Mr. Eiffel Tower | Uzair Baloch (1)
☁️ pairing : uzair baloch x fem!reader.
☁️ summary : a chance encounter, a very angry you and a very smitten uzair baloch.
☁️ warnings : abusive language, violence, mentions of blood and injuries, hamza in this story is not a spy, he's a gangster working for rehman like everyone else.
☁️ disclsimer : the character of uzair baloch in this story is a fictionalized version, inspired by the portrayal of danish 'pookie' pandor in dhurandhar. this work of fiction is not about the real uzair baloch involved in 26/11 and does not glorify or romanticizes him.
☁️ wc : 10k.
☁️ a/n : hello my dearest gentle readers! 💕 the author is back with another fic on the man who's taken over her life. 🤧🥰 thank you, thank you, thank you for all the love you've given to crimson vows, im so grateful to have received so much love for that little fic of mine, thank you so much and I love you all. happy reading, do like, reblog and leave your precious feedback. 🥰❤️
☁️ if anyone wants to be tagged for the further updates, please let me know 🫶🏼
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》 Masterlist
1.
The Walimah is in full swing, crystal chandeliers scattered gold across the ceiling, catching on the sequins and the zari thread stitched into hundreds of outfits, every surface seemed to shimmer, the air was heavy with the sweetness of rosewater and cardamom layered with the smoky warmth of kebabs still sizzling somewhere behind the drapes.
Music rolled through the hall in waves, first the steady, insistent beat of the DJ, then laughter, then the high ululation of women greeting one another across the room, aunties, khalas and phuppo’s in jewel-toned sarees, embroidered shalwar kameez, anarkalis and shararas leaned in for kisses, their bangles jingling softly as they adjusted dupattas and whispered commentary, someone’s heels clicked across the floor; a child darted past, precariously balancing a plate of desserts in one hand and a glass of his favourite pineapple smoothie with those cute little umbrella straws in the other.
The stage is dressed like a dream of indulgence, velvet sofas, matching silk curtains, cascades of fresh flowers, jasmine and roses packed so tightly they looked unreal, guests lined up to greet the couple, each interaction its own small performance, hands clasped, cheeks kissed, blessings murmured, jokes cracked, the bride’s smile never faltered, though her wrist must have ached from the weight of her bangles, also her face from the endless choreography of smiles and gratitude.
And in the middle of it all, you darted around, from guest to guest, your wrists aching as well, not from the weight of the gold bangles but from the heavy tray of beverages in your hand.
“Bibi, Aapka Juice.” You speak, leaning down slightly to her eye level, that polite professional mask of calm never leaving your face even though on the inside, you wanted to pour the whole thing down her head and watch her pudgy face growing red with anger and humiliation.
(Madam, your juice.)
The lady, Mrs Shamim as you knew her, turns in the middle of a conversation, eyes the bright coloured glass with distaste and then looks back at you.
“Bilkul waise hi banaya haina, jaisa maine kahaa tha?”
(Did you make it exactly as I said?)
“Ji.” (Yes.) You reply, barely resisting the urge to roll your eyes.
“Yeh Aalam bhai bhi naa, baar baar inko samajhana parta hai aur toh aur dukaan par mulaazim bhi aise rakhey hai ki inko bolo kuch aur yeh jaakar unko batatey hai kuch.” She takes the glass, “Ab bhai, mujhe apna juice thoda alag tareeke se pasand hai, ek baar bataa diya phir bhi galtiyaan kar rahein hai.”
(This Aalam Bhai too, I have to explain it to him again and again and the employees at the shop are also such that you tell them something and they go and tell him something entirely different. Now, I like my juice a little differently, I told them once and they are still making mistakes.)
“Itna hi hai toh apney ghar mein hi juice ki dukaan khol lo naa aur apne uss awaara shauhar ko kaam par laga do, allah allah karne ki umr mein auraton ko taadta aur cherta phirta hai.” You mutter under your breath as your patience wears thin.
(If that's all you have to do, open a juice shop in your house and put your vagabond husband to work, at the age of praying god's name, he roams around teasing and harassing women.)
“Kuch kahaa tumne?” Mrs Shamim raises an utterly fake eyebrow.
(Did you say something?)
“Ji nahi, main toh bas yeh keh rahi thi ki umeed hai ki aapko juice munasib laga hoga, 7 baar badalwane ke baad.”
(No, I was just saying that I hope you found the juice to be good, after changing it 7 times.)
There it is, that pudgy face of hers going red at the sharp sarcasm in your voice and she opens her mouth to retort but you are quicker as you walk away, pretending that another guest called you.
Aalam looks at you with a knowing smile when you come back to the counter with the empty tray to catch a breath.
“Kya ho gaya?” He asks, his tone warm and brotherly, “Phir se Mrs Shamim ka masla?”
(What happened? Again the issue of Mrs Shamim?)
“Aur kaun hoga?” You roll your eyes, not concealing the irritation that flashes across your face, “mujhe apna juice thoda alag tareeke se pasand hai.” Aalam laughs as you imitate her.
(Who else will it be?)
“Pataa nahi Aalam bhai aap inko bardasht kaise kartey ho? Mujhe toh yeh aur unka woh nikamma kameena shauhar dono hi zeher lagtey hain.”
(I don't know, Aalam Bhai, how do you tolerate her? I find both her and her useless, bastard husband to be insufferable.)
“Khair, zeher toh mujhe bhi lagtey hain par kya karein kaam hai toh karna padega, customer hai toh jhelna padega.” He sighs, taking off his glasses and wiping them with the hem of his shirt, “Par bitiya aise apna jee kharaab nahi kartey, yahaan kaam khatam karkey hum dono noon chai peene chalengey, theek hai?”
(Well, I also find them insufferable but what can we do? We have to work, they are customers so we have to bear it.
(But daughter, let's not spoil our mood like this, after finishing the work here, both of us will go for salty tea okay?)
You brightened up at the mention of your favorite drink but still pouted a bit, “theek hai, par sirf aapke liye, warna inn donon ki main ek minute mein aqal theek kar doon!” The tray is filled with drinks again as you leave the counter, calling after you.
(Okay, but only for you, otherwise I would've set these two guys straight in a minute!)
“Haan haan meri maa, jaanta hoon.” Aalam chuckles, shaking his head fondly.
(Yes, yes, my mother, I know.)
Life has never been kind to you, you lost your mother the moment you were born, your dad couldn't care less about his dead wife or his new born daughter, when you came to Lyari, wanting to start all over again, you had nothing, except a bag of clothes and some money that you had managed to save from the clutches of your drunkard father who would sell you for a bottle of liquor if he had to, your first night here, you were already running for your life, for your dignity from babu dakait's men and it was then when Aalam opened his doors for you, gave you a job at his juice store with a steady reasonable income, helped you in getting a room on rent to stay, for his shop wasn't an ideal place for a woman to live in.
And now here you are, a year and a half later, happy and not exactly swimming in money but content, away from your alcoholic father, away from the debtors that kept threatening you day and night for their money that he had borrowed for gambling, away from the fear that your own father will marry you off or sell you off the moment anyone offers him a wad of cash or a bottle of alcohol.
A boy of around 11-12 suddenly comes running up to you and takes the glass of strawberry milkshake from the tray with such force that the other glasses threatened to spill and crash to the ground, when another boy, this one a bit older than him, around 17-18, smacks him on the head, chides him for being so careless and points out what he was just about to do. The younger one looks up at you, his big eyes all soft and sincere as he apologizes and you smile, ruffling his hair fondly, accepting his apology.
They leave and you're just about to go serve the guests again when you feel the air thrum with eerie silence, like the calm before the storm, the hair on the back of your neck rises in subtle warning and as much as you want to shake off this feeling of dread gnawing in the pit of your stomach, you can't, you just can't.
You look towards the entrance and your stomach drops when you spot three of Babu Dakait's men casually sauntering in like they own the place, especially the most notorious among them, that motherfucker lulli and as if he's reading your thoughts, his eyes met yours, that dirty disgusting grin spreading wide across his face before the fucker and the two of his companions take out their concealed guns and start firing towards those two boys whom you've just met.
Ramba Ho-Ho, Ho Ho
Samba Ho-Ho, Ho Ho
Screams erupt amongst the guests as everyone scatters to save their lives, but some aren't lucky as they are gunned down by Babu Dakait's men, the air that till now was laden with the sweet scent of roses and the smokey zing of kebabs now smelled of sharp scent of gunpowder and the nauseating metallic tang of blood.
Grabbing hold of the younger boy who just happened to be in direct line of fire, you duck down behind one of the fallen tables, holding him close as he trembles in your arms, tears of fear stream down his cheeks and he flinches in horror when some bullets fly past you both, you shake your head in a meek attempt to console him, your own heart beats like a war drum in your chest while you clamp both of your hands over his ears to help him drown out the terrifying sound of gunshots.
Peeking slightly above the table, you find Aalam hiding safely behind the counter and the guards that came with the two boys fending off the attacks by Babu’s men while the elder one is hiding behind one of those gaudy wedding showpieces, however one of them drops dead right before your own eyes and the young boy stares at the body of the fallen guard in horror, realization hitting him that his security is compromised completely.
“Aalam Bhai!” You call him over the sounds of horrified screams and gunshots, “Aalam Bhai idhar aayein, jaldi!”
(Aalam Bhai, come here quickly!)
The middle aged man vaults over the counter, efficiently shielding himself from the onslaught of bullets and is next to you, that instant, “Aap bacchey ko sambhalein, main inke bhai ko dekhti hoon.”
(You take care of the child, I'll look after his brother.)
“Aapi..” The little boy's eyes are filled with tears as they silently beg you to not leave him alone, his voice cracking from fear as his small hands clutch at the sleeves of your kameez.
(Sister..)
“Beta, main yahin hoon, Aalam bhai haina aapke paas woh aapko kuch nahi hone dange, main bas aapke bhai ke paas jaa rahi hoon, woh bilkul akeley parr gayein hain.” You console him lovingly as he finally nods and then lets you go.
(Beta, I am right here, Aalam bhai is with you, he will not let anything happen to you, I am just going to your brother, he is completely alone.)
“Mera bahadur baccha.” You lovingly ruffle his hair and then silently gesture Aalam to take care of him, who nods, holding the little boy close to himself.
(My brave child.)
Ducking and hiding, you somehow manage to reach the elder brother's hiding place which seems more compromised by the second as the last armed guard struggled with his aim from the injuries and it won't be long before he succumbed to them, something had to be done, quick.
“Phone hai aapke paas?” You speak, loud enough to hear over the deafening shots.
(Do you have a phone?)
The young boy nods, his hands trembling as he fishes out a blackberry from the pocket of his kurta, you hit a call on the first last called number, a pool of dread forming in your stomach with each ring that goes unanswered.
When the line connects, you sigh in relief and speak loudly, almost screaming into the speaker before the person on the other end could get a word in, “Main walimey se bol rahi hoon, yahaan goliyaan chal rahi hai aur dono bacchon ki jaano ko khatra hai, aap log please jaldi yahaan aa jayein, JALDI!!”
(I am calling from the reception, there is firing going on here and the lives of both the children are in danger, please come here quickly, quickly!!)
You can hear shouting on the other end of the line before the line goes dead as you're giving the boy his phone back, you notice his gaze drifting over to the small opening at the side which the guests who were fortunate enough to live had used as an escape route, you can practically see the gears turning in his young mind as he's about to bolt but your hand shoots out to hold him in place, firmly.
“Yeh aap kya kar rahein hain? Issey aapki jaan ko aur zyaada khatra hai miyaan! Hum jab tak chhupey hue hain mehfooz hain, agar hum abhi niklein toh pakka unki goliyon ka shikaar ho jayenge!”
(What are you doing? This puts your life in even greater danger, Miyaan! As long as we're hidden, we're safe. If we come out now, we'll surely fall prey to their bullets.)
And like you predicted, one of the men saw him, half hiding behind the showpiece and starts firing a whole round of bullets as you roughly pull the boy out of way of danger, a gash forming against your wrist from the sharp end of the metal of the showpiece, but that's not what startles you rather your fingers that were wrapped around the boy's arm comes away wet and soaked with blood, a horrifying realization dawning on you that the young boy has been shot.
Immediately, you pull off your dupatta from your head and firmly tie it around the wound to apply direct pressure to stop the bleeding, you pull out his phone again and call the ambulance, giving them the details about your whereabouts, your voice shaky but firm and as you end the call, you could hear thundering of boots and the ground shaking from the impact before another round of firing starts again.
Pulling the boy closer, you wrap your arm around his shoulder for support, apply pressure on the gunshot wound with your other hand and urge him to keep his eyes open while praying for the ambulance to arrive faster, when you finally hear the sirens in the distance, you let out a sigh of relief that you didn't know you had been holding in, the boy looked pale but thankfully he is still awake, alive and breathing, not to mention, the blood loss wasn't too severe too.
Carefully, you peek your head out from your hiding place just in time to see Babu’s men rushing out of the venue and that fucker Lulli limping after being shot, Aalam comes over, picking up the young boy in his arms, calling out to the other armed men about him being injured as the ambulance lines up at the entrance, the little boy rushes over to you, wraps his arms around you, sobbing and you embrace him, thankful that the ordeal has passed, you also check him for injuries and he has none, holding his hand, you both follow Aalam who's holding his injured brother in his arms to the ambulance.
The hospital waiting room felt too small for all the worry it held, fluorescent lights hummed overhead washing the pale walls in a tired glow, a small television mounted in the corner played a drama series no one was really watching, the sharp scent of disinfectant lingered in the air, when you and Aalam had climbed into the ambulance with the two boys along with a few more men, it was then revealed that they belonged to Rehman Baloch/Dakait's gang, the boy injured is his elder son Naieem Baloch while the little one who is now peacefully asleep with his head in your lap, his legs stretched across the rest of the hospital seats, after crying himself to sleep is his younger son, Faizal Baloch.
Naieem was immediately rushed to the ER and after a grueling hour, the doctor had conveyed the news that the boy was fine and out of danger, the bullet had just grazed his arm and thankfully there weren't any major injuries or excessive blood loss, thanks to your quick thinking back at the reception, his wound has been cleaned, dressed and Naieem would be at the hospital for one night for observation, come morning, he will be discharged and they can take him home.
The ticking of the clock felt loud, too loud against the quiet of the waiting room as you sat on one of those stiff chairs, gently running your fingers through Faizal's hair while Aalam stood in a corner, waiting, an old bulb flickered before sputtering and going off as the doors to the waiting room are pulled open, the sound screeching against the old floor.
And the whole atmosphere shifts, a draft slips in first, cool and deliberate brushing the back of every neck, even the annoying ceiling fan seemed to turn quieter, like it knew better, the air felt heavier now, tighter, like the walls had leaned in to listen and in walked Rehman Dakait – The Man, The Myth, flanked by his most trusted circle of men.
You identify them vaguely, from the times they've visited the juice shop, but you immediately recognize the one walking right behind him from those huge hoardings you've seen across Lyari, Uzair Baloch – Rehman’s cousin and the right hand of the most powerful man in Lyari. And as if sensing your thoughts, Uzair turns to look at you.
The moment freezes as if the world around you is shrouded in a blanket of peaceful oblivion when your eyes meet his, you heart beats a little louder in your chest to the point that you can hear it echoing in the silence of the small waiting room and you're very sure Uzair can hear it too, his eyes that till now were narrowed slightly in suspicion or vigilance or both, soften when he takes in your disheveled state and a peacefully sleeping Faizal in your lap.
He whispers something to Rehman, who turns to look at you briefly and you lower your eyes out of respect for The King Of Lyari, The Sher-e-Baloch before they walk past you to the ER to meet Naieem.
By the time, Rehman and Uzair walk out into the waiting room, Faizal is awake, he runs to his father the moment he sees him and Rehman opens his arms wide, hugging his jigar ka tukda close, silent tears streaming down his face as he looks above and lets out a quiet prayer of gratitude and thankfulness to the almighty, for keeping both of his sons safe.
Your heart warms at the sight, for the world, Rehman Dakait might be the infamous gangster, the king of lyari, the guiding light and the leader of the baloch's but for his son, he was just his abbu.
Faizal then is animatedly telling him something, pointing at you and every gaze turns towards you, making you shrink further in the chair under the weight of it, you stand up as Rehman, Uzair and their men approach you, Aalam bhai comes to stand next to you as well like the supportive, protective brother he is since the day he took you in and you smile gratefully at him which he reciprocates.
“Kya yeh mere bete ka khoon hai?” Rehman asks, referring to the stains of blood of your pristine cream coloured kameez as he puts a cigarette between his lips and flicks the lighter on.
(Is this my son's blood?)
“Ji.” You nod.
(Yes.)
“Rehman Sahab, meri hi dukaan mein kaam karti hai, bitiya ne apni samajhadaari aur bahaduri se Naieem miyan aur Faisal miyan dono ki jaanein bachayi hai.” Aalam speaks up as Rehman lights his cigarette.
(Rehman Sahab, she works in my shop. With her intelligence and bravery, my daughter has saved the lives of both Naieem and Faisal.)
When Uzair Baloch steps up to you, the posters across Lyari didn't do him full justice, they don't capture the regal aura he possesses, they don't capture the way his balochi kurtas accentuate his greek god built, they don't capture the soft brown of his eyes– WAIT. WHAT?
“Kitney ladkey the?” Uzair asks as you look up at him, his tall frame towering over you, you aren't tiny in any way and yet, the younger baloch looms over you like a thunderstorm rolling over a calm ocean.
(How many boys were there?)
“Teen.” You reply, “Maaf kijiyega, mujhe bandookon ki malumaat nahi hai warna aapko bataa deti ki unke hathiyar kaise thhe.”
(Three. Sorry, I don't know anything about guns, otherwise I would have told you what their weapons were like.)
“Pehchaan payengi unn teeno ko aap, bibi?” Another man, bald and built like a truck asks you from behind Uzair.
(Will you be able to identify all three of them, madam?)
But before you could answer, the waiting room doors open again with a screech as a stout, pudgy man whom you recognize as Jameel Jamali enters barefoot, wailing.
“Ya Allah! Ya Allah! Yeh kya hogaya? Yeh kya hogaya? Oye mere maula, oye! oye! oye! Yeh kya kar diya tune??” He signals the armed men following him to stop as he rushes forward, one of Rehman’s men meets him halfway so that he could be ushered to Naieem's hospital room.
(O Allah! O Allah! What has happened? What has happened? Oh my Lord, oh! oh! oh! what have you done)
His reaction amuses you, because why is wailing like a banshee when Naieem is safe and sound, just a bit injured?
“Jaise mujhe khabar mili, main khuda kasam nangey paoon dauda chala aaya!”
(As soon as I got the news, I swear to God that I came running barefoot.)
Jameel Jamali literally pushes Aalam to the side as he goes in to hug Rehman, wrapping his arms around the elder baloch, who stands still with his arms by his side, “Rehman! Yeh kya hogaya? Yeh kya hogaya?” He wails further, dropping a kiss on his shoulder. “Khuda mere nawasey ko jannat naseeb karey!”
(Rehman! How could this happen? How could this happen? May God grant my grandson heaven.)
And you had had enough.
“Itna over hone ki zaroorat nahi hai, Naieem zinda hai, sahi salaamat hai, goli bas usse choo kar guzri hai, aap toh aise rona ro rahey hain jaise bacchey ki fielding set ho gayi ho!” You speak, thoroughly annoyed by the politician's overacting.
(There is no need for going so overboard, Naieem is alive and safe, the bullet just grazed him, you are crying as if the child is dead and buried 6 feet under!)
Aalam mentally facepalms himself while Rehman, Uzair and the rest of their men look at you, stunned, even Jamali didn't expect that retort as he too looks at you, taken aback.
“Kahaan hai woh? Mujhe le chalo uske paas.” The politician says after a few beats of pins drop silence.
(Where is he? Take me to him.)
“Aaiye, iss taraf.” Rehman’s man leads him away.
(Come with me, this way please.)
“Saale Babu Dakait haraami, tere nunu mein paani bhar jaye dalle, election ho jaye main teri gaand maar dunga, behenchod!”Jamali leaves with him, his overdramatic ass still yapping.
(Babu Dakait, you scoundrel, I'm going to bust your balls, just wait till the elections are over, I'll make your life a living hell!)
“Suar Jamali.” You mutter under your breath but still loud enough for everyone present to hear.
(Pig Jamali.)
Aalam mentally facepalms again and even nudges you gently to keep quiet but when did you ever listen to him? You look at him, confused as you mouth, “Kyaaa??”
(What??)
He gestures to you to be quiet by putting a finger on his lips to which you roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him.
Rehman looks between the two of you amused, the two men standing behind him– the bald one who's built like a truck and the other one, who looks like he will be auditioning for the Clinic Plus shampoo commercial with those long healthy locks of hair tied into a man bun and with biceps that could crush skulls are trying not to laugh out loud while there's a hint of smile on Uzair's face which he controls as he talks to you again.
“Kahaan se hain aap?” He asks.
(Where are you from?)
“Saddar.” You answer, “1.5 saal pehle Lyari aayi thi, kaam ki talaash mein.”
(Saddar. I came to Lyari 1.5 years ago in search of work.)
“Aur koi hai rishtey mein?”
(Anyone else in your family?)
“Paida hotey hi Ammi ka inteqaal ho gaya tha, Abba hain, par mera unse pichle 1.5 saal se koi raabta nahi hai, kyunki woh nihayti kamzarf, sharaabi aur juari aadmi hain, main unse koi vaasta nahi rakhna chahti.”
(My mother passed away as soon as I was born, I have a father, but I have had no contact with him for the last 1.5 years, because he is a lowlife, an alcoholic and a gambler, I do not want to have any connection with him.)
“Aap rehti kahaan hain?” The clinic plus shampoo commercial guy asks.
(Where do you live?)
“Aalam bhai ki dukaan se 2 gali chorr kar, ek kiraaye ke kamrey mein.”
(2 streets away from Aalam Bhai's shop, in a rented room.)
“Naam?” Uzair asks.
You tell him your name.
“Dongey.” Uzair speaks to the bald, built like a truck guy.
“Ji bhai?” He answers.
Rehman has seated himself on one of the hospital chairs beside Faizal, who looks like he would doze off again any second now and The King Of Lyari gently guides his son's head to his shoulder and drops a kiss on his head, asking him to sleep.
“Inhey 2 lakh de, Naieem aur Faizal dono ki jaan bachayi hai inhone.”
That feeling that you were feeling for him? all soft and mushy like a flower turning towards the sun? Yeah, that very same one goes right down the drain as soon as Uzair utters those words.
The Hell Is Wrong With This Guy?
“Mujhe paise nahin chahiye!” You snap, so sharp that the right hand man of the most powerful man of lyari turns to look back and takes a step towards you again.
(I don't want money!)
“Kya? Kya bola aapne?” Uzair asks, his voice firm with an edge of steel.
(What? What did you say?)
“Wahi jo aapne sunna, mujhe paise nahin chahiye!” You snap back once again looking right into his eyes, your chin lifted, your back straight, “Aapne kya samajh ke rakha hai mujhe? Garib hoon toh meri koi izzat-e-nafs, koi gairat, koi tauqiir-e-zaat hai hi nahin? Aap logon ne toh har kaam ki qeemat rakhi huyi haina? Jab chaha munh pe paise marr ke chalein gayein!”
(What you heard, I don't want money! What do you think of me? I'm poor, so I have no self-respect, no self-esteem, no identity? You guys have put a price on every work we do, right? Whenever you want, you just throw money in our faces and leave!)
“Bitiya, aise gussa nahi kartey, Uzair Miyan ki baat ka woh matlab nahi tha.” Aalam tries to console you.
(Daughter, don't get angry like this, that was not what Uzair meant.)
“Arrey chorrein Aalam bhai, bohot acche se jaanti hoon main ki inki baaton ka kya matlab tha! Dekhein, maine unn donon bacchon ki jaan bachayi kyunki woh mera farz tha ek insaan hone ke naate, insaaniyat ke naate, main unhe yoon maut ke munh mein akela nahi chorr sakti thi, Naieem aur Faizal dono sahi salaamat hai issey badhkar mere liye aur kuch bhi nahi hai, main kissi ki jaan bachaney ki qeemat nahi le sakti, mujhe upar jaakar allah ko munh bhi dikhana hai.”
(Leave it Aalam Bhai, I know very well what they meant! Look, I saved the lives of those two children because it was my duty as a human being, as a matter of humanity, I could not leave them alone in the jaws of death like that, Naieem and Faizal both are safe and sound, nothing matters more for me than that, I cannot put a price on saving anyone's life, I have to go up and show my face to Allah too.)
The next few seconds following your outburst are complete and absolute silence, Rehman and the rest of his men look at you with a new found respect along with the gratitude they already had while the man you had poured down upon like an unexpected shower, stands there– completely mesmerized?? WHAT??
Uzair Baloch is a man of few words and particular interests, when he's not running Lyari with his cousin, he loves playing football with his gang and his nephews, loves spending time with his family, loves enjoying a glass of fine scotch with his brother and his mates, loves reading urdu poetry and has a penchant for singing (sometimes, mostly when his heart wills or during a special occasion) the women of lyari will testify that though that man is breathtakingly gorgeous, he keeps his heart under locks and keys owing to the dangerous nature of his profession.
But now when he sees you, your hair disheveled, flyaway locks framing your face, the pure cream of your kurta stained with blood all over, your beautiful eyes held a fire that refuses to be tamed as you stare down at him unafraid, unapologetic, something unexpected happens, something that hasn't happened to him in a long, long time, his heart skipped a beat.
As if the first lock that's holding his heart in, snaps into two.
“Aap theek toh hain?” You ask cautiously.
(Are you okay?)
“Aap jo mil gayi hain mujhe, ab toh main theek ho hi jaunga!”
(Now that I have found you, I'll be alright.)
“Ji?” (Yes?)
The clinic plus shampoo commercial man clears his throat, grinning from ear to ear.
“Mera matlab hai ki, ji main theek hoon.” Uzair recovers immediately.
(I mean, yeah, I'm fine.)
You narrow your eyes at him because there's no way you're buying that he just said that he's okay, there was definitely more than what he let on but you could not hear it because he was mumbling.
“Haan toh– toh, main bas yeh keh rahi thi ki mujhe kissi ki jaan bachaney ki qeemat nahi chahiye.” You speak, your tone is a bit softer now.
(Yes, so- so, I was just saying that I don't want any price for saving someone's life.)
Uzair nods, “Inka khyaal rakho.”
(Take care of her.)
Donga nods, “Ji.”
(Okay.)
The waiting room doors open again, the screech of them grating on everyone's nerves, everyone turns towards the entrance and you hear Donga mutter under his breath, “Bhabhi Dakaitan.”
A beautiful woman walks in, dressed in a butter yellow sequined anarkali, Aisha Baloch – the queen of Rehman’s heart and of the Baloch Stronghold is a vision, her eyes are lined with tears, red rimmed and puffy but her steps are steady, her face is unreadable but the relief of both of her sons being safe and sound from the whole ordeal shines in her eyes, she heads straight towards her husband who immediately stands up, after gently lying down a sleeping Faizal.
“Meri Jaan.” Rehman says softly, cupping her face between his palms and that's where she breaks, the mother who has been worried sick for her children, the wife whose heart stops even if she thinks about the possibility of her husband being the target of that attack had he been present instead of Naieem and Faizal.
Aisha cries in her husband’s arms, her tears soaking into his black kurta, her arms wrapping around the love of her life while Rehman holds her like he's holding the most delicate flower in his hands.
“Meri Jaan Hai Tu.” Rehman whispers lovingly, his face buried in her hairs.
You witness their beautiful moment of togetherness : so in love even after so many years of being married with a soft fond smile on your face and then turn away to give them some privacy as Rehman leads his jaan to their son's hospital room.
A sweet ache rises in your chest. Oh, how you've longed for a love like that when you were naive enough to believe that everyone is as lucky in love as some people are, you're definitely not one of them and you know you'll never be.
“Bhabhi theek hain bhai?” Uzair asks once Rehman walks out of the hospital room.
(Is Bhabhi fine, bhai?)
Rehman nods, taking a drag of his cigarette, “Abhi woh kuch derr yahi rukegi, Naieem ke paas. Uzair mujhe jaanna hai ki kis madarchod ki itni himmat badh gayi hai ki usney bhari mehfil mein, itne logon ke beech, kaayaron ki tarah mere bacchon par hamla kiya?”
(She will stay here for a while with Naieem. Uzair, I want to know which motherfucker has the courage to attack my children like a coward in a crowded gathering in front of so many people?)
“Main jaanti hoon Rehman Bhai.” You answer, walking closer to them, “Woh Babu Dakait ke aadmi the, unmein se ek woh haraamkhor lulli bhi tha.”
(I know, Rahman Bhai. Those men were of Babu Dakait, one of them was that rascal, Lulli.)
Rehman and Uzair nod for you to continue as they listen attentively.
“Woh teeno Babu ke aadmi the, main unhe isliye pehchanti hoon kyunki woh saale suar har doosre teesre din juice ki dukaan par aakar todd fodd karte hai, galley se paisey lut-te hain, woh paisey jo humari mehnat ki qamaai hain aur auraton ko chhertein hain, unke saath badsalooqi kartein hain.”
(Those three are Babu’s men. I recognize them because those pigs come to the juice shop every second or third day and create havoc, they steal money from the cash register, that money which is the result of our hard work and they harass women and misbehave with them.)
Aalam tugs at your arm, shaking his head, “Maaf kijiyega Rehman Bhai, Uzair Miyan, bacchi hai, kuch bhi bolti rehti hai.”
(Please forgive us, Rahman Bhai, Uzair Miyan, she is a child, she keeps saying anything.)
“Main bacchi nahi hoon Aalam Bhai, aap jaante hain jo main keh rahi hoon woh bilqul sach hai! Abhi chand roz pehley Faizal Miyan ki saalgirah ki daawat mein humne aapke kehne par jo stall lagaya tha, Rehman Bhai, usspar bhi Babu aur uske chutiyon ki fauz ne dukaan par aakar bohot tamasha kiya tha!”
I am not a child, Aalam Bhai, you know that what I am saying is absolutely true! Just a few days ago, on your request, we had set up a stall to celebrate Faizal Miyan's birthday, Rehman Bhai, Babu and his gang of idiots came to the shop and created a huge ruckus over it!)
Aalam tugs at your arm harder and you know why, this might backfire and Babu and his men will make Aalam's and his juice store employees life a living hell [which includes you ofcourse], but there's also a very slim chance that things might get better because you were tired, so fucking tired of pretending that everything's fine when it's definitely NOT.
“Humein humara kaam karne ki sazaa kyun mil rahi hai Rehman bhai? Aap logon ke masle-masaail ke nateeje hum garib kyun bhugat rahein hain?”
(Why are we being punished for doing our jobs, Rahman Bhai? Why are we poor people suffering the consequences of your issues?)
Rehman nods solemnly, his eyes trained on the floor, his arms crossed as he listens to you, then gently keeps his hand on your head in a brotherly gesture.
“Bhai kahaa hai tumne mujhey aur behen ka bohot bada ehsaan hai iss bhai par.” Rehman speaks, “Aaj se, tumhara, Aalam ka aur juice ki dukaan par kaam karne wale har shakhs ki zimmedari meri, koi bhi masla ho, toh tum seedhe mere paas aana. Uzair?” He looks at his cousin.
(You have called me brother and you, sister have done a huge favor on this brother. From today on, I'm responsible for you, Alam, and everyone who works at the juice shop. If you have any issues, just come straight to me. Uzair?)
“Ji Bhai?”
(Yes, brother?)
“Khyaal rakho inka aur inkey saare maslon ki malumaat karke mujhe batao.”
(Take care of them and let me know about all their problems.)
Uzair nods in agreement.
“Shukriya Rehman bhai.” You smile gratefully.
(Thank you Rehman bhai.)
“Bhai bolti ho aur shukriya bolke sharminda bhi karti ho?
(You call me brother and also embarrass me by saying thank you?)
You are about to walk back to your previous place on the hospital seats when you notice Uzair still standing, looking at you with a soft smile on his face.
“Ji?” (Yes?)
“Ji?” (Yes?)
“Koi baat hai kya?”
(Is something the matter?)
“Aisa toh kuch bhi nahi.”
(Nothing of that sort.)
“Toh phir mere chehre par kuch laga hai kya, jo aap iss tarah se mujhey dekh rahein hain?”
(So is there something on my face that you're looking at me like this?)
“Ji, nahi. Aapka chehra toh bohot khoobsurat hai, jaise khilta gulaab, jaise shaayar ka khwaab, jaise ujli kiran…” Uzair would've babbled on if it wasn't for the clinic plus shampoo commercial guy who clamped a hand on his mouth, shutting him off and muffling his words.
(No, Your face is very beautiful, like a blooming rose, like a poet's dream, like a bright ray of sun.)
“Bibi, aapki kalaai se toh khoon aa raha hai.” He speaks gently as the taller man visibly struggles in his hold, “Main abhi kissi ko kehkar marham-patti karwa deta hoon, zakham zyaada derr tak lailaaj nahi rehne chahiye.”
(Madam, your wrist is bleeding. I will ask someone to bandage it right now, the wounds should not remain untreated for long.)
He turns his head about to call a nurse when upon finding the golden opportunity, Uzair bites onto his hand, making the clinic plus shampoo commercial guy yelp and jump back slightly, his hand moving away from the younger baloch's mouth.
“Uski zaroorat nahi hai, main hoon! Main hoon naa, mujhe sab aata hai!” Uzair speaks, smacking the other man’s hands away from his face.
(There's no need for that, I'm here! I'm here, I know everything.)
“Uzair bhai, aapne kabhi bataya nahi ki aap mein yeh hunar bhi hai, abhi chand roz pehley hi mujhe chot aayi thi, bataa detein toh bewajah doctor ke paas nahi jaana padta.” Donga teases him, making the clinic plus shampoo commercial guy and the other man who had accompanied Jamali to Naieem's hospital room snicker.
(Uzair Bhai, you never told me that you have this talent too. I got hurt just a few days ago. Had you told me, I would not have had to go to the doctor unnecessarily.)
“Abey lodu tu chup rehne ka kya lega?” Uzair snaps and then turns to the clinic plus shampoo commercial man, “Aur tu, Hamza, yahin khada hokar daant dikhata rahega yaa mujhe ek first aid box laakar dega?”
(Hey you idiot, what will you take to keep quiet? And you, Hamza, will you keep standing here and showing your teeth or will you also bring me a first aid box?)
“Laata hoon.” Hamza looks between the two of you with an amused smile before going off to search for a first aid kit.
(I will bring.)
“Aapko itna takalluf karne ki koi zaroorat nahi hai, main nurse se karwa loongi.” You are about to turn around and leave when you feel the lightest of his touch on your uninjured wrist.
(There's no need for you to bother so much, I'll get it done by the nurse.)
“Please, I insist.” Uzair speaks softly, that hint of his touch disappears as soon as he has your attention but lingers.
The clinic plus shampoo guy– Hamza returns with a first aid kit, gives it to Uzair and goes to stand next to Rehman who's observing everything from his seat at the hospital chairs with an amused smile on his lips, a cigarette between them as he takes a drag while Faizal sleeps peacefully with his head in his lap.
“Bhai? Dekha aapne?” Hamza mutters, leaning closer to The Sher-e-Baloch.
(Bhai? Did you see?)
Rehman hums, a smile playing on his lips as he releases the rings of smoke.
“Accha hai. Main aur iski Bhabhi bohot waqt se iski shaadi ke liye pareshaan ho rahe the aur mujhe bhi ladki acchi lagi, inn dono ka bohot hi accha jodd rahega aur teri setting toh pehley hi fix hai.”
(That's good. His bhabhi and I have been worrying about his marriage for a very long time, and I also liked the girl, they would make a great match, and your arrangement is already fixed.)
Hamza blushes slightly at Rehman’s teasing about Yalina.
Uzair ushers you to the vacant hospital seats on the opposite side of the waiting room, waits till you sit down and then kneeling in front of you, opens the first aid kit but before he gets anything done, you notice him wipe both his hands down his balochi kurta, surprising you a little, it's only after this that he starts inspecting the kit, takes some cotton and dips it in the antiseptic liquid carefully before reaching for your injured wrist.
“Thodi jalan hogi, dard bhi hoga, par main bohot aahista aahista sab karunga, aap chahein toh mera haath pakad sakti hain zyaada taqleef hone par, agar aapko munasib lage toh.” Uzair's voice is soft as he speaks, completely devoid of the egoistical edge from moments earlier.
Jo Teri Khaatir Tadpe Pehle Se Hi
Kya Usse Tadpana
O Zaalima! O Zaalima!
(This will sting and hurt too, but I will do everything very slowly, if you want, you can hold my hand if it becomes too painful, if you feel it's appropriate.)
“Mere khyaal mein uski koi zaroorat nahi padegi.” You shrug, nonchalantly.
(I don't think there will be any need for that.)
Well, you take your words back because the moment Uzair gently dabs the antiseptic soaked cotton on the wound, you flinch, muttering curses under your breath for it stings like hell, the fingers of your uninjured hand winding themselves tightly in the fabric of his kurta, your bangles chiming together as tears pool your eyes, at one point of time, you even pulled your hand back from his grip but very patiently Uzair coaxed you into letting him finish cleaning your wound.
Jo Tere Ishq Mein Behka Pehle Se Hi
Kya Usse Behekana
O Zaalima! O Zaalima!
What surprised you wasn't his familiarity around the first aid kit, ofc he knew how to clean, dress and patch wounds owing to his dangerous profession but how gentle and patient he is with you, he is Uzair Baloch, a gangster, the infamous cousin and right hand man of Rehman Baloch, The Uncrowned King Of Lyari, you expected his touch to be rough, cold, scarred and calloused even, a testimony to a life lived in danger and shadows, a fit physique which is evident to anyone with eyes, his hands are scarred and calloused but never rough or cold, rather the stark contrast of his soft, warm touch to the life he led had you thinking.
Uzair gently blows on your wound as he cleans so that the stinging subsides a bit, his eyes meet yours and this time another lock holding his heart in, snaps in two.
Jo Teri Khaatir Tadpe Pehle Se Hi
Kya Usse Tadpana
O Zaalima! O Zaalima!
Once he's done, Uzair squeezes out a generous amount of antibiotic ointment and applies it evenly and gently, before he covers it securely with a sterile bandage.
“Ho gaya.” He smiles, looking at you.
(Done.)
But you must have been staring at him like a lunatic with your jaw slightly dropped and all that, because that soft smile playing on his lips turns into a mischievous one, that instant.
“Agar aap mujhe yoon hi dekhti rahengi toh mohabbat ho jayegi aapko mujhse.” He adds, his soft brown eyes twinkling with the mischief that mirrors his smile.
(If you keep looking at me like that, you will fall in love with me.)
Jo Tere Ishq Mein Behka Pehle Se Hi
Kya Usse Behekana
O Zaalima! O Zaalima!
You recover from the trance you were in and roll your eyes at his obvious attempt at flirtation.
“Khushfehmi hai aapki!” You pull your hand back from him, “Aur aap yeh cheesy lines bolney mein maahir hain kya?”
(That is your delusion! And are you good at saying these cheesy lines?)
“Kyun? Aap par unka asar ho raha hai kya?”
(Why? Are they affecting you?”)
“Aapse toh baat hi karna fazool hai! Baharhaal, marham-patti ke liye shukriya.”
(Talking to you is pointless! Anyway, thanks for the first aid.)
“Uzair.” Jameel Jamali addresses the younger baloch as he's sitting inside his luxurious sedan, Rehman stands a few feet away from them, leaning against the ambulance van observing his cousin and the cunning politician while you stand to the side with Aalam bhai, closer to Uzair, silently listening to their conversation.
“Baccha hai tu mera, koi badmaashi nahi karni, state election sarr pe hai, koi badla shadla nahi lena.”
(Uzair, You are my child, don't do any mischief, state elections are around the corner, don't take any revenge.)
Jamali then keeps yapping about how anything impulsive done by them might affect the party, the elections very badly but when you tilt your head slightly, you notice the slippers in his car and the pudgy corrupt politician claimed that he came running barefoot upon hearing the news and by the look on his face, you know Uzair noticed as well.
“Yeh haraami kabhi kisi ka saga nahi ho sakta.” You mutter under your breath as you roll your eyes, scoffing.
(This bastard can never be anyone's true friend.)
“Uzair, idhar aa.” Jamali beckons him closer and the taller man complies.
(Uzair, come here.)
“Dekho, apne bhai pe nazar rakho, hmm? Akela mat chhorna isko. Qasam hai tujhe meri, tu mera marra munh dekhega! Mera marra munh dekhega! khaa qasam meri, khaa!”
(Look, keep an eye on your brother, hmm? Don't leave him alone. Swear to me or otherwise you'll see my dead body, you'll see my dead body! Swear to me, swear!)
“Theek hai.” Uzair agrees, sighing.
(Okay.)
“Shabash, Mera samajhdaar baccha!”
(Well done, my smart boy!)
“Allah Hafiz.” Uzair bids Jamali farewell and closes the car door, keeping a hand on his heart.
“Chalo.” Jamali orders his driver, but before pulling up the car window, he turns to look at you and you hold back the urge to curse his entire bloodline because he might be a cartoon but he is powerful, you definitely don't want him to male your life any more hell than it already is.
(Let's go.)
“Haraamkhor.” You scoff again as Jamali's convoy drives away, “Jaise mujhe khabar mili, main khuda kasam nangey paoon dauda chala aaya!” You imitate the way he was talking back in the waiting room.
(Bastard.)
Aalam bhai tries to shush you again but Uzair, Uzair watches you, arms folded across his broad chest, his smile a mix of endearment and amusement, he chuckles at your impression of Jameel Jamali for it is hilarious and effortlessly spot on.
“Iss suar ka bas chaley toh apne faayde ke liye poori Karachi bech khaaye yeh!”
(If this pig had his way, he would sell the whole of Karachi for his gain!)
Uzair chuckles again as you roll your eyes, “Meri Sherni.” He mumbles fondly.
(My lioness.)
However, he straightens up when you approach him, Aalam trailing behind.
“Accha, ab humey ijazat dein, Naieem baba aur Faizal baba ko mera dher saara pyaar dijiyega, main Naieem baba ki acchi sehat aur shifa ke liye Allah se dua karungi aur dono bacchon ko kabhi Aalam Bhai ki dukaan par bhi laiyega, Faizal baba ko humarey dukaan ki strawberry milkshake bohot pasand hai aur Rehman bhai ko phir se mera shukriya kahiyega.”
(Okay, now we'll take our leave, give all my love to Naieem and Faizal, I will pray to Allah for Naieem's good health and recovery and please bring both the children to Aalam Bhai's shop sometime, Faizal likes the strawberry milkshake from our shop very much And please convey my thanks to Rahman Bhai again.)
“Sabse sab kuch keh liya bas mujhse hi kuch nahi kaha.” Uzair mumbles.
(She said everything to everyone but won't say anything to me.)
“Kuch kaha aapne?” You ask, narrowing your eyes.
(Did you say something?)
“Nahi, kuch bhi toh nahi.” He smiles.
(No, nothing at all.)
“Nahi, kuch toh kaha aapne.”
(No, you said something.)
“Ji, kuch bhi nahi.”
(No, nothing.)
“Aapki yeh jo aadat haina, aadhi baat bolne ki aur baaki ki baatein andar rakhney ki, mujhe qasam se ekdum zeher lagti hain.” Your hands are on your hips as you speak, thoroughly annoyed.
(This habit of yours, of saying half the words and keeping the rest of them inside, I swear it's absolutely annoying.)
“Aur aap mujhe bohot acchi lagti hain.” Uzair mumbles again with a dreamy smile on his face.
(And I like you very much.)
“Dekha! Phir wahi aadat!” You waggle your index finger at him.
(See! That same habit again!)
“Mohtarma, main toh sirf yeh keh raha tha ki accha hai ki aapko meri saari baatein nahi samajh aati warna..” Uzair steps closer but still maintains that sliver of a respectful distance between the two of you, “agar maine apne iraadein aapko bataa diyen toh khuda kasam, sharma jayengi aap.”
(Madam, I was just saying that it is good that you do not understand everything I say. Otherwise, if I tell you my intentions, I swear to god, you will blush.)
Uzair watches as your eyes that bloom like the petals of a rose go wide at first, then soften and turn shy at the insinuation, looking away from him.
“Aap– Aap woh.. woh–” You try to form a coherent sentence and try to calm your rapidly beating heart while your fingers fidget with the edge of your kurta.
(You– that–)
“Haan– toh.. toh accha hai ki aap apni khushfehmiyon ka pitaara apne paas hi rakhein. Eiffel Tower kahin ke!” You snap, looking up at him again, but that crimson on your full cheeks is very evident and very hard to miss.
(Yes – so… it is better that you keep your box of misconceptions to yourself. A whole eiffel tower you are!)
“Kuch kaha aapne?” Uzair asks, his soft brown eyes dancing with mischief.
(Did you say something?)
“Wahi jo aapne sunna! Chalein, Aalam Bhai.” You snap again, your previous fire returning and how much he loved that.
(What you heard! Let's go, Aalam Bhai.)
Aankhein Marhaba
Baatein Marhaba
“Agar aap kahein toh main aap dono ko ghar chhor doon?” Uzair asks as he starts walking after you and Aalam.
(If you want, I can drop you both home?)
“Ji nahi, uski koi zaroorat nahi padegi, hum chaley jayenge!” You answer as you and Aalam bhai walk to the main road to hail an auto.
(No, there's no need for that, we'll go on our own.)
“Lagta hai, ab humare Uzair bhai bhi gayein kaam se!” Siyahi says as he, Donga and Hamza watch Uzair Baloch, the second most feared man in all of Lyari adorably follow you around like a 17 year old with a massive crush, laughing amongst themselves.
(Looks like our Uzair bhai is also a gone case now!)
“Dekhein, Lyari raat ke iss waqt bilkul bhi mehfooz nahi hai.” Uzair speaks softly.
(Look, Lyari is not safe at all at this time of night.)
You know Uzair is right, he is absolutely right and it's a very high chance that you won't find any transportation at this hour of the night, but you're also perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, you always have, you always will, you've never been a burden on anyone all throughout your life and you certainly don't plan on being one now.
“Main jaanti hoon, pichley 1.5 saalon se Lyari hi mera ghar hai aur main akeli nahi hoon, Aalam bhai hain mere saath. Aap jayein, aapke gharwalon ko aapki zaroorat hogi.” You try to make him understand.
(I know, Lyari has been my home for the last 1.5 years and I'm not alone. Aalam Bhai is with me. You should go; your family will need you.)
While you're talking to him, out of habit, you reach out to adjust the dupatta covering your head when you realise that you actually have nothing to cover your head and wrap yourself in, for you used your dupatta to tie it around Naieem's gunshot wound to stop the bleeding.
Uzair notices and requests you to stay back for a few seconds before jogging off towards his armoured black suv.
When he comes back, Uzair is holding a shawl in his hands, his shawl that he always keeps in his car for warmth as he gets cold easily and most of the time, work carries on till late hours of the night.
“Waise toh meri khwaahish thi ki main aap dono ko ghar chhor doon aur yeh mere liye takalluf ki baat hi nahi hai par main aapke faisle ka ehteraam karta hoon isliye main bilkul bhi israar nahi karunga, par please yeh shawl le jayein, apne liye na sahi toh mere liye, kam az kam mujhey iss baat ka sukoon rahega ki main aapke kissi kaam to aaya.”
(Actually, I wanted to give you both a ride back home, and it's not a problem for me, but I respect your decision, so I won't insist at all, but please take this shawl, if not for yourself, then for me, at least for now, I'll have the peace of mind that I was of some use to you.)
The fabric flows as Uzair wraps the shawl around you, his movements, soft, slow and careful, the way he drapes it around your head first and then around your shoulders, makes your heart skip a beat for its familiar, familiar in a way like a man drapes a nikaah ki chunar on his beloved, binding them together for eternities.
“Shukriya.” Your words are merely above a whisper as Uzair gently secures the shawl over your shoulder, not even realizing that the distance between the two of you has waned.
(Thank you.)
“Chalein shukr hai, kissi bahaane main aapke kaam toh aaya, chahe phir woh meri shawl hi kyun na ho aur mohtarma, please shukriya kehkar sharminda naa karein, itna toh yeh eiffel tower aapke liye kar hi sakta hai.” Uzair smiles, his voice soft, with a teasing lilt as he bows to you, keeping a hand on his heart.
(I'm thankful that at least I helped you in some way, even if it's my shawl and madam, please don't embarrass me by saying thank you, this Eiffel Tower can do this much for you.)
Warmth flushes your cheeks as you look away from him, a smile twitching on the corners of your mouth while your heart is continuous thrum against your chest.
“Shab Bakhair.” (Goodnight.)
“Shab Bakhair.” (Goodnight.)
Uzair comes back after accompanying you and Aalam to the main street, after making sure that you both have found a safe, proper public transportation that will drop the two of you off to your homes safely, to the grinning faces of Hamza, Donga and Siyahi.
“Ab kya ho gaya? Yeh tum logon ke chehron par light bulb kyun jal rahein hain? Tumhari maashuqaon ne phone karke ghar bula liya kya akeley mein?” Uzair asks as he sits himself on the bonnet of his suv and takes out a cigarette.
(What's happened now? Why are these light bulbs flashing on your faces? Did your girlfriends call and invite you home alone?)
“Humari chhor Uzair, tu apni bata!” Hamza leans in conspiratorially, “Unn mohtarma par tera dil aa gaya hai, haina?”
(Leave us Uzair and tell us about yourself! You have fallen in love with that lady, haven't you?)
Uzair doesn't answer right away, rather he lights the cigarette, takes a drag and blows off the smoke, “Haye.” He sighs, “Bohot arson baad unhey dekhkar iss dil mein aisi hulchul huyi hai, unhey dekhkar aisa laga ki jaise hum dono bas ek doosre ke liye hi banne hain, unhey dekhkar yeh ehsaas hua hai ki iss seene mein ek dil bhi hai aur uss dil ki dhadkan se main aaj waaqif hua hoon, unn sey milne ke baad.”
(After a long time, after seeing her, my heart has started to flutter, after seeing her, it felt as if both of us were made for each other, after seeing her, I realized that there is a heart in my chest, today I have become aware of the beat of that heart, after meeting her.)
“Mera Yaar!” Hamza wraps an arm around his shoulder happily.
(My Friend!)
“Ik raat vo gaya tha jahan baat rok ke,
Ab tak ruka hua hoon vahin raat rok ke..”
(One night, they left, leaving the conversation midway and I'm still standing here, pausing that night to that very same moment.)
Uzair recites one of his most favorite urdu sher by Farhat Ehsas as looks up at the night sky above, twinkling with stars, his heart already yearning with that sweet ache to meet you again.
And you will, if it's destined to be.
To Be Continued..
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