𝑛𝑖𝑔𝑎ℎ-𝑒-𝑛𝑎𝑧

It was his youngest— Faizal. 

He was looking up at him with those big brown eyes of his, framed by a mass of Ulfat's wavy curls. But what made his heart stop were the unmistakable tracks of tears on those chubby cheeks, the red rimmed overly bright eyes and a gut wrenching fear shaking that tiny body.

Rehman's mind filtered rapidly through a million worse case scenarios even before he had spoken. He had dropped his pen on the desk and turned fully towards his son and opened up his arms in an ever familiar gesture.

"Faizal..ro kyun rahe ho, beta? Chot lgi hain tumhe? Abbu ko batayo—", he said encouragingly trying to curb the panic in his voice as another fat tear rolled down Faizal's round cheek. 

The boy didn't even try to get closer which was completely contrary to his usual clinginess. Then he said something hesitantly and so low that Rehman had to strain quite some bit to hear the words. 

“Aap..gussa ho..mujhse..Abbu?”, he hiccuped thickly, small hands fidgeting with his clothes and spiky lashes lowered. 

Rehman’s heart twisted inside his chest, sickeningly. He closed the slight distance between them, immediately picking his youngest from under his arms and made him sit on his lap and wrapped his own large arms securely around the latter’s miniscule body. 

“Nhi nhi, meri jaan. Kabhi nhi. Tumhe aisa kyun laga?”, he rocked him a little trying to console, wiping his tears away.

Pain hooked piercingly inside his throat with every sniffle the little boy was letting out. 

Faizal was clinging to him finally, face buried inside his chest, shaking and clutching his father’s kurta. His next words were muffled but for the first time, there was a slight accusation in his teary tone that was conversant with children expressing their brand of hurt miffedness with their parents. 

The cadence changing from that heartbreaking fear would have relieved Rehman had he not heard the actual reason for his son’s anguish. 

“Kal main..aaya tha apke paas kahani sunne..…. aapne daantaa..phir subhah bhi nhi aaye…”, he replied thickly, stopping in between to gulp down the oncoming tears.

Realisation hit Rehman like lightning falling on a dried tree. 

He remembered being extremely tense since the past week, and then hazily about Faizal coming inside his room yesterday night when he was busy trying to find a solution to a very convoluted logistics issue. He had been pissed at one of his business associates already and quite frustrated with his gang’s incompetence. 

As if that wasn’t enough, he had had to spend an ungodly amount of time near Jamali. 

That man could single handedly turn a completely sane person batshit crazy with his antics. 

There had been a severe migraine about to knock behind his eyes. 

It was then that his youngest had come inside the room like a whirlwind, creating a ruckus. Rehman hadn't even registered what Faizal had been saying, just that he was irritating him. The little boy had been tugging at his sleeve, running around his desk. He had asked him to go find his brother but Faizal wasn't listening to him. 

And his headache was worsening. 

And he had lost his temper. 

Rehman remembered shouting at him quite loudly.

He never raised his voice at his kids. Never. 

It has never been necessary. They were too acclimatized to his silent warning glares and quiet call of their names to stop misbehaving for him to shout at them. The most they got were very stern lectures. 

Ulfat was the one who would yell at the kids all the time. 

But the boys loved their mother too much to heed to her anger most of the time, much to the latter’s consternation and annoyance. It would amuse Rehman. 

But he had vowed to himself that come what may he would not scream at them. 

At least not till they were of Uzair’s age.

Children might forget the words, might forget the reasoning and the discipline and the well intentions— but they remembered the violence. The fear would get ingrained inside their blood like a disease that would hold a part of them captive for the rest of their lives. 

Rehman was so intimately familiar with that fear. 

And he had vowed he would die before his boys face his wrath like that. 

He could be a soulless monster outside but as soon as he crossed the threshold of his house, Rehman Dakait— the bastard king, the Balochi butcher, had to step back immediately. 

But. 

Yesterday, he had forgotten. 

How could he forget?

It wasn’t his son’s fault. 

Little Faizal had startled and stopped and Rehman hadn't even glanced at him, relieved when he hadn't heard any more noise which meant his son had indeed left him alone to go bother his brother and he could stress out in peace. 

He hadn't even looked at him.

Rehman had scared him. 

Faizal had looked scared when he had entered the room today, scared to tug at his sleeve, scared to come close— the boy who would leap at him at every chance possible, stuff marbles inside his shoes, hide his pens and his papers and create all kinds of mischief. 

The little boy had just wanted a story. 

Rehman had initiated a tradition of bedtime stories so that he could spend time with the boys. Naieem had evidently become too big for a bedtime story as declared by him the last time he had tried to do it, when the former had passed his tenth birthday. And being thirteen at present, the boy insisted he was practically an adult. 

At that time, Rehman had been relieved that Faizal had been young enough to demand for his father’s attention still. 

Rehman had been so busy the past week that he hadn’t had time for bedtime stories. The five year old had been irritating him yesterday because he missed his father.

It felt like someone had reached into his chest and torn out his heart and discarded it like trash. Guilt flooded his throat like sludge and he wanted to go back in time and smack the shit out of himself and then throw himself off a cliff for good measure. 

He hurt his poor innocent baby because he couldn’t solve his own problems like an incompetent weak idiot. The irony was so strong it made him want to cry—

A father yelling at his son because he was easier game, throwing the poisonous arrows at an easy target because the so-called monster wasn’t capable of hitting the original one. 

Rehman cupped Faizal's wet cheeks and wiped the rest of the emerging tears and felt the burn of it inside his own eyes.

“Mera baccha..”, he kissed his little forehead and then his cherubic cheeks and then on top of his curls that still smelled faintly of the coconut shampoo which Ulfat used to wash them. 

“Abbu ko maanf kardo mera baccha..main tumse gussa nhi tha.. apne aapse tha”, he kept pressing his lips to the crown of his head hoping he could physically pull the pain and the ensuing fear out of that tiny figure

Idiot…

Idiot fucking stupid…

“Aap phir naraz nhi ho mujhse?”, Faizal asked finally, wiping his eyes away with his small hands, calming down with his father’s kisses and consolations. 

“Nhi beta. Tu toh jaan hain meri..abbu ki jaan hain”, he repeated it firmly and rubbed the boy’s trembling back soothingly and tightened his arms. 

“Toh..kahani?”, he asked, voice becoming small. 

Rehman booped his nose with his youngest, making the boy giggle finally. It was like feeling sunshine on one’s face after a millenia of darkness. 

“Bilkul…chalo chalo..sone chale isse pehle tumhari Ammi mera keema banade—”

Faizal squeaked happily when his father leapt up the chair with him and sprinted towards his bedroom, laughing when Rehman intentionally swung him precariously as they went up the stairs. 

Later, one glass of milk and two bedtime stories later Faizal was finally snuffling lightly in deep slumber, face smushed against his pillow, curled into the curve of Rehman’s body siphoning off his father’s warmth unabashedly. 

Rehman was certain Faizal would forget all about this the very next day. The child was way too happy. And children in general were incredibly resilient. But he— oh for him, this was branded into his soul, adding to the pile of wounds that wouldn’t scab over so easily. 

He had made his baby cry. 

That simply won’t let its claws off his throat. 

Rehman was stroking the sleeping boy’s hair gently, eyes focussed far away into the darkness of the room only lit by a dimmed amber table lamp at one side.

A sudden hand on his shoulder almost made him jump off his skin. He turned and found his gaze meeting his wife’s. 

Ulfat’s eyes were beautiful and kind and she had settled into the small space left at the other side of him on the bed. She leaned against him and pressed her forehead to his temple and rubbed his arm soothingly. 

She knew. 

Of course she knew. 

At this point, Rehman had stopped asking how she did. Everytime. 

“Maine cheekha uspe”, he whispered as if confessing his sin would lessen it. 

“Haan. Maine bhi cheekhti hun unpe, Rehman. Badmashi karte hain jab. Aapke dusre shehzaade pe toh har roz cheekti hun”, she smiled. 

“Haan par..woh alag hain. Tumhara chillana jayaz hain..maine dara diya usse..bewajah, beguna—”, he swallowed hard, voice breaking off at the end. 

Ulfat sighed and lifted her head, she reached over him and caressed her son’s hair gently. 

“Tumne uspe ekbaar chilla diya toh tum apne baap jaise nhi banjaoge, meri jaan”, she whispered softly. 

Even the thought of it made Rehman’s skin roil. He shuddered and forcefully threw the image of the man who had sired him and the one who was supposed to protect him into an unused locked corner of his mind. 

“Dekho toh issko..hum dono ki neend udaake khud aramse so raha hain”, Ulfat chuckled affectionately while Faizal, as if on cue, yawned in his sleep turned around and shifted closer to his father. 

Rehman huffed and felt his curdling guilt subside a little at the unconscious way his son still seemed to search for him in his sleep. 

Ulfat was right. 

Maybe he could yet turn this around again. 

“Main soch raha tha, hum kahi chalte hain kuch dino keliye. Iss sheher se ghinn aagyi hain mujhe—”,he muttered, thumbing his wife’s knuckles tenderly. Ulfat shifted and brought an arm around his waist pulling him closer. 

“Accha socha hain aapne. Agar Naieem ko apne kitabo se kheech ke alag karsaktein hain, toh beshak chalenge. Mere saath bhi thoda waqt bita lenge phir, agar huzoor ki marzi ho toh”, Ulfat teased him, sighing in mock discontent. 

Rehman turned towards her slightly and pulled her into his arms. 

He had missed her too. 

Breathing in a lungful of his wife’s irresistible fragrance, he chuckled inside her beautiful hair. 

“Aap toh humari mallika hain, Ulfat begum. Aap hi ki hukumat chalti hain humare dil pe”, he pressed his lips to her head. 

“Waah, kya bekaar shayari kiya aapne—”

“Ulfat”

She giggled but raised herself up from his chest and kissed the teasing downward curve of his lips. Rehman sighed into her kisses and pulled her closer. 

A sudden movement beside froze him and he left his wife to look. 

Faizal had taken a hold of his kurta in his sleep. 

Ulfat laughed beneath her hand as she pulled herself off him swiftly despite his light protest. 

“Uh huh, aaj Faizal ko apne Abbu ki zaroorat hain. Tum so jao, main aati hun thodi der mein”, she patted her son’s head lightly and walked away. 

Rehman smiled and turned to wrap his arm over the little boy, essentially trapping him under his warm weight in a way and felt sleep pull drowsily at his eyelids. 

The sea sounded nice for a change. 

The beach and sunshine and sea shells and his children’s laugher in the background and his wife’s hand inside his own as she yelled at them to not drown themselves—

And if Jamali calls him, he could just chuck his phone inside the waves. 

The smell of gun oil and cold steel used to cling to your father's clothes every evening when he returned from Rehman Baloch's factory. But now, the house only smelled of antiseptic and despair.

When the stroke hit, it took away the right side of his body and, with it, the only income keeping your family afloat. With a paralyzed father, a weeping mother, and two younger siblings to feed, the mantle of breadwinner fell onto your shoulders. You had no choice but to go to the one man who held the keys to your survival: Rehman Baloch.

Rehman Baloch's haveli was as intimidating as the man himself. A formidable figure in the underworld, he sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his sharp eyes studying you as you made your plea.

"Sardar..." you began, your voice trembling but resolute. "Abba ab chal phir nahi sakte. Ghar mein maa, chota bhai aur behen hain bhooke marne ki halat mein. Mujhe factory mein koi bhi kaam de dijiye, main kar lungi."

Rehman took a drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling around his hardened features. He remembered your father's loyalty. "Gun factory ka mahaul aurton ke liye theek nahi hai," Rehman replied, his baritone voice echoing in the quiet study. He paused, thinking of his own family. "Mera chota beta hai, Faizal. Uski dekh-bhal ke liye kisi ki zaroorat hai. Haveli mein rahogi, Faizal ki aaya bankar. Tankhwa tumhari umeed se zyada hogi. Manzoor hai?"

You nodded instantly. It was a lifeline.

Life in the Baloch household was unexpectedly warm at first. You became fiercely protective of little Faizal, and in return, Rehman and his wife, Ulfat, treated you with respect. Ulfat Baloch was a striking woman, radiating the fierce pride of a mother who had birthed the heir to the Baloch empire: Naieem.

But in their world, peace was always borrowed time.

The news came on a Tuesday night. Naieem had attended a close friend's wedding. What was supposed to be a night of celebration turned into a massacre when a rival gangster, Babu Dakit, ambushed the venue. When Naieem's blood-soaked body was brought into the courtyard, the Baloch household shattered. The wails that tore from Ulfat's throat didn't sound human.

As weeks turned into months, the fierce matriarch faded into a ghost. One evening, you walked into the living room to find Ulfat sitting in a rocking chair, softly humming a lullaby. Cradled against her chest was a lifeless porcelain doll, wrapped in an old baby blanket.

"Sshh..." Ulfat whispered, glaring at Rehman as he stepped into the room, his eyes red and exhausted. "Mera Naieem so raha hai. Shor mat karo, Rehman. Usse neend aa rahi hai."

Rehman dropped to his knees beside her. "Ulfat, khuda ke liye hosh mein aao. Yeh khilona hai... Naieem jaa chuka hai, meri jaan."

Ulfat clutched the doll tighter, her eyes flashing with a terrifying, hollow anger. "Jhoote ho tum! Yeh raha mera bacha! Babu Dakit kuch nahi kar paya usse!"

Rehman was a man who commanded an army, but in the face of his wife's broken psyche, he was utterly powerless. Doctors were brought in quietly. The psychiatrist suggested that bringing a new life into the house, another baby, might snap Ulfat out of her psychosis and give her maternal instincts a real anchor.

But Ulfat had gone through early menopause. She was completely infertile. There would be no more children for the Baloch family.

Months passed. You did your best to keep Faizal away from the silences that had settled into every room. One afternoon, you were in the courtyard with Faizal. You were chasing him, your laughter mixing with his pure, innocent giggles. You picked him up, spinning him around before pressing a warm kiss to his forehead. For a moment, the heavy shadows over the haveli seemed to lift.

From the second-floor balcony, Ulfat watched you.

She held the porcelain doll to her chest, but something behind her eyes clicked into place , the way it did when she used to give orders. She didn't see a maid playing with her son. She saw a mother. She saw warmth, youth, and life.

Without a word, Ulfat turned and walked straight to Rehman's study. He looked up from his ledgers, startled by her sudden presence. For the first time in months, she wasn't looking at the doll. She was looking right at him.

"Rehman..." she said, her voice eerily calm. "Mujhe mera Naieem wapas chahiye."

Rehman sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "Ulfat, hum is bare mein baat kar chuke hain. Main majboor hoon..."

"Nahi. Ek rasta hai," she interrupted, walking to the window and pointing down at the courtyard where you were holding Faizal's hand. "Dekho usse," Ulfat whispered, her breath fogging the glass. "Faizal uske paas kitna khush hai. Usme jaan hai, Rehman. Uska khoon garam hai. Woh mujhe mera Naieem lauta sakti hai."

Rehman had put men in the ground with his bare hands. He had never flinched. He flinched now.

"Tum janti ho tum kya keh rahi ho, Ulfat? Woh humari mulazim hai."

Ulfat turned to him, tears streaming down her face, but her jaw was set with terrifying determination. She stepped closer, grabbing Rehman's collar with trembling hands.

"Ek aur nikah kar lo, Rehman. Usse apni biwi banao."

Rehman stared at her in stunned silence.

"Mujhe mera bacha chahiye, Rehman," Ulfat sobbed, her voice breaking. "Uski kokh se mera Naieem wapas aayega. Tumhe yeh karna hoga... mere liye. Humare liye."

Outside, you smiled and wiped dirt from Faizal's cheek.

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