Panaah - Part 2
A Rehman Dakait x Reader fic Masterlist a/n: part 2 is here! written for @mainyahaankyunhoon <3, event organised by @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange This fic is VERY canon divergent. It is solely based on Akshaye Khanna’s portrayal of Rehman Dakait in the movie Dhurandhar and has nothing to do with the gangster Rehman Dakait in any way, shape or form. I sincerely hope he is being tortured in the worst way possible, wherever he is. Rest of the notes are at the end! PART 1 | PART 3
Monsoon in Lyari was a disaster cloaked as a season.
The first few showers were welcome — rain washing away the grime on streets that had faced the unforgiving sun for a few months prior, children running outside during the afternoons solely to jump into puddles, adults finally travelling outside without a paper fan in their pockets.
The town would celebrate it the first week, and then, the skies would show their true form — an unrelenting downpour that would destroy the very foundations of life. The streets would begin disappearing beneath muddy water, drains would clog, electricity would become a fond memory, and every conversation in town would somehow circle back to the weather. The roads would be flooded, and when the water finally retreated, it usually left behind enough potholes to swallow a small adult whole. Shopkeepers complained about flooded storefronts, factory workers complained about transport, mothers complained about children returning home soaked to the bone, and politicians complained about everything except the drainage systems they had promised to fix every election cycle.
Rehman watched the rain from the haveli, watching the water create a small pool on the verandah. The boys were inside; Uzair had retired to his room to ‘sleep’, even though he was pretty sure that bufoon was writing love letters to a girl from Clifton who wasn’t aware of his existence, Donga and Siyahi were playing a game of chess, screaming at Akhlaaq whenever the latter tried to distract them, and Rehman himself was sipping on whiskey, both grateful to have finished work before the season began and worried for the raw materials that had to reach the factory. But this wasn’t his first monsoon, and, as he relaxed on his armchair, he knew that he would be able to overcome any challenge the rain posed.
Sometimes, Rehman thought, as his mind drifted to thoughts of the displaced international delivery, being in politics wasn’t such a bad idea. The connections, the power, the wealth… he had them as the head of his gang, if one could even call it that, but he knew his influence would extend all over Karachi if he chose to enter politics. It had been a thought for a while now, creeping into his mind like a little devil in the dark, and while he chose to dismiss it at first, the idea had taken root, and he saw no reason why it would be a horrible choice.
His thoughts were interrupted by Uzair walking into the office with a bunch of flies.
“Soya nahi?” Rehman asked, rummaging his pocket for a lighter.
He huffed. “Kaise so sakta? Baarish meri khidki par zor se pat-pat karti hai, aur aap jaante hain mujhe sone ke liye khamoshi chahiye.”
“Burger baccha.” Rehman chuckled. “Pandrah saal pehle tu bina kambal terrace pe sota tha, aur ab tujhe teri room mein khamoshi chahiye. Wah.”
The younger man rolled his eyes, too used to his antics to take any of his words to heart. He dropped a few files onto the desk before turning to leave.
“School band kar diya?” Rehman asked absentmindedly, eyes still fixed on the rain battering the windows.
Uzair paused and turned towards him again. Rehman had never enquired about this before, and it was so surprising that it took him a second to realise Rehman meant the school next to the haveli. “Shayad. Bohot saare schools bachchon ko ghar bhej rahe hain.”
Rehman nodded in response and placed his cigarette between his lips, turning his attention back to the paperwork scattered across the desk. Outside, the rain continued its assault on the town, drumming relentlessly against the factory roof. Now and then, a call would come in about another flooded road or a vehicle stuck somewhere unfortunate enough to have encountered one of Lyari's newly formed lakes. By mid-afternoon, even the workers had stopped pretending the weather would improve.
The school next to the haveli wasn't faring much better, from what he could tell. He'd caught glimpses of teachers moving children between classrooms from the window of his bedroom, and at one point, a section of the outer boundary wall had partially collapsed under the weight of the rain-soaked earth. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to send administrators into a panic. By now, most parents had probably collected their children, even though it had been barely an hour since classes started, and taken them home over almost impassable roads.
Half an hour passed.
Rehman had just signed the last file on his desk and returned to the verandah of the haveli when movement beyond the gates caught his eye. At first, he paid it no attention. People were still rushing through the rain despite the weather. Then the figure stumbled, nearly disappearing behind a sheet of water before reappearing again.
It was small.
Familiarly small.
Too small to be walking alone in this weather.
Rehman frowned and dashed down the stairs, ignoring Donga and Siyahi’s stares.
The child pushed through the gates a second later, school uniform plastered to his skin, backpack hanging off one shoulder, shoes squelching with every step. Water dripped from his hair into eyes that were red from either rain or tears. A few leaves were stuck in his hair, and his body was shivering, like even the smallest gust of wind could knock him over.
“Ayaan?”
Rehman was out before the name had fully slipped from his mouth, not caring about the rain or the fact that his cigarette had fallen somewhere behind him. Water immediately soaked through his clothes as he crossed the courtyard in a few long strides, trying to get to the little boy who had absolutely no business being soaked to the bone in the torrential rain.
Up close, Ayaan looked even worse. The boy was shivering so violently his teeth were chattering, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his tiny fingers were clenched around the straps of his backpack with a desperation that made something unpleasant twist in Rehman's chest.
He didn’t say a thing — years of caring for Uzair had taught him that — just picked the boy up and trudged towards the house, somehow managing to make it within a few seconds. Ayaan was still shivering in his arms, his tiny hands clutching his kurta so hard there was probably a tear in the fabric, but Rehman didn’t care.
“Akhlaaq, garam doodh!” he barked to his cook. “Donge, towel. Aur Uzair,” he turned to look at his cousin, who was staring at him like he had grown a tail, “tere purane kapde. Zaroorat padegi.”
No one moved.
“Sunai nahi diya kya?”
The spell immediately broke.
Akhlaaq nearly collided with a chair in his hurry to reach the kitchen. Donga disappeared inside the haveli at a speed Rehman didn't think the man had, and Uzair finally blinked himself back to reality before shooting off up the stairs like he was possessed by a jinn that was infinitely scarier than SP Aslam himself.
Rehman looked at Ayaan again and wordlessly led him to the bathroom, pocketing his phone from the table where he had left it. The boy was still trembling, and, as soon as Rehman caught the towel Donga threw to him, he crouched in front of Ayaan.
“Ammi ki number yaad hai?”
He nodded.
“Call karega?”
He nodded again and shakily reached for Rehman's phone, small fingers trembling as they pressed against the screen. To his credit, he managed not to cry, even though his eyes were suspiciously red as he carefully typed in a number he had clearly memorised.
Rehman glanced at the digits appearing one by one and frowned.
The sequence felt oddly familiar.
Not familiar enough to place immediately, but familiar enough to nag at the back of his mind as the call connected and the phone began to ring.
~~~~~~
Several flooded roads away, you were currently learning that panic could, in fact, get worse.
Khanani had become unreasonable. His brother was barely in the picture, but you were sure he was a better employer, for which boss would refuse to let a mother go to check on her child in the rain because a plan for the next press conference had not been drafted? It could have been done later. You would’ve finished it by that night anyway. Why did he feel the need to have you in that godforsaken, cramped office with petrichor entering your nostrils while you worried about how your son was going to manage?
You had just requested — desperately pleaded, rather — the rickshaw driver to go a little faster, despite you knowing there was little he could do in this hellhole of a road, where there were more potholes than uninterrupted stretches, when your phone started buzzing.
You took it out of your handbag and frowned.
It was an unknown number.
So it wasn’t Rukhsaar ma’am calling. Or even the principal. Or any of his teachers. Or the health room in the school. Or the nearest hospital.
And if it wasn’t any of them, the number was not important
You ignored it at first. Being Khanani’s political advisor, you got many of his calls, from others like you asking to arrange something for a rally, a conference or a meeting, and many of them were also spam callers who had no other job but to make your life miserable and your phone bill more expensive.
But something about this number stopped you in your tracks. You were known for having a great memory — and you had seen this number in Khanani’s phone when it rang during a meeting, so it couldn’t be a contact he was unaware of. But why would he give your number to a random person? All phone number sharing was done with your explicit consent, since he knew you wouldn’t pick up your phone otherwise.
You stared at the screen, counting five more rings. If someone called beyond the threshold of seven rings, it was usually something important. Most scammers gave up long before that, and colleagues learned quickly that whatever crisis they thought they had could survive half an hour without you. Right now, your only concern was Ayaan, and everyone else could quite frankly wait until you had him safely in your arms again.
It kept ringing.
Your thumb hovered over the decline button.
Khuda, who was this persistent?
With a sigh, you swiped to answer, already preparing to tell some unfortunate soul that no, Khanani's next political moves were not more important than your child.
“Hello?” you snapped, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice. “Dekhiye, agar yeh—”
“Ammi?”
The world stilled.
You had expected anything, really. Maybe a scammer who was calling to get their commission. Maybe Khanani’s new intern who had no clue what had to be done. Maybe his accountant was calling from a changed number to remind you that the people of Lyari knew about the money laundering and that you had to find a way to suppress it.
But you hadn’t expected your baby.
Was he alright? Where was he? Was he hurt? Had something happened at school? Had someone taken him? You knew some people had probably seen him march into the Baloch haveli two months ago, but surely no one was depraved enough to use that against a five-year-old. Pappu and his men had many faults, but kidnapping children?
No.
No no no no no.
“Ayaan?” you replied, a tremor going through your voice. “Kahan ho? Kiska phone—”
“Rehman uncle ka. Main—”
Your heart stopped.
Why was your son there? Did he not take your warning to heart? Had they taken him? You knew Rehman Dakait and Khanani were business partners of sorts, but he wouldn’t take your son if they had a row, would he? Ayaan was crying too — you could tell from his voice, the sniffles he was trying so hard to suppress — and the flooded roads, the rain, the school, even Khanani himself, faded into irrelevance as pure, primal terror gripped your heart.
“Ammi?”
The small voice on the other end cracked.
And just like that, all rational thought deserted you.
Nothing mattered.
Not your job.
Not Khanani.
Not the storm.
Not even the fact that your son was somehow calling you from Rehman Dakait's phone.
“Ayaan,” you breathed, your voice shaking so violently you barely recognised it. “Beta, tum theek ho? Kya—Kyun—”
He sniffled on the line and burst into tears.
“Aap aa rahe hai na?”
Something inside you twisted so violently that it physically hurt. It didn't matter that he was in a stranger’s house. It didn't matter that he had gone against your instructions and left the school premises. Your son was crying. Your son was scared. Your son, who had spent the last year learning that people left and sometimes didn't come back, was asking if you were coming for him — and somewhere beneath the panic and guilt, you hated yourself for having put that uncertainty in his voice in the first place.
“Main aa rahi hu, jaan, main aa rahi hu,” you said immediately, fighting the tears threatening to spill over. “Bas thoda sa aur intezaar kar, okay? Ammi aa jaayegi.”
The sobs reduced slightly.
“Mera sher hai na tu?”
Ayaan's voice came back shaky, punctuated by little hiccups. “Haan.”
“Brave hai?”
“Haan.”
“Toh ab Rehman Uncle ko phone do, aur unse ek towel maango. Phir dry-dry karke naye kapdon mein aakar baahar baitho. Main aa rahi hu, theek hai? Kahin mat jaana.”
“Pakka promise?”
It took all your willpower not to sob on the phone.
“Pakka promise.”
A pause.
Then, with all the solemnity a five-year-old could muster, he declared, “Theek hai.”
A moment later, you heard some shuffling, followed by a very indignant:
“Rehman Uncle, Ammi keh rahi hai towel do.”
You chuckled on the line despite the rain soaking through your hair as the rickshaw attempted to rush through the crowded Lyari streets, patiently waiting for your son to hand the phone to Rehman Dakait — you ignored how the thought seemed strangely alright now, considering Ayaan was definitely safe — and guided him through a few more instructions on where to put his soaked uniform once Rehman uncle gave him his towel.
A minute later, you were on the line with the man himself.
“Ji main Rehman bol raha hu,” he started, his voice much calmer than you felt. “Ayaan theek hai, bas baarish mein bheeg gaya tha. School ki deewar ka ek hissa gir gaya tha. Bachche ghar chale gaye, aur pata nahi kaise yeh janab yahan aa gaye. Darne ki koi baat nahi hai, woh bilkul theek hai.”
“Main aa rahi hu.” You swallowed, reverting to the habits of a mother whose child had just spent hours in the rain. “Usko kapde badalna aata hai, bas use garam haldi doodh pila dijiye, ek chamach cheeni ke saath. Aur please uska baal sukha dijiyega. Bukhar nahi hai na?”
You could tell Rehman was checking your child’s temperature.
“Nahi, vaisa lagta nahi hai. Use kuch medicines chahiye kya?”
“Dawaai mere paas hai,” you replied, glad Ayaan hadn’t fallen sick yet. It was inevitable, but he would be at home before his temperature rose. “Aap bas usko doodh dijiye. Aur agar kitchen mein soup ho toh thoda woh bhi please, shukriya.”
“Haan, fridge mein thoda hai.”
“Theek hai, voh dijiye. Main aa rahi hu. Aur kuch bhi ho jaaye, mujhe call kijiyega.”
There was silence.
Then, with something suspiciously close to amusement in his voice, Rehman replied,
“Ji, doctor sahiba. Aaram se aaiye.”
A pause, and the line clicked dead.
~~~~~~~
Rehman kept the phone down and turned to face the little vixen, whose face was clearing up at an alarming speed. His eyes were still red from all the crying, but the panic was clearly subsiding, and that was enough for him to know that Ayaan was finally returning to the bubbly boy he was when he first walked through the gates of the haveli.
Donga knocked on the door and slipped a towel in, wisely deciding that entering without permission was an excellent way to shorten his lifespan. Rehman muttered a distracted thanks before kneeling in front of Ayaan again.
“Chal,” Rehman sighed, draping the towel over the tiny head and rubbing vigorously despite Ayaan's indignant protests. “Doctor sahiba ki hukum hai. Pehle dry-dry karte hain, phir doodh piyenge.”
Behind the closed door, he could hear hurried footsteps, servants rushing about, and Uzair loudly arguing with Akhlaaq over whether a child who had survived a monsoon deserved one biscuit or five.
Idiots. How were they supposed to have families of their own if they didn’t know the basics of children’s food needs?
He rubbed Ayaan's head until he was reasonably confident that whatever water remained would surrender to the ceiling fan eventually, then stood up with a satisfied grunt. The boy, now wrapped in a towel that made him resemble an irritable burrito, sniffled once more and blinked up at him with watery eyes.
“Ab tum apne body ko dry-dry karo, main ek bada kapda lekar aata hu. Theek hai?”
Ayaan nodded, and Rehman left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him before barking at Uzair to stop laughing and hand over one of his old kurtas. The younger man, still entirely too amused by the sight of Rehman playing nursemaid, surrendered a plain white one with the solemnity of a man giving a prop to the side character of a roadside skit.
A few minutes later, Rehman knocked lightly and slipped the garment through the door.
“Khud pehen lega?”
“Haan.”
Rehman didn’t believe him at first, fully intending to slip in if he didn’t manage to wear it in five minutes, or, worse, if a crash came from the bathroom. To the boy's credit, however, he apparently could. There was a great deal of shuffling, a muffled ‘uff’, and something made of plastic falling to the floor, but eventually the bathroom door creaked open.
Rehman blinked.
The kurta absolutely drowned him.
The sleeves — short sleeves for Uzair — nearly swallowed the kid’s arm, the collar hung somewhere near one shoulder, and the hem swept the floor, already wet from where Ayaan had stepped onto the tiles with damp feet. His hair was sticking up in strange directions despite Rehman's best efforts, and his tiny face looked comically serious, as though he had just completed an operation of national importance.
For one ridiculous second, Rehman was reminded of a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.
And then Ayaan looked up hopefully.
“Achha lag raha hu?”
Before Rehman could answer, Uzair walked up to him and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Main Uzair hu, aur aap bilkul acche lag rahe hai. Shezaade jaise.”
Ayaan's eyes widened immediately.
“Shezaade jaise?”
“Haan,” Uzair nodded. “Bilkul.”
The boy looked down at himself, taking in the absurdly oversized kurta, before frowning.
“Lekin shezaadon ke paas crown hota hai.”
Rehman was going to use that moment to give Ayaan his milk, but before he or anyone else could do anything, Siyahi gasped dramatically from the pillar he was leaning against.
“Maaf kijiye, huzoor! Hum abhi lekar aate hain!” he cried, bowed to Ayaan till his head almost touched the floor, and took off towards the storage room.
Rehman had barely opened his mouth to ask where on earth he was going when Siyahi returned with what looked suspiciously like a piece of cardboard cut into something vaguely crown-shaped. It was crooked, uneven, and had probably been assembled in under forty-five seconds, but the boy handled it with the pride of a master craftsman as he carefully placed it on Ayaan's head.
“Shehenshaahon ka shehenshah, Lyari ka badshah, Ayaan zindabad!” Siyahi declared, punching a fist into the air like a royal herald announcing the arrival of an emperor.
“Zindabad!” Uzair echoed immediately.
Everyone joined in, even Akhlaaq yelling from the kitchen before emerging with a wooden spoon held against his chest like a ceremonial sword. Between them, they escorted the newly crowned king to the comfiest armchair in the sitting room with all the pomp and dignity of a coronation, each man bowing so dramatically that Ayaan dissolved into another fit of giggles. Praises were showered the various feats ‘King’ Ayaan had accomplished, including but not limited to: defeating a rival king while riding a unicorn, flying over the Arabian Sea to defeat a sea monster and using the power of his magical cricket bat to win a game for Pakistan. Ayaan listened with rapt attention, interrupting only to correct minor historical inaccuracies.
“Nahi,” he frowned. “Unicorn white tha.”
“Maaf kijiye huzoor,” Siyahi said gravely. “Unicorn white tha.”
By then, Uzair had disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a steaming mug of milk, which he placed carefully into the little king's hands. “Hamaare badshah ke liye mazboot magic doodh!” he bowed with a flourish, making Rehman raise his eyebrow.
Ayaan obediently took a careful sip, then looked up with a small, satisfied smile. “Achha hai.”
“Bas achha?” Uzair asked, clutching his chest in mock offence.
The boy giggled. “Bohot achha.”
“Ab baat bani.”
“Thank you, Uzair bhaiya,” Ayaan said after he downed the entire glass, and Uzair looked unbearably pleased with himself.
Rehman, who had been observing the ridiculous exchange, immediately straightened. He was completely fine with housing a little kid in his house and letting everyone play with him; indeed, many of them had never had proper childhoods themselves, any semblance of innocence taken away after facing Lyari’s unforgiving streets, ones that taught you that if you had to survive, you had to be ready to sacrifice your childhood, even if you didn’t understand that sacrifice fully. He was one of them, and he had faced many insults in life, but somehow, this one, even though it was said in jest, surprised him the most. “Bhaiya?”
Ayaan looked at him innocently. “Haan.”
“Aur main?”
“Rehman Uncle.”
A look of profound betrayal crossed Rehman's face. “Main uncle aur yeh bhaiya?”
Uzair burst into laughter so suddenly that he had to grab the back of a chair for support. “Sun liya sabne?” he wheezed. “Budha ho gaya.”
Rehman’s cheeks turned pink. “Chup kar.”
“Nahi, Rehman Uncle.”
That was all it took. Donga laughed loud enough to startle himself, Siyahi nearly dropped the cardboard scraps still clutched in his hand, and even Akhlaaq had to retreat into the kitchen before he dropped the potato he was peeling.
Still grumbling under his breath, Rehman watched as Ayaan finished the last of his milk.
“Soup piyega?” Akhlaaq called from the kitchen, and Rehman knew he was all glees behind the glass wall, comfortable in the knowledge that Rehman wouldn’t murder him for laughing with a child.
The boy nodded enthusiastically.
A few minutes later, he was perched regally on his armchair once more, cardboard crown slightly askew, oversized sleeves rolled almost to his elbows, happily slurping spoonful after spoonful of hot soup while the entire household looked on, like feeding Lyari's proclaimed king was the most important task of the day.
It was in the middle of that peaceful, ridiculous scene that the front door burst open with enough force to make everyone look up.
You stood in the doorway, drenched from head to toe, chest rising and falling so violently that for a brief second, Rehman wondered whether you had run the entire way from wherever you were. Rainwater pooled beneath your sandals, your dupatta clung uselessly to your shoulders, strands of hair plastered across your forehead, and your eyes, wide and frantic from fear, searched the room like you were trying to find an elixir that would push life back into your lungs.
They found Ayaan.
The bowl of soup hit the table before the boy had even realised you'd arrived.
“AMMI!”
He scrambled off the armchair, cardboard crown tumbling onto the carpet as he sprinted across the room.
You met him halfway.
Rehman had seen mothers hug their children before. He had seen fathers throw sons into the air after winning cricket matches. He had seen families reunited after prison sentences, hospital stays, and funerals.
The scene in front of him was none of those.
You dropped to your knees so abruptly they struck the marble floor with an audible crack, arms wrapping around Ayaan with such force that the child squeaked. “Allah ka shukr...” you whispered into his damp hair, over and over again. Your hands moved constantly — checking his face, his shoulders, his arms, brushing his hair back, searching for injuries that didn't exist.
“Ammi,” Ayaan mumbled, burying his face into your neck, “main theek hu.”
“I know.”
Your voice cracked.
“I know.”
The room had fallen silent. Uzair quietly took the soup away before it spilt. Akhlaaq retreated into the kitchen without a word. Even Siyahi, who usually found something to joke about in every situation, looked away.
Rehman simply watched. He remembered being so jealous when he saw moments like these as a child, seeing that he hadn’t received any care like that, but watching you hug your son like he was the only reason for you living broke something in him he didn’t even know he had. It wasn’t regret, it wasn’t hate, just the fact that he would never experience the same kind of love that was pouring out of you and Ayaan.
Eventually, you looked up. Your gaze landed on him, and before he had a chance to say anything, you stood.
“Shukriya,” you breathed, finally letting Ayaan go. “Sach mein. Main ghabra gayi thi aur aap… agar aap nahi hote toh kya…”
Rehman saw tears welling in your eyes and instinctively looked away, shifting his weight uncomfortably. Being thanked for settling disputes or delivering favours was one thing. Being looked at like he'd performed a miracle was another entirely.
“Aapko shukriya kehne ki zaroorat nahi,” he muttered. “Maine bas—”
“Nahi.”
Your voice cracked.
“Aapne Ayaan ki jaan bachayi.”
The words landed far heavier than he expected.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
In his mind, he'd done what any decent person would have done after spotting a terrified child standing alone in the middle of a storm. He hadn't wrestled anyone. Hadn't pulled the boy out of a burning building. Hadn't even gotten hurt.
He had simply opened his front door.
Yet judging by the way you were looking at him, that simple act had changed the course of your entire day.
Rehman cleared his throat.
“Bachcha akela tha,” he said quietly, almost as though explaining the obvious. “Usko ghar ke andar lana hi tha.”
You lowered your gaze, blinking away another wave of tears before managing a small nod.
“And... I'm really sorry,” you said, a tired, embarrassed laugh escaping you. “Pata nahi is bacche ne kya kya harkate ki hongi. Hum chalte hain. Aur... thank you. Phir se. Doodh aur soup ke liye bhi. Aur...” You glanced apologetically at the trail of rainwater you had left across the marble floor. “Aapke floors bhi geele kar diye.”
You bent to pick up your handbag from where it had slipped onto the floor and motioned to Ayaan, who had just picked up his crown to show you, but even he seemed to understand that you had to get back to work. Rehman assumed you would leave him with someone at home until you returned, and, judging by the way you were still standing there in your soaked clothes, he doubted you had given yourself a second thought.
Looking at you up close, coupled with the familiarity of both your phone number and the ID card still hanging around your neck, Rehman couldn't even blame you. He had seen you at Khanani's office often over the past year — always moving through the corridors with a stack of files in one hand, phone pressed to your ear, untangling problems that the bastard had either created or refused to deal with himself like the swine he was. You had probably seen him too, standing outside his office after one of their endless meetings, though neither of you had ever exchanged more than a passing glance. Back then, he had simply registered you as another overworked member of Khanani's staff. Now, watching the way your gaze kept drifting back to Ayaan every few seconds, he realised there was far more to your life than the hurried footsteps and neatly organised files he remembered.
“Chalo, beta.”
Your son hesitated.
Rehman saw how your face broke before hardening again, and he suddenly gained a new level of empathy for single mothers — they were rare in Lyari, but he had viewed them merely as a statistic before, and now, he was watching the sacrifices you had to make in real-time.
He glanced past you towards the courtyard. The rain had shown no signs of relenting; if anything, it was falling harder than before, sheets of water blurring the iron gates into little more than a dark silhouette.
“Baith jaiye.”
You looked up.
“Ji?”
“Is mausam mein kahaan jayenge?” he asked matter-of-factly. “Aap abhi aaye hain, aur baarish rukne nahi wali hai. Aadhe raste toh paani mein doobe hue hain.”
You shouldered your bag and pushed a few strands of hair out of your face. “I have to get back to work.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“In kapdon mein?”
Only then did you seem to notice your own condition. Your kurta clung to your arms, your dupatta was still dripping onto the floor, and your sandals squelched every time you shifted your weight. The cold hit you suddenly, the adrenaline flowing through your veins dropping, and you shivered for a split second before catching yourself again.
“Akhlaaq,” Rehman called without taking his eyes off you. “Kuch garam khana laga do.”
“Ji.”
“Nahi, zaroorat nahi hai,” you protested quickly. “Main waise bhi—”
“Aapne khana khaya?”
The question caught you off guard.
You hesitated.
“…Nahi.”
He nodded once, as though that was exactly the answer he had expected.
“Toh pehle kha lijiye. Baarish ruk jaaye, paani thoda utar jaaye, phir chale jaiyega.” He paused before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Aur Khanani ko main phone kar dunga. Agar usse itni hi jaldi hai toh do minute intezaar kar sakta hai.”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your lips.
“Khanani aur koshish?”
That earned a short laugh from Rehman.
“Nahi,” he agreed. “Woh aadmi waqai musibat hai.”
The words escaped him so casually that you found yourself laughing too, the tension in your shoulders easing for what felt like the first time all afternoon.
Once you had finally sat down with a fresh plate in front of you and Ayaan had resumed happily occupying himself beside Siyahi, Rehman spoke again, his tone as conversational as if he were discussing the weather, low enough for Ayaan to drown it out in the noises of him playing with a cardboard roll.
“Aap roz itni late hoti hain?”
You shook your head.
“Roz nahi. Lekin... meetings lambi ho jaati hain. Kabhi scandal, kabhi conference, kabhi koi emergency. Aap jaante honge Khanani vakaai businessman hai, lekin unke siyasti connections bhi bahut hai aur in fact, usme bhi kaam karte hai. Aur monsoon mein toh sadkein bhi…” You trailed off with a helpless shrug.
He nodded thoughtfully, his mind running at a million thoughts per second. For the first time in years, he found himself bothered about someone so young, the last person being Uzair, back when he was a little boy who had just been orphaned. Then, Rehman didn’t have even a tenth of the resources he did now, and he was faced with a similar situation: except this time, the stakes weren’t that high, and he didn’t have the inherent responsibility to take care of the kid.
For a few moments, the only sounds were the rain against the windows and the clinking of cutlery.
Then he said, “Ek kaam karte hain.”
You looked up.
“Jab tak yeh baarish chal raha hai, agar aap late ho jaayein... iska matlab nahi hai ki Ayaan school mein hi rehna chahiye.”
You frowned slightly.
“Matlab?”
“Abhi school ki diwar gir gayi. Ayaan us situation mein safe nahi hai.”
You nodded and ate another piece of the roti.
“School mere ghar ke bagal mein hai,” he continued, gesturing vaguely towards the wall separating the two compounds. “Main use le aaya karunga. Yahan rahega, khaana khayega, homework kar lega.” He shrugged. “Aap araam se kaam khatam karke aa jaiyega. Ayaan mehfooz hoga aur aapko tension lene ki zaroorat nahi hogi.”
You stared at him.
Rehman wondered if he had overstepped, but refused to show it on his face. If this meant Ayaan didn’t have to fear a wall falling on him or have a late lunch, it was worth it.
“Aur agar aap pareshan hai…” he added quietly, “main khud principal se baat kar lunga.”
You ate in silence for a minute before setting your cutlery down, looking at him with the steady, piercing gaze he had only ever seen you wear across Khanani's conference table.
“Rehman ji,” you began carefully, “aap jaante hai aapki zindagi khatarnak hai.”
He almost laughed.
That was certainly one way of putting it.
“Aapne aaj jo kiya...” You glanced at Ayaan, who was enthusiastically explaining to Siyahi why unicorns were faster than horses. “Main uska ehsaan kabhi nahi bhoolungi.”
A pause.
“Lekin main yeh nahi chahti ki ise 12 tables yaad hone se pehle bandook pakadni aa jaaye. Aur agar aapki zindagi usko Lyari ke…” You waved your hand in the air as you sipped on some water, rainwater still dripping from your hair where it hadn’t dried yet, “main apne aap ko maaf nahi kar paaungi.”
You took another bite of the roti. Rehman waited for a second before speaking.
“Aapki fikr bilkul sahi jagah hai,” he said quietly. The answer had come to him long before he'd even put it into words. “Magar main Ayaan ko meri duniya mein kabhi nahi aane doonga.”
His gaze drifted to the boy, who was currently trying to convince Uzair, who didn’t even follow cricket, that Pakistan needed a desperate change or they would be in a horrible position the next series.
“Uske liye main sirf Rehman Uncle rahunga.”
He paused, then added, his voice steady.
“Na usse pata chalega main kya karta hu, na kaun mere paas aata hai, na kis baat ki meetings hoti hain. School se seedha yahan aayega. Homework karega, khaana khayega, sabko pareshan karega...” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Aur aap aake le jaayengi.”
Rehman sat back.
He had made his offer. Whether you accepted it or not was entirely your decision.
He watched your expression instead. It was the same look you'd worn countless times across Khanani's conference table whenever someone proposed an idea you didn't trust fully. Analytical. Weighing every possible consequence before committing to anything. You never evaluated the person then, just the feasibility of the plan and the risks associated with it, and it occurred to Rehman that you weren’t evaluating him, even in a situation where most people would.
You were evaluating the risk to your son.
Outside, the rain continued to lash against the haveli. Inside, Ayaan had somehow convinced Uzair to wear the crooked cardboard crown, much to everyone else's amusement.
“Ammi!” the boy called, pointing triumphantly at the scene. “Dekho!”
You looked over instinctively.
Your shoulders, tense since you'd burst through the front door, softened a little as you listened to his babbling.
He noticed.
Once Uzair occupied Ayaan again, Rehman turned to you. “Sochiye,” he said, voice even. “Aaj agar woh school mein akela rukta rehta toh? Baarish mein fas jaata toh?”
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment before opening them again.
“Aap use bahar nahi jaane denge? Akele ya aapke…” you looked around, trying to find the right word. “ladko ke saath?
Rehman shook his head. “Nahi. Agar voh mere ye mere ladkon ke saath kahin hoga, toh voh sirf haveli mein hoga.”
“Aur aap uske saamne aapke komm ya aapke kaam ke baare mein baat nahi karenge?”
“Nahi.”
“Aur agar aapki haveli par hamla ho gaya toh?” you asked quietly. “Woh mehfooz rahega?”
Rehman didn't answer immediately, even though he had considered that. It wasn't because he didn't know what to say, because in his decade-and-a-half years here, nothing had ever happened, so the chances of an attack were low. He knew that, he assumed you knew that, but the possibility remained, and Rehman couldn’t bring himself to assure you that it would never happen. He was many things, but he was never going to lie to a mother about her kid’s safety.
“Hamla hone se pehle khabar mil jaayegi,” he said after a moment. “Aur jis din zara sa bhi shaq hua na… us din Ayaan school se seedha ghar jayega. Haveli nahi.”
You continued watching him.
He understood why.
“Aur agar kabhi aisa waqt aaya,” he continued evenly, “toh meri pehli zimmedaari use yahan se nikaalna hogi.”
He paused, deciding to tell you about many secret passageways he had built in the haveli later. His gaze followed a scrunched up paper as it rolled back to Donga’s hand, who had created a game of cricket using an old slab of cardboard and a paper that was probably torn from that day’s newspaper.
“Use meri duniya se jitna door rakh sakun,” he murmured, almost to himself, “utna hi behtar hai.”
When he looked back at you, your expression had changed slightly. Of course, the caution was still there, and it would probably always be, but the fear your face held was replaced by careful consideration.
“Theek hai,” you said finally. “Sirf baarish ke waqt.”
Rehman nodded.
“Sirf baarish ke waqt.”
It wasn't a victory.
It wasn’t a deal.
It was trust, born out of desperation and the urge to keep a child safe.
But as Rehman watched Ayaan laugh so hard that the cardboard crown slipped over his eyes, he had a feeling it was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a/n: Ayaan is giving me baby fever man 😭 he's so cute! Please comment or dm if you want to be added/removed from the taglist.
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