Bairagan
हम तेरे प्यार में सारा आलम खो बैठे हैं, खो बैठे तुम कहते हो के ऐसे प्यार को भूल जाओ, भूल जाओ.....
Ulfat woke up with a violent jolt. Again. Tears were already spilling out of her eyes, tracing that same familiar path down her face as if they knew the way better than she did. Her breaths came out uneven, breaking in the middle, each one catching painfully in her throat like it did not want to leave.
For a second, she dragged in a sharp breath and held it there, clinging to it like it was the only fragile thread keeping her from completely falling apart.
She did not move immediately. She could not. There was a heaviness in the air, something unspoken that pressed down on her, keeping her exactly where she was. Even blinking felt like effort. Even existing did.
Then with slow and almost reluctant movement, her hand shifted toward the other side of the bed. Not all at once, but inch by inch, like she was postponing something she already knew. Her fingers hovered for a second, trembling faintly before finally touching the sheets.
The sheets were cold.
Not just empty cold. Not the kind left behind for a few minutes. This was deeper. Like it had been there for a long time and had no intention of leaving. Like no one had ever slept there. Like no presence had ever reached that space at all.
Her fingers pressed into the fabric, slowly at first then with more force, as if the mattress might give something back if she insisted enough. As if it might hold onto even the faintest trace of warmth. But it did not. It stayed the same beneath her hand, still and unyielding, offering nothing in return. The fabric did not responded. It did not give her anything back. No warmth. No trace. No memory left behind in its threads.
Her breathing faltered again, catching somewhere between her chest and her throat refusing to come out the way it should.
A sound rose from her throat, something raw and torn from somewhere deep inside, a sob that carried the weight of everything she had been holding back for far too long yet it never fully made its way out. It stayed there pressing painfully against her chest, against her ribs, like it refused to leave her even in that. Her lips parted, her body tensing as if she was about to scream, as if she needed to, but nothing followed. No voice. No sound strong enough to break the silence that surrounded her. It was as though even her grief had learned to stay quiet, to exist without being heard.
It has been a year.
A whole year since her Rehman was gone. A year since the world had shifted in a way she could not undo, since the person who held her together had slipped away, leaving her standing in a life that no longer felt like hers. A year since he left her behind in a world that felt too large.
A year of waking up like this. A year of reaching out without thinking, only to be met with the same cold unchanging truth. A year of carrying his absence in every breath, in every quiet moment, in every corner of a life that still refused to stop moving.
A year without him was not something she had learned to accept. It was something she had learned to endure.
Her world had grown smaller in ways she never imagined. It had narrowed itself down until there was almost nothing left of it. Just her and Faizal. Everything else felt distant like it belonged to someone else’s life, not hers.
Faizal, in this one year had grown up. Not in the way children usually do, not just in height or in the way his voice had steadied, but in something far deeper that Ulfat could not look at for too long without feeling that quiet ache spread through her chest. It had only been a year, and yet there were moments when it felt like he had lived through ten.
He did not cry anymore. Not in front of her. Not even when she knew he wanted to. The tears that used to come so easily, that used to spill over the smallest things, had disappeared somewhere along the way, replaced by a silence that felt far too heavy for someone his age. He did not whine, did not complain, did not throw tantrums the way children are meant to, the way they should be allowed to. It was as if he had quietly decided that he could not afford to.
Ulfat noticed it in the smallest things, the way he would stop himself mid sentence if he thought she looked too tired to listen. The way he would lower his voice, soften his presence, as if trying to take up less space in a world that had already taken too much from him. The way he would sit beside her without saying anything.
He had understood her and that was what hurt the most. Because he was never supposed to understand this kind of pain. He was never supposed to adjust himself around her grief, never supposed to carry it with her in the quiet unnoticed ways he did. But life had not asked him. It had simply placed it on his shoulders and moved on, leaving him to figure it out on his own.
He had even started to study seriously now, burying himself in books with a focus . There was no complaining, no need to be told twice. He sat there for hours sometimes, eyes fixed on the pages as if staying busy was easier than letting his thoughts wander to places that would only hurt.
Every time Ulfat watched him like that, something inside her twisted painfully.
Oh her child.
Ulfat rose to her feet slowly. Her hand reached for the wooden railing of the bed, fingers curling around it, not because her body needed the support but because her mind did. She stayed there for a moment, gripping it, grounding herself in something that would not slip away.
Nights had become the hardest part. They stretched longer than they should, heavier than she could bear, carrying a silence that did not comfort but suffocated. The days, at least gave her something to hold onto. They passed in fragments, in small tasks that kept her moving. Taking care of Faizal, making sure he ate, that he studied, that he smiled at least once. She filled the hours with whatever she could find. Cooking, even when she had no appetite. Gardening, her hands buried in soil just to feel something real. She had even learned embroidery, not because she loved it, but because it kept her thoughts from wandering too far.
But nights stripped all of that away. When everything fell quiet, when the outside world faded into nothing, there was nothing left to distract her from the emptiness that waited. It settled around her, inside her pressing against her chest until even breathing felt like effort. Each inhale felt incomplete like the air itself was not enough to fill whatever had been carved out of her.
There were moments when she felt like she was not really there, not fully present in her own life. Like something had been left behind the day he was gone, and what remained was only moving out of habit. Like she was not living but surviving.
She felt like something without weight, without direction. Like a cork drifting over still water, carried wherever the current decided, with no purpose of its own, no place to belong. Like an empty vase, placed carefully in a space where it once held something beautiful, something alive, but now stood hollow, holding nothing except that quiet, echoing void within it. A space that could not be filled, no matter how much time passed, no matter how much she tried to look away from it.
She stopped in front of the wardrobe. For a moment, she simply stood there, staring at it as if it held more than just clothes. Her hand lifted slowly and lingered in the air before finally settling on the oak wood handle. Her fingers did not move right away. They stayed there, curled around it as she swallowed the tightness in her throat that refused to go down easily.
It took her a second or maybe more then she pulled it open. The sight inside did not change. It never did.
Clothes were arranged neatly, hanging in place as if nothing had ever been disturbed. Kurtas lined up one after another, trousers folded with care, everything exactly where it used to be. As if someone would wake up in the morning, reach in without looking, and ask for the same things again. As if time had not moved forward at all.
“Jaan, mera kurta kaha rakha hai.”
The memory came without warning and it was so clear that it almost felt real, like if she turned around she would find him standing there, waiting, that familiar impatience in his voice softened by something only meant for her.
Her breath faltered. Her hand moved on its own, reaching for the black kurta hanging among the others. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled it down, the fabric slipping free from the hanger with a soft sound. She stared at it for a long moment, her eyes tracing its folds, the creases that had remained untouched in a way that made it feel like time had paused only here.
Slowly, she brought it closer, the fabric brushed against her fingers, then against her chest and she held it there carefully like it might fall apart if she was not gentle enough but then her grip tightened. Her fingers curled into it, clutching it closer, pressing it against herself as if it could fill the space that had been empty for far too long.
Her eyes closed on their own and she breathed in.
The scent was still there. It was faint. So faint that it almost slipped away before she could hold onto it. That familiar trace of him, something warm mixed with the sharpness of tobacco, something that used to linger around him without effort. But it was fading. Slowly, , with every passing day.
And she felt it. She felt him slipping away from her. Again.
Her hold tightened even more, her fingers digging into the fabric as if she could stop it, as if she could keep even this from leaving her. She breathed in again trying to capture whatever was left before it disappeared completely. She held onto it like it was the only thing keeping him from being gone completely.
Because this was all she had now. A fading scent. A memory that refused to stay still and yet refused to stay whole.
Many people had told her to let go of his things. To pack them away, to put them somewhere out of sight, or to throw them out completely. They said it would hurt less if she stopped surrounding herself with reminders, if she gave herself space to move on, to breathe without his absence staring back at her from every corner.
But how could she do that?
How could she take something that had once belonged to him, something that had carried his warmth, his presence, his quiet, everyday existence and treat it like it meant nothing. How could she fold it away into some forgotten box or worse, throw it out like it was replaceable, like he was replaceable.
These were not just things. They were pieces of him. Small, silent pieces that had stayed behind when he left, the only ones that had not slipped out of her reach. His clothes still held the shape of him in ways she could not explain, the faint creases, the way the sleeves fell, the way the collar bent as if it remembered how he wore it. Even the scent, fading as it was, still carried something of him, something she could not afford to lose.
If she let these go, what would she have left. Who is she without these?
No, she could not throw them away. She could not lock them up somewhere out of sight and pretend that would make anything easier. It would not. It would only take away the last tangible pieces of him she had left.
She will not do that. She will not let the world take him away from her in every possible way.
She slowly raised her head, her eyes drifted around the room. Their room. It still carried that quiet sense of belonging yet felt unfamiliar in a way that made her chest tighten. Everything was in its place as if the room itself had refused to move forward.
Near the window, the rocking chair stood, her gaze lingered there. That had been his spot. No matter how long the day had been or how late the night stretched, he would find his way there without thinking, settling into it like it belonged to him as much as he belonged to it. He would sit there for hours sometimes, his presence filling the room even in silence.
Sometimes he would look out of the window, his eyes fixed on something far beyond what she could see. Sometimes it was the moon that held his attention, the soft light falling across his face making him look distant and untouchable like he had slipped into a place she could not reach. And sometimes, he would simply sit there lost in his own thoughts, a stillness settling over him that never felt empty but calm.
Rehman was sitting on the rocking chair, swaying it gently back and forth, his gaze lifted toward the moon. He looked lost somewhere far away.
Ulfat had just come out of the shower, her hair still wet and cool against her neck. She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him. Then slowly, she walked toward him, the soft sound of her jhanjhar filling the quiet room. Rehman looked up at it and found her eyes already on him. There was something in them...Jealousy?
"Itni shiddat se kya dekh rahe ho, Rehman?" she said, her voice carrying that same feeling.
He smiled at her. That smile the one that belonged only to her, the one he never gave to anyone else. He lifted his hand and offered it to her without a word. She placed her hand in his and let him settle her onto his lap.
"Chand dekh rahe the?" she asked again, curling her arms around his neck.
Rehman hummed, his thumb moving slowly over her knuckles before he brought her hand to his lips.
"Chand jalta hai tujhse, meri jaan," he said and she rolled her eyes.
"Ye sach hai," he added quietly, watching her reaction with something soft in his expression.
"Makkhan lagana toh koi tumse sikhe, Rehman."
He looked up at her then, as if she had said something that genuinely puzzled him.
"Makkhan? Aapko hamare jazbaat makkhan lagte hain." He shook his head slowly. "Yeh sach hai, tujhse haseen koi nahi hai iss jahan mein."
The color rose in her cheeks before she could stop it, she looked down in shyness. A smile followed, the kind she could never quite hide from him. Rehman brought his free hand to his chest, his face scrunching as if something had struck him there.
"Uff. Aur kitne sitam dhayegi apne aashiq par."
Her eyes glistened at the memory. Now who will call her like this. There is no one. No one to call her his own.
It had been a year and she felt like she had aged a decade. Somewhere along the way, without even noticing, she had stopped looking at mirrors. There was no purpose in it anymore. What was the point of getting ready when he was not here. When there was no one to adore her, to look at her the way he did, to place his hand on his heart like her beauty had completely undone him.
There was no point.
No point in any of it. No point in getting ready, no point in looking, no point in even breathing.and yet...here she was, still doing it. Still waking up. Still moving through days that felt like they belonged to someone else. Not because she wanted to. Not because it felt like living. But because her body has not yet learned how to stop.
She remembered the day she was brought to this haveli as a bride. The day Rehman had walked her through its doors for the first time, his hand steady around hers.
She remembered what he had said. He had looked at her then at the walls around them and something in his expression had shifted into something that felt like it came from a place deeper than words.
"Ye sirf unchi imarat thi, mahez ek havel, tune isse ghar banaya hai, lado."
She made it home, then why she feels like she is homeless now?
She took slow steps toward the rocking chair. Each step felt heavier than the last, like her feet already knew where they were going and were dreading it. She stopped beside it and stood there for a moment.
Her hand reached out and settled on the armrest. She rested her fingers there lightly, the way you touch something you are afraid might disappear if you hold it too tightly. The wood was smooth beneath her fingertips, worn in the way only years of use could manage. She could feel it, the way the surface had shaped itself around him, around the weight of his hands, the warmth of his presence. She stood there and let herself feel it, all of it, even the parts that hurt.
Especially those parts.
Then slowly, with a carefulness that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with something inside her she could not name, she sat down. The chair received her the way it always had, swaying gently under her weight, that familiar rhythm returning as if it had been waiting. She leaned back and gripped the armrests and closed her eyes for just a moment, just long enough to pretend. To imagine the weight of the world lifting, even briefly.
It did not. She opened her eyes and looked up.
The sky was quiet and vast and indifferent in the way skies always are, stretching endlessly above her without any awareness of how small she felt beneath it. She looked at it the way a person looks at something they no longer expect anything from.
Then she saw them. Two stars. Sitting close together, brighter than everything around them, shining. She stared at them and something in her chest pulled so tight it became difficult to breathe. Her grip on the armrests tightened without her meaning it to, her knuckles pressing pale against her skin.
It had been a different kind of night then. Ulfat was standing near the window, her eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the courtyard below. There was something in her expression that she had not said out loud yet, a grief she had been carrying quietly for days, folding it smaller and smaller until it fit somewhere inside her chest where she thought no one could see it.
Rehman saw it. He always does.
He stood beside her, close enough that his arm brushed hers, and he watched her the way he always did in her quiet moments, with a longing so deep it had nowhere to go. He wanted to reach into whatever place she had gone to and bring her back. He wanted to take whatever she was carrying and carry it himself. But he only stood there, watching, because sometimes that was all a person could do.
"Kya dekh rahi hai, chanda," he said finally. His voice came out low, softer than he intended, a tightness sitting somewhere behind his words that he could not push away.
Ulfat turned to look at him. Just for a second. Her eyes met his and in that second something passed between them, no words were exchanged between them, They never needed words to communicate. No language could explain what was between them. Then she turned back to the sky.
Her hand lifted slowly. Her finger pointed toward the brightest star, the one that outshone everything around it, burning quietly and alone in all that darkness.
"Rehman," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she was afraid of what she was about to say. As if saying it out loud would make it more real than she could bear.
"Aksar log kaha karte hain ki jo log chale jaate hain woh taare ban jaate hain." She paused. The silence between them stretched and filled with everything neither of them could say.
"Agar aisa hai." Her voice caught. She steadied it. "Toh woh jo sab se zyada chamak raha hai, woh hamara Naieem hai."
Rehman did not move. He did not speak. He could not. It felt like something had driven itself straight into the center of his chest and lodged itself there pressing against everything inside him. He looked at the star she was pointing to, burning bright and unreachable and so very far away, and he felt the ground beneath him shift .
He had held so much together for so long. He had been steady when she needed steady, present when she needed presence, strong in the way he thought she needed him to be strong. But in that moment, standing beside her in the dark, looking at a star she had named after their son, he felt all of it crack.
It was not big. It was small, enough one.
He said nothing. There was nothing in the world that he could have said.
And now.
Now she would have to find her Rehman there too. In stars.
The thought came quietly, the way the most devastating things always do, settling over her like the night itself, without mercy. She looked at the two stars, the ones shining close together, and her throat tightened around something she could not swallow down.
Was he there now. Was he the one beside Naieem, the one that had appeared as if it had always belonged there, as if it had been waiting to find its place. Was that him. Was that all that was left of the man who used to sit in this very chair, who used to look at this same sky, who used to hold her hand and tell her the moon burned with jealousy for her.
Was that all she had now. A star she could not reach. A light she could not hold.
She inhaled deeply, pulling the air in slow and deliberate, as if she could breathe him in from somewhere. Her head fell back against the chair. The rocking slowed but did not stop, swaying gently beneath her like it was trying to offer something, some small comfort it did not have the means to give. Her fingers curled tighter around the armrests, tighter and tighter still, her knuckles turning white from the force of her grip, as if holding on here meant holding on to something else entirely. As if letting go of the wood meant letting go of him.
She closed her eyes.
The stars still burned.
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