#sara arjun

[harpiesfeatherduster]

Ranveer Singh & Sara Arjun in Dhurandhar (2025) directed by Aditya Dhar

[princessglitter69]

These pics omgggg 😭😭😭😭😭

Anyone watched the video of phir se yet?

[stardust-devi]

the MAZARI family - hamza, yalina, and zayan

dhurandhar the revenge (2026), dir. aditya dhar

[angelllk1ssed]

Hamza Ali Mazari x readerI

"Ishq"

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The heavy iron gates of the mansion felt like the bars of a gilded cage as y/n slipped through the side entrance.

Outside, the silence of the elite neighborhood was sliced open by the low, rhythmic thrum of a heavy engine.

Hamza was there. He didn't hide in the shadows; he claimed the streetlamp’s glow, leaning back against his bike with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

He looked entirely out of place against the marble pillars and manicured hedges, a jagged piece of Lyari dropped into a porcelain world.

As she stepped onto the pavement, the silk of her little dress caught the wind, fluttering like a white flag. Hamza’s eyes tracked her every movement, darkened by a hunger that had nothing to do with the streets and everything to do with the girl walking toward him.

"Tumhare abba ko pata chala toh woh mujhe zinda nahi chorein gy, aur tumhe deewaron mein chunwa dein gy," Hamza said, his voice a gravelly tease as he flicked the cigarette away. (If your father finds out, he won't leave me alive, and he’ll have you walled up inside.)

y/n didn't stop until she was toe-to-toe with him, her fingers curling into the lapels of his worn leather jacket. The heat radiating off him was a physical force.

"Toh phir unhein pata mat chalne dena, Hamza. Wese bhi, unke muhafiz (bodyguards) so rahe hain, aur meri nind tumhari bike ki awaaz ne ura di hai," she whispered, her voice honeyed and daring. (Then don't let him find out, Hamza. Anyway, his guards are asleep, and my sleep was stolen by the sound of your bike.)

Hamza’s hand slid around her waist, pulling her flush against his denim-clad thighs. Their differences was intoxicating—her soft, expensive skin against the rough, cold metal of his belt buckle and the grit of his world.

He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear, sending an electric shiver straight to her core.

"Itni jaldi hai mujhse milne ki? Abhi toh raat shuru hui hai, burger bacchi," he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. (In such a hurry to meet me? The night has only just begun, burger kid.)

y/n tilted her head back, exposing the elegant line of her throat to the moonlight, with a teasing scowl face,

"Raat choti hai, Hamza. Aur mujhe Lyari ki hawa chuni hai... tumhare saath." (The night is short, Hamza. And I want to touch the air of Lyari... with you.)

He chuckled, a dark, melodic sound, and swung his leg over the bike.

He reached back, grabbing her hand to pull her onto the seat behind him.

As she settled, wrapping her arms tightly around his broad chest, she could feel the vibration of the machine through her entire body.

"Phir apni pakar mazboot kar lo. Aaj raat hum rukne waale nahi hain," he warned, kicking the gear into place. (Then tighten your grip. We aren’t stopping tonight.)

With a roar that echoed off the mansion's high walls, they tore away into the darkness, leaving the safety of her world for the electric rush of his.

y/n pressing her face into the heat of his back.

They were a blur of leather and silk, speeding past the shuttered shops and the watchful eyes of the underworld.

This wasn't a slow-burn romance; it was a high-speed collision.

They stopped at the edge of the small pond in the outskirts of Lyari, the water black and shimmering. Hamza turned around, pulling her into the space between his arms and the bike, he held her face in the palm of his hands.

The silence here was heavy, charged with the kind of tension that felt like it might snap.

"Tum meri ho, y/n. Yaad rakhna, Lyari ke har kone ko pata hai ke tum Hamza Ali Mazari ki ho," he said, his voice dropping to a sensual whisper as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. (You are mine, y/n. Remember, every corner of Lyari knows that you belong to hamza ali mazari only.) She looked up at him, her eyes bright with the thrill of it all.

"Aur tum mere ho. Sirf mere." (And you are mine. Only mine.) y/n replied back.

Under the flickering mountain's streetlights, amidst the grit and the danger, they found a moment that felt infinite, it was about the intoxicating rush of being young and untouchable in a world that wanted to break them.

yn ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair, smoothing the wind-tossed strands.

The electric rush of the ride had settled into a deep, pulsing heat between them.

"Hamza, kya hum hamesha aise hi rahein gy? Chuptay chuptay, raaton ko bhaagte huway?" she asked softly, her voice laced with a sweet, youthful hope. (Hamza, will we always be like this? Hiding, running away in the middle of the night?)

He turned in her arms, pulling her down so their foreheads rested against each other.

His dark eyes, usually so sharp and predatory in the streets, were soft and glazed with a rare tenderness.

"Nahi. Ek din, yeh Lyari meri hogi, aur tum meri malika. Humara apna ghar hoga, jahan koi deewar tumhare aur mere beech nahi ayegi. Main tumhe woh sab dunga jo tumhare abbu ke mahal mein bhi nahi hai—azadi." (No. One day, this Lyari will be mine, and you will be my queen. We will have our own home, where no wall will come between you and me. I’ll give you everything even your father’s palace doesn’t have—freedom.)

The conversation drifted, as it often does with young love, toward the "someday."

The grit of his gangster life felt a world away as they started talking about a home, a life, and the tiny lives they would create together.

"Mujhe ek beti chahiye," Hamza said suddenly, a small, boyish smile breaking through his rugged exterior.

"Bilkul tumhari tarah. Wahi aankhein, wahi nakhre. Main usse poori duniya ki khushiyan doon ga, aur kisi ko uski taraf dekhne ki jurrat nahi hogi." (I want a baby girl. Just like you. The same eyes, the same tantrums. I’ll give her all the happiness in the world, and no one will dare to even look at her.)

y/n giggled, the sound like wind chimes in the heavy night air. She poked his chest playfully, her eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and affection.

"Nahi, Hamza! Beti toh hogi hi, lekin pehle mujhe ek chota sa beta chahiye. Bilkul tumhare jaisa ziddi aur bahadur. Maine toh naam bhi soch liya hai." (No, Hamza! We’ll have a daughter, of course, but first I want a little baby boy. Just as stubborn and brave as you. I’ve even thought of a name.)

Hamza raised an eyebrow, his arms tightening around her waist as he pulled her closer into the heat of his body.

"Acha? Itni taiyari? Toh kya naam rakha hai mere shehzade ka?" (Oh? So much preparation? So what name have you picked for my prince?)

"Zayaan," she whispered, the name sounding like a prayer on her lips.

"Zayaan Ali Mazari. Woh tumhari tarah laraaka nahi hoga, woh sab ka dil jeetne wala hoga." (Zayaan. Zayaan Ali Mazari. He won't be a fighter like you; he’ll be the one who wins everyone's hearts.)

Hamza felt a strange, tight ache in his chest—a feeling of belonging he had never known in the violent streets of Lyari.

He leaned in, his lips hovering just a breath away from hers, the scent of vanilla and salt swirling around them.

"Zayaan... naam toh pyaara hai. Chalo, tumhari baat maan leta hoon. Lekin yaad rakhna, uske baad meri beti ki baari hai. " (Zayaan... the name is beautiful. Fine, I’ll agree with you. But remember, after that, it’s my daughter’s turn)

"Aur haan mere baccho lo daily anda khanna hoga...unke abbu ki tarah takatwaar bane ke liye" (and yea my kids will daily have eggs to become strong like their father)

yn laughed at his cute note.

He sealed the promise with a kiss that was slow, deep, and tasted of the future they were building in their heads; a future that felt as real and as bright as the stars above the Lyari coast.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

the lines is from the d2 song, "hum pyaar krne wale"💋

Disclaimer- All characters, names, and settings belong to their original creators, including Aditya Dhar and the rights holders of Dhurandhar. I claim no ownership over them.

to my couple goals @afortoru & @hamzaalimazari 🤭🫶🏻

Tags: @rini4everdreaming @jexify @skiicoreee , @suvarnarekha , @rooza-sparks , @myvarya , @thewintersbloom , @geometric-circle , @strawbxx-blog @ramayantika , @gracelovestars , @jkdaddy01 @zahraluvslilies @ashnotashkechum @i-am-yourmom , @kenkozkmg @nervouscashrascalflowers , @wwwjustkidding , @erenfox , @alyislost , @seasonofthenerd @girlonfloralcrack , @wan2bey-n @goodnightkatherine @maraudersbitchesassemble , @persistentgremlinrefuge , @desi-brownie @patrakilekha , @sonasarchive @phenolphthaleinein , @rehmandakaitswife , @sanpiece , @g1rlsoconfus1ng , @cherryyelixir , @sparksfromhell , @cloudmast @darkstrawberrypirate , @mariaaysbusjs , @chwrryelz @ch3rrycok3s , @dumbestchaos , @draculauras-stuff @lanalove0 , @roses-and-iron @scentedwolfdragon @kidofmisfortune , @snowsilk , @shadylovedhurandhar , @subhu-99 💌💌💌💌

[lostinsfiction]

sara arjun at the grand music launch of dhurandhar: the revenge

[carbonaramarinara]

Same position 15 years later 🧘🏽‍♀️

[whereissanz]

Service available for everyone. 250₹ per edit.

[rabbdaradio]

Veil of Allegiance.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ

Major iqbal × Fem! Indian! Reader [chapter VII]

Synopsis Forced into a life built on lies, she takes on a new identity and enters a world where nothing is what it seems. And at the center of it all is him-Major labal. Calm, unreadable, and feared by everyone around him, he is nothing like she imagined... and yet, somehow worse.

Cws age gap, flashbacks, guns, violence, blood, betrayal, sexual tension, slowburn etc etc [wc 5.7k]

Masterlist [Previous part] [Next Part]

The thought of the party stayed with me. Not in excitement but in calculation. People I might meet. Names I had memorised. Faces I had studied. I went over them again and again, silently, as if repeating them enough times would make me less likely to slip.

That night, as I stood in front of the wardrobe, my fingers hovered over a simple ivory anarkali. Soft, understated, and safe. Something that wouldn’t draw attention. Something that would let me blend in. I had almost taken it out when his voice came from behind me— “Yeh theek nahi rahega.”

I paused. Turning slightly, I looked at him. He didn’t explain. Didn’t need to. I didn’t think much of it after that. Until later.

When I walked back into the room and noticed a box placed neatly on the bed. It hadn’t been there before. I stepped closer slowly, opening it. Inside—

A saree. It wasn’t dull. But it wasn’t extravagant either.

Not basic.

Not bridal.

It was… deliberate.

A deep rust-orange shade, leaning slightly toward brick red under certain light, muted, and controlled.

But rich enough to make a statement.

The fabric was light, not heavy, with a soft fall that would move easily. Along the borders ran fine, understated work—not thick embroidery, not loud zari, but delicate enough to catch light when it shifted.

Something you wouldn’t notice immediately.

But once you did, you couldn’t ignore it. The blouse was separate. Full sleeves. A slightly deeper tone than the saree, almost burnt gold.

Simple.

Structured.

No heavy embellishment.

Just clean tailoring and a modest neckline. It wasn’t designed to stand out. It was designed to complete. I ran my fingers over the fabric slowly. It wasn’t anything I would have chosen. And yet— It wasn’t wrong. It was enough to say one thing, clearly. I wasn’t just anyone in that room. I was his wife.

“Yeh pehen lena,” he said from behind me.

I turned. He was watching. Not questioning. Not waiting for approval. Just… certain. And for some reason that felt unfamiliar.

Even though it had already been perfectly pressed, I still had it ironed again.

Carefully.

Unnecessarily.

I didn’t fold it away. Didn’t put it inside the almirah. Instead, I let it hang on the side, where I could see it. Every time I walked past it, my eyes lingered. Every time I looked at it, it felt like it was looking back. By evening, I finally placed it inside the almirah. On a hanger. Carefully spaced. And yet—

Every time I opened the door, it was the first thing I noticed.

The days moved on. And so did he. Not distant. Not close. Something in between. His touch had changed. Not in a way that crossed any lines. But enough to be felt.

A hand on my cheek.

A brief pull closer while passing by.

Fingers resting lightly at my waist for a second too long.

Sometimes lower—just at the small of my back. Not inappropriate, not accidental, measured, and controlled. As if he knew exactly how far to go. And exactly where to stop. At times, a brief press of his lips against my forehead.

Nothing more.

Never more.

And somehow— That made it harder to understand.

The rest of the house stayed the same. Labia spent most of her time with Sofia. I learned quickly that she didn’t go to school. She was taught at home. Homeschooled.

It made sense. But something about it stayed with me. It could be… changed. Later. Not now.

In the quiet hours, when I had nothing to do, I observed. The house its structure, patterns, gaps, and possibilities.

From the balcony of our room, I noticed it.

A narrow concrete slab just below the railing—running along the outer wall. Enough to step onto. If needed. From there, it connected toward the lower structure. A possible route. Not ideal. But possible. There was just one problem.

A camera.

Positioned at an angle that covered that exact side. I stood there longer than necessary, pretending to look outside. But I was measuring. Distance, and timing. Blind spots. If there were any. If there ever came a moment— This could work.

⸻

Even in the smallest routines, I stayed careful. In the washroom, I never left my things behind. But over time, something caught my attention. His soap. A simple bar thick yellow-brown.

The kind almost every household once had.

The faint sandalwood scent lingered in the air long after it was used. It was… familiar. Strangely so. Something about it pulled at a memory I couldn’t fully place. Childhood. Home. Before everything changed. I found myself noticing it more than I should have. One evening, I brought it up.

“Labia ko school bhejna chahiye,” I said, as casually as I could.

He looked at me. Just once. “Lazmi nahi hai.”

“Usko logon ke saath rehna chahiye,” I continued. “Seekhegi.”

There was a pause. Then— “Uski condition hai,” he said simply. “Har jagah fit nahi hoti.” His tone wasn’t harsh. Just… final. I didn’t argue further. Not now. There would be time. For everything.

By the time Iqbal was ready, the room had already begun to feel different.

He stood near the mirror for a brief moment, adjusting the cuff of his kurta, the fabric crisp against his skin. The waistcoat sat perfectly over it—tailored, structured, effortless. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and for some reason, that made him look sharper, more present. He glanced at me once through the mirror, said only, “Main abhi aata hoon,” and stepped out, leaving the door to fall shut behind him.

The room quieted.

I stayed where I was for a moment before turning toward the dressing table. Everything I needed was already laid out—too many things, really. Brushes, bottles, shades I hadn’t touched since coming here. For a second, I just stood there, looking at them, unsure where to begin. Then my hand reached out almost on its own, picking up a lipstick. A soft red. Not too bold.

As I twisted it open, a memory slipped in without warning.

My mother never had this much. She didn’t need to. One lipstick was enough. She would apply it carefully, leaning closer to the mirror, adjusting the edges with her finger, and then, without a second thought, dab the same color onto her cheeks, blending it in with her fingertips. No brushes. No extra steps. Just habit.

I remember standing too close sometimes, watching her with quiet fascination, and every single time, a light tap would land at the back of my head. “Hale nayani aa tu.” My father. Never harsh. Always half amused. I would frown, rubbing the spot, pretending to be offended, while he smiled like he already knew I’d do it again. [translation: you are yet a child.]

During family gatherings, my older cousins would pull me aside, ignoring whatever my mother had said. they would insist, applying a bit of lipstick, sometimes even kajal. That kajal—my mother used to make it herself from badam. Dark, slightly uneven, but soft. I would sit still, trying not to blink, trying not to ruin it, and when my mother noticed, she never truly scolded me. Just a look—half warning, half amusement—because it was an event, and I was a child.

My thumb pressed lightly against the lipstick now. Without thinking, I applied it, then paused before dabbing a small amount onto my cheek, blending it slowly with my finger. The motion came naturally, almost instinctive. When I looked up at my reflection, a faint smile touched my lips for just a moment—before fading just as quietly.

The present settled back in.

And with it came the realization.

It didn’t arrive loudly. It didn’t need to.

I wasn’t that girl anymore. Not the one standing beside her mother, not the one being gently scolded, not even—Y/N. That name felt distant now, like it belonged to someone else, someone I had already stepped away from. Here, I was someone else. A different name. A different life. His wife. Y/S/N Kashmiri wife of Major Iqbal. (Y/s/n stands for your spy name)

I took a slow breath, straightened slightly, and reached for the rest of the products.

This time, there was no hesitation. The makeup remained light, controlled—just enough to enhance, not enough to draw attention. A soft base, blended well. Kajal, clean and precise, not too dark. The lipstick stayed muted after blending, not bold, not bridal, but present in a way that matched everything else about me tonight.

When I was done, I reached for the saree.

Draping it took longer than usual—not because I didn’t know how, but because I wanted it to sit right. Each pleat aligned carefully, each fold falling where it should. The rust-orange fabric moved differently, light yet structured, the border catching the light just enough when I shifted. It wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t invisible either. The blouse fit close, full-sleeved, in a slightly deeper tone, simple and modest, grounding the entire look.

I returned to the mirror, adjusting a loose strand of hair before pinning it back lightly. Not too neat. Not too undone. Just enough.

At the end, I reached for the cream, rubbing a small amount into my hands slowly, almost as if delaying something I couldn’t name.

That’s when the door opened. I didn’t turn. I saw him through the mirror. He looked the same, yet not. The same kurta, the same waistcoat, but something about him felt more deliberate now. His gaze met mine in the reflection and stayed there. Not intense, not careless—just observant in a way that made me more aware of myself than I wanted to be.

He walked in slowly, a small bag in his hand, placing it on the table without breaking that eye contact. I didn’t think much of it. My attention stayed on him, on the way he was looking, on the quiet that had settled between us.

He moved behind me then, close enough that I felt it before I processed it. His hand rested on the back of the chair, and he leaned slightly, his presence suddenly too near, too real. The scent reached me first—faint sandalwood from his soap, layered with something deeper. Oud. A trace of leather. Something warm, something that lingered.

My fingers stilled against the table. I didn’t move. He reached for my hand without asking and gently pulled me to my feet. I turned slightly toward him as he opened the bag and took out a small box, placing it in my hand.

“Yeh kya hai?” I asked quietly. He didn’t answer. Just opened it himself.

Inside was a small attar bottle—simple, clear. He uncapped it and took my wrist again, applying a small amount. His fingers brushed lightly against my skin, the touch brief but enough to be noticed. Then a faint touch against the fabric of my saree, just enough for the scent to stay, and some on my neck just below ears.

Before I could react, he lifted my wrist.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

My breath caught, barely noticeable, but there.

He brought it closer, his face near enough that I could feel it again—his presence, his breath—and for a fleeting second, an uninvited thought crossed my mind, sharp and quick, gone just as fast.

I swallowed it down immediately.

He didn’t do anything else. Didn’t cross the line. Didn’t even come close to it. He simply breathed in, slow and measured, as if deciding something. Then he pulled back, still holding my wrist, tilting it slightly toward me.

“Khushboo theek hai,” he said quietly. “Zyada tez nahi… lekin tikti hai.”

And then he let go.

But my hand didn’t drop right away. It stayed there, slightly raised, as if my body hadn’t caught up yet. I brought it closer slowly, inhaling. Rose—soft, layered with the depth of oud, warm and lingering.

I didn’t realize how long I stood like that until a moment passed, then another.

Only then did I lower my hand. But the scent stayed. On my skin. In the air. Between us. And the room didn’t feel the same anymore.

After he stepped out, I stayed where I was for a moment longer.

Not because I needed to. Just… to steady myself. The scent still lingered faintly on my wrist. I didn’t look at it again. Instead, I turned, picked up my clutch, and made my way out of the room. The hallway felt quieter than usual. Or maybe I was just more aware.

My steps slowed as I reached Labia’s room. The door was slightly open. I pushed it gently and stepped inside.

She was on the bed, surrounded by her things, Sofia beside her, trying—unsuccessfully—to get her to focus on something. Labia looked up the moment she saw me. Her face lit up instantly. “Ammi!”

I smiled despite myself and walked over, sitting beside her. She leaned into me without hesitation, her small hands wrapping around my arm.

“Kya kar rahi ho aap?” I asked softly, brushing her hair back from her face.

“Kuch nahi…” she said, drawing out the words, clearly uninterested in whatever Sofia had been trying to teach her. I glanced at Sofia briefly, who only gave me a tired but understanding look.

“Achha, suno,” I said, turning my attention back to Labia. “Main bahar ja rahi hoon. Aap good girl rahengi na?”

She frowned immediately. “Nahi… aap nahi jao.”

My hand moved to her cheek, gently pressing it. “Thodi der ke liye ja rahi hoon bas. Wapas aaungi.” She didn’t look convinced.

“Mujhe kya laaoge?” she asked suddenly, her tone shifting the way children’s do—quick, curious, bargaining.

I let out a small breath, pretending to think. “Kya chahiye aapko?”

She paused, then said with full certainty— “Ice cream.” I almost laughed.

“Raat ko ice cream?” I raised a brow.

She nodded seriously. “Haan.”

I shook my head lightly, but the smile stayed. “Theek hai. Lekin ek shart hai.”

She leaned closer instantly. “Kya?”

“Doodh piyengi. Poora.” She made a face. I waited. Silence stretched for a second. Then—

“Theek hai…” she muttered, clearly not happy about it.

I smiled, pressing a light kiss to her forehead. “Good.”

She held onto my hand for a moment longer before letting go, still watching me as I stood up.

“Jaldi aana,” she added.

“Hmm,” I nodded. “Jaldi.”

When I stepped outside, the air felt cooler. The evening had settled in. Iqbal was already in the driver’s seat. Of course he was. He didn’t wait around.

I moved toward the car, opening the passenger door and settling in beside him, adjusting the saree slightly as I did. The faint scent of the attar still followed me, mixing with the leather interior of the car.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then, as I turned slightly, my eyes caught something in the back seat. A box. Not large. But not something you’d ignore either. It was placed neatly, like it belonged there. My gaze lingered on it for a second too long. Iqbal noticed. Of course he did.

“Itna khaas nahi hai,” he said, starting the engine without looking at me. “Bas ek dost ke liye hai.”

I didn’t respond immediately. My eyes shifted back to the front.

“Party bhi usi ke liye hai?” I asked after a moment, keeping my tone light.

He gave a small nod. “Haan. Uska function hai.”

Simple.

Limited.

Enough to answer. Not enough to explain.

⸻

The car moved forward.

And I leaned back slightly, my fingers resting lightly in my lap, my mind already shifting again. From the house. To the party. To the people I might meet. The names I had memorised. The faces I had tried to remember. This wasn’t just an evening. It couldn’t be. Not for me.

Beside me, he drove in silence. Controlled, and focused. As if this was just another routine for him. And maybe it was. But for me—

Everything about tonight felt like something else entirely.

The car moved steadily through the evening roads, the city slowly shifting around us as we left the familiarity of the house behind.

I sat quietly beside him, my hands resting in my lap, my gaze fixed somewhere ahead—but not really seeing anything. My mind had already drifted elsewhere.

The party.

The people.

Faces I might recognise.

Names I had gone over again and again, trying to fix them somewhere in my memory. I found myself repeating them silently, not fully, not clearly—just fragments, as if trying to hold onto something that refused to stay still. What if I missed someone important? What if I didn’t recognise them? What if—

“Sab theek hai?” His voice cut through my thoughts, calm but observant.

I blinked, turning slightly toward him. “Hm?”

He glanced at me briefly before looking back at the road. “Aap kaafi khoyi hui lag rahi hain.” I let out a small breath, trying to gather myself.

“Nahi… bas,” I paused, choosing my words carefully, “naye log honge. Aur… shaadi ke baad pehli dafa ghar se bahar nikal rahi hoon.”

It wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth. He nodded slightly, as if that was reason enough. “Hm. Samajh sakta hoon.”

There was a pause. Then, without warning, I felt his hand rest lightly on my thigh. Not sudden. Not forceful. Just… there.

A small squeeze followed, brief but deliberate. “Fikr mat karein,” he said, his tone steady. “Log apne hain. Aur main hoon na.”

I didn’t react immediately. Not outwardly. But something in me tensed for a second before settling again. My hand moved almost instinctively, coming to rest over his. The intention had been simple— to move it away. To create distance. But I didn’t. Instead, my fingers stayed there, lightly over his hand still. It was strange. I was aware of it. And yet— not entirely.

My mind had already pulled away again, slipping back into its own rhythm, its own urgency. The thoughts didn’t come in order anymore. They overlapped, interrupted each other, blurred at the edges.

Names.

Possibilities.

Uncertainties.

There’s something peculiar about the mind when it is overwhelmed.

It chooses.

Not consciously. But selectively.

Out of everything around you—the movement of the car, the faint hum of the engine, the passing lights outside, the quiet shift of fabric, even the warmth where his hand rested—

it lets most of it fade. Not because it isn’t there. But because it cannot hold everything at once.

And in that moment—

I wasn’t holding onto that.

My fingers shifted slightly over his hand, absent-minded, barely noticeable. Not deliberate. Not meaningful. Just… movement. Like a habit. Like something the body does when the mind is elsewhere. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move his hand either.

“Aaj ka function…” I spoke after a while, my voice softer now, more composed, “kisi khaas mauqe ke liye hai?”

He nodded once. “Retirement party hai. Purane dost hain.”

Simple.

As always.

I nodded faintly, my gaze returning to the window. Lights passed by in streaks. Unfamiliar roads. Unfamiliar spaces.

Beside me, his hand was still there. And mine— still resting over it.

But my mind was already ahead of us. At the party. At the entrance. At the faces I had yet to recognise. And the ones I couldn’t afford to miss

They arrived to a place lit far more brightly than the house they had left behind.

Warm lights spilled across the lawn, voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling in waves. It looked like any other gathering from a distance—men in crisp attire, women seated beside them, trays moving between conversations.

But the moment I stepped out of the car, something in me shifted.

Iqbal moved beside me, his presence steady, familiar now in a way I hadn’t expected so soon. His hand rested lightly at my back as we walked in, guiding without asking.

People greeted him first.

Respectfully.

Easily.

And then their attention shifted to me. A few smiles. A few curious glances. “Bhabhi aa gayin,” someone said lightly.

We were seated among a small group not long after.

Adeeb Farooqi sat across from us, exactly as I had imagined—composed, well-spoken, the kind of man who blended into any respectable gathering without effort. He greeted me politely, almost warmly. “Bhabhi, aap se mil ke khushi hui.” His tone was easy. Familiar.

Too familiar.

I nodded slightly, offering a faint smile. The conversation flowed around me at first.

Light.

Almost casual. Stories. Old memories. Laughter.

“Bhabhi, aapko pata hai…” Adeeb leaned forward slightly, a grin tugging at his lips, “hamare zamaane mein jo haal tha na… aaj ke log soch bhi nahi sakte.”

I let my eyes drift across the table, slow, careful—until recognition settled in, one face after another. Zahoor Mistry close friend of Iqbal obvious by their interaction . Mustaq Ahmed Zargar. Ahmed Omar Sheikh. Maulana Masood Azhar.

They weren’t meant to be here. They had been released months before my wedding. And now they sat across from me—like this was nothing.

A few chuckles followed. Another man joined in—

older.

Much older than the rest.

His presence had weight to it, even in silence. A long kurta. A draped shawl over his shoulders. A neatly kept beard, streaked with age.

Maulvi Rashid Kareem.

“Haan bhai,” he said, his voice slower, deeper. “Woh daur hi aur tha.”

Someone laughed. “Rashid sahab, aap ke qisse toh abhi tak mashhoor hain.”

He waved it off, but there was pride in the gesture. “Bas… waqt aur halaat the,” he said. “Kabhi kabhi faisle lene padte hain… logon ko samajh nahi aata.”

The group hummed in agreement. And then— something in his tone shifted. Barely but enough.

“Yaad hai…” he continued, almost as if recalling something amusing, “ek dafa… raat ke waqt gaye the. Ghar bilkul khamosh tha.”

A few leaned in listening, and interested.

“Darwaza khatkhataya… aur phir—” he paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “andar jo hua… subah tak kisi ko khabar nahi hui.”

Laughter.

Low.

Knowing.

Even the wives of men laughed amused by cruelty of these men.

My fingers tightened around the glass in my hand. I didn’t understand it at first. Not consciously. It wasn’t the words. It was something else.

A tone, and a rhythm A familiarity I couldn’t place. The air felt colder suddenly and unnaturally.

Iqbal’s hand was still resting lightly against me, steady, grounding. But for the first time, I didn’t register it. Didn’t feel it the way I had before.

Everything else had gone distant. Muted.

There’s a strange thing the mind does when it’s overwhelmed. It doesn’t take everything in. It chooses.

One thing.

One thread.

And everything else fades into the background—the voices, the movement, the warmth around you. Even your own body feels distant. And in that moment— that voice was all I could hear. My grip tightened further. The glass pressed into my palm.

Too hard.

“…ghar walon ko bhi samajh nahi aata ke kab kya ho gaya,” someone added, laughing softly.

Another voice— “Woh waqt hi kuch aur tha.”

My throat felt dry. The sweetness of the sherbet turned bitter in my mouth.

I leaned slightly toward Iqbal. “Main… washroom ja rahi hoon,” I said quietly.

He turned immediately. Concern flickered, brief but present. “Theek hain? Main—”

I shook my head lightly. “Nahi… main aa jaungi.”

He signaled a waiter instead. “Ladies washroom?”

“Ji sir, seedha phir right.”

I stood carefully slowly. As if nothing was wrong. And walked away.

The moment I stepped inside, I shut the door behind me. The silence hit harder than the noise outside. I moved toward the sink, gripping its edge as I leaned forward. My breathing had changed.

Too fast.

Too shallow.

For a second, I thought I might throw up.

I wanted to.

The bitterness in my mouth sat heavy, unmoving. But nothing came. I spat into the sink instead. Turned the tap on briefly. Then off. I couldn’t wash my face. Didn’t want to. Didn’t trust myself to look up— but I did.

My reflection stared back at me. Still composed. Still intact But my eyes— they didn’t feel like mine for a second. A thought slipped in sharp, and unwelcome.

I can’t do this.

My grip tightened against the sink.

No.

I have to.

The words came steadier this time not louder.

Just firmer.

I straightened slowly, rubbing my hands over my arms as a shiver ran through me. It wasn’t cold. I knew it wasn’t. But my body didn’t agree.

I stayed there for a few more seconds.

Breathing. Forcing it to slow. Then I stepped out. On my way back, my steps faltered slightly. Just enough. A hand caught my arm before I could stumble.

“Dekhiye—” I looked up. A man stood in front of me.

Unfamiliar.

But the way he looked at me— felt like he knew something.

“Maaf karien,” I said quickly, pulling my arm back.

He shook his head lightly. “Koi baat nahi.”

A pause.

Then, with a faint smile— “Bhabhi… theek hain aap?”

The word settled strangely. Too familiar. Too certain.

“Main theek hoon” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly.

He nodded. “Hum log bhi udhar hi ja rahe hain.”

I didn’t respond. Just gave a small nod and moved past him.

By the time I returned, nothing had changed. The same laughter. The same voices. Iqbal was seated the way I had left him, his arm resting along the back of the couch.

Waiting.

The moment I sat beside him, his hand moved automatically. Sliding from the back of the couch to rest over my shoulder. Pulling me slightly closer. Not forceful but unmistakable. A gesture clear, and claiming. And this time— I didn’t pull away.

Adeeb leaned back slightly, a grin playing on his lips as he glanced toward Iqbal.

“Waise, Iqbal…” he said, tone teasing yet edged with something more, “aap jaisa aadmi kam hota hai. Bilkul sach mein—poore ke poore Pakistani.”

A few men around them nodded, amused. “Bilkul,” another added, “aisa jazba har kisi mein nahi hota.”

Iqbal let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head lightly. “Bas rehne dein,” he said, dismissive but not entirely denying it.

“Arre nahi,” Adeeb continued, leaning forward now, his eyes flicking briefly toward me before returning to Iqbal, “aap jo karte hain… woh har kisi ke bas ki baat nahi hoti.”

The older man—Rashid Kareem—gave a low hum of agreement. “Sach keh raha hai,” he added. “Apne mulk ke liye jo khara utarta hai… wahi asal mein kaabil hota hai.”

Iqbal didn’t respond this time. Just a faint smile. Measured. Adeeb’s attention shifted back to me.

“Bhabhi,” he said lightly, almost warmly, “aapko shayad pata nahi hoga…”

A small pause. Then a softer chuckle.

“Bahar se jitne sakht lagte hain na yeh…” he gestured toward Iqbal, “andar se utne hi… khayal rakhne wale hain.” A few knowing smiles passed between the men.

“Apni cheezon ka toh khaas khayal rakhte hain,” Zahoor Mistry added with a smirk.

A ripple of quiet laughter followed. Iqbal only shook his head slightly, still smiling, but said nothing. And somehow— that made it worse

My gaze drifted across the table, lingering just a second longer on each face.

There were so many people here—people I did not know, had never met.

And yet, I knew them.

Not their voices. Not their mannerisms. Only their names. Only what they had done. Only what I had read. I had seen them in files.

In reports.

In pages that never felt real—until now. And suddenly, sitting here among them— it all felt too close. Too real.

Iqbal was one of them. I knew that. I had always known that. But in that moment— he was the only one who didn’t feel unfamiliar. The thought came quietly.

Uninvited.

And it felt wrong. Like I was standing on the edge of something I wasn’t supposed to feel. Not betrayal. Not yet. But something close enough to make my chest tighten. So I stayed still. Said nothing. Did nothing. And let the feeling pass through me— even when I knew it shouldn’t.

For the rest of the evening, I didn’t drift. Didn’t lean away. Didn’t even try to create space between us.

Iqbal’s presence stayed constant beside me—his arm resting just behind, close enough that I could feel it without looking.

At times, his fingers would brush lightly against mine. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for me to. And I didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t react. If anything— I became more aware of it. Of him.

Every now and then, his thumb would graze the back of my hand, slow, absent-minded almost, as if it wasn’t something he was thinking about. As if it came naturally. And I let it stay.

The conversation around us continued—voices rising, laughter following—but I remained where I was, grounded in that small, quiet proximity.

It shouldn’t have felt like comfort. But in that moment— it did.

The drive back was quieter than the evening we had left behind.

The noise still lingered somewhere in my head—the laughter, the voices, the way they spoke as if none of it meant anything. I stared ahead, but I wasn’t really looking.

“Janta hoon…” his voice came after a while, calm, steady, “aaj ki mehfil… aap ke liye thodi zyada thi.”

I didn’t answer. My fingers rested in my lap, still, unmoving.

“Un logon ki baatein,” he continued, tone even, “har kisi ko aasaan nahi lagti.”

“Main theek hoon,” I said quietly. Too quickly. He didn’t argue.

Just hummed softly, as if he understood more than I was saying. “Aap nayi hain abhi,” he said after a pause, eyes still on the road. “Itna sab ek saath dekhna… lazmi nahi hota.”

The car slowed as we entered the house parking. The engine went still. But he didn’t move. For a moment, neither did I.

“Mujhko nahi pasand,” he said then, his voice lower now, “ke kaam… meri zindagi ke har hissa mein aa jaye.”

I turned to look at him.

“Har cheez ki ek hadd hoti hai,” he added. “Aur main nahi chahta ke aap us mein uljhein.” His hand reached for mine.

Slow, and deliberate.

His thumb brushed over the back of my hand, once… then again, as if trying to ease something without saying it.

“Aapko fikr karne ki zarurat nahi hai,” he said quietly.

For a second, I forgot everything else.

Before I could respond, he lifted my hand slightly and pressed a brief kiss against it. And then he let go. “Chaliye,” he said simply, stepping out of the car. I followed, the quiet still sitting heavy inside me.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

Not really.

I lay still, eyes closed at times, open at others—but sleep never settled. It came close, just enough for me to feel it, and then slipped away again. My mind refused to quiet. The voices from earlier lingered. Fragments of conversation. Laughter that didn’t feel right anymore. And then—

him.

Maulvi Rashid Kareem.

I couldn’t place it. No matter how many times I tried. It wasn’t just what he said. Not just the way he spoke. Something about him felt… familiar. The thought came and went.

Again.

And again.

I turned slightly, pulling the covers closer without thinking.

Why?

I didn’t have an answer. And sometime between those thoughts and the silence around me— morning came without me ever truly falling asleep.

⸻

Later that night, long after the gathering had thinned and the lights had dimmed, another conversation carried on elsewhere.

Adeeb Farooqi’s house was quieter.

Dimly lit.

A bottle rested open between them, glasses half-filled, untouched for longer than they should have been.

Adeeb leaned back, one arm resting lazily over the back of the sofa, his gaze distant for a moment before it sharpened again.

“Kuch toh baat hai usme,” he said finally.

Rashid Kareem didn’t respond immediately. He took a slow sip, eyes narrowing slightly as if replaying the evening in his head.

“Kis ki baat kar rahe ho?” he asked, though he already knew.

“Iqbal ki biwi,” Adeeb said, almost casually—but there was something beneath it. “Bhabhi ji.”

A pause. Then, quieter— “Us mein kuch hai.”

Rashid let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Bhencho khoon toh us mein Hindustani hi hai,” he said, setting his glass down with a faint clink.

Adeeb’s brow lifted slightly. “agar waqai aisa hai to…” he tilted his head, “phir Iqbal ne us se nikkah kyun kiya?”

Rashid scoffed, leaning back. “Chadha hai,” he muttered, dismissive. “Kehta hai Kashmir ke liye kiya hai… apne liye kara hai us chutiye ne.” He adds “Apna matlab nikaalne ke liye.” [Chadha means someone who is unable to get married it has cha sound okie?)

Adeeb hummed at that, considering it. “Kahir…” he said after a moment, swirling the drink in his glass, “Iqbal miya kaam toh theek kar lete hain.”

Rashid let out a short, dry laugh. “Kaam?” he repeated. “Tum zyada hi bharosa karte ho uspe.” He shook his head slightly. “Na woh, na uska baap… dono bas bakchodi karte hai uska baap toh had se zyada Iqbal fir bhi apne baap par nhi gaya magar mujhko dono nahi pasand.”

Silence stretched for a moment. Adeeb’s gaze drifted again—this time slower thoughtful. He knew Rashid’s was only confident to express his jealousy now that he was alone and drunk. The sole reason he despised Iqbal was because Iqbal had more influence than Rashid could ever have.

“Lekin…” Adeeb stated, almost as an afterthought, a faint smile playing at his lips, “biwi buri nahi hai uski.”

Rashid glanced at him briefly.

“Masoom lagti hai,” Adeeb continued, tone lighter now—but not entirely harmless. “Aur…” a pause, deliberate, “dekhne mein bhi.”

Rashid didn’t smile.

Didn’t react much at all.

Just watched him for a second longer than necessary. The air shifted slightly after that. And somewhere in that silence— something unspoken settled between them.

[Next Part]

Finally completed this hope you all enjoy reading

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