☆I pyaar Indians that serve cunt☆

Rehman made his way to your house the next day again, sitting in the hall with your mother and uncle as you watch from behind the screen between the rooms. You couldn’t go face to face with him.

“Agar aapko koi bhi zaroorat ho, Uzair ka number toh hai hi, phir bhi kuch lage toh seedha mujhe bata dena.” He says to your mother. (If you need anything, you have Uzair's number, still if you need anything then tell me directly.)

“Y/n! Bahar aao.” Your uncle calls for you assertively. (Come outside)

You enter the room reluctantly, giving Rehman a little greeting as you stand beside your mother.

“Rehman bhai tumhare baare mein puch rahe the,” she tells you as you nod. (He was asking about you.)

His eyes linger on you, waiting for you to speak. “Main theek hu,” you say softly, not wanting to talk to him too much. (I’m alright)

He nods, “accha hai, aapki ammi ke pass mera number hai abh, call karna.” His words are inviting, and hopeful. (Good, your mother has my number now, call me.)

“Zaroorat hogi toh kar lugi,” you say, dipping your head and leave the room. (I’ll call if needed.)

He watches you walk away, his heart dropping to his stomach. He takes his leave, standing below your balcony as he lights up a cigarette and takes a long drag.

“Gandi aadat pakad li,” you say from upstairs, his eyes flicker up and a small smile tugs at his lips. (You’ve taken up a bad habit)

“Bas, lag gayi abh,” he says in response, but he throws it to the ground anyway, snubbing it out. (Just happened. What can I do now?)

“Hm, bohot saari lag gayi shayad,” you lean on the railing. (Seems like you’ve taken a few.)

“Tumhari yaad mei ho hi gaya, aur kuch sooja hi nahi,” he says, his words heavy. (Your absence made me do all that, I couldn’t think of anything else.)

You shake your head, “mera naam mat lagao, khud ye raasta pakda hai” you scoff, angry at his implication. (Don’t blame it on me. You chose this path yourself.)

Rehman nods, “kal main tumhara wahin intzaar karunga, aogi?” (If I’ll wait for you in the same place tomorrow, will you come?”

Your heart skips, “wada nahi kar sakti,” your words are calculated, not wanting to give him false hope. (I can’t promise anything)

He nods and walks off, waving at you, leaving you to toss and turn in your bed the whole night, contemplating whether to go meet him or not.

By the time you decide, it’s already half an hour after what time you used to meet. But you make your way to the bridge anyway, a sense relief flooding your body when you see him still waiting.

The canal is dry, perhaps it’s a bit of a reflection to the both of you as well, the rough years getting to it, leaving only a small stream of hope flowing by.

Rehman smiles as you approach him, you return it with a reluctant smile of your own. “Mujhe laga late ho gayi, toh chale gaye hoge” (I thought you’d be gone by now because I’m late)

“Tumhare liye toh aur paach saal ruk jata,” he says, your heart breaking. (I’d wait another five years for you.)

“Laga toh nahi ki tum intzaar kar rahe the paanch saal, itne bade aadmi ban gaye ho.” (Doesn’t seem to me like you waited, you’ve become such a big man)

“Halat kharab ho gaye the, jaise guzara kar paya, kar liya.” He sighs. (The situation was so bad, I had to do what I did)

“Halat ke saath khoon bhi karne lag gaye?” Your words are bitter, but it’s to cover up the pain. (Situations made you commit murders?)

Rehman sighs, rubbing his eyes. He doesn’t have an answer to that. He knows he’s done too many things wrong to make up for it with a few words.

He digs into his pockets, pulling out a small box with purple paper. He puts it out for you and you take it slowly, fingers brushing his.

Inside is a pair of pajeb, heavy and delicate at the same time. “Tumhare gir gaye the na.” He explains, making your eyebrows furrow, just as you remember the one that fell into the canal all that time ago. (Yours fell that time.)

You nod, clutching the box in your hands as you look up at him, and for just a moment, you see not the gangster in front of you, but the man who used to sit with you for hours, and with that, you see a bit of hope that he still might be there.