Hijr Ka Ghar
Brigadier Jahangir x Fem! Reader, Major Iqbal x Fem! Reader [Part II]
Synopsis In a house still drowning in mourning, a young bride is brought in to replace a woman no one has truly buried. A bitter son, a controlling husband, and a home filled with silence slowly turn her new life into something suffocating. In Hijr Ka Ghar, love does not heal people — it ruins them in quieter ways.
Cws psychological abuse, toxic relationships, nsfw coercion, manipulation, grief, age-gap marriage, emotional neglect, misogyny, dark themes, unhealthy coping mechanisms, non-consensual situations, depression, trauma, isolation, verbal abuse, obsessive behavior, morally grey characters. [Wc 5.5k]
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She quietly returned to the room after wandering through the house for a few awkward minutes, as if the walls themselves were staring at her. There was nowhere else to go anyway. The entire house felt unfamiliar, too polished, too silent, too cold for someone like her. When she stepped inside again, Jahangir was already awake. He sat against the headboard with one leg bent, reading something through half-lidded eyes. Morning sunlight slipped through the curtains and fell over his face sharply. He looked up at her for a second.
"Uth gayi tum?" his voice was calmer now, almost normal. "Ek cup chai bana do."
She immediately nodded. "Ji." Then after a small pause, almost embarrassed, she added quietly, "Kitchen ka nahi pata mujhe..."
He gave her directions briefly before looking back down again as if it were nothing.
She went downstairs carefully, still uncomfortable from the previous night. Every step made her nervous. She did not want to speak to him more than necessary. Did not want to be near him more than necessary. But there was no escaping that now.
The kitchen was huge compared to the one back at her parents' house. Everything looked expensive and unfamiliar. She stood there for a few seconds just staring before finally preparing tea the way she always did at home. Strong. A little extra milk. Not too sweet.
She only made one cup. When she brought it upstairs on the tray and handed it to him, Jahangir took a sip before saying casually, "Khali chai se acidity ho jati hai. Kuch khane ko bhi le aao."
She froze slightly. "Mujhe... nahi pata kya hai kitchen mein."
"Hoga kuch. Dekh lo apna hi ghar hai."
So she quietly went downstairs again. This time when she entered the kitchen, someone else was already there.
Iqbal.
He stood near the counter in black lowers and a dark vest dampened slightly with sweat, probably after a workout. One hand held a protein shaker bottle which he was shaking absentmindedly. His hair looked messy, and there was still the faint smell of some unfamiliar perfume lingering around him. She recognized him instantly from university. And suddenly she felt even more out of place.
He looked at her too. Just once. Not warmly. Not rudely either. Just cold. For a second she forgot what she had even come there for. Then awkwardly she spoke first. "Uh... biscuits kahan hain?"
He did not answer immediately. He simply walked past her, opened one of the cabinets above, pulled out a large metal box filled with different packets of biscuits and namkeen, and placed it onto the counter. "Yahan." That was all. Then he turned away again.
Flustered, she ended up lifting the entire box instead of taking only one packet and carried it upstairs. The second Jahangir saw it, he gave a small amused exhale.b"Pura dabba le aayi tum?"
She lowered her eyes immediately. "Mujhe laga—"
"Ek packet bhi aa sakta tha." His tone was not harsh. If anything, it almost sounded soft. Which somehow embarrassed her more. After that, silence settled again.
She sat carefully on her side of the bed while he drank tea and ate. She did not know whether she should stay or leave or say something. So she simply sat there quietly, fingers twisting into the fabric of her dupatta. After finishing, Jahangir placed the empty cup back onto the tray. Then casually said, "Apna samaan rakh lo almari mein."
Such a simple sentence. Yet hearing it made something sink inside her chest. Because it reminded her this was not temporary. This was her house now. Or at least it was supposed to be. Quietly, she pulled her suitcase closer and began unpacking. Most of the clothes inside were brand new suits her mother had packed herself — heavily embroidered fabrics, soft chiffons, dull elegant colours that made her feel older than she actually was. Married. Respectable. Someone's wife. Not herself.
Beneath them, hidden carefully, were the few things she had packed on her own. A couple of university notebooks. Loose papers folded between pages. Pens. A novel. Small pieces of a life nobody expected her to continue anymore. Her fingers lingered on them for a little too long before she carefully placed them inside the almirah. Jahangir noticed. "Ab bhi padhti ho?" he asked.
She nodded lightly. "Nhi... karti thi."
"Karti thi?" he repeated. Then after a pause, "Ab tum Brigadier ki biwi ho. Is ghar ke kuch usool hain. Samajhna seekh jaogi dheere dheere."
His tone remained calm. Almost gentle. But something about it still made her chest tighten. Outside the room, Iqbal had been passing through the hallway when he heard that. And when he glanced inside and saw her quietly arranging her clothes, making tea, sitting in his mother's room as if she belonged there something bitter twisted inside him instantly. Trying so hard to fit in already. Trying so hard to become part of this house. Part of his mother's place.
The breakfast table felt too large for only three people. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, falling across polished wood and untouched dishes while the ceiling fan hummed lazily above them. Bashir moved quietly around the dining room setting plates down one by one with practiced ease.
"Begum sahiba, nashta lag gya hai," he said respectfully. For a second she looked behind herself, almost thinking he was speaking to someone else.
Begum sahiba.
The word still felt strange around her. Heavy. Too old for her.
She quietly took the last bowl from his hands and placed it onto the table herself. Her fingers still smelled faintly of atta and chai patti. Tiny burns from hot oil stung near her wrist every few seconds.
Jahangir sat at the head of the table already dressed for day, newspaper folded beside him. Clean kurta trousers. And that cool summer-soap scent— sharp, airy, almost minty faint smell of soap. Watch shining against his wrist. He barely looked up. "Chai thandi ho gayi."
She blinked. "Ji?"
"Dobara garam kar do."
The tea had only been sitting there for a minute. Still, she quietly picked the cup back up and returned to the kitchen without arguing. Behind her, Iqbal had just walked in. Fresh from showering, hair still damp, black T-shirt clinging slightly to his shoulders. The second he stepped into the dining room, his eyes landed on her automatically. Standing there. Serving breakfast. Moving around the kitchen like she belonged there. Like his mother used to. Something bitter settled inside him immediately. So fast.
She was fitting in so fast. In the kitchen, she stood near the stove reheating the tea carefully while sweat gathered near her neck. The flame warmed her face instantly. Her hand still burned faintly from earlier oil splashes and every now and then she shifted her weight between feet because the sting became unbearable if she stood still too long. Maybe mumma felt like this too after marriage. The thought came suddenly. And for the first time since arriving here, she felt a strange ache in her chest for her mother. Back home she would wake up late sometimes. Her mother would scold her lightly, hand her breakfast, tell her to focus on studies first. Now suddenly everyone expected her to know everything.
Cook.
Serve.
Manage.
Adjust.
Become someone's wife overnight.
She swallowed hard and carried the reheated tea back. By then Iqbal was seated already. She placed the cup near him carefully. "Chini nahi leta main mein."
Her hands froze instantly. "Sorry... mujhe nahi pata tha."
He pushed the cup slightly away. "Aur main aloo ke parathe mein pyaz nahi khata."
She looked down at the plate helplessly. "Main abhi—"
"Rehne dein."
His voice was cold now. "Bhukh nahi rahi."
Jahangir finally looked up from his plate. "Gal kiddan kar reha." [baat kaise kar rha hai]
Iqbal gave a humorless laugh. "Main bas keh raha hoon."
"Mere muhre na bol aram nal beh ke roti kha." [mere samne zyada na bol aram se roti kha]
The authority in Jahangir's voice was immediate.
Sharp.
Iqbal's jaw tightened but he sat back anyway. Silence settled over the table again except for the clinking of cutlery. She quietly returned to the kitchen and hurriedly prepared another tea without sugar. She mashed leftover potatoes quickly, remade the filling separately, and started another paratha. The kitchen had become unbearably hot now. Steam fogged the windows slightly while sweat gathered near her temples beneath her dupatta. Her fingers trembled from rushing. When she returned with the fresh plate, Iqbal finally started eating without complaint. Still, his expression remained hard. Because despite everything—despite the tea being wrong the food tasted good. Too good. And somehow that angered him more.
From the corner of his eye he kept noticing little things. The way she stood where his mother once stood. The way she carried the tea tray carefully with both hands exactly the same way. The way the morning no longer looked empty. It felt wrong. Like someone had stepped into a place that should have remained untouched. Meanwhile she quietly sat down at the far end of the table, barely touching her own food. Her eyes kept drifting around the room unconsciously. Toward the living room where a pair of forgotten prayer beads still rested beside the couch. Toward the small embroidery hoop abandoned near the cabinet with unfinished thread still hanging from it. Toward the drawer upstairs where she had noticed a single rhinestone hairpin lying forgotten in the corner. Tiny remains of another woman. Another life. Everywhere. She felt less like a wife and more like an intruder walking through somebody else's memories. After breakfast, Jahangir folded his newspaper neatly and stood. "Mere chitte chige te press pheri ek vaar." [meri white shirt par press pher do ek baar]
She looked up immediately. "Main kitchen mein thi abhi—"
"Zyada waqt nahi lagega."
And then he simply walked away toward the bedroom while answering a phone call. She stood there for a moment staring after him in disbelief before quietly hurrying back toward the stove to turn the flame off beneath the pan. There was still lunch left to pack. Parathas half done. Tea cups still sitting around. For one overwhelming second she just stood alone in the kitchen trying not to cry. It felt less like marriage and more like employment. No—worse. Because servants at least went home afterward.
She remembered her mother's voice softly saying before marriage 'Shuru mein ajeeb lagta hai. Phir aadat ho jati hai.'
Maybe this was normal. Maybe every woman felt this way. Maybe she was simply weak. So she swallowed the lump in her throat and continued working. By the time she finally entered the bedroom with the ironed shirt, Jahangir was already dressed halfway, speaking on the phone casually and laughing at something. Laughing. As if his wife had not died only months ago. The thought unsettled her badly. He noticed her standing there. "Tumne der laga di."
"Main khana pa—"
"Is ghar mein na ahli bardasht nahi ki jati." His tone remained calm. Almost polite. Which somehow made it sting more.
She quietly began ironing the shirt properly while he continued his conversation without another glance at her. When he finally got ready to leave, he stepped closer and looked at the way her dupatta rested loosely around her neck. Without asking, he lifted the fabric himself and spread it properly across her chest and shoulders until even the shape of her collarbones disappeared beneath it. "Aise rakha karo," he said softly. "Zyada shareef lagta hai." She nodded silently. The fabric immediately felt suffocating. It kept slipping into her arms and getting in the way when she moved.
Then he leaned down suddenly and kissed her without warning. Firm, and Possessive. Not caring whether she responded or not. Her entire body stiffened instantly. She wanted to step back. Wanted to push him away. But before she could move, his fingers tightened around her arm hard enough to hurt slightly.
"Shaam takaa jaunga," he murmured. Then finally let go. She lowered her gaze immediately, breathing unevenly. And that was when she noticed—
Iqbal standing near the doorway. Watching. His expression unreadable.For a second nobody spoke.
Then he brushed past her coldly without a word and walked outside while Jahangir headed toward the car waiting near the gate. A few moments later,The roar of Iqbal's bike slowly faded beyond the gates until the house fell quiet again.
Too quiet.
For a few seconds she remained standing there near the doorway, fingers still curled loosely around the strap of Jahangir's office bag before realizing he had already taken it from her. The silence felt strange after all the movement from earlier. Slowly, almost unconsciously, she lifted her hand toward her mouth and wiped at it softly. As if she could still feel the pressure of Jahangir's kiss there. The thought alone made her stomach twist.
After standing there awkwardly for another moment, she turned toward the dining area. She was not really hungry anymore, but then she remembered her tea. It must have gone cold by now. Still, wasting food felt wrong. Her mother had always hated that. So she quietly walked back toward the table thinking maybe she would finish it anyway or at least wrap the food away for later. But when she reached there, the table had already been cleaned. The plates were gone. Even hers. She stopped for a second. There had still been food left in her plate. She had barely eaten anything at all. Yet someone had simply picked it up and taken it away without even asking. Without checking whether she had eaten or not. She looked around helplessly.
The workers moved somewhere deeper inside the house out of sight, their footsteps faint and distant now. And suddenly she felt very small. As if her presence there changed nothing. The house had become painfully silent now. No television. No overlapping voices. No laughter. No sound of utensils clattering around the kitchen. Nothing.
It felt so different from her parents' house. Back there the television was almost always on because one of her younger siblings would secretly switch channels while their mother yelled from the kitchen "Band karo ye gaane waghera!"
And then immediately they would panic and switch to cartoons whenever she walked in. Sometimes her siblings danced around anyway while music played quietly from someone's phone, and their mother would keep scolding them half-heartedly while hiding her own smile. The memory hit her chest so suddenly that she had to look away. For the first time since arriving here, she felt truly alone. Maybe I should call mumma. The thought came quietly. So she walked upstairs and picked up her phone from beside the bed. The screen reflected faint sunlight as she dialed her mother's number. The call barely rang twice before her mother answered excitedly. "Assalamualaikum! Haan meri bachi? Kaisi ho?" Her voice sounded unusually cheerful now. "Sab theek raha? Ghar kaisa hai?"
She swallowed softly. "Theek hai."
"Nashta kya banaya tumne?" her mother continued immediately. "Maine suna hai Brigadier sahab ka diet bohot strict hai. Bohot cheezein banti hongi na?" Her mother sounded proud. Excited even. "Kitne kam wale hain wahan? Sab tumhari baat sunte honge. Dekha? Maine kaha tha na tum bohot khush rahogi."
Each sentence made something inside her chest tighten further. She stared down at the carpet silently while listening. Her mother did not sound worried for her. Did not ask whether she slept well. Did not ask whether she was scared. Only happy. Happy that her daughter had married well.
"Ma..." she interrupted quietly, suddenly exhausted. "Main baad mein baat karti hoon."
Before her mother could respond, she ended the call. The room became silent again. She sat there for a few seconds staring at the dark screen in her hand before placing the phone aside with frustration bubbling quietly inside her chest. Then slowly she bent down and pulled out clothes between she had hidden her books. Her fingers lingered against the notebooks carefully. Jahangir had not directly forbidden it. But his words from earlier still echoed inside her head. "Ab tum Brigadier ki biwi ho."
As if that alone erased everything else she had once wanted. Still, after a moment, she opened one notebook quietly. Political science notes. Margins filled with rushed handwriting and highlighted lines. Folded pages. Tiny annotations squeezed between paragraphs. Her fingers traced absentmindedly over familiar words.
Case laws.
Constitutional notes.
Things that once felt important. Things that once felt like a future. A strange ache rose in her throat. Maybe she would never finish her studies now. Maybe she would never become what she wanted. But even then she still wanted to learn. Even if nobody cared. Even if it was only for herself now. So she shifted closer to the window where sunlight fell softly across the pages and began reading in the silence of the massive unfamiliar house.
At university, Iqbal tried ignoring it at first. Really tried.
The first comment came near the parking lot. "Suna hai iqbal ke baap ne shaadi kar li."
He kept walking like he had heard nothing. Then another near the canteen.
"Larki toh bohot young hai."
A laugh followed.
"Social studies department ki hai shayad."
He clenched his jaw and kept moving. By the time he sat in class, irritation already sat heavy inside his chest like something poisonous.
The professor droned on endlessly at the front while students half-listened around him. Beside him, a girl lazily leaned against his shoulder, one manicured hand tracing absent circles against his arm while her legs brushed against his beneath the desk.
Normally he would have entertained it. Today he barely reacted. She kept talking anyway. "Tum kal reply kyun nahi kar rahe thay?" she murmured with a pout. "Seen zone kar dete ho." He ignored her too.
Then somewhere behind him, familiar words drifted forward again. "Honestly, mujhe uske liye bura lagta hai."
A girl's voice. "Bachchi hai."
Another scoffed immediately. "Baichari kis baat ki?"
A few laughs followed. "Budha mil gaya lekin paisa bhi toh dekho."
"Exactly gold digger hogi warna kaun karti aisi shaadi?"
Someone else snorted. "Brigadier hai yaar. Zindagi set."
Iqbal's jaw tightened instantly. The pencil stopped moving between his fingers. For some reason, hearing strangers talk about it felt worse than hearing it in his own house. Because suddenly all the ugly thoughts inside his head sounded real when other people said them aloud too.
Gold digger.
The word settled heavily in his mind. And the more he thought about it, the angrier he became. Maybe that was the truth. Maybe that explained everything. Why else would a girl their age marry a man old enough to be her father only weeks after his mother died? Why else would she stand there serving breakfast like she belonged in that house already? Why else would she sit quietly beside Jahangir like some perfect obedient wife? His grip around the pen tightened harder. Because now the thought would not leave him alone. Not only had she replaced his mother she was after their money too. And somehow that possibility disgusted him even more. Their conversation continued behind him, voices drifted forward again.
"Meri phupho ki beti gyi thi shaadi mein."
"Mere maa peo kara dein mera viyah." [mere mom dad karwa de meri shaadi]
"Iqbal ke saath ki thi same age ki... tereko lagta hai unka kuch chal rha hoga?"
"Haan yaar baesharam hai vo kya pata-"
Something inside him snapped.
Literally.
The pencil in his hand cracked sharply between his fingers. The sound made the girl beside him jump. Without another word, Iqbal shoved his notebook into his bag and stood up. The professor paused mid-sentence. "Iqbal?"
But he was already walking out. The girl hurried after him instantly, heels clicking rapidly against the floor as she struggled to keep up."Wait— kya hua?"
He kept walking. Fast. Angry. People turned to stare as he pushed through the corridor without caring. By the time they reached the quieter side hallway near the back stairwell, she grabbed his wrist lightly. "Iqbal—"
Before she could finish, he turned abruptly and kissed her hard. Not soft. Not affectionate. Frustrated. Like he was trying to silence every thought in his head all at once. She stumbled slightly against the wall in surprise before kissing him back immediately, hands sliding up his shoulders.
For a few seconds he let himself disappear into it. Into something mindless. Easy. Something that required no thinking. No grief. No memories. No image of someone else sitting in his mother's place at breakfast that morning. No Y/n. His grip tightened unconsciously. Too tight. The girl pulled back slightly, breathless. "Iqbal..." Only then did he realize how angry he actually was.
They both moved to closed washroom they could find by the time they were fone she laughed breathlessly trying to fix her hair while he lit a cigarette without even looking at her.
———
She did not realize how much time had passed until she heard the front door shut downstairs. The sound startled her immediately. Her head snapped up from the notebook in her lap and she looked toward the clock near the wall.
Almost five.
For a second panic rose inside her chest.
Jahangir.
Mentally cursing herself for getting distracted, she hurriedly closed the notebook and shoved it back inside the almira beneath her clothes before standing up quickly.
What if he saw?
What if he got angry?
She fixed the bedsheet absentmindedly, checked the room once, then rushed outside. On the way downstairs, she caught sight of herself in the hallway mirror. Instantly her hands moved toward her dupatta. She adjusted it higher across her chest exactly the way Jahangir had shown her earlier that morning. Only after making sure it sat properly did she continue downstairs. But when she reached the living room, she froze slightly. It was not Jahangir.
Iqbal stood near the entrance instead, one hand pulling off his helmet while the other dragged tiredly through his hair. He looked irritated. Exhausted. His T-shirt smelled faintly of smoke and something sharper beneath it—perfume. For a second neither of them spoke. Then quietly she said, "Mujhe laga woh aa gaye." Iqbal only looked at her silently while tossing the helmet onto the couch. The awkwardness became unbearable almost immediately. Still trying to be polite, she spoke again. "Main... aapke liye kuch laaun?"
A humorless smile appeared briefly on his face. "Tum bohot koshish kar rahi ho fit in hone ki."
She blinked slightly. "Kya?"
He walked a little closer before leaning back against the table casually. "Subah se dekh raha hoon." His eyes flickered toward her dupatta for half a second. "Perfect biwi banne ki puri koshish." His tone was mocking now. Sharp enough to sting.
"Par main—"
"Padhai chhod kar itni aasani se kisi aur ki zindagi jeena..." he laughed quietly under his breath. "Sharam bhi nahi aayi?" Iqbal shrugged. "Budha hai. Paise wala hai. Bara ghar hai." His gaze swept lazily around the house. "Deal buri toh nahi thi."
Her expression fell instantly. "Main nhi—"
"Waise," he interrupted coldly, "Us buddhe ki biwi hona koi bohot badhiya position bhi nahi hai." Then after a pause, he shrugged carelessly. "Par tumhari marzi."
———
Dinner was never really dinner in that house. By eight, food had already been sent upstairs separately. Iqbal ate in his room. Jahangir still had not returned. And she wandered quietly into the kitchen, unsure whether she was supposed to wait or eat. The kitchen staff were cleaning up slowly when Bashir noticed her standing near the counter. "Begum sahiba," he asked respectfully, "khana laga doon?"
Before she could answer, one of the older women wiping steel plates beside the sink spoke absentmindedly, "Pehli begum toh Brigadier sahab ke bina kabhi nahi khaati thi."
The sentence was casual. Not cruel. But it still landed heavily. Almost like another reminder that even now she was being compared to a woman she had never met. For a second she just stood there awkwardly, fingers tightening around the edge of her dupatta. Then quietly she said, "Mujhe bhook lagi hai." The woman simply nodded and handed her a plate.
Because unlike them she had not been raised with those rules. At her parents' house, everybody ate together whenever they could. Sometimes her younger siblings would start before their father even arrived because they were too hungry to wait. Sometimes her mother would scold them while laughing. Sometimes somebody would steal pieces straight from the pan before dinner was even served. There had always been noise. Movement. Warmth.
Here there was only silence. She carried her plate toward the dining table alone. The chairs looked too large around her. The ticking clock on the wall sounded strangely loud. She ate slowly, forcing herself to swallow despite not being very hungry anymore. Across from her, Jahangir's empty chair sat untouched. She wondered briefly whether Iqbal had actually eaten or simply locked himself inside his room again. For some reason, she could not imagine him sitting peacefully and having dinner.
By ten, Jahangir still had not returned.
By eleven, exhaustion had started settling into her bones. Still she waited. Because nobody told her not to. And because somewhere deep down she thought
maybe this is what wives do. She sat in the living room quietly with her hands folded in her lap, occasionally glancing toward the clock. Her eyes burned badly now. Every few minutes her head would droop sideways before she jerked awake again.
Twelve passed.
The house had gone completely silent. Even the workers had disappeared into their quarters. Only the dim yellow lights near the entrance remained on. Then suddenly Headlights flashed against the curtains outside. A horn echoed through the gate. She stood immediately. Relief mixed strangely with dread inside her chest. Bashir hurried to open the outer gate while she remained near the inner entrance, fixing her dupatta automatically despite her exhaustion. But when the car stopped outside it was not Jahangir's official vehicle. A man stepped out first laughing softly while supporting Jahangir by the arm. Her stomach tightened immediately. Jahangir stumbled while trying to steady himself.
Drunk. Very drunk.
His neatly ironed white shirt—the same one she had carefully pressed earlier—was wrinkled now, half untucked from his trousers. His sleeves were folded unevenly to his elbows. His hair looked ruined from fingers constantly pushing through it.
And even from where she stood—she could smell the alcohol. Strong, sharp, and unpleasant. His friend noticed her standing there and smiled politely. "Assalamualaikum, bhabhi jaan."
Before she could respond properly, Bashir had already moved forward to take Jahangir from him carefully. "Shukriya, sahib."
Jahangir lifted his head lazily then. His eyes landed on her face. For a second he smiled faintly. Then suddenly he frowned. "Chunni nhi layi, [his late wife name]?" She froze completely. Not her name. His dead wife's. [sar nhi dhaka chunni se]
"Mera dost khalota hi..." he slurred. "Ghund nhi kadya tu?" [mera dost tha tune veil kyu nhi ki"
Something inside her chest sank quietly then. Because suddenly she understood something terrifying This family had not moved on from that woman at all. Not Jahangir. Not Iqbal. Not even the servants. And yet somehow she was expected to live inside the shape she had left behind.
Once inside, Jahangir dropped heavily into the dining chair. "Khana lao bhayi." She moved silently toward the kitchen. Her body felt heavy now. Her feet hurt. Her eyes stung from staying awake so long. The second she placed the food before him, his hand suddenly wrapped around her wrist. He pulled her down beside him hard enough to make her inhale sharply. Alcohol burned from his breath. "Kujh meetha le aa," he murmured lazily. "Besan da kadha bana lya chal."
"Boht raat haj," she said softly. "Aap khana kha kar so jaiye."
"Kujh nhi yaar do mint da kam nhi."
She wanted to say no. For one brief second she genuinely wanted to. But the words never came out.
So instead she stood back up quietly and returned to the kitchen. The halwa took longer than expected because her hands kept slowing down from exhaustion. The spoon moved heavily through the pan while the smell of ghee filled the kitchen. She kept blinking repeatedly to stay awake. And somewhere during all of this, she suddenly remembered nights before her exams. Sitting at the dining table at home half asleep while her mother brought her chai. Her younger brother irritating her deliberately.
Her sister sleeping with books open beside her. Back then exhaustion had felt temporary. Now it felt endless. Then suddenly Jahangir's loud voice echoed through the house. "IQBAL!"
No answer.
Upstairs, Iqbal was awake, sprawled across his bed with his phone in hand. At the sound of his father's voice, irritation crossed his face instantly. He ignored him deliberately and turned onto his side. A moment later, "IQBAL!"
Still silence.
Finally Jahangir snapped impatiently. "Bashir! yaar haethe bula ohnu." [bashir usko neeche bula]
A few minutes later Iqbal appeared downstairs wearing a black T-shirt and sweats, expression already annoyed. "Hor ji," Jahangir slurred, "khana khada?" [khana kha liya]
"Haan."
"Kitaban nu hath vi landa akh nhi?" [kitabe uthata bhi hai ya nhi]
Iqbal scoffed lightly. "Haan."
"Nhi land da?" [nhi lagata]
"Lagata hu.]
Jahangir leaned back lazily. "Mainu tan nhi disya kade." [maine toh nhi dekha kabhi]
Iqbal's jaw tightened immediately. "Aap kab ghar hote ho dekhne ke liye?" "Aur aap kab tawajjoh dete hain?" he added bitterly.
Jahangir's expression darkened instantly. "Vadu na bhonk." [zyada na bhonk]
Iqbal laughed humorlessly. "Kuch bhi."
At that moment she returned quietly with the bowl of halwa in her hands. Iqbal glanced toward her once and scoffed under his breath before looking away. Jahangir noticed immediately. Then suddenly he laughed drunkenly. "Main sunnya tu padh da nhi..." he pointed lazily at Iqbal, "Padh da kyu nhi tu? Kudiyan naal rehna choci ghainte khote deya." -[tu padhta nhi. Tu kyu nhi padhta 24 ghante ladkiyo sath rehta hai ghade ke bache]
Iqbal's face hardened. "Kya?"
"Pehe barbaad karan aale kam aa thade." Jahangir shook his head. "Padhya likhya janda nhi khote ton kudiyan magre turva lo." [paise barbad karne wale kaam hai padhna likhna nhi bas ladkiyo peeche ghumwq lo]
Iqbal let out a sharp laugh. "Kudh konsa zyada seedhe ho."
Silence. Dangerous silence. Jahangir stood abruptly. "Ki bhonkya penchoda?" [kya bola]
"Chup karo—" Iqbal stepped forward slightly, anger flashing openly now, "kam se kam izzat ka natak tog nhi karta."
The next second, his hand grabbed the glass sitting nearby and hurled it violently across the room. It shattered against the wall with a deafening crash. She flinched so hard the spoon slipped from her hand. Jahangir exploded too. "Kanjar!"
His own plate shoved violently away from him, leftover food spilling across the table and floor.
Iqbal stepped back instantly. "Bhad mein jao." Then he stormed out. Seconds later the roar of his bike echoed outside into the night.
For a long moment, the house remained silent except for Jahangir's heavy breathing. Then Jahangir only muttered something disappointed under his breath before leaving toward the bedroom. Without another glance at her. Without noticing her trembling hands. Without noticing she had not sat down once since morning.
Bashir had already retired for the night. So quietly, she began cleaning alone. She gathered fallen food first. Then plates. Then finally the shattered glass. Her knees hurt against the floor. Her dupatta kept slipping forward into the mess. And she felt so unbelievably tired. Not just physically. Something deeper. A kind of exhaustion sitting directly inside her chest. Then suddenly A sharp sting sliced across her palm. She gasped softly. A thin red line appeared instantly against her skin before blood slowly welled up. And for some reason that tiny cut broke her completely. Her vision blurred immediately.bThe glass piece slipped from her fingers and clinked softly against the floor. She stared at the blood gathering in her palm and suddenly everything came crashing down together. The waiting. The silence. The comparisons. The way Jahangir corrected her constantly. The way Iqbal looked at her with hatred. The servants speaking about the first wife like she was still here. The giant empty house. The loneliness. The exhaustion. All of it.
A shaky breath escaped her lips before tears finally spilled over. She slowly sat down right there amongst the shattered glass pieces, not even caring anymore. Her shoulders trembled violently now. She pressed her bleeding hand against her mouth to stop herself from making noise. Because she did not want anybody hearing her cry. Not in this house. Not where she already felt too out of place. And through blurred eyes she looked around the massive dining room again. It still did not feel like home. It felt like she had been placed carefully inside somebody else's life and every single person here resented her for existing in it.
I stayed up aue ye likha raf sappera sings so well btw
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