broke her heart, she hated the way her heart pulled at how he admitted he loved her.
—----------------------
Rehanna had been waking up for the past four days to something new each day. Honestly if Rehman hadnt fucked up as bady as he had, then the gestures would have been sweet. The gestures would have made her smile happily and go back to him. But he had fucked up. He had fucked up badly.
The same evening after he walked up to her door with flowers, an apology, and a proclamation of love. A package had shown up at her door. She unwrapped it with trembling hands to find one of his blue pashmina shawls that she so loved. She lifted it to her nose. It still smelled like him, a tear she doesn't want to shed drips down her cheek. Rested in the package was a pair of real sterling silver and pearl Jhumke and a note. Another apology, another I love you, another please just talk to me.
Rehanna walked to her window with a lighter and the gifts in her arms. She threw open the window of the living room. Because she knew someone was standing there. There, across the street. Across the street, near the mandir, Rehman stood leaned back against the maroon corvette. His eyes had been trained to her window all day. He hadn't moved an inch. The moment she appeared in the window his face softened a small smile pulled at his lips seeing the gifts in her arms. He waved to her, hoping she would call him up to her.
She held up the earrings to her ears, she pumped her eyebrows at him, her face still stoic. A subtle ‘How do I look?’ Rehman smiled at her as she gestured to her that she looked perfect. Rehanna shut her eyes as she nodded, her tongue in her cheek. She closed the earrings in her fist and threw them out the window. The silver and pearl Jhumke landed at his feet perfectly on the asphalt.
She balled up the blue pashmina shawl, his scent wafted in the air around her. She hated how she took a greedy inhale. Then she threw it out the window. It billowed in the wind as it sailed across the street and landed at Rehman's feet once again. Rehman picked up both of them silently and looked at her once again. She lit a cigarette with the lighter, her elbows resting in her windowsill lazily as she watched him.
Rehman held what she had thrown close to his heart as he watched and waited. Rehanna read the note in her hands once again as she exhaled a puff of smoke. Her heart stumbling over the words ‘mai aapse mohabbat karta hun’ She smiled sadly at the note. Shaking her head fondly at it. Then her face went stoic once more as she took the lighter and lit the edge of the note. She held Rehman's eyes as the note burnt in her hands.
The ash dripped onto the window sill, the wind carried the ashes to him across the street. He could smell the burnt love in the air. And then as suddenly as she had appeared in her window, Rehanna disappeared. Rehman stood there with the shawl and the jhumke in his hands. First he felt anger, at the blatant disrespect of his gesture. Then he swallowed it down, this wasn't an instigation, this was the response to his blatant disrespect of her last night. He had no right to be angry at how she reacted. In fact he deserved it.
On day two Rehanna woke up to her doorbell ringing off the hook. She groaned and turned into her pillows again. It must be Rehman again. She wasn't going to open the door for him. Not today at least. Just as she was about to drift off the sleep again. A voice called through the door “Vakeel Sahiba! Vakeel Sahiba please darwaza kholiye!” It was Uzair's voice.
Rehanna sighed as she let him into the house. She was mad at Rehman, She wasn't mad at the rest of them. “Oh ayie Baloch Sahab” she said as she sniffed back tears that her eyes had begun shedding at the thought of Rehman. A cordial smile plastered on her face, as she let Uzair into the house.
Uzair walked into Rehanna’s apartment with a deep concern in his face. They both sat down together on her sofa after Rehanna had brought him a glass of water in a tray. He took the glass with a smile “Shukriya” He took a deep breath, with his eyes Uzair asked Rehanna to put her hand in his. She obliged, setting one of her shaky hands in his warm palm. “Kya aap thik hain?” he asked her gently. Rehanna nodded, but both of them know it wasn't true “Mujhe pata hai ki bhai ne aapse bohot bura bhala bola us din lekin….aap itna dil pe mat lagaiye”
Rehanna laughed a hollow laugh “Baloch sahab….ab aapko kaise samjahun.” she sighed wistfully looking out her window. If she had stood up and looked out of it she would have seen Rehman standing by his corvette again staring up at her window, ignoring how his eyes burned for a glimpse of her. “Maan lijiye ki dil pe lagaliya.” she smiled at Uzair sadly.
Uzair sighed with a nod. “Mai samajhta hun ki jo bhai ne kaha woh bilkul galat tha. Unko Nafrat nahi kehna chahiye tha. Unko aapke hindustani hone pe kuch nahi kehna chahiye tha.” Rehanna swallowed back the words that would have given everything away. Words that would have told Uzair why Rehman's words hurt as much as they did. “Bhai ne aapkeliye kuch bheja hai” He reached beside him and handed Rehanna a huge gift bag.
Another bouquet this time of colorful carnations, a long letter, a book she once told him she had her eye on. Rehanna swallowed back a painful lump, Rehman really knew her. And that's what made what he had done hurt more. She took a deep sniff of the flowers, she read the letter once and then twice until she had memorized his desperate heartfelt words, once again he told her he loves her. That he will love her until the end of time. She held the book in her hands, she could feel a fresh batch of tears brew in her eyes. She forced them back with sheer will. She wasn’t about to start crying in front of Uzair.
“Zara ek minute dijiye mujhe” Rehanna excused herself as Uzair nodded. She walked to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. As soon as the door shut she wasn't able to stop the tears that flowed out of her eyes. She bit back her sobs so Uzair wouldn't hear. Her hands took the letter and shred it to bits. She ripped the flowers, decapitating them and desecrating them. She placed both in the bag again.
Her hands held the book, the one she had been looking for, for so long. Rehanna didn't have the heart to rip or ruin the book. So she held it to her heart for a moment before she placed it back into the bag. Rehanna went to the bathroom wiping away her tears, splashing cold water on her face. Once she looked presentable again she walked out of the room and handed Uzair the bag. “Yeh aap Dakait Sahab ko wapas de dijiye.” and Uzair left without another word. Rehanna went to her window and saw Rehman looking at her window again from across the street. Rehanna knew he would be there. She had then turned away without another word.
On day three Rehman had sent six more very big and very expensive bouquets. Their sweet scent filled her small apartment. It would have been nice if they weren't forced. Now their scent was sickening. There were also bags and bags of expensive clothes and books that Rehman had gotten for her personally because he remembered she had spent more than 10 seconds looking at these items.
Rehanna hadn't even looked at the items. She just carried them to her window one by one. Rehman was standing across the narrow street again. Today he was dressed in black. He looked just as haunted as the first day. Rehanna stared into his eyes as she tossed each item towards him on the street.
Rehman smiled at her softly. Like even getting this small glimpse of her soothed the pain in his soul. And then after she had thrown the flowers and clothes and books at him, she left. Rehman walked around the street collecting them and gently putting them in his car. Then he leaned against the hood of his car watching her window for the rest of the day.
On day four Rehman had sent Siyahi and Donga to try and speak to her. Before she could greet them, Donga interrupted “Vakeel sahiba aap kya bana rahi hain? bahar tak khushbu aa rahi hai!” Rehanna laughed even though she didn't want to. “Aao aao Cudhi chawal bana rahi hun, pyaaz ke tadke wali cudhi” The boys rushed in kicking off their shoes in the hallway. Rehanna blinked as they rushed by her.
Once inside they set their gifts from Rehman on her coffee table and rushed into her kitchen fighting over who would eat first. Only once she had served them both heaping bowls of Cudhi and chawal did they find peace. Donga spoke again, food in his mouth “Vakeel Sahiba, Rehman bhai ne aapke liye yeh bheja hai”
Rehanna looked at what he had sent her. Cases of jhumkes and cases of matching bangles that went together perfectly. Rehanna assumes that they would also go perfectly with the clothes Rehman had sent her yesterday. The ones she had tossed out the window. Siyahi hands her a note as she shovels food into his mouth. Rehanna opens it and reads it its the usual apologies, proclamations of love, and then something that makes her stop for a moment.
‘Meri jaan apne kal humare diye hue tofe humpe pheke, hume koi aitraz nahi hai. Lekin aaj inko mat phekiyega. Yeh chuudiyan kaanch ki hai, ye jhumke shudh chandi ke. Inko wapas bhejdijiyega salamat…mai Allah se dua karta hun ki ek din iss pe aapka woh usool lagge ‘jo laye woh hi pehnay’ uss din ke liye inko salamat chhodein.’
Rehanna hates how his words pull at her heart. It was a rule she had told him on her birthday when she had moved into the haveli all those months ago. It was her birthday, Rehman had gifted her her payals that day. The platinum, emerald, and diamond payals. Where the diamonds were cut and arranged in the shape of lotuses, where the emeralds were lily pads. She had told him her rule that night ‘jo laye…woh hi pehnaye’. Rehanna swallows down another lump of emotion.
“Siyahi, Donga” both men look up mid shoveling food in their mouth. “Yeh lejana wapas” she smiles sadly as she stacks the boxes for them to take. They both look at each other with a tentative nod. Rehanna leaves to her kitchen leaving both of them alone in the living room awkwardly. Rehanna returns moments later with a steaming casserole and a filled to the brim thermos that she sets on the table. “Yeh kya hai vakeel sahiba?” asks Siyahi as he wipes his mouth in his handkerchief.
“Yeh hai Baloch sahab, Faizal, aur Hamza ke liye cudhi aur chawal.” she smiles at them “Humare liye bhi?” asks Donga with a loud burp. “Donga please thodi sharam karlo” Rehanna laughs. Siyahi rolls his eyes at Donga “Vakeel sahiba, Rehman bhai ke liye bhi kaafi hai kya?” asks Siyahi. Rehanna looks away as she responds, Rehman's note crumpling in her hands. “Agar bach jaye toh phir unko bhi khiladena” And with that both Siyahi and Donga took their leave taking Rehman's gifts back and bringing the food Rehanna had just packed them.
—--------------
Today was the fifth day after that fateful night. This morning she had woken up to more gifts at her door from Rehman. Gifts that she didn't even look at before she threw them across the street to where Rehman's car stood waiting. Clockwork. The routine had become clockwork. And like clockwork Rehman had smiled at her as she threw his expensive gifts out the window.
This moment had become his favorite part of his miserable days. Rehman only had a moment to blow her a kiss before she slammed her window shut. His blown kiss landed on the cold glass instead of her warm cheek or on her soft lips. The moment she was out of view pain coursed through his heart once again. All the joy in his life had gone behind those windows. Rehman sighed as he picked up the gifts strewn on the asphalt and set them in his car.
Today he didn't linger outside of her window for glimpses of her. It had been five days since the fight and it had been detrimental for his business. Rehanna would kill him when she saw the books again. She would kill him when she saw how in 5 days he had managed to lose 10 lakhs in business. So he set the bags of gifts in his car and drove back to the haveli.
He walked the gifts into her room and set them with the other bags waiting for her. Her room didn't look like hers anymore. The room had been painted white, furniture was being taken out and some walls were marked for demolition. Rehman had sealed off this entire wing of the haveli. The wing contained his and her room, his and her office, his and her library, nobody was allowed inside the wing. Doors had been shut and drapes had been put up.
Unbeknownst to everyone else in the haveli, Rehaman had set something in motion, something under top secrecy. Rehman had decided that when she came back everything would be different. He wouldn't spend a moment pretending like they were just boss and employee. The truth would come out.
But it had to be done properly. She deserved it done properly. That's why for the past four nights instead of sleeping a wink he had stayed awake on the phone with an architect. He had messed up how he wanted to tell her he loves her. He would not mess this up.
The loud sound of jackhammers pulls Rehman out of his trance. The sound of construction workers walking by outside discussing blueprints loudly just further solidified what Rehman already knew. Rehman knew she would come back. Or he would die trying to bring her back.
—---------------
When Rehanna had emerged from her house later that evening after much deliberation. She needed to go to the market to get groceries and things for her house. But she didn't want to risk seeing Rehman. She knew he would corner her and beg to speak to her. She wasn't ready to speak to him, not even after 5 days. Because every thought of him felt like rubbing salt into a fresh wound.
Warm, happy, domestic, loving memories hit her first. Long walks on the roof after the haveli had gone to sleep where they spoke about everything and nothing at all. Rehman forced her to rest when she was absolutely overdoing herself, unwilling to listen to her pleas of her being almost done. Memories of Rehman hiding something behind his back like a guilty teenager before grabbing her and pulling her into a secluded hallway as he presented to her an intoxicatingly sweet scented gajra for her hair. Memories that made her smile to herself fondly, and then one cold line. One cold line shattered everything. ‘Nafrat karta hun mai tumse’
But she couldn't hide from the possibility of Rehman forever. She took a deep breath as she emerged from her apartment, a scarf wrapped loosely around her head. She walked out onto the street, she didn't take her car, the market was just a few minutes away by walk. Rehanna stopped as soon as she walked out of her gated standalone building. She was surprised to see that Rehman wasn't parked across the street anymore.
The maroon corvette and the brooding man who was always perched on it for the past five days was gone.On one hand, it felt good that he was gone. On the other hand, not seeing him waiting outside her window hurt more than she wanted to admit. She took a deep breath as she shook herself out of it.
—--------------
Rehanna had been walking through the market for the past forty five minutes. Her brain had resorted to robotic orders to make sure she wouldn't break down in public. Her brain gave her task by task. Robotic orders and directions to the location of each item on her list. 1 kilo of tomatoes. 1 kilo of potatoes. 1 kilo of onions. 500 grams of bell peppers. 500 grams of beetroot. 5 kilos of rice. 5 kilos of aata.
The maneuver had worked. She had picked up everything on her list and somehow managed to not think about Rehman once. She counted the cash in her wallet calmly as she juggled bags of produce in her arms. And then she heard it. She heard his dark melodic voice in front of her. She froze to the spot as she looked up to see him. “Meri baat sun Uzair, jaake Wasim khan se payment nikalwa. Chutiya dus lakh dakar ke baitha hai woh sharab ke shipment ke-” Rehman pauses suddenly as he sees Rehanna across from him, the phone he was speaking into almost slips out of his hands.
Rehanna’s mind goes blank. All it says to her is, don't react, don't react, don't react. Her heart thumps wildly as she sees him this close to her after so many days. He is wearing that baby blue kurta. The one she loves oh so much. The one that makes Rehman look like he belonged to her and not to the streets.
Rehman watches her like seeing her in public not with him but opposite to him was a sight he had never expected or wanted to see. She wore simple white, she wore a simple white cotton suit without any fuss or design. And yet she still looked like a heaven sent angel who had just happened to wander into a random market. The look in her eyes, the pure look of pain and broken love. It winded Rehman. He cuts the phone call to Uzair and pockets the phone. He opens his mouth to try to speak to her.
Rehanna turns rigid. She looks straight ahead. Ignoring him completely. She places one foot in front of the other. She keeps her eyes focused on a tree in the distance. With significant effort she walks past him. She ignores how her heart slams against her ribcage begging to go to him. She forces herself to take deep breaths through her nose. She forces herself to keep her eyes ahead. She forces herself to forget, at least for the moment, how much she loves him.
All Rehman can think during this moment is where she is walking away from him: Aitbaar badhta hai aur bhi mohabbat ka, jab woh ajnabi ban kar paas se guzarte hain. He can smell her perfume as she walks by him. The amount of love that he looks at her through his eyes is intense enough to make the people nearby sense something in the air. Even as his heart screams at him to fall on his knees in this market and beg for her forgiveness. He looks at her with a simple loving smile that does nothing to hide the pain coursing through him.
—--------------
December 14 @ 7 pm
Major Iqbal Khan’s House, Islamabad, Pakistan
Segment suggested songs: No particular order
Je tu akhiyon de samne nahi rehna
Dil pe zakhm khate hain
The invite had come suddenly and unexpectedly. One morning Rehanna woke up to a knock on her door. She thought that it was one of Rehman's many gifts again. Every single day she had been waking up to more and more of Rehman's gifts. And each and everyday she would take the gifts to her living room window. Like clockwork. Each day she would find Rehman leaning against his maroon corvette, smoking as he looked up at her window. He would see her and smile at her blowing a kiss. Rehanna would barely look at him as she threw the gifts out the window again.
So when she woke up to a knock on the door she expected it to be more of Rehman's gifts. But much to her surprise it was a letter from Islamabad. In fact it was an invitation from Islamabad. Rehanna ripped open the envelope and read the invitation. The invitation was from Major Iqbal of the ISI. He was inviting Rehanna to a qawali night at his house tonight. Rehanna blinked in surprise as she read the note again.
Suddenly her phone rang. Rehanna walked to her phone and lifted it to her ear “Hello? Ji kaun?” She asked as she continued turning over the invitation in her hand. “Asalam walaikum Randhawa madam. Its Iqbal” the dark and brooding voice of Major Iqbal poured through the phone. Before she could speak, Iqbal continued “Aapko abhi abhi mera nyauta mila hoga. Lekin I wanted to call you personally to invite you to the qawali night i am hosting. I do hope you will come”
—---------
Thats how Rehanna found herself at Major Iqbal's posh Islamabad mansion at seven pm. The large modern mansion with touches of islamic architecture was decorated to the nines. Ornate glass and brass lamps lining the pathway to his house. The driveway was lined with expensive cars belonging to dignitaries, businessmen, rich men, and military officials. Mercedes, bmws, audis galore. All the drivers of those fancy cars coagulated in a corner of the driveway smoking and bitching about their respective bosses.
Rehanna parked her Mercedes in the closest parking spot she could find. She straightened out her embellished velvet salwar kameez set. The deep bruised purple looked almost like midnight black on her until she hit the light. Silver threaded embroidery embellished the cuffs of the 3/4 length sleeves in ornate patterns. The same pattern of embroidery rested around her neck and on the cuffs of her salwar bottoms. The heavily embellished dupatta rested on one shoulder, draping effortlessly across her body. She wore simple silver jutti’s and silver jhumke because with what she was wearing less was more.
Her makeup was minimal, she would have looked heaven sent if she didn't look as dead as she felt on the inside. Her silver juttis sounded softly on the asphalt of the driveway as she walked to Major Iqbal's door. With how dead she felt on the inside she didn't notice the maroon corvette she walked by.
—--------------
Rehman had received the invite to the event a few days ago. He genuinely hadn't planned to go to the qawali event. He had even called Iqbal personally to express his regrets for not coming to the event. He had a bullshit reason prepared as well, something about a business acquisition deal the same night. Because there was no way Rehman would go to any event without his Rehanna, it would just feel wrong. The gravest sin, second only to making her cry. Rehman had committed one sin, he wasn't going to commit another.
But when he called Iqbal before he could use his bullshit excuse Iqbal changed his mind. Iqbal mentioned that he hoped to see Both him and Rehanna at the event and he had sent her a personal invitation as well. Rehman RSVP’D yes without a second thought. There was a chance Rehanna would be there. That was a chance he was going to jump on.
Rehman had arrived at the event an hour ago. As soon as he had arrived and parked he stepped out of his car and began looking for Rehanna's Mercedes. When he didn't see it he reluctantly walked into the event. He had to go in especially now that Iqbal had seen him and called him inside.
Rehman went to the event. He had mingled lightly for half an hour or maybe even forty five minutes. It was clear to everyone speaking to Rehman or even looking at Rehman something was wrong with the man. He looked incomplete and broken. No matter how hard he tried to pretend he was normal. He kept spacing out mid conversation thinking about her, if she was mentioned then his brain stopped violently. It was a mess. Rehman was a mess.
After Rehman had mingled for a polite amount of time he picked up a pour of whiskey from a passing by waiter and walked to the hall where the Qawali artists were sitting and waiting for the event to begin. Rehman found a seat on the cushioned floor along the short side of the rectangular platform the artists were sitting upon. They salamed him out of respect and Rehman returned it. Now it was a waiting game. It was a wait and try not to drown in memories of Rehanna game.
—------------
Rehman had zoned out staring into the abyss as he nursed his whiskey slowly. People had begun to steadily filter into the room where the artists were set up. The comfortable cushions on the flor were beginning to get occupied. Men and women from different sectors of the world of the rich chatted and laughed amongst themselves as they waited for the qawalli to begin.
Then suddenly the air changes in the hall. Rehman feels it. Its her. He knows it in every atom of his body. People naturally trail off conversations as they stare at the enchantingly beautiful and broken woman who was walking into the hall. That's all the confirmation Rehman needed. Because thats the effect Rehanna had on a room. That's the effect the love of his life had on the world.
Rehman watches as she walks into the hall with the grace of a queen. Her sparkle dimmed but her elegance was ever present. The warm lighting of the hall illuminates her salwar kameez in faint flashes of light. On the first flash Rehman catches the strolling silver embroidery on the cuffs of her salwar and along all the borders of her kameez. He sees the way the lamp light elegantly catches her silver jhumke, the light refracting against her neck and jaw. In the second flash of warm lamp light Rehman sees the velvet glow purple against her warmly lit skin.
His breathing stops entirely as he watches her walk into the hall. Beautiful. That's all he could think. In fact he felt like the word beautiful wasn't anywhere close enough to describe her. A litany of adjectives wouldn't be enough to describe the beauty of his darling. Nothing would ever describe how she looked to him. Even in her beauty her sadness was undeniable. It weighed on her like a cloud as she walked to find her seat before the beginning of the show.
Rehanna steps around cushions on the floor as she looks for a seat. She tries incredibly hard to not whip her head around the half dark room. Because she can feel Rehman's heavy presence in the room, watching her. She swallows hard as she pours her focus onto finding a seat. Preferably as close to the musicians as she can get so she can drown herself in the beautiful cacophony of music instead of in her own sadness.
On the short side of the rectangular stage Rehanna finds a solo seat perfectly isolated from everyone else and it gives her unmatched access to the musicians. Perfect. Rehanna makes her way to the seat and elegantly folds her legs beneath her as she plops down onto the cushioned floor seating. And immediately Rehanna realizes she has made a terrible mistake. She looks up and immediately catches Rehman's eye. He was across the stage from her. The only thing between them was air and the qawali musicians.
Rehanna looks away immediately like she had just been slapped. She wills the tears to go back into her tear ducts. If not for her sake, at least for the sake of her makeup. For the sake of her kajal which would bleed down her face if she cried. Iqbal comes to her rescue as he addresses the room and begins the program. The lamps dim further so the stage is bathed in an ethereal glow. She feels Rehman's eyes on her. But she ignores it and him to the best of her abilities.
—---------—----
Same day @ 9:30 pm
The event had been going on for two and a half hours by now. And every moment had been excruciating and exquisite. What was exquisite was the qawali and the skil of the singers. What was exquisite was the atmosphere of Iqbal's mansion and his hospitality. Since the event had began Iqbal had made sure the drink and food never stopped flowing.
What was excruciating was the feeling of rehman boring his eyes into her soul. What was excruciating was the pure weight of the pain and regret in his eyes that he was loading onto her through his eyes. A constant begging plea of look at me and forgive me. What was excruciating was the burden of her own pain and sadness mixed with the qawali that allowed it to deepen its hold on her and pull it out of whatever box she was trying to pack it away neatly into.
What certainly wasn't helping was the constant flow of whiskey Rehanna was maintaining in her glass. She had decided if she was going to ruin herself she might as well do it properly. She might as well give herself liver failure. The warm buzz of the whiskey mixed beautifully with her pain and the soulful music. It was the perfect atmosphere to feel your pain in. And my god was she beginning to feel it.
She drains the whiskey glass once more as the next song begins. Her hand shoots up into the air motioning for one of the waiters to be prompt and come fill her glass with more topshelf whiskey. She sets the glass down beside her, her head leaning back against the cushions as she lets herself sway to the music while she waits for more alcohol.
“Randhawa madam are you trying to drink my kind hospitality dry?” A dark and gravely voice rumbles by her ear. Rehanna huffs out a laugh as she keeps her eyes closed “Aslamwalikum Major sahab, that is precisely the plan. Aren't you quite smart? You should be named the head of the ISI.” Iqbal sits down next to her with an amused look on his face. A waiter shows up with the bottle of Rehanna’s preferred whiskey once again. Just as the waiter begins to reach down to pour it into her glass Iqbal takes the bottle out of his hands and dismisses him.
Rehanna watches silently with drink hazed eyes as Iqbal refills her glass for her personally. The amber whiskey poured out of the bottle and into her crystal glass. “Shukriya major sahab” she smiles as she sees Iqbal had automatically poured her a patiala peg instead of the respectable two finger pour. “Randhawa madam isme koi shukriya ki baat nahi hai. Tell me kya aap iss qawali show ko enjoy kar rahi hain?”
“Ji bilkul. Qawalli mujhe boht pasand hai” she smiles at Iqbal, but even he can see her smile seems to be tainted with sadness. Iqbal nods his head silently as he claps at a brilliant note sung by one of the artists. “Tell me major sahab, did you enjoy your trip to India? Heard you went on some sort of diplomatic mission.” she smiles at him tilting her head. Now it's Iqbal's turn to look at her with slight surprise. “Aap khabar badi achhi rakhti hain Randhawa madam daat toh deni padegi”
Rehanna chuckles at the backhanded praise. “Friends in high places major sahab…friends in high places” She says as she takes a deep drink of the whisky “You didn't answer me, did you enjoy the trip?” She looks at him with terrible curiosity now. Iqbal runs a hand over his beard as he looks at Rehanna “It was decent. Aapke mulq ki jo diplomatic mission head thi woh kaafi kabil-e-gaur thi I must admit”
Rehanna laughs into her whiskey as she shakes her head knowingly. Iqbal looks at her with more curiosity, he looks at her with a look that practically demands her to explain her amusement. Rehanna turns slightly to look at Iqbal now “Yamini has that effect on people” she grins at Iqbal. If Iqbal feels surprise, which he does, he masks it well enough. “How do you know diplomat Singh?”
“Diplomat Singh toh woh kaafi wakt ke baad bani thi. I know her in a much different capacity than you do major sahab.” She smiles at Iqbal as memories of her and Yamini play through her mind from their training days. Her in the R&AW offices as a fresher and Yamini in the Indian Foreign Services training offices of the same sector in New Delhi, India. She kept tabs on everyone she cared about back in India. Her closest friends especially. Yamini being one of them and journalist Rashmika Raina being the other who was a journalistic intern at a news office in Delhi at the time. The trio was inseparable. Until they were separated of course.
Iqbal nods into the distance as he digests the information. “Hmm, this new information puts a lot of things into a new perspective. A lot of things make sense now” He says after a few moments “How so major sahab?” hums Rehanna as she claps along to the music. “You and Yamini are scarily similar in your mannerisms and the way you deal with people...Even that journalist, what was her name? Rashmika Raina.”
Rehanna grins as she looks at Iqbal, her hands continue clapping to the beat absentmindedly “You really are the well deserved head of the ISI Major Sahab” she says with amusement tinged with slight sarcasm. Iqbal barks a laugh at the slight that she is aiming at him. His golden tooth flashes quickly in the low light of the lamps. Rehanna laughs along with him. Iqbal shakes his head at her, flashing a look at her before he gets up and walks away wordlessly.
—---------
Same day @ 10:30 pm
Rehanna’s skin had begun to crawl now. She felt him constantly. She felt Rehman's eyes on her constantly. It was getting more and more difficult to not look at him or acknowledge him. It was taking everything in her to not look at Rehman. What certainly didn't aid her case was the constant progression of sadder and sadder songs from the artists. The ones that spoke of heartbreak and longing.
To both of them each lyric felt like their story. Like the artists were singing about them, for them. Rehman stared at her fom the other side of the stage. Like he was begging her to acknowledge that every heartbroken song was about them. Little did Rehman know there was no need for acknowledgement from Rehanna. She felt it as much as he did.
The qawali crescendos as the artist sings “Je tu akhiyan de samne nahi rehna te biba sada dil mod de, Mai jaan ke cheez bagani nu kyun apni cheez banah baithi. Dil deke tenu be darda mai umar di chinta la baithi. Je tu akhiyan de samne nahi rehna te biba sada dil mod de”
The air in the room is so intense that even rehanna’s iron will can't fight it anymore. Her eyes flick to Rehman's to find him already watching her. Just like she knew he would be. The lyrics pull at her heartstrings and the tears that she had barely held back the entire night push one tear forward. She can't stop the heartbreaking smile on her face as she looks at rehman. One tear rolls down her cheek.
Rehman's stomach lurches violently and suddenly he can't seem to bear his own existence. His eyes flick down to his lap. Because it was this very existence of his that was causing her pain. He was the cause of her tears. Rehman swallows the last of his burning whiskey and by the time he looks up again Rehanna is gone. He sees deep purple velvet whisper in the air as she disappears out a door. She was gone.
—---------------
December 15 @ 1 AM in the morning
Faizal’s Room, Baloch Haveli, Lyari, Pakistan
Segment suggested songs: No particular order
Kaun tujhe
Bulleya
Mat ja re
Naina more taras gaye
Rehman kneeled by his son's bed. His brows furrowed as his hands felt the boy’s burning forehead and cheeks. Faizal cooed and writhed in discomfort. His eyes fluttered as he groaned. “Salma bi, thermometer laye jaldi se!” called Rehman gruffly towards the door. Salma bi the old maid rushes into the room with the thermometer in her hands.
Rehman takes it from her hands and gently places his hand under Faizal's chin. “Faizal beta apna muh kholo” Rehman says as gently as he can through his worry. His stomach twisting with the pain only a father can feel when they can't immediately take away their child's anguish. Faizal parts his lips with a ragged breath and Rehman places the thermometer under his tongue. Within moments the thermometer beeps to let Rehman know it was done with the reading.
Salma bi gasps “Haye Allah! Ek sau teen?” Faizal had a 103 degree fever. Rehman bit back a curse as he saw his son burning with fever. “Abbu” groans Faizal in his feverish delirium. “Haan beta mai yahin hun, abbu yahin pe hain fikar mat karo sab theek hojaega” Rehman kisses his son’s forehead. His lips immediately heated up against the flushed skin.
“Salma bi! Jaldi se thanda paani aur ek rumal leke ayie!” orders Rehman as he holds Faizal's hand, his other hand gently brushing back the hair from his sweat slicked forehead. Salma nods as she rushes away. The room is now empty except for the boy with a burning fever and his anxious father. Faizal’s eyes open slightly, his head weakly turning to Rehman as he whispers “Mummy kahan hai?”
Rehman blinks for a second. He didn't think that Faizal would remember Ulfat after so many years. The boy never mentioned her or showed any inclination or interest in wanting to know his mother. But maybe the high degree of the fever was making him seek maternal comfort. From the part in his brain that still remembered his mother. Ulfat. Rehman began speaking slowly “Beta ammi lahore me hai…Naieem bhayia ke sath” He ended by pressing another kiss to his son's forehead.
“Nahi!” Protests Faizal with what little strength he has left in his fever weakened state. For a moment Rehman thinks that Faizal is still upset about Ulfat. Before he can speak soothing words to him, Faizal shatters Rehman's reality. “Nahi abbu. Ammi nahi…Rehanna mummy” The boys eyes flutter shut with another shaky breath “Mujhe Rehanna mummy chahiye”
Rehman feels a part of him die and decompose in this very moment. A shaky breath leaves Rehman. Faizal thought of Rehanna as his mother. Not just a mother figure. To Faizal, Rehanna was his mother. And he. He had taken that away from him again. The first time wasn't entirely his fault. Ulfat leaving him was more due to circumstances. But Rehanna leaving….Rehanna leaving was entirely his fault.
His son was writhing with a high fever. Rehman would scour the ends of the earth for anything to bring his son relief. But at this moment Rehman felt helpless. He was afraid he couldn't fulfill his son's request. He was afraid that Rehanna wouldn't even come to the haveli to meet Faizal. Salma bi returned with a bowl of cool water and a cloth. Immediately she soaked the cloth in the water. She rang out the excess water before placing it on Faizal's head. The boy whimpered in discomfort.
Rehman slowly got off his knees. He walked towards the door of the bedroom. His hands went to his cigarette box. He pulled one out and lit it as soon as the door shut behind him. Uzair stood waiting in the hallway, close to nodding off against the wall. The sharp click of the door snapped him awake again. “Bhai Faizal theek ahi kya?” said Uzair in concern while he stifled a yawn.
Rehman didn't reply exactly. He simply looked at Uzair and said “Uzair, Vakeel Sahiba ko bulake la. Unhe bol ki Faizal unhe iss halat me yaad kar raha hai.” The look in Rehman's eyes told Uzair to either come back with her or to not come back at all. Uzair swallowed with a nod as he accepted the mission “Ji bhai”
—-------
Rehanna didn't think twice when she saw Uzair at her door. She only needed to hear “Vakeel Sahiba, Faizal!” and she put on her chappal and wrapped a heavy shawl around her shoulders. As she locked her door and rushed out of the apartment building with Uzair. Not even bothering to change out of her short sleep shorts and simple shirt. Within moments she sits on the back of Uzair’s motorcycle. The cold December air was freezing her to the bone but she didn't care. Faizal needed her.
Uzair maps the 20 minute way in 10 minutes flat as he weaves through the dark streets of Lyari. Rehanna held on to him tight as they weaved through the streets. Within moments they reach the Haveli. Rehanna hops off the bike and rushes into the awaiting building. She runs through the memorized halls, Raja and Sultan barking at her heels, tails wagging, She is back.
Rehman looks up as he hears the dogs bark. It's her. She came. Wrapped in a shawl, her hair messy from the motorcycle ride. Eyes wide in concern, she looks like she ran out of the house. Her beautiful legs were covered in goosebumps from the cold December chill. Rehman ashes the cigarette under his chappal as he walks to her. Her eyes wont look at him and she is the only thing he sees. He takes a shaky breath as he looks at her properly, she was back in his haveli “Meri ja-”
Rehanna brushes past him ignoring him completely as she sees Salma bi walk out of Faizal's room. “Salma bi!” she calls out. The older woman gasps in happy surprise. She rushes to Rehanna and places a hand to her cheek. “Rehanna beta aap aagayi wapas?” Rehanna swallows as she ignores the question “Salma bi Faizal kahan hai? Faizal theek hai?”
Salma updates her on the fever and the current condition of the boy. Rehanna nods gravely as she asks Salma bi to go prepare some warm kadha for Faizal. Salma nods as she rushes to the kitchen to start on the medicinal brew. Rehanna rushes into Faizal's room. She throws off her shawl onto the floor as she rushes to his bedside.
Rehman follows behind her, as if he was pulled by an invisible string. He had veered her voice after all these days and his ears were rejoicing. More. He needed to hear more of her voice. She sits by Faizal's head, her hands checking his forehead. Rehanna gasps. The boy was burning. Faizal seems to sense her; he nuzzles towards her touch. “Faizal beta mai hun…tabaiat kaisi hai aab?” she asks gently as she brushes his hair back soothingly
Faizal groans as he turns his weak body so he was laying in her lap now his arms wrapped around her thighs. “Mummy..” he groans weakly. Rehanna freezes for a moment. He called her mummy. Faizal called her mummy. That's what she meant to the boy that she cared for like her son. Ever since she had met Faizal she had seen him as her son. And now this was just confirmation her ears deeded but her heart already had. A smile pulls on her face which immediately saddens.
Rehman sees this. In fact he had watched the entire interaction carefully from across the room. His heart clenched painfully when her smile saddened. For a moment he begged in his heart. Please look at me. She doesn't look at him. Instead her hands reach for the cold water and cloth. She begins gently soothing Faizal's fever, humming a gentle tune under her breath that immediately soothes the boy noticeably. The furrow he had held in his brow for the past many minutes dissolving completely as her presence made him feel better.
Faizal nuzzles into her legs more. “Mummy?” he asks softly. “Haan beta?” hums Rehanna as she wrings out the cloth again. She loves the way Faizal calls her mom. “Aap mujhe kyun chhod ke chali gayi thi?” he rasps in his strained voice. Rehanna's hands freeze. A tear drips down her cheek. Rehman freezes too.
For the first time that night Rehanna looks at Rehman. Her eyes hold an immeasurable heartbreak. The kind that stabs Rehman in the heart like a wooden stake. “Beta mai tumhe chhod ke nahi gayi thi” she begins, her voice trembling slightly as she wipes Faizal’s face and neck with the cool cloth. “Mai kisi aur ko chhod ke gayi thi. Usko chhod ke gayi thi jisko mujhse nafrat hai. Mai usko chhod ke hai thi jisne mera dil toda hai.”
She looks at Rehman long enough to cement her point then she looks away. The moment she looks away Rehman closes his eyes painfully and looks to the ground. Rehanna heeds him no attention, focusing her entire energy on Faizal. The little boy curls up further in her lap and she can feel how his body still burns against her bare legs.
“Mummy ek kahani sunado” Faizal murmurs tiredly. Rehanna presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. She takes away the now heated damp cloth and soaks it in the cold water once again. Rehanna didn't know where to start with a story, many classic stories ran through her mind but none of them felt right for the moment. She feels Rehman's eyes on her. And suddenly she has an idea. She hums with a sigh as she begins the story “Ek baar ek mulq ki shehzaadi ko ek dusre mulq me bheja jaata hai.”
“Uss naye mulq me shehzaadi ko ek khunkhar khaufnaak shehenshah milta hai, lekin woh sachai nahi hai. Asal me woh shehenshah dil ke bohot achhe hain. Aur jab woh dono sath me hote hain. Aisa lagta hai ki poori qaynaat unko ek hona dekhna chahata hai…” She trails off as she looks at Faizal fondly. She can feel Rehman's eyes on her. She can feel his piercing stare. “Shehzadi ko shehensha se pyaar hogaya tha. mohabbat hogayi thi.” She turns to look at Rehman.
The look in her eyes roots Rehman to the spot. This was the response to what he had blurted out days ago. Days ago when he had gone to apologize to her the morning after Rehman's monumental cock up, he had accidentally blurted out that he loves her. She hadn't said anything to him then. This was her answer to that. She loves him. She loves him too. His heart soars, joy floods through him. And then the look in her eyes stops him. Then her words slap him across the face. Pyaar hogaya tha. mohabbat hogayi thi. Tha. Thi. She loved him. In the past tense.
Rehanna watches Rehman's face carefully. He opens his mouth and takes an inhale like he wants to speak but Faizal interrupts. “Mummy aage kya hua phir?” murmured Faizal looking up at Rehanna expectantly. Rehanna placed another cold cloth on his forehead. She sniffed back a tear that threatened to escape as she continued the story that most definitely wasn't based on true events.
—----------
Same day @ 4 am
Over the last few hours clouds had rolled into Lyari. The bright winter moon had been covered by them. A deeper darkness had taken hold of the sky. By four o'clock in the morning Faizal's fever had finally broken. Rehanna hadn't left his side for a moment. She was there constantly telling him stories, placing many cold compresses on his forehead, holding him close, and massaging his aching legs.
After three grueling hours his fever had finally broken and Faizal had fallen into a deep sleep. Rehman had stayed in the room the entire time. Along with him the dogs, Sultan and Raja, stayed attached to Rehanna as she sat next to Faizal. Raja rested his head on her feet, Sultan flopped down against her calves.
Rehanna sighed in relief kissing his sleeping forehead once more as she wrapped her shawl around herself once again “Bye beta” she whispered to Faizal as she stood up gently untangling from where his arms had wrapped around her. The dogs seemed to realize what was going on. They realized she was about to leave. They whimpered as they nudged her with their noses. Rehanna crouched down to their level. Sultan licked her cheek. “Mai ghar jaa rahi hun ab…mujhe jaana padega. Mujhe maaf kardo” she whispered as she kissed both dogs.
Rehanna stood up once more as she walked towards the door to Faizal’s bedroom. Rehman scrambled to his feet as he followed her out of the room. Uzair had been having a conversation in the hallway with the maids and immediately perked up as he saw her approach. “Areh Vakeel sahiba sab theek hai? Faizal theek hai?”
“Haan haan, Faizal ka bukhar toot gaya hai. Ab woh aramse sogaya hai.” She sighed wearily as she wrapped the shawl around her shoulders tighter. Her bare legs brushed together to fight against the chill of the early winter morning. Uzair nodded, his hands on his hips as he mulled over the information. “Chaliye ab mai chalti hun..kaafi der hogayi” she sighs as she smiles at Uzair.
Uzair immediately frowns. “Nahi nahi aap kahi nahi jaengi. Bhai kuch boliye!” He turns to Rehman for support. Rehman stands in front of Rehanna, he takes a breath before he starts speaking. Trying to pour all of his love through his eyes and his words. Trying his hardest to not break down into begging. “Vakeel Sahiba. Kaafi der hogayi hai, aap soi bhi nahi. Thoda araam karlijiye phir dekhte hain.”
Uzair nods in solidarity with his brother. Rehanna shuts her eyes briefly as she swallows hard. Every second in Rehman's vicinity was difficult. She wanted to cry and scream and ask him how he could hate her. She wanted to ask how he could do that to her if he says he loves her. She inhales deeply as she fixes a smile on her face. She pretends nobody spoke as she looks at Uzair “Toh chaliye mai chalti hun Baloch Sahab, Faizal ke bare me update dete rehna mujhe please.” She pats Uzair's arm as she walks by him. Her shawl brushed by Rehman and he inhales deeply.
As she disappears down the hallway Uzair turns to Rehman, “Bhai unko rokiye, bohot hogaya hai” Rehman runs a hand through his hair in frustration “Tujhe kya lagta hai ki mai itne dinon se kya karne ki koshish kar raha hun bhenchod?!” Rehman sighs “Tu idhar ruk. Mai jaata hun phirse baat karne ki koshish karta hun”
—---------------------
Authors note: Please listen to Barse/ Naina by Rumi, Chayan
Rehanna chooses not to walk out through the haveli. She needs air. So she takes the side door out towards the garden. The cold December air whips around her bare legs. A shiver runs up her spine. The dew soaked garden lets out its intoxicating scent. A bird chirps in the distance. She stops for a moment and looks out at the dark garden. A few days ago she was dancing while crying in the rain. And Rehman had picked up the broken pieces of her and put her back together.
Now she was broken. And this time Rehman wasn't there to pick up the pieces, because he was the one who had held the hammer. Rehanna sighs wearily as she looks out at the garden again. A happy memory invades her.
It was sunset a few weeks ago, the weather had been lovely so Rehanna had been reading a book in the garden. Laying on a blanket under the shade of the large mango tree. Rehman had walked to her as he smoked. For a moment he just watched her. Then it seemed as if the devil had taken over him and he grabbed her and had her against that very mango tree. Rehanna had enjoyed that moment a lot, because while she looked around frantically hoping that nobody came by. Rehman muttered into her skin like a crazed man saying he hoped someone caught them.
He fucked her hard enough to make the tree shake. Some leaves falling off the branches. The loving words he muttered in her ear made her cheeks burn and butterflies erupt in her stomach as she held onto him for dear life, ignoring the way her back was getting scratched up by the trunk of the tree. The book fell to the ground as her hands tangled in his hair to kiss him hard enough to take away Rehman's breath.
She was so happy then. And now each happy moment she remembered was poisoned by certain words. ‘Nafrat karta hun mai tumse’ A shaky exhale leaves her as she forces herself to look away from the mango tree under which she had many happy memories. Clouds roll over head as the cold air hits her cheeks.
“Rehanna! Meri jaan!” She turns and sees Rehman walking towards her. Rehanna looks at him for just a moment before she turns on her heel and walks away.
Kajal Hai Faila Jaye
Mann Aiso Kyun Murjhaye
Kis Se Ye Dukh Hai Main Kahun
Aanchal Main Bandhi Hai Jo
Kasmein Tumhari Hai Woh
Kaise Zehar Yeh Mein Piyun
Rehman rushes forward, his hand reaching forward to grab her wrist. Rehanna gasps as she feels the warm weight of his hand on her wrist. She turns and finds herself face to face with Rehman. He holds her eyes as he holds her hand and bends his head to kiss the back of her hand. A sound of shock leaves her throat before she can stop it. She can feel the apology on his lips as they brush the skin of her hand.
His lips pull away from her skin reluctantly. He touches his forehead to her hand like he was begging for forgiveness and praying to the highest power in the universe. Rehanna freezes. On one hand she wants to pull away and slap him. On the other hand she isn't able to bring herself to move or speak. Her hand moves slightly in his grip. Thunder rolls in the distance. Lightning flashes in the sky. The scent of petrichor in the distance filling their noses.
He lifts his head up and brings her hand over his heart. “Meri jaan mujhe maaf kardo” he says in a voice that sounds like it was dragged through hell. Rehanna looks at him. It's clear Rehman hasn't slept properly in days. Faint dark circles bloom under his eyes, his eyes look exhausted and grief stricken. She can feel his beating heart and warm chest below her fingers. She can feel the expensive cotton material of his kurta beneath her palm. He expects her to speak. Each second between them drags like a century.
Then Rehman shocks her by sinking onto his knees. The marble stone was cold beneath his knees. Her hand still rests in his as he looks up at her like she is his saving grace. He brings his lips to her hand again pressing a reverent kiss on each knuckle. “Kamse kam yun khamosh naa rahiye. Mai darkhuast karta hun ki aap kuch toh bolein meri jaan” Thunder rumbles closer to them now. The wind billows wildly, trees shake, and flower pots fall over.
Sajna Teri Yaad Ki Maari Main Toh Bhul Baithi Saari Duniya
Ankhiyan Kahin Chain Na Pave Kaise Guzri Hai Tum Bin Ratiyan
Sajna Teri Yaad Ki Maari Main Toh Bhul Baithi Saari Duniya
Ankhiyan Kahin Chain Na Pave Kaise Guzri Hai Tum Bin Ratiyan
Rehanna watches him carefully. The desperation, the remorse, the grief. All of it written on his being. He wanted to hear her speak? Fine then. She would speak. Her lips part with a shaky exhale. Words she wants to scream bubble through her. She silences them inside of her as she says something cold enough to freeze lava. Rehanna leans forward slightly, her face ever so slightly closer to his. “Aapne bola ki aap humse nafrat karte hain.” she whispers coldly.
This. This was the first thing she had said to him after the fight. Her melodious and beautiful voice slices through Rehman even if she was saying words that shattered him. As soon as her words end the sky breaks open. Torrents of rain fall from the sky. Thunder rumbles and lightning flashes. Wind pushes the rain sideways to spray both of them slightly even under the cover of the Verandha.
“Mujhe maaf kardo” he whispers hoarsely “Meri zindagi ki sabse aitihasic ghalti thi woh. Unke lafzson ko apne zehen me baithne dena, jin lafzon ko mai ratti bhar bhi nahi maanta, sharab ne mere muh se nikalwadi.” He begs her to believe his words with his eyes. “Mujhe khud yakin nahi ho raha hi maine keh kaise diya woh aapko. Nafrat mai aapse kabhi bhi nahi karsakta kyunki asli nafrat mai apne aapse karta hun”
Piya Ji Tadpao Na Yun Humko Rulaao Na
Naina Bheege Jaise Saavan Barse
Piya Ji Tadpao Na Yun Humko Rulaao Na
Naina Bheege Jaise Saavan Barse
She laughs as she wipes away the fresh tears in her eyes. “Ab bol toh diya aapne… aur uske uppar aapne boldiya nikaljao MERI haveli se?” She tilts her head at him “Nafrat ek baat hai… aur kisi ko dafa karna woh alag baat hai” She hisses at him as she fights the lump of tears in her throat. “Aap har baar mujhse bolte the ki ye ab mera bhi ghar hai. Aapne mujhe mere hi ghar se nikal diya? Meri izzat ki, mere aapki vakeel hone ki. DONO ki aapne dhajiya udadi ek hi second me!” She barks out a laugh of disbelief as she snatches her hand away from his grip. Torrential rain pours around them. “Aur mai aapko maaf kardun?”
Rehman breaths shakily from his knees. He expected this. But hearing her pain, that he caused her, from her own mouth hurt more than he had anticipated. The tears dripping down her face illuminated by sporadic lightning made her look hauntingly beautiful. Even her sadness was beautiful. Rehman held her knees in desperation, he touched his forehead to her knees. Telling her that he was at her mercy now. “Meri rooh, meri jaan, ab aur na tadpao. Wapas aa jayie. Mujhe puri zindagi maafi mangne dijiye”
Rehanna didn't stop her tears, now they flowed down her face in long rivers. The laugh that ripped through her sounded wrong, it sounded pained and animalistic and soaked with tears. Her hand gently raked through Rehman's hair. He pulled his forehead away from her knees. He looked wrecked, his eyes glossy. He shivered against her hand when he felt her hand in his hair. Her nails dragged along his scalp in the most perfect way. He groaned into her touch, the most comforting thing he has felt in 15 days. “Aap mujhse mohabbat karte the na?”
“KARTA HUN, be-had, be-intehan, aisi mohabbat karta hun mai aapse” his chin trembles slightly as he looks at her like the mere idea of her thinking that he used to love her was painful. He nuzzles his head into her warm palm that now rested against his cheek. She huffs out a laugh from her nose as she rolls her eyes. She bites her tongue to prevent herself from screaming at him that she loves him too. She takes a deep breath “Toh phir, yun humko rulao na” she says coldly as she looks at him with a painfully cold look.
Roka Nahin hai tumhein jao jahan dil kahe
Jogi Mein Teri Hi Rahun
Suni Nigaahein Meri Soyi Na Raatein Koi Kaise Intezaari Main Sahun
Piya Ji Tadpao Na Yun Humko Rulaao Na Naina Bheege
Jaise Saavan Barse
Rehanna pulls her entire body away from him. A ripple of mind numbing pain rips through both of them. A shaky gasp leaves Rehanna, her lip trembling as she can't stop the choked sob that leaves her throat. Her mind barks orders at her. Move. Back away. Don't fall for the look on his face. Don't fall into his arms and sob again. Don't do it. Her feet slowly but surely back her away. Her eyes force her to watch the pained expression on his face before her brain forces her to completely turn away.
Rain lashes the haveli as she walks down the covered verandah. She steps out into the rain, wrapping her shawl around her head uselessly. She turns to look at the broken husk of Rehman still on his knees, still on the floor, still watching her. Cold December winter rain soaks her within seconds. As the rain soaks her Rehanna feels her hot tears mix with the cold rain water. She forces herself to look away before she runs back to his arms again. She forces herself to walk away again. Even if it ripped her to shreds.
—----------------
December 25 @ 1 pm
Rehman’s Office, Baloch Haveli, Lyari, Pakistan
Segment suggested songs: No particular order
Jee Karda- Rock version
Ae dil hai mushkil
Saiyaara- From the movie saiyaara
Rehman is getting desperate now. Everyone can see it and even he knows it. He is consumed by thoughts of her day and night. At night he doesn't sleep because he thinks about her, when he falls asleep he dreams of her, when he wakes up he reaches across the bed to pull her close, then he hates himself for the rest of the day until sleep forces his hand. He can see her now. He can see her infront of his eyes like a fucked up mirage. Twenty five days without her had ruined him.
He sits in his office like the king he is. Cigarettes piled in the ashtray, packs and packs. He was chainsmoking constantly. If Rehanna was here she would chastise and scold him for the terrible habit of chainsmoking. His eyes flick over to the sofa set that she used to sit and work on before he gifted her the office across from his. He can see her there now. Her hair pulled back into a messy bun as she pours over papers. Her eyes narrowed to focus on something. Rehman smiles at the empty air.
Rehman takes a drag off of his cigarette. Down the hall bricks and construction tools clatter. Rehman has learned to ignore it. Every member of the haveli constantly asks him what he had been doing there but Rehman never responded straight. He always told them to wait and watch. The main construction of what he was renovating was done. Now it was time for the decor and aesthetics. Rehman shuts his eyes with a smile. He imagined Rehannas reaction already. She will be so happy when she comes back home to him. His jaan would be home soon. He knew it in his soul.
“R-Rehman bhai” Stutters out a mousy looking bespectacled man who was seated in front of Rehman. The man clears his throat and returns to his normal voice “Agar aapne faisla kar liya hai toh phir kagazat shuru karein?” Rehman's eyes flick lazily to the man sitting before him. The look is cold and cruel. The looks Rehman Dakait was known to give. The kind that made men freeze. But there was a different anger in it. An anger that only Rehman knew the meaning of. How dare anybody interrupt thoughts of her.
“Haan. Kagazat banaiye vakeel sahab” He says coldly. Rehman was getting desperate now. This was low even for him. He knew it. And still he is saying yes. Rehanna wasn't responding to any of his attempts and now the sadness and pain was turning into frustration and anger. He had fucked up yes, but this was dragging out. Rehman needed to figure out a way to get her mad enough to fully confront him without shutting down coldly. This is all he could think about.
The lawyer sitting in front of him, Waheed Qatra, nods with a barely concealed grin. This was the moment he was waiting for. His hands fumble slightly as he reaches for his briefcase. From within it he pulls papers for Rehman to sign. One termination notice. One hiring contract. “Mujhe pata tha ki aap haan bolenge bhai. Maine kagaz pehle se kagaz bana diye hain”
He hands the papers to Rehman. Rehman signs them without looking too hard. He doesn't want to take the chance of backing out of his decision.
Waheed chuckles warmly “Bas bas Rehman bhai, kaam hogaya. Aaj se Rehanna Randhawa aapki vakeel nahi hai. Aapne sahi faisla liya hai” Waheed packs the papers away carefully “Kitni unprofessional ha woh. Mai hamesha se jaanta tha. Kaun apne client ko pacchis din ke liye ignore karta hai? Chee chee chee”
Rehman barely hears it. If he had he would have strangled the man at the disrespect of Rehanna. He just hopes his plan works. Because he had just fired his lawyer and the love of his life. And he had just hired her biggest rival. Hoping she got angry enough to come back to him.
—----------------------------
Same day @ 3 pm
Rehanna Randhawa’s apartment, Hindu colony, Lyari, Pakistan
Today was Christmas but Rehanna knew she was an idiot hoping for some kind of Christmas miracle. She knew that as she went about her day. In fact she had a feeling that something really very shitty was about to happen today. Rehanna scrolls lazily through her phone. Hoping for some random thing or the other would catch her eye and distract her.
Because she had imagined her first Christmas with Rehman. She would have taught him all about the holiday. She can imagine how he would grumble about the impracticality of the holiday like an old man. Saying that it makes children soft to believe a fat red man brings them presents magically. She would have teased him saying he was just upset because he was most definitely on the naughty list and wasn't getting a present. He would have been grumpy and begrudging but Rehanna knew he would secretly enjoy everything. She also knew Rehman would have taken it upon himself to be Santa for the entire haveli.
Rehanna groans in pain as she shakes her head trying to pull herself out of thoughts of him. Rehanna had never been hung up on a man. Mostly because now that she thinks about it she never really truly loved anyone she had been in a relationship with. Twenty five days and the mere thought of him still pained her soul. R&AW ate gaalis from her on a daily basis because this was entirely their fault. It was entirely their fault that she had fallen in love.
Suddenly there is a knock on her door and a terrible feeling brews inside of her. She gets up and goes to open the door. Rehanna blinks in surprise. God she hates it when she is right.
In front of her stands Waheed Qatra, an absolute bastard who just so happens to be a lawyer. Waheed had been a lawyer at the Karachi high court where Rehanna had worked for a year before meeting Rehman. Waheed was a bastard of the highest order who always stepped over her, blocked her, tried to undercut her and ruin her cases in front of the judges. “Merry Christmas Randhawa” Waheed grins as he hands her a file.
“You are the opposite of a merry christmas Qatra” she deadpans as she takes the file from his hands. “Save your jabs until after you read that file Randhawa” he leans against her doorway. Rehanna quirks a brow at him as she flips open the file. She can't believe the words she is reading. The world tilts violently; she has to force herself to take a breath.
Rehman was firing her. Rehman was firing her and had her on a 10 day retainer. Those 10 days honestly felt comedic more than anything. A strange and painful cocktail of emotions brew inside of her. The words on the page make no sense to her as her eyes water and blur. She was being fired for breach of contract.
Apparently she had ignored her duties for twenty five days with no formal reason. Formal reason? Rehman wanted a formal reason? How could she submit a formal reason when he was the reason? Rehanna has a strong urge to stomp over to the haveli and give him a piece of her mind. That feeling dissolves as she sees his signature at the bottom of the page.
Rehman had decided. He was going to fire her. Who was she to deny him that? Who was she to deny him the easy way out. Waheed watches her read the document carefully, the shitty smile on his face keeps growing second by second. “Pen chahiye?” he grins, holding it out to her. Rehanna doesn't speak as she takes the pen from Waheed. Betrayal and heartbreak flows through her so hard she doesn't even understand or comprehend it anymore. She holds the page up against her door and signs the page.
She hands it to Waheed. Who takes it and puts it back into his briefcase. He can see she looks wounded and kicked. Most definitely in shock. “Do you want to know who he hired?” he asks. Rehanna nods as she fights back any display of emotion. Waheed grins “Rehman bhai fired you…And he hired me” Rehanna swallows hard as she slams the door shut on Waheed’s face. She can hear his laughter as he leaves. She can feel the numbness clawing at her again. Christmas is ruined.
—---------------------------
Same day @ 4 pm
Rehman’s Office, Baloch Haveli, Lyari, Pakistan
Rehman can't believe it. He stares at the papers in his hand with a slacked jaw. He can't believe it. Rehman always loved seeing her signature next to his on all papers. He loved seeing her name next to his name. Her elegant and swirly letters next to his comparatively shit handwriting. It always made him smile internally. How even though they were different, they looked beautiful next to each other.
But seeing her signature on these papers instead of her beautiful angry face in front of him shattered everything Rehman was trying to do. She didn't come to argue with him, she didn't yell at him. Everything he had banked on had just dissolved the floor under his feet. Rehanna had signed the termination contract. She was no longer his lawyer.
She no longer had any reason to remain in Rehman's life and to make matters worse Rehman had attached a fuck you with the event. Rehman had hired her rival as his new lawyer. It was a fuck you he didnt mean, but it was a fuck you he had sent anyways. He sank into his chair holding a hand over his mouth.
What had he done? And how had he managed to make it worse?
And most importantly how was he going to bring her back?
HOW DO WE FEEL EVERYBODY?
Tags: (DM or COMMENT TO BE ADDED) @fleurnoir@mainyahaankyunhoon@roses-and-iron@bohotbadajalebi@golgappalicious@tere-naal-nachna@curiousbutbored@harrystyleskiwi9@scentedwolfdragon@patrakilekha@immortalinvaderrogue@wan2bey-n @lemonsquishee @goodnightkathrine @livelaughlovebylerr@shadylovedhurandhar@noor-archive@dc-reign@alyislost@harrystyleskiwi9@goodasaysboo@tanipartner@anxiousbeeing@bitchystxnk @gowrimenop-1 @layinglowkey@slutforkaz@angellwhisperswritez@angelllk1ssed@buchanana00@hum-suffer@mandaakiniii@krishavania@moonysscar@akshayes@kamalkafool@bombaybomb@snihrayy@nooriyat@drownedinindigolove@thisismyaltsblog@vakalatnelagadiye@royaldreamermonsoon@poetry-beauty-love-writez
On special request of @twinblueflamee, here comes the Prithviraj Pratap x Indu’s younger sister oneshot (littlu self-promotion but if you want Prithvi’s bot on C.ai—you can use mine 😜😉).
Enjoy your reading!
Lovers? Even Worse
Prithviraj Pratap x Indu’s Younger Sister!Reader
Were they friends? No. Were they lovers? Even worse…
They said opposites attract, and yet, Prithvi Pratap had no interest in opposites. Rather his gaze sought the figure of the younger daughter of Rajkumar Seksaria.
Warnings: He fell first and harder. Enemies to lovers. Prithvi is a stubborn and hotheaded man. Age gap. Arranged marriage. Banter. Blackmailing (not the reader).
Tag List: @twinblueflamee, @sonasarchive, @goodnightkatherine, @poetry-beauty-love-writez, @myvarya, @budugu
Connections in the realm of politics were the currency that could buy power. The kind that came with the backing of the voters. The kind that came when the men meant to enforce the laws written years ago implemented the rules you made. And the kind that came with the chair of the Chief Minister of the state.
And Prithviraj Pratap had grown up watching his family consolidate connections in the highest ranks of Madhya Pradesh. He had watched a government forming due to his family’s party, and he had witnessed it fall when they withdrew it.
Everything had been going according to the plan—until the dirty claws of politics sank into the belly and tore it to pieces.
One second, he was the heir apparent to the Rashtrawadi Party, and in another? He was forming one of his own, but there stood problems waiting for him—like sharp thorns in his path.
Jana Shakti could only win if it had enough funding to campaign for the fast-approaching elections, but how could he—a young, temperamental leader with a childhood of wealth and abundance, spoilt, some would say—arrange for such numbers in such a short time?
His answer had come soon enough at the hands of his younger brother Samar.
An arranged marriage with the daughter of the local industrialist Rajkumar Seksaria—a man who had been a close acquaintance of his family. A man who had two young daughters, one blooming like a sunflower on a sunny day while the other was the calm of monsoon.
Prithvi knew Samar had meant Indu when he had proposed the plan, and he knew why she was the more…appropriate choice.
Bright like the sun in the heat of May, with a smile that lightened up her entire face. Completely opposite of the sharp-eyed man with anger like a bubbling volcano. The safer choice that would balance him out in the optics.
But his mind was already set on another.
The younger sister was nothing like Indu—not bright and cheerful. But calm, like the moon in a dark night. Steady but not loud. Someone who would use her mind before she uses the sharp blade of her words, with a smile that could kill enough men and even more boys.
Someone who had never been afraid of speaking her mind—and that was enough to have caught his eyes.
He had known her his whole life, given that she was her elder sister’s shadow, following her with quiet steps and observing eyes. The silence to her sister’s chaotic storms; the mind of cognition while her sister was the impulsive heart.
And Prithvi had always preferred mind to heart.
They never really got along, always bickering and arguing over the prevalent issues of the political world—and even when they were not discussing politics? They were bickering about something else.
Always together, always conversing, but never agreeing.
And somewhere along the line, he had started observing things he shouldn’t have. Like how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was uninterested in a conversation, or how her gaze would always clock all the exits and guards in a room. She preferred wearing lighter colours instead of the eye-catching dark ones, plain solid kurtas over the flowy, flower prints Indu wore. Her hair was always pulled away from her face, in a loose braid with a few strands escaping, or in a bun held together by a pen.
“Aap jaise log hi humare system ke liye sabse bada khatra hai,” (people like you are the most dangerous for our system) she had hissed during a heated debate between them, something about corrupt civil servants and even more corrupt politicians.
“Hum jaise matlab?” (What do you mean by people like us?)
Prithvi had only recently entered the horizons of the game the men of his family had been playing for ages. A youth leader with a powerful name and an entire party’s support. Known already for his charismatic words, just as the whispers of his temper were heard behind hands.
He could still vividly recall the fire of defiance in her brown eyes, burning like the sun itself, and yet controlled like a bonfire under a starry night. Almost as if the Agni Dev himself danced in those orbs.
“Matlab joh apne jhoothe waadon se logo ko phassa kar votes lete hai, aur phir gayab ho jaate hai.” (I mean those who charm the people into giving votes with fake promises, and then disappear.)
Had it been someone else, his fist would have already kissed the jaw in a rough knockout. But the then-youth leader had only found himself smirking, stepping closer until he could study each of her long eyelashes under the April sun.
“So you think I am charming?”
“In your dreams, Pratap.”
When they had been younger, the thought of her not calling him ‘bhaiya’ angered him deeply, for he felt—back then—that she was refusing to respect him. But the realisation of how big a blessing in disguise it was came years later, way after she had walked out of their bickering with flushed cheeks and hands trembling in anger.
His father had thrown a grand party on the eve of his birthday, introducing him to men he had seen walking in and out of the doors of their bungalow, but never spoke to until that day. They shook his hand, complimented his looks, praised how he carried himself like a ‘true politician’, whatever that meant. He had seen the glances between the conversation—of skeptical, of insecurity, of the quiet ‘will he be the next head of the party’.
In all honesty? He basked under the spotlight.
Until she had walked in with a saree draped around herself like a weapon of mass destruction, her eyes sharpened by the kohl and her lips painted a sinful crimson that had made his breath stutter for a moment before his composure slid back into place.
He had avoided her like a plague that night, for his heart threatened to give up at the mere sight of her, and he wasn’t keen on finding out what shall transpire when he saw her up close. At least, not that night.
But he had understood one thing.
He has to have her.
And he had tried everything in his power to make that happen. From trying to charm her into giving him a chance to woo her—which ended up with them bickering over his ‘outrageous audacity’—to trying to persuade his father Chandra Pratap and uncle Bhanu Pratap into asking her hand in marriage, which again backfired, for both of them had ambitions far beyond the boundaries of Madhya Pradesh. He had spoken of her in riddles to his mother, calling her ‘the moon hiding behind the mist of winter’ one night, and ‘the bells of a temple echoing through the hilly valleys of the Himalayas in the morning’ the other.
Still, as days turned to weeks and weeks into months, and years had passed since his unsuccessful attempts at having her, his hopes had plummeted—a desire burning still inside his chest, but the practicality had softened the glow.
But now he sat in front of Rajkumar Seksaria, with Samar and Brij Gopal flanking him, Prithvi realises with an invisible startle that this was his only chance. That one moment he had been waiting for since she had dared to show up to his birthday in the softest of pink, as if she was one of the very roses that had decorated those walls that night.
“Toh meri beti se shaadi ke badle tum chahte ho ki main tumhari party fund karu?” (So in exchange of a marriage to my daughter, you want me to fund your party?)
That was precisely what Prithvi wanted. But they were talking of the wrong daughter still. The elder sister instead of the mastermind that the younger one was. But soon, he will erase that confusion from their minds, once and for all.
“Ji.” (Yes.)
“Aur main aisa kyu karunga?” (And why would I do that?)
The man leaned back against the couch, sparing not even a single glance in the direction of the two men sitting beside him. Instead, his gaze moves past the industrialist—stopping squarely at the object of all his desires. The very bane of his existence; the fire that draws him closer to his end.
“Kyuki apka damad CM hoga.” (Because your son-in-law would be CM.)
Greed, Prithvi had learned early, could sway the morals of the most honourable man, and businessmen and politicians had questionable morals to begin with. And what can an industrialist want more than a close relative of his in power? Especially when he has enough crimes to hide.
“Hume yeh rishta manzoor hai, aaj se Indu—” (I accept this relationship, today onwards Indu—)
A huff of amusement escapes the man clad in a plain white kurta, a maroon scarf curling neatly around his neck, his polished footwear shone under the lights as he stood up, rounding the table and bending down a little. The next words were a whisper into the businessman’s ear—off record as many things in Rajkumar’s life has been:
“Suna hai Malanpur wali factory ki zameen kabhi sarkar ki hua karti thi, jispe apne apni industry bana daali—aur nakli kagaz bhi banva liye…” (I have heard that Malanpur factory’s land used to be government’s, on which you opened your industry—and forged fake documents…)
His lips twitched, desperate for a smirk, but his face remains passive while his hands grip his soon-to-be father-in-law’s shoulders, prompting him to stand up. How could he possibly sit when his son-in-law was standing? That would be a blatant mistake, won’t it?
“Kya chahiye tumhe?” (What do you want?)
The desperation in the whispered words amused Prithvi to an extent beyond his comprehension. He realises in that moment why men fought for power, committed sins and acts horrifying enough that they were buried before they could see the light of a day. The intoxicating effect of seeing a powerful man bend his knee and serve his whims.
“Apki choti beti.” (Your younger daughter.)
The next few moments passed like a whirlwind—with a startled Rajkumar Seksaria rambling about ‘she is too young to be a politician’s wife’ and her eyes narrowing while he could see the gears of her mind working. He wondered what she was thinking; whether it was trying to find a motive behind his words, or whether it was trying to deduce what her life would be.
But it was the words that left her lips that made everyone raise their eyebrows and share glances, all while she remained impassive—the very moment Prithvi decides that her father knew nothing about her, for she would be perfect as the wife of the most important man in the state.
“Hume Prithvi se akele mein kuch baat karni hai.” (I want to speak to Prithvi in private.)
With a reluctant nod from the elders, she guides him through the maze of corridors of the mansion to the sprawling gardens—neat flowerbed, carefully cut trees, a stone way leading to a sitting area in between the space. Six chairs were centred around a white table, fancy without being loud. And yet, the arranged beauty of the greenery around them was nothing in compared to the woman in front of him.
The pink kurta she wore hugged her in all the right places, and the man following her like a guard dog had to tear his gaze away from her just to stop the river of thoughts he would not dare admit in the light. Thoughts that urged him to press against the nearest tree and kiss her—show her how much she had tortured him all these years.
But he stops a few steps away when she turned around, leaning her hips against the table while her arms crossed in front of her, drawing his gaze to the curve of her bosom, but his attention hastily diverts itself to the huge tree that provided shade to the arrangement of the table and the chairs.
“Hum kyu? Didi kyu nahi?” (Why me? Why not didi?)
He had expected that question, but he hadn’t been prepared enough to answer it immediately. Instead, he takes a step closer, and another until only a few inches separated them, shared breath warming each other’s face.
“Kyuki aap samajhdar hai.” (Because you are sensible.)
The kind that would stand by his side and not behind him. The kind that would not sit like a trophy by his side but participate actively in the matters of state politics—and one day, if the fate had willed so, even in national politics. The kind that would give better solutions to problems than the old men whose primary purpose was to fill their pockets.
“Kyuki aap kabhi mujhse dari nahi.” (Because you were never scared of me.)
Not when they were bickering and his voice had risen with rage flickering behind his eyes, for who would dare defy the opinions of the future Chief Minister? Except for, as it stood, his wife-to-be. Not even when he had lost his calm and nearly beaten a journalist asking evasive questions about something he doesn’t even remember now. She was never afraid—always putting forth opinions that rivalled his, without any fear.
It had annoyed Prithvi once, but things that annoy one can be things to be admired, and she was the only woman he cherished—even if it had been from a distance.
But not anymore.
“Kyuki aap mere dimag se jaati nahi hai. Subah, shaam—har waqt sirf apke baare mein sochta hu and it’s annoying, Ms. Seksaria. Kyuki aapse zyada respect na maine kisi ki kari hai, aur shayad kabhi kar bhi nahi paunga. Kyuki…pyaar toh hum bohot karte hai aapse…bass batana nahi aaya.” (Because you don’t leave my mind. Morning, evening—all the time, I think about you and it’s annoying, Ms. Seksaria. Because I don’t respect anyone more than you, and probably won’t.)
Not even the birds dared to chirp in the silence that fell in the garden, a tension so thick that it could be cut by a knife.
His hand rises almost cautiously, brushing away a loose strand away from her face, tucking it away behind her ear before his finger begins tracing her helix—a feather-light touch that send shivers down her spine. His thumb brushes against her cheek, eyes lingering on every inch of her features, as if committing her to his memory.
“Do sharte hai humari.” (I have two conditions.)
Prithvi only nods, even though he knew he would agree to them, regardless of what they were. Anything for her.
“Humse kabhi jhooth bolne ki koshish mat kijiyega. Khoon bhi karke aaye hai, toh bhi sach,” (Never try to lie to me. Even if you have murdered someone, tell the truth) she whispered, lips parting in a quiet exhale while her gaze flicks down to his lips. And had he not been waiting for her second condition, he would have kissed her by now. After all, patience had never been his forte, unless she was included in the mix.
“Manzoor hai.” (I accept.)
A pause. An exhale of hers that he breaths in like it was the most sacred air in the world. A small moment, her ducking her head a little—shy for the first time for him to witness—and their skin brushes against one another. Her forehead barely grazing his chin. Something that looked rather normal to anyone, but it had their hearts racing in their chests.
Her hands rise then, fingers curling into the collar of his kurta while the familiar fire shine in her eyes again.
“Agar kisi aur ladki ke baare mein socha bhi, toh neend mein hi maar dalungi.” (If you even think of another woman, I will kill you in your sleep.)
A gentle, admiring caress of his thumb on her cheek while a smirk brushes his lips, amusement dancing in his eyes. There she was, he thought to himself before he leaned his head forward, forehead resting against hers.
“Apke hote hue kisi aur ki kya zarurat?” (What is the need of another if you are here?)
a/n- based on request, hope you all would like it, interact cutu ded by writing this incoherent af
Trigger Warning- 18+,dom!Iqbal sub!reader ,rough sex, age gap, spanking ,some fluff, breeding kink once again ,very dub con i dont know how that happened lol,gun play, NOT PROOF READ!
Note- I of course dont support terrorism in any form this is only and only for the character potrayed by Arjun Rampal
Word count - 6.9k
The canopy of the bed fell way high above your head, the netted curtain fell like a shower and above all the overwhelming smell of roses and jasmine that flooded your head, they were bunched together carefully hanging from the over head in stripes covering the whole span of the bed, your heart has beaten uncomfortably in your chest, the queasy feeling that brewed in your stomach, you were a dutiful daughter did everything your father had asked you to all your life to keep his name and reputation clean , safe, protected, caged but you allowed it for your dearest abbu and what did you get in return? To get married off to a man almost 15 years older than you.
Iqbal was the last man you thought you would have married maybe even one of your cousins would have been a reasonable match, or the burger bacche of your college but no he decided on the broody quiet grump who you have seen twice in your home living room smoking away a cigar and now you were supposed to be his good little wife. You were angry at yourself, that you found yourself bending to your family's ,your father's decision for such an important thing in your life.
Iqbal stood like a stone beside you throughout the whole thing, you couldn't even tell if he was even looking at your zoning out or.. Well there was this other times where you felt like he was eye fucking you which wouldn't make sense for the dignified disciplined man he was. Other than that he remained quiet , so quiet that you were utterly nervous about a thing you had been so sure about and trained for your whole life , for being a wife.
Iqbal found himself walking into a place that has always been his before tonight, the room held its breath at him entering slow, yours eyes flickered close to dampen out the reality of the situation,he didn't say anything not a word just closed the door behind him with a click that ringed like a death sentence. You wanted to keep your eyes shut forever but then it grew slowly, the curiosity to understand the man you had been handed over too, with each rustle of his fine sherwani as he moved, the sound of metal meeting wood as he took off his watch and his breathing that only grew deeper with each passing second.
You peeked only to find him already looking at you through the mirror, you were caught. You instantly lowered your gaze, cheeks burning at the intensity of his gaze but tried to procure some normalcy by pulling the kadhai of your anarkali, the door wasn't closed it was locked, the bed decorated with rose petals for your sweet sacrifice. He stalked over to the bed, settling right beside your shoulder brushed against yours. You couldn't think, you didn't expect this immediate closeness at all. You had prepared yourself for the sweet talk of holding hands, not this immediate possession.
“ Y/N” he breathed over your neck and you felt physically destroyed into pieces, his voice was so deep and said with an effortless tone that flowed calmly but the command was clear each time. “ Ji?” “Khush ho?” He asked not really expecting an answer, sliding his coarse hand down till they got a hold of yours, what was supposed to be romantic,soft looked clinical as he searched through your hand tracing each design under his thumb. There was a twinge in your heart for how mechanical it all felt if this is what the rest of your life was supposed to be spent? To be with a man like your father who wouldn't find the time to understand if you would actually live your life in the shell of what you could have been.
Iqbal's beard tickled at your skin stopping your trail of thought, you didn't notice him lean into your palm inhaling at the rose milk scent with all his passion, “ Mashallah” Another tremor ran down your back in another unexplainable sensation that threatened to take over the hurt. “ Apni marzi se shaadi ki hai aapne?” he looked up, the deep brown void of his eyes swallowing you,you paused for a fraction - it was by all means done with your willing but that tad bit of you had to kill itself to mould into your father's demands. “ Ji, apne mann se kari hai” You mumbled pulling down the crimson veil off your head at your shoulder.
“ Mann se kari hai, par kya dil se kari hai?”
“ Aapne kari hai dil se?” you shot back, surprising yourself but his presence had been too dizzying keeping you befuddled. You expected anger at the audacity but he chuckled, his eyes crinkling with pure admiration. He huffed pulling the loosely draped cloth down your shoulder more to see your silhouette without the obstruction of the dupatta.
“ Aapko kya lagta hai rishta aapke abbu ne chuna hai? Maine hi aapko dekha tha do baar mujhe door se dekhte hue aap pasand aagyi toh maine nikaah ke liye puch liya par lagta hai aap is faisle se itna khush nahi hai”
You lowered your gaze, cheeks flushing into oblivion you didn't know that the man lounging with your father had eyes for you all along , “ Nahi …hum kush hai” You whispered, twisting the ring at your finger.
“Mujhe aisi khoobsurat biwi ki naemat mili hai aur aap mujhse poochh rahe hain ki kya main ne apni dili khushi se is shadi par razamandi di thi? Hum bhi bahut kush hai”
You smiled before you knew it, chest heaving with excited breaths waiting for him to close the distance, he lips brushed against your like a soft breeze, the smell of the coffee he had mixed with the natural masculine scent of him, the silk of his clothes all of it flooding your head, you let yourself get pushed in the mattress ready to give yourself to him.
Iqbal did not hurt you not for a second, gently guiding you through everything with a patience that betrayed the hunger that simmered inside him, he had seen you twice peeking out from behind the wall in your simple kurta and an emotion that had not stirred in him throughout his whole life bleaking to his heart, avoiding his father taunts about marriage to devote himself to work he found himself wanting to be married. When you cried out when he entered you, he felt his heart break in two but insanely harder at the sight of your tears, so he held himself and the monster inside him back leaning down to press kisses to your temple till you have adjusted to his thickness.
The first month of your marriage passed in marital bless, Iqbal was so much more than you expected him to be and he clearly wasn't a grump but a lovesick man who wouldn't get enough of you, calmly waiting for you to talk more than what would be considered informal. That was his one complain from you, you never talked to him more than necessary not because you were shy because you thought it wasn't dutiful, proper to talk so much in front of him even shameless to torture him with the blabber of your whole day.
You wiped the sweat beading at your forehead, your hair tied up in a messy bun that was half undone from behind. Your dupatta tied at the side, your blush pink kurta sticking to your skin through that wetness, flour patted onto your cheek working in the sweltering heat in the kitchen, the smell of korma filling the kitchen as you worked to knead the dough. It's not like he did not keep the house help but you just liked cooking for him, you didn't hear the muffled footsteps as he strode to you over the sound of your own irritated hiss and the consistency got too slimy. Iqbal swept you off your feet, you gasped before giggling at the familiar sensation of his hands wrapping around your waist, he twirled you once before settling on the cold marble counter.
“Kitni pyaari lag rahi hai aap” He murmured appreciatively, his hands tugging your neckline up possessively before trying to kiss your sweat slick cheek,
“ Choro na Iqbal, kya kar rahe hai aap? Koi dekh lega”
“Toh kya hua, begum hai aap hamari”
You hit at his chest trying to hold back the wild smile that was painting your face at this proximity.
“ Aapne toh kitchen ko hi apna ghar bana diya hai kabhi humare saath bhi baith liya karo”
His hand moved quickly keeping both your palms flat and pinned at your sides, it was supposed to be sweet but it felt scarily exciting to know that even his effortless grip could hold you down easily, you swallowed watching him inch closer till his lips met your again in a soft and slow rhythm. You half chuckled turning your head away mid movement, for a second there Iqbal frowned a deep and ugly one for not getting what’s his but he trains them back into neutral.
You noticed it, without much words you have learned to communicated by observing people and though how much you admired and felt loved in his presence there was something off about him, about the parts that he kept to himself and that was also part why you hesitated to talk to him because the ugly truth about a traditional marriage was that despite being well educated you had no autonomy and all the power for your happiness laid in his hand, it was for him to decide what he wanted to be to you the man now or the quiet statue you saw at your wedding, so you avoided questioning it.
You don't know if he felt the shift, but he moved, reaching into the front pocket of his shirt pulling out dainty silver anklets,
“ Yeh kya hai?”
“ Aap toh humse baat nahi karti socha yahi kar lenge”
he nodded at the anklet, flicking them soft, hearing the mellow chime hum through the kitchen. He sat down on his knees clasping them in place, “ Iqbal please aise accha todhi lagta hai” embarrassed at a man so much older than you kneeling to you, you tried to pull back your feet “ Nakhre bahut karti hai aap” You gave up into his hand because what else could you have done.
Iqbal has been occupied with work lately, the time of his arrival increasing with each passing night and with the same brooding expression he would walk through the door and sigh ever so softly when he saw you wide awake and waiting for him, it was the same as any other day only this time his shoulders fell heavier, his eyes darker and the sigh deeper almost a snarl.
“ Iqbal aap theek toh hai na?”
For the first time you gathered enough courage to ask him something out of mundane homely tasks,
“ Tumhe ek baar mei baat samajh nahi aati hai waqt se so jaaya karo”
his reply was short and clipped out of character for the way he had been cherishing you for the past month, you fell quiet the pain of your heart settling in your wrists.
“Aur yeh kya haal kar rakha hai kamre ka”
He turned to watch the clothes piled up into a heap by the bed which you were too lazy to clean up and even lazier to call and explain to the maids the order at which they were to be arranged.
“ Karti kya ho pura din ghar pe?”
you felt yourself grow smaller at each word, all the puff leaving your chest,
“ Aur yeh kya phen rakha hai?”
He nodded at your slip night gown with pure disdain at the satin that covered nothing. You shrank further pulling the bedsheet up to your chin wondering why you asked him anything at all.
Iqbal noticed but he did not comment on it walking to the bathroom with his fist clenched almost as if to hide something, the second he stepped back out again freshened up he was a different man altogether. Nervous,skittish with how you were laying on the very edge of the bed turned away from him , “ Gussa hogayi?” he tried to joke, leaning slow from behind to burrow his face into your neck, you shrugged him off scooting further away.
“ Sorry meri jaan, kaam se thak aata ho aur tumhe mere vajah se itni der ko jagah hua dekhta toh aur takleeq hoti hai mujhe”
“ Mujhe daatne mei nahi hoti?” you whispered hiding further into the pillow
“ Sorry thoda gusse mei tha kuch bhi bol diya, itni pyaari ..um…dress? Pheni hai aapne mujh jaise budhe ko thodi samajh aayega” he cupped your breast from behind, nuzzling his nose into your shoulder. You wanted to give in but the hurt still remained fresh so you didn't react to him at all. Iqbal got the idea and pulled back, keeping enough distance for your bodies to not touch while you slept, but you knew he was looking at you, his gaze searing through your back, through the thin fabric of your gown. At some point you were more scared than you were mad if this was his actual self and the lovely gestures were maybe a facade.
The next morning Iqbal tailed you like a lost dog while you refused to talk to him. Eventually he gave up and just watched as you put down plates with more force than required ‘slamming’ them on the dining table. “ Y/N” he half whispered but you didnt answer, “ Maaf kardo” he tried again holding your hand as you moved to throw down the cutleries as well, “ Bolo kya chaiye aapko?” “ Humne kuch nahi chaiye” you finally huffed something out over the lump in your throat, Iqbal left quietly this morning fighting the urge to kiss your temple and bid you goodbye like usual because you clearly did not want to be close with him right now.
By afternoon you had started feeling guilty about the way you ignored his desperate attempts and it didn't look right either that such an older man had to walk around in circles for your opinion and you understood he was just frustrated from work and didn't mean to snap but the possibilities for that behavior scared you, when you were cleaning up after your lunch you saw it his tiffin box tucked at the end of the kitchen slate hidden behind the stack of dishes in front of it.
The idea had formed before you allowed it, the end to your first couple argument and it was sweet in idea, you would dress and go by to drop his tiffin box and forgive him for all the things he said last night. You put on the kurta you wore in your college days, and had seen Iqbal's eyes stop at it when you were skimming through your clothes before a function once, he didn't say he liked but his eyes spoke for him. The butter yellow complimented nicely against your skin tone, it different than the intricate suits you had moved to after marriage because you were living in the house of one of the most reputed man in pakistan, luxury wasn't a choice it was mandatory for the public image and this road side stall brought kurta maybe stood no chance in front of the fine silk but Iqbal had admired it and so did you.
It was with printed large pink patterns, the same patterns on the light dupatta that you had draped carefully over your shoulder and head, feeling a college girl again, but you were married now with Iqbal's lunch box in your hands, chand baali in your ears, the bangles in your hand stacked and first time going to see what burdens him so much that he is weared out when he returns home, a chance to understand him better.
“ Bashir mujhe Iqbal ke daftar chor dijiye” “ Begum sahiba.. Iqbal sahab ne mana kara hai” “ Aise kaise mana kara hai hum bol rahe hai na leke chalo” “ Sach mei unhone mana kara hai” “ Agar aap humne nahi leke jaoge toh hum auto se chale jayege fir dekhna Iqbal ji kitna gussa karenga” You poked at his shoulder and he couldn't do anything other than listen to the lady of the house.
Inside of the office was normal, just like your father’s had been with all the cubicles leading to a big room at the end, illuminated by yellow lights and closed off from the rest, Iqbal’s office. You held the tiffin box walking slowly to his office, most of the people were confused as to why the boss’s wife was here at all dressed in all pastel in this gloomy mood. The office was empty, his leather seat cold from his long absence “ Iqbal?” You called out three times with no reply from anyone, a familiar man entered the room, his face furrowed, hair disheveled
“ Y/N aap? Aap yaha kya kar rahi hai”
He faltered standing straight and respectful
“ Sajid voh bas Iqbal ji apna tiffin bhool gaye vahi dene aayi thi”
“ Mai de doonga aap ghar jaiye”
he reached out but you held the box closer to yourself cutting off any possibility of him getting a hold of it, well because he wasn't exactly allowed to touch you.
“ Nahi hume apne haath se dena hai”
“ Iqbal sahab office mei hi nahi hai, bahar gay hai kaam se”
on cue came the sound from the room beside, even distant than that more muffled, downstairs, it was from downstairs.
“ Iqbal hai vaha?”
Sajid did not know how to lie to you
“Abhi kisi ka aana allowed nahi hai”
“ Accha theek hai naraaz hai voh humse samajh gayi, par itna gussa kaisa? milenge bhi nahi mere se“
" Please aap ghar jaiye” You pouted tapping your feet at the wooden floor, “ Mai nahi jaungi, Iqbal se bina nahi jaungi” “ Fir aap inteezar kar sakti hai yaha baith ke.. Bas abhi nahi mil sakte” You plopped down on the couch, eyes flickering to the door over and over. “ Sajid chai milegi?” “ Abhi?” “ Ji mujhe abhi chaiye.. Aap hume mana kar rahe hai hume?” He sighed not knowing who to follow the boss, or his wife because upsetting his wife might be a bigger crime than betraying him here.
The second Sajid was out of the door you sprang to the room attached to his office finding the narrow spot in the corner that led downstairs. It was a whole different world all together, alienated from the sophisticated exterior you just saw, the wall painted a dull white and fluorescent light shining overhead and the air was already eerie but you carried on looking for Iqbal.
Iqbal had been viscous since last week when he found out there was a mole in his business, selling away his hard work to his enemies and busied himself in finding and extracting other sources that made it possible by the way he knew- torture. He had been patient handling the work to the most trusted Sajid , but it has been one week and the man was still not opening his mouth and he had to take things into his own hands.
The room was equipped with weapons designed to slowly kill, to inflict such pain that there was nothing left other than surrender. Iqbal rolled up the sleeves of his faded navy blue kurta to his elbows slipping on the black leather gloves moving with a quiet intensity that carried a storm itself scanning through the row after row of the most heinous weapons quietly, Iqbal had already peeled off his nails after the man had gone out his way and struggle and scratch at Iqbal exposed skin violently enough that it was bleeding, but he wasn't satisfied with it, more vexed than usual because his dear wife had not spoke to him once and he needed an outlet to take that out and he was found an excuse today with the blood that ran down his forearm form the cut.
Iqbal decided on a classic saw because he knew it wouldn't cut through on the first blow, that what made the process more fascinating for Iqbal, he leaned in into the chair the man was tied to soughing in agony at his deformed fingers, flailing his hand against the time, “ Abhi bhi waqt hai bol do beta” Iqbal tutted,speaking so softly that the man knew what was set for his fate, Iqbal raised the saw crashing it down his tied arm with sickening crunch.
You saw it eyes wide, standing at the entrance. Your husband was doing this.
“ Bolo beta?” He asked but didn't give him the time to reply, aggressively bringing down the saw over over one the half cut arm in repeated violent motions that were too perfect to be not the ‘norm’ and especially by the look on his face they weren't, he wasn't hesitating not for sliver of his body recoiled by what he was doing ,blood spattered spraying at Iqbal's suit “ BOL BETA BOL” the screamed the sound echoing off the walls.
You stepped back slowly, careful not to catch anyone’s eyes. He is a monster, a monster. The man in the chair you recognised from the dinners Iqbal held at home, how he introduced him to you as an old acquaintance of five years. Five years? And Iqbal didn't struggle to commit something so horrifying to him, so how will a wife of one month stand a chance against his temper, this nature. You were almost out of sight when you moved a little too fast, your ankles chimed faintly over the screams but Iqbal's head shot up, instantly recognising the sound. “ Y/N?” he mouthed.
Your body was in dilemma whether to catch your breath first,to run to keep your heart beating because with no doubt Iqbal had seen you, you dropped the tiffin watched the content fall open on the floor as you ran as fast as you can again marvelling if to take off your anklets first, hands shivering so hard they fell like they would fall off. Cutting off a man's hand was so easy for him what would he do with you since you had made him so upset yesterday, you carried yourself on unsteady legs. Lungs burning for the desperate attempts you made to breathe the panic only growing when you couldn't find your way back upstairs, running into doors after doors and then you froze for a second hearing the heavy boots tracing your footsteps. Those damn anklets gave it away and Iqbal was onto you, you forced yourself to move slowly so the movements wouldn't amplify the sound further getting into the first room beside you.
You fumbled with the knob twice before twisting it open to what looked like a rest room for the times Iqbal stayed back in his house, it was his room you could tell by the cub cigars discarded on the floor on the bedside table , his favourite one and if that didn't give it away there was a frame of you rested atop just beside the cigar from your wedding, cropped so it was only you for him to admire when he couldn't find his way back home and the fear wavered stupidly with the warmth rising in your body.
The room was so sickly drowned with his scent that your head was getting dizzy, chest heaving which felt a lot like excitement. Disgusting;you cringed and then came the final call of the door turning and opening in front of you. Iqbal looming inside without a word.
You stood breath hitched, hand gripping at the desk behind you, still not a word he moved past you, still not a word as he took off his gloves, not a word as he tried to wipe off some of the blood from his kurta.
He hadn't said a word, maybe you could just run away. You dashed to the door without him moving a fraction, just when you twisted the knob in your hand he covered the distance in three long steps , picking you up so effortlessly that you wondered if you weighed anything under at all.
You slipped in his grips, squirming and thrashing to get free while he remained unyielding, jaw shut tight throwing you on the desk. “ Iqbal please mujhe chor do, maine kuch nahi dekha please” You sobbed, slapping your palm at his rock hard chest, Iqbal held you still with that extreme gaze and strength that he did not have to apply to keep you from moving.
“ Shh shh”
He hushed you finally, ignoring your small useless movements to slam his forehead against yours breathing deep and low. Your mind actively worked against your logical conscience, the human urge to survive overshadowed by disgustingly attracted you were to him, even after the revelation of his true self.
“ Kitni haseen lag rahe hoo aaj, uff.. Mujhe milne aayi ho itne sajj ke?” He said his voice husky and hungry, thumb caressing your cheek as if your body wasn't actively breaking into sobs from the fear, from the clear evidence that dampened his shirt the blood brown against the blue of his shirt.
“ Iqbal please hum sach mei kisi ko kuch nahi bolege”
“ Kya nahi bologi? Meri jaan yahi meri jindagi hai is se aapke siwa sab vaafiq hai aapke abbu bhi” before the disbelief of his first few words he could hit you he continued
"Tum nahi jaanti ke mujhe tumhare baap ko maali tor par tabah karne ke liye kis hadd tak jana pada, sirf is liye kyunke wo tumhe mujhe saunpne par raazi nahi tha. Tumhe andaza nahi ke is sab ke peeche meri kitni gehri saazishein thien... kis qadar junoon tha tumhe paane ka, tumhe apni baahon mein qaid karne ka"
He confessed, two glances and he had decided to drain your father financially to have you. There was no doubt your husband was crazy and holding you so fiercely calm. You wanted to be angry but all that came out of your mouth was a bated breath and even that he did spare, swallowing it in his mouth. Clashing your lips with his, you gasped in surprise giving him the opportunity to thrust his tongue into your quivering mouth, your hands flailing uselessly as he carefully but swiftly pulled over the kurta over your head. The air is clammy, goosebumps prickling at your skin.
Fear and arousal churned all together in a dangerous mix pooling in your gut, “ Iqbal-”He tangled his tongue with yours again blurring out every thought in your head for a movement, you only came back to your sense when you felt the cold metal press between the valley of your breasts, tracing up and down over the cleavage formed by the cotton bra "Tumhe lagta hai ke main ne ye sab tumhe paane ke liye kiya, sirf is liye ke tumhe takleef pahchaoon?"your hands did not need containing anymore, your struggles have stopped itself from the sheer paralysing fear. “ Iqbal please aap..yeh kya kar rahe hoo?” the safety was off- the safety was off it was off but you couldn't move, his gaze so commanding that even when your heart threatened to crash you didn't want to go against it.
The revolver sleek body prodded at your skin, it was loaded and he wasn't stepping back if anything, you felt the metal dig harder into your plump flesh, his finger rested dangerously at the trigger, the only comfort was the eye contact he held with you, that kept you captive in place. In your hindsight you could see as he crushed the trigger further, your eyes snapping close but not moving from the position you were in to save your life. The shot went empty but you flinched from the impact, hands going to hold onto his bicep, holding onto the very cause of your fear, nails digging into his skin. Iqbal eyes dragged over your face, watching the fresh tear drop glisten in a sheen line over your eye, the way you trusted him he had never felt his heart beat so frantically like it did at the at the depraved sight of your trust and the cede of your body, you were his sweet victim not upset at the fact he had plotted his way into this marriage, but just watching him doe eyes that were begging him to fuck you.
He glided it over your soft skin, hooking the mouth of the gun beneath the strap of your bra sliding it down your shoulder, unraveling your left breast to his ravenous eyes. “ Iqbal” You whimpered but he ignored it, rubbing at the nipple with the side of the gun, before holding it back in between your breast, sliding it down and over your stomach. Your breath caught when you realised he wanted to stop, tugging the salwar and panties up together with the gun, skidding it down along with his hand.
The freezing cold metal pressed against your clit, making you jolt forward and thrash momentarily before you met his eyes again, lulling you back into submissiveness. He was more handsome up close, wrinkles running around his eyes, the side of his lips along with the scar that ran above the side of his mouth, his moustache and beard thick and salt and paper that he didn't care to cover with fake dyes, just intensifying visually the obvious age gap between you both. “ Iqbal” You tried again, but he didn't budge, sliding your clothes down till you had no choice but to comply by lifting your hips so he could strip you bare.
You were a beautiful mess the innocent cotton panties stopping at your ankles, left breast out of the fabric and body shivering, your clit throbbed against the foreign object , he drowned in the sight of you getting worked up from the fear, his true self, at your how the bud that hid above your folds looked pressed against something so dangerous. Your entrance peeking out from the folds, pink and fleshed raw , he was tempted to push the barrel in but he understood enough to not do that, just teased you with the hard rigid metal that had your toes curling.
He handled it with the perfect pressure, he had learnt that much about your pleasure now, holding the mouth of the gun pressed flat against your slit till the start of your taint, “ Iqbal!” You shrieked, just his name no indication for him to stop or start because deep down you didn't know whether you did or not yourself. “ Ji begum” He rasped, nibbling on the shell of your ear the sweet endearment sound so mocking now . “Please chor dijiye, Iqbal mujhe dar raha hai”
He smirked, tapping the sensitive bundle of nerves and on cue your wetness gushed down more, lubricating yourself “ Dar lag raha hai aapko meri jaan?” He cooed, catching the wetness at the gun, holding up the slick metal in front of your mouth, “ Yeh hai aapka dar?” those trembling lips have been inviting since the day he saw you, he drummed the head at your lips.
“ Open” he demanded, your hands clutching tighter at his bicep only roused him more, testing the patience that he was holding back for one month. He squeezed your mouth open , the end of the barrel hitting at the back of your mouth. “ Suck” He demanded again, this time over your gagging self, turning more vulnerable under his control.
Sucking his cock would have been way easier, the hard edges hurted a little and you knew if he started fucking your mouth himself how hard he would do it so you started yourself. Wrapping your tongue around the line, bobbing your head up and down slowly. Iqbal eyes rolled back at the obedience, he murmured praises against your forehead, about you were his good little wife before latching onto your nipple, engulfing the hard pebble into his mouth, slurping loudly around it, switching between biting and sucking constantly that the pain balanced out with pleasure, but soon he decided he did not want to miss a second of you fucking your mouth.
He stood back eyes digging into your skin, your small palm still wrapped around his bicep for comfort while he barely offered any when he plunged two fingers into your soaked entrance, curling his fingers inside to rub against the spongy part in constant strict movement that didn't give you another option than to accept the abuse on your cunt, his thumb rubbed in firm circles over your clit working proficiently so you could come early and he can shove his dick in you, because at this point he was so hard it hurted painfully
The bulge heavy and insistent over the fabric of his shalwar, you squelched loudly the wetness dripping down your cunt and spreading over the mahogany desk as you moaned around the muzzle. Iqbal liked seeing you contained but he also wanted to hear you whine his name. The gun left your mouth abruptly with a soft pop that allowed you to relax your jaw and mouth, “Iqbal ji please chor dijiye na” You whimpered all while your hips bucked to have his finger deeper, the sentence infuriated him enough for him to want to ram the gun down your throat again because of the obvious lie which he didn't enjoy.
He doubled his efforts on your pussy and had you releasing all over his hand, face nuzzled and drooling at his covered bicep when the gun shot went off making you cling harder to him breaking into a sob on instinct and the realisation The gun had bullets??? And he fired that over your heart?
Despite the horror you had only gotten wetter, clunt clenching unclenching around nothing waiting on what he had trained your body by now, his cock. The sound of your anklets were dampened and restricted under the clothes that bunched up at your ankles first he pulled them off in a harsh motion, then he dropped you on your feet on the floor, you expected him to take you to bed and claim you properly but he dragged in front of the long mirror reclined on the wall. Standing behind you, his six feet two swamping your frame and the view in front of you of your used body
You waited to watch what he meant to do, fixing your eyes anything but what was right in front focusing on the chipped edges of the mirror instead, when you felt him take out his hard dick maybe this is the part he throws you on the bed, but he lines himself against your entrance that was looking comically small in comparison to his tout head, “ Iqbal bed pe-” He snarled, and the next second you known the gun was now at your throat. The muzzle now warmed with bullets fired, and the fear came back in full surge washing over your body in tremors.
“ Maine tumse pucha tumhe kya chaiye?”
you shook your head, grasping at the mirror feeling the stretch of his cut head pushing inside your body.
You could see how desperate your own body was getting how your walls extend to accommodate his thickness, the size difference thrilling but it flushed your cheeks, shyly you lowered your gaze onto the floor to avoid the reality of what’s happening to you
"Khabardar jo tum ne apni nazrein jhukaaeen, upar dekho"
The revolver delved into the hollow of your throat as he impelled you slowly on his dick feeding you inch by inch till you were a crying mess forced to look at your ruins from the fear of the weapon your husband threatened you with. He grunted when he finally buried himself to the hilt, the sound sending spasm through your body resulting in you tightening around him, your eyes flickered struggling to keep up "Tumhe ek seedhi si baat samajh nahi aati? Nazrein mujh par tikaye rakho." he spanked his palm at your ass with unrestrained force that made you wail and slap your palm at the glass. “ IQBAL!”
“ Watch how you take me” You looked down unwillingly at the mortifying sight of hips flush against yours from behind, as he pulled back a little you saw how hard you gripped to keep him inside, his meaty flesh red and throbbing with veins that taut on it brushing deliberate at the gummy walls of your insides, you were too tired,too overstimulated for this torture when he started something worse.
He slammed back into you one violent thrust and started a punishing rhythm which was way worse than the slow descent before, your whole world world was blurring with how harsh he was being, body jerking forward and threatening to fall down with the heavy rams but he kept you up with one hand snaked around your waist other still holding the silent reminder to comply by your neck. He was smug like he was saving you from collapsing when he was the one who was enabling it, groaning how tight you were while you struggled to breathe around his cock.
Iqbal had mapped and studied each part of your body by now familiar with each curve and where exactly to hit to find your spot, aggressively snapping his hips to meet that spot so you were forced to be drowning in pleasure when your eyes rolled back from the obvious affect, he hit you again your cheeks burning red with the imprint of his palm.
Iqbal had realised you weren't scared of the gun anymore because the second you were going against his words and that didn't exactly feed into his arrogance and it has served it's purpose now, you were aware Iqbal would never hurt you in spite of having all the means to do so. He grabbed your chin forcing you to look yourself, squeezing your cheeks roughly with his palm that was larger than your face “ Dekh khudko” His groaned his tone and speech getting crass,
"Apni haalat toh dekho, ro aise rahi ho jaise tumhe is sab mein maza nahi aa raha”
you clamped around his shaft watching how he was soaking in your tears with an arousal that didn't even feel human anymore it was that primitive. A victory smirk broke through his face in between of the harsh clenched jaw expression before he lost himself to your tightness again cursing out loud and resuming your breaking.
His cock filled you stretched you out the pain of him bruising your cervix so delicious it bordered on pleasure, and estranged from the lewd scene and noises was the dainty chimes of your ankle as your feet fell above the ground with each thrust due to the obvious size difference, while he forced you to watch. Watch as the fear completely left your face leaving behind only greed, that asked him to ruin you more humiliate you the idea fact that you how small you in front of him in every sense of the word at how little control you had of your life and yet he wouldn't hurt you not in the way it would sting your heart.
"Main sabr nahi kar pa raha us waqt ka jab tumhe samajh aayega ke tumhari jagah kahan hai—sirf mere paas. Tum yahan hamesha mehfooz rahogi, meri mohabbat aur meri jaan ban kar."
Your ankles chimed harder, coerced to let out sound louder than they were meant to because Iqbal wanted to hear it so he had of course roughened his pace. His deep thrusts were mind breaking that your consciousness was slipping and instead of being ashamed your eyes were glued to the view in front you when he finally found the energy to complete his broken sentences in between his moans and groans
“ Aur inshallah jaldi hi mere bacchon ki maa banke”
WHAT? Your eyes shot up over the haze you wanted to move to look over your shoulder but his grip kept you still, and you realised you didn't need to look back at all you met his eyes in the mirror, that glance confirmed it for you he was serious about what he just said and that ‘jaldi hi’ clearly meant today.
You found some sense over the high and tried to scoot away only to be met with his hand rubbing at your now swollen bud coaxing, capturing you slowly into a frenzy that meant you were his captive for life. Your orgasm didn't give you relief by drowning out the knot in your stomach, instead it hit you like a tidal wave with your head still stuck on the fact about what followed after, and you couldn't even form a coherent sentence let alone argue with him as his hips started stuttering. “ Meri jaan” he grunted, forcing himself deeper till his tip found your cervix again, holding himself still as he spilled out his load raw. You felt the warmth seep to your stomach as if already taking root.
“Iqbal” you sniffled defeated, falling limp and wanting nothing more to be in his arms. “ Theek hai aap?” he asked picking you up ,you wanted to pout but you only nodded hiding in his chest.
a/n - its is four am while I post this kuch glat shalat likha ho toh maaf kar dena dont slime me
Note: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. This content is intended for audiences 18+ only.
A/N: this is the first part of my headcanon series which I'll post regularly from now on, for this one I just wanted to give MY headcanon for each fuckable male character of Dhurandhar. Without further explanation- ENJOY<3
1. Hamza:
Hamza... He is a Gentle Dom. He wants you to surrender, but he’ll guide you through every step of that surrender - literally. I'm talking- talking you through it and praising you into heaven for taking it.
Physics: He's above average, definitely nice and thick, filling you up reaaaally nicely. He's beefy, so he's stronger than you, you basically disappear under him every time you fuck and you love it.
Kink: Impact play (light) and Praise Kink. He loves the sound of a sharp palm against your skin followed immediately by his soothing voice. Size Kink: You will look small next to this fridge- and he will love it - no matter your size or weight- he's constantly picking you up and fucks you in the shower holding you up- trust this man is STRONG.
Turn-Ons: Hearing you say "Please." He needs to hear the desire in your voice. He loves eye contact during the most intense moments and oh boy- he loves Thighs. Let me tell youuu- this man goes crazy for your thighs ans grabs them everywhere you go. He's such a sucker for lingerie as well, buying you so much that he could just open a damn shop of his own.
In Bed: He talks... a lot. "Look at me. Tell me you feel that. Good girl just like that." He’s very big on "checking in" without breaking the mood, using his thumb to wipe away tears or sweat, always has his hands on you. He's experimental, lets you try things you wanna try and even gives up dominance sometimes, letting you take charge by Riding him for example.
Favorite Positions: Missionary, definitely. He loves your pretty face, the look in your eyes, how your lips part when you moan, he goes crazy for it. He likes every position that he can see you face with nicely, but missionary is definitely his favorite. Honorable Mention: Riding and Mating press
Aftercare: High-effort. He will carry you to a warm bath, wash your hair, and wrap you in one of his oversized shirts. He’ll whisper how proud he is of you until you fall asleep- he's the KING of Aftercare my friends
2. Rehman:
Rehman is a man that is in control- also in bed- ESPECIALLY in bed. His actions are loud...very~ He is a "Munch" through and through— eats pussy for breakfast lunch and dinner and will always ask for dessert. He views your pleasure as his primary duty and his greatest reward.
Physics: Do not think because he's more on the Average size that he doesn't know how to work with it. Damn- this man can FUUUCK. He's lean, but muscular and he's strong- his hands are rough- and feel amazing against your skin and pushed into your mouth.
Kink: He's a chronic Pussy-Eater and loves Sensory Deprivation. He loves blindfolding you so you can only feel the heat of his breath and the skill of his tongue- Another thing he's very fond of is Orgasm Control~ he looves telling you to hold it back until you are cross eyed and shaking all over. Tbh, he just likes giving you orders~
Turn-Ons: Watching your face while he’s between your legs- yes I don't make the rules this man loves Pussy LOOK AT HIM. He also loves "marking"—leaving bruises or hickeys where only he knows they exist, he likes to make you wear lingerie under your clothes all day or he makes you wear vibrators with him relentlessly using that remote.
In Bed: He’s a "taker" when it comes to your pleasure. He will stay down there nose deep in your bits for hours if he has to. If you try to pull him up, he’ll just grip your thighs tighter and growl, "I didn't say you were done yet." He makes you BEG for him to fuck you, and once he gives you what you wanted he isn't stopping before he gave you at least 3-5 orgasms ON HIS DICK ALONE. (Ulfat so lucky-)
Favorite Positions: Well maybe I didn't say it yet but- BRO NEEDS PUSSY IN HIS FACE TO SURRIVE OKAY- SIXTY-NINE is his favorite. Being able to taste you making a mess on his tongue AND fucking your pretty mouth? Yeah. This man is in heaven. Honorable Mentions: Reverse Cowgirl and Spooning
Aftercare: Very physical and grounding. He needs skin-to-skin contact. He’ll pull you onto his chest, legs tangled, and just breathe you in, rubbing his chin against your neck, he would often watch you because, after that many earth shaking toe curling orgasms, you'd pass out right after sex, but you know that you're always taken care of<3
3. Uzair:
Uzair is the most "creative" of the bunch. To him, sex is a playground- He’s playful, unpredictable, and likes to push boundaries. One night he might be sweet; the next, he’s treating you like his favorite sextoy
Physics: DAMN, big dick energy- wow. Hes definitely big, not as thick tho, still definitely more than ENOUGH. Hes athletic and surprisingly flexible for his Height. He uses his Tallness to manipulate your body into positions you didn’t know were possible girl-
Kink: Exhibitionism/Risk & Edging. He loves the thrill of "almost getting caught"—locking a door at a party or being loud in a room with thin walls or fucking you outside or in a damn elevator- hes HORNY everywhere and he likes how shy you get about maybe being caught. He is the king of edging you until you’re crying for it, hes such a damn tease.
Turn-Ons: Feistyness. He loves it when you try to take control or talk back, just so he can "punish" you for it- he loves fighting for dominance with you. Also, This man stares at your Ass sooo much- that even other people notice. He loves to grab it and spank it while walking by, and your reactions to it.
In Bed: It’s high energy, girl he can fuck you for houurs- There’s a lot of laughing, biting, and hair-pulling, from both of you, He might record a voice note of your sounds just to play it back to you later, or film you to watch it later. He wants to be your most "memorable" experience- trying EVERYTHING you wanna try, from dressing you up to Public sex, Vanilla to SM, hes in for it as long as you two are fucking and happy after it.
Favorite Positions: Oh boy. He likes many- but if he has to pick one, it's the Pretzel.- You two are entangled and so fucking close- he uses his flexibility and puts you in a position that forces your body to be all accessible to him, to reach down and pinch your clit, pull your head back for breathless kisses or spanking these pretty open thighs of yours. Honorable Mentions: Doggystyle and infront of a mirror
Aftercare: Playful and sweet. He’ll order late-night takeout, feed you fries while you’re both naked in bed, and joke about the marks he left on you. He’ll stay up late just talking and kissing your forehead, he makes you laugh and feel save with him, but also tease you about how high-pitched your moans got while he pounded you.
4. Iqbal
Iqbal doesn't do "light." He is a Hard Dom into heavy BDSM. For him, your submission is his biggest pride. He loves to be in charge and take care of your needs while fulfilling his own.- Yet. He's always checking in, and he makes sure you have your safeword memorized and feel save with the more extreme side of his.
Physics: Thats a big cock let me tell you and its thick too- it might scare you first and lemme tell you he LIKES that. He scarred, tall , muscular and intimidating. Just his presence in the room makes the air feel thinner and girl guess what's gonna feel fuller soon-
Kink: Bondage (Rope/Cuffs), Breath Play, and Fear Play. He likes the primal aspect of intimacy. He wants you bound and helpless, relying entirely on him for your next breath or your next peak. He has you tied to bed or the Doorframe with your legs spread open in place and there's nothing that could get him harder than seeing how excited you are to be taken care of by him, getting wet with just the clink of the cuffs. He likes chasing you around for fun, overpowering you easily.
Turn-Ons: Absolute obedience. The way you shiver when he enters the room with a set of leather cuffs. He loves the contrast between his rough, weathered skin and your softness. He loves your Consent. He loves to check on you ans you saying "fuck don't stop I love it-"
In Bed: It’s intense and often silent, punctuated only by his low commands. "Don't move," or "Take it." He uses toys and tools with clinical precision. There is a deep, dark heat in his eyes that tells you he is worshiping you even while he’s being the one in charge. Then again- it can get very loud- screaming in pleasure while his hand slaps your ass- your crys into his biceps while he bends you over and fucks you- its really a mix if two extremes.
Favorite Positions: Prone bone. girl I can't even- like do I have to explain- you pressed down with him behind you pounding you while your face is either pressed into the pillows screaming or resting on your cheek while you have to tell him you want it harder?!- yes. The answer is yes. Honorable Mentions: Double Decker and up against the wall/door with your hands tied behind your back
Aftercare: This is where the softness, the protector comes out. After a heavy session, he is incredibly gentle. He will personally check every mark, apply ointment to any rope burn, and hold you in a protective embrace that makes the rest of the world disappear. He’s the "weighted blanket" of partners, always telling you how amazing you were and that you are most precious to him.
That is it for this Part of my Headcanon series- I'll write this along with the next fics- also you can comment whatever you wanna read next!
