This is a work of fiction based on the fictional character Major Iqbal from the Dhurandhar franchise, portrayed by actor Arjun Rampal. This story does not depict or reflect the individual's real personality, beliefs, or actions. Furthermore, this work does not support, glorify, romanticize, justify, or promote terrorism, violence, extremism, or any illegal activities. All events and characterizations are fictional and created solely for entertainment purposes.
Credits to Credit @/cursed-carmine for the divider ♡
The house was... quiet.
Too quiet.
Not the comforting silence that settled after guests had gone home, but one that made every corner feel abandoned. Empty. Lonely. You wandered through the hallway barefoot, the marble cold beneath your feet.
"Ammi?" You called out.
Nothing.
The drawing room looked exactly as it had after the Eid gathering. Half-filled teacups rested on the centre table. Strings of fairy lights hung, glowing to cast long shadows across the walls. Everyone should've been here.
Instead...
The house was empty. A gust of wind drifted in from the open garden doors. A photograph slid across the floor. You bent down to pick it up. The family picture. The one taken after dinner. You smiled absentmindedly as your eyes travelled across familiar faces.
Abbu.
Ammi.
Your grandparents.
Your cousins.
Your brother.
You.
Major Iqbal.
Then...
Your smile faded.
One face had been scratched out.
Not torn.
Not faded.
Scratched.
Deep, uneven lines carved into the glossy paper until nothing remained beneath them. You frowned.
"...Who?"
You knew this picture. You remembered everyone squeezing together because your cousin insisted no one be cut out of the frame. So why couldn't you remember who had been standing there? You turned the photograph over. Nothing. When you looked at it again... The scratches looked deeper. You rubbed your thumb across them. They wouldn't come off.
Your heartbeat quickened as you suddenly heard a voice.
"Kabhi kabhi tasveer se zyada... yaadein dhokha deti hain."
You spun around. Major Iqbal stood near the garden entrance. Still. Expressionless. The dim fairy lights caught the silver strands beginning to appear at his temples. He wasn't looking at you. His eyes were fixed on the photograph in your hands. You looked back down. The scratches had spread. The paper had begun to tear around them.
"No..."
You tried to remember. Whose face was it? Why couldn't you? A strange warmth brushed past you. Expensive oud. A faint trace of tobacco. The lingering richness of amber and old whisky. The scent grew stronger. Closer. You looked up.
He was standing only a few steps away now.
You hadn't heard him move. Your fingers tightened around the photograph.
"Who is it?"
For the first time, his gaze met yours and he spoke
For a few moments, all you could hear was the fast rhythm of your own heartbeat. The dream clung to the corners of your mind. The empty house, the photograph, the scratched-out face... and his voice.
You reached for the glass of water beside your bed, taking a slow sip before forcing yourself to look across the room. The framed family photograph from Eid rested on your dresser.
You got out of bed and picked it up.
Everyone was there.
Abbu.
Ammi.
Your brother.
Your grandparents.
Your cousins.
And you.
You exhaled softly.
"Bas... khwaab hi toh tha."
A knock interrupted your thoughts.
"Y/N? Uth gayi?" your mother called. "Nashta tayyar hai."
"Ji, Ammi. Aa rahi hoon."
The next few days settled back into their usual rhythm.
College lectures. Endless assignments. Group projects that somehow turned into solo projects. Evenings spent helping your mother in the kitchen while pretending you hadn't left half your college work unfinished. Life felt... ordinary.
Almost enough to convince yourself that the nightmare had meant nothing. Almost.
The only thing that hadn't returned to normal...
Was your brother.
He left before everyone else. Came home long after dinner. His phone was never far from his hand. Sometimes, it would buzz once. He'd glance at the screen, excuse himself, and disappear onto the balcony. When he returned, he was quieter than before.
No one mentioned it.
A few evenings later, everyone sat around the dining table. Your mother placed a bowl of Kheer in the centre while your father scrolled absentmindedly through the evening news on his phone.
Your brother barely touched his food. You watched him for a moment before nudging his arm with your elbow.
"Bhai."
"Hm?"
"Kya ho gaya?"
He didn't even look up. You rested your chin on your palm.
"Late nights. Random phone calls. Moody twenty four seven..."
You narrowed your eyes dramatically.
"...Sach batao."
A grin spread across your face.
"Kahin kisi mafia ke liye toh kaam nahi kar rahe?"
Normally, your brother would've rolled his eyes or pulled your cheeks at such a remark. Even your parents would have started laughing.
Instead...
He slowly placed his spoon down. The faint clink against the plate seemed louder than it should have. Then he looked at you.
His expression had gone completely still.
"Dobara aisi baat mat kehna."
Even your parents were silent, as if they did not want to participate in this conversation.
The smile faded from your face.
"...I was joking."
Your brother lowered his gaze and picked his spoon up again as though nothing had happened.
You looked at your mother, hoping she'd notice. And she did notice. But she quietly changed the subject.
Were they hiding something?
It was late afternoon when the familiar sound of tyres crunching against the gravel drifted in through the open windows. The steady drizzle had settled into a soft rain, washing the garden in shades of grey. The scent of damp earth lingered in the air as you sat curled up on the sofa, half-heartedly flipping through your college notes. Your father looked up from the newspaper resting on his lap.
A faint smile crossed his face.
"Major Sahab aa gaye."
You glanced towards the front door just as it opened. Your brother stepped inside first, shaking the rain from his sleeves before moving aside. Major Iqbal followed.
He greeted your parents with a quiet, "Assalamualaikum."
"Walaikumassalam." your mother replied warmly.
There was nothing formal about the exchange. As if they had known each other for years.
"Chaliye, study mein baithte hain." Your father spoke.
Your brother silently followed the two men down the hallway. As they disappeared into the study, your father gently pushed the door until it was almost closed.
From the kitchen, your mother called out,
"Y/N beta! Zara chai study mein de aao!"
You hurried to the kitchen and picked up the tray. The polished metal was pleasantly warm against your fingertips, the heat from the freshly brewed tea seeping through it. Wisps of steam drifted upwards, brushing against your face before disappearing into the air. Balancing it carefully, you nudged the kitchen door open with your elbow and stepped into the hallway. The quiet clink of porcelain against silver echoed softly through the house, accompanied only by the rhythmic patter of rain outside.
As you reached the study, you were about to enter. But suddenly you heard your brother say something.
"Agar usse pata chal gaya toh? Main nahi chahta woh mujhse nafrat kare."
Nafrat.
Your brother? The same brother who had taught you how to ride a bicycle, stayed awake helping you cram before exams, and never forgot to bring you your favourite food after work...
What could he possibly have done that would make him fear your hatred? Your thoughts spiralled before you could stop them.
The late-night phone calls. The constant secrecy. The way everyone fell silent whenever Major Iqbal was around. The strange look on your brother's face when you'd jokingly accused him of working for the mafia. Your stomach turned.
No...
Surely not.
But if not that... then what?
Whatever it was, it wasn't ordinary. Ordinary people didn't speak in whispers behind closed doors. Ordinary favours didn't leave a man looking over his shoulder. Ordinary conversations didn't carry words like nafrat with such certainty.
A sickening feeling settled over you.
"Y/N?"
Your father's voice pulled you back to reality.
You blinked.
Only then did you realize you were still standing outside the study, the silver tray balanced carefully in your hands, the tea growing colder with every passing second.
"Beta? Andar aao." Said your father.
Drawing in a quiet breath, you pushed the thoughts to the back of your mind and nudged the door open.
Three pairs of eyes turned towards you.
Your father smiled warmly.
You stepped inside, carefully placing a cup before your father, then your brother. The last cup rested in front of Major Iqbal.
Then you slowly spoke.
"...Aap log kya baat kar rahe the?"
Your father looked up from his cup, about to answer, but Iqbal spoke first. He glanced briefly at your brother. And for the first time, the faintest smile touched his lips.
It wasn't mocking.
Nor particularly warm.
"Bas, yahi... ke aapke bhai aapki hifaazat ke liye kitni door tak jaa sakte hain."
You looked at your brother, puzzled.
He didn't look back. Instead, he lowered his gaze to the tea in his hands, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
You let out a small, awkward laugh.
Neither man smiled.
To avoid the silence, your father cleared his throat.
"Beta, zara Ammi se keh dena kuch biscuits bhi bhej dein."
"Ji."
You picked up the empty tray, offering a polite smile before leaving the study.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the voices resumed. You couldn't make out the words. Only the tone. Low. Unsettling.
Later that night you couldn't sleep. You stepped out for a glass of water.
As you crossed the hallway, you noticed the study door was slightly open.
The light was still on.
Inside sat your brother.
Alone.
His elbows rested on his knees, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders trembled once. Then again. You had never seen him cry before.
Not when he lost his job.
Not even when he broke his arm as a teenager.
You quietly stepped back.
Some grief...
Didn't belong to the people who witnessed it.
OKAY I AM OVERWHELMED BY THE AMOUNT OF PEOPLE INTERACTING WITH PART 1. IK ITS A SMALL NUMBER. BUT IVE WRITTEN AFTER SO LONG. I DIDNT EXPECT IT AT ALL. I REALLY THOUGHT ONLY LIKE 3 PEOPLE WOULD READ IT. THANKYOU FOR THE AMAZING RESPONSE
FIRST TIME TRYING TO WRITE PROPER ANGST. IT MAKES ME SO SAD WRITING THIS BUT U GUYS ASKED FOR IT. ALSO, WOULD U LIKE THE NEXT CHAPTERS TO BE SLIGHTLY MORE ROMANTIC OR ANGSTY?
My deepest wish would be for a world where love is a perfect circle. May every ounce of kindness, care, and love that people pour into the universe find its way back to fill their own hearts! I also wish for healing across the globe, that those who are suffering(mentally, physically or emotionally) find relief, those facing hardships receive the support they need, and true happiness reaches every single soul.
We never talk like this. No one uses adaab and janab. No one wears a half sleeve kameez here. No surmaa or a cap all the time. No girl walks alone on the street of liyari at night wearing a skirt
