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Okayyy, read this. (please)

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ib-gremlin

Samay

-A time travel Hamza/Jassi x Yalina fic

A/N: Hello my lovely readers! I hope you are having a great day, so..I am back with another fic, this one is from an ask. Specifically, SB ji's ask. I know, I know, the next one was supposed to be another installment of the Ulfat series, but this has been pinging around in my head like those tiny rubber balls, so I had to. The Ulfat one will come somewhere along the week, idk when, and well, Imma update The Second Chance, because it looks like a lot of my new readers are discovering it and are hyped af for it, also, the misacarriage drabble is coming carmen ji, thoda time chahiye kyunki woh full on emotional hai and needs sensitivity so that it doesn't turn into angst-p*rn. Also, I am coming to realise, that this semi hiatus thing might become my normal, cus things are picking up speed, and idk if I will ever go back to a 'posting schedule' of sorts. IKK, I am one of the few handful authors posting for this tag, but please bear with me guys, your girl is fighting this capitalist economy and its shit job market. Anyway, aapko tag toh nahi kar sakti, SB ji, I hope fate and your fyp bring this to you! (Its time-travel, I don't have any idea what I am doing and this was supposed to be an under 3k drabble)

====================xXx=======================

Yalina boarded the train carrying the peculiar exhaustion that had become a permanent companion since motherhood arrived in her life, an exhaustion that settled deep beneath her skin and lingered stubbornly within her bones while somehow existing alongside a constant current of joy that never seemed to diminish no matter how little sleep she managed to get. She slipped into a seat beside the window, adjusted the dupatta threatening to slide from her shoulder, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and immediately reached for her phone because there were very few things in the world capable of capturing her attention more effectively than photographs of her son. The destination printed on her ticket barely occupied a corner of her thoughts because she had spent the entire day away from Zayan and already missed him with a ridiculous intensity that she would have mocked mercilessly in anyone else before becoming a mother herself.

A smile appeared before she consciously realised she was smiling as the gallery opened to a photograph taken only two nights earlier, showing Zayan sitting in the middle of their bed with his tiny arms folded dramatically across his chest while wearing an expression of such deep offense that it looked rather grown up on his little face. Hamza appeared in the corner of the frame looking exhausted and bewildered, seemingly attempting to negotiate with a toddler who had clearly decided that compromise was beneath him, and the memory of the entire situation made her snort softly beneath her breath.

"Drama kings," she muttered affectionately while shaking her head at the screen.

khoonaurkhanjar

A MUST READ!!

This will heal you from the heartbreak of watching Jaskirat and Yalina's last call! 😭🫶

#dhurandhar #hamza ali mazari #yalina jamali #dhurandhar 2

afortoru

- I am your God.

- Then why did you curse me with life?

writrsblu

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝙍𝙞𝙯𝙬𝙖𝙣 𝙎𝙝𝙖𝙝 headcanon(?)

SYNOPSIS: The boy who tended a garden that was never his, in a language he had buried, for a man who got to go home.

word count: 6.5k words

To read my other works click here!

[I want to tell you about a prince.

Not Hamza. Not Jaskirat. We'll come back to them. Later.

I want to tell you about Malik Khorsheed — the Sun Prince — who is the hero of a folktale that has been told across Afghanistan and Persia for centuries, passed through courtyards and caravanserais and grandmother-voices and fire-lit rooms, the way stories survive: by being true enough to keep being needed.

Malik Khorsheed lost his mother young. His father gave him a black foal to fill the silence. For years, the foal was his only real companion — the one who knew his name before anyone else spoke it, the one who warned him when the world was becoming dangerous, the one whose knowing required no performance in return.

When his stepmother finally moved to destroy the foal, the prince did what survivors do: he ran. He crossed into a foreign kingdom. He put down his name and his history and his face and became a gardener. A nobody. He let the foreign soil cover him and he waited and he did the work that was asked of him and he did not say what he was.

In the end, the king of the foreign kingdom learned the truth. Wept. Placed his turban on Malik Khorsheed's head. Forty days of feasting. A bride. A flying horse home. The father, exultant in the palace gardens, ordering celebration.

The prince got his name back. That is how the folktale ends.

I'm telling you about Malik Khorsheed because I need you to hold the shape of the story — the real shape, what it costs, what it promises — before I tell you about the version where the prince does not get the feast.

The version where the forty days don't come.

The version where the boy who wore a borrowed name stays borrowed.

But here is the part the folktale never tells you. Here is the part I need you to sit with before we begin.

Malik Khorsheed's foreign kingdom did not hate what he was underneath the disguise. The king wept when he learned the truth. The wound was concealment, not contradiction.

What if the thing he was hiding was the thing the foreign kingdom despised?

What if the prince was not simply unnamed — but unwelcome. Not as a stranger. As a Pathan. As the one whose mother tongue was the wrong tongue, whose blood the foreign kingdom's men joked about at dinner tables while he sat very still and smiled and passed the chai.

That is a different story.

That is the one I want to tell you.]

Somewhere in the northwest. Before all of it.

There is a house that faces the mountains. This is the first true thing. The mountains are always in the frame — not dramatically, not the way foreigners write about them, all metaphor and scale. Just present. The way walls are present. The way the sky is present. He grew up with the mountains as a fact of the world, absorbing them the way children absorb the permanent things, below the level of language.

His mother spoke Pashto to him until he had it in his blood. Not a figure of speech. This is how language acquisition works in the body — not as information stored but as reflex installed, below the level of thought, in the architecture of the self before the self knew it was being built. She spoke Pashto.

She said his name — the real one, the Pashto one, the one that carries in its syllables the specific geography of where she was from and who her people were — and he grew up knowing himself in that sound.

He has not spoken Pashto in years.

This is the cost that does not appear in the contract. The contract says: cover name, cover city, cover history.

The contract does not say: cover language. Cover the mother tongue. Cover the part of you that thinks in Pashto at 3am when the guard is down and the cover name has gone quiet and the real self surfaces briefly in the dark like something coming up for air.

The cover name is Rizwan Shah.

He answers to it. He has answered to it so long that it has worn grooves in him, settled into the posture of his shoulders, become the name his body recognizes in a crowd. At a certain point answering to a name stops being performance and becomes reflex, and the reflex is now the name, functionally, practically, in every room that matters.

This is not a tragedy. He agreed to it. He understood the contract. He signed the papers with both hands and he stood in the training room in Delhi and he said Rizwan Shah, Rizwan Shah, until the Pashto cadence was gone from the back of his throat and only the Urdu remained — smooth, cityless, belonging to no one in particular.

He was very good at the smoothing.

This is the thing that made him useful and the thing that cost him most. Both facts equally true. Both equally beside the point.

[Malik Khorsheed's black foal appears after his mother dies. The folktale is precise about the sequence. First the loss. Then the gift. A dervish brings the animal to the palace, and the scholars argue about what it means, but the foal goes directly to the boy and stands beside him without being led, and this is the answer: it means the boy needed something that would not leave, and so the story provided it.

The foal knows everything. It warns him about the pit dug in the path. It warns him about the poisoned food. It tells him when the tournament is happening and instructs him, three times, to ride out in armor so no one can see his face, and win, and return before anyone learns who he is.

The foal is the keeper of the real name while the boy is being someone else.

Every version of this story has an equivalent. Someone or something that holds the original while the disguise is being worn. The black foal. The red and yellow threads in a breast pocket. The diary handed over in a hallway in Lyari, the words go compressed to a single syllable, and then a man walking in the other direction.

What happens when the keeper is gone?

What does the prince do when there is no foal left — no witness to the original, nothing between him and the cover name but years — and on top of that, the foreign kingdom is specifically, historically, at war with the thing he actually is underneath?

This is where the folktale runs out.

This is where Rizwan begins.]

Delhi. The training room. The before.

He remembers the smell first. Damp concrete and something electrical and the particular staleness of a room that processes many bodies and does not open its windows. The fluorescent lights flattened everyone's faces to the same grey-white, which was either accidental or designed and he had decided by the second week it was designed — the lighting was itself a kind of cover, making it hard to read anyone, which meant reading people anyway became the first and most important skill.

He became very good at reading. He had always been good at reading. He had grown up Pathan in rooms that were not Pathan rooms, had learned by the time he was twelve that certain things about you are information and information in the wrong hands is danger, had developed the specific competence of a person who has always had to know the room before the room knew him.

Jaskirat Singh Rangi arrived on the third day.

Punjabi. You could see it immediately — the way his body took up space with the confidence of someone who had grown up knowing the space was theirs. He had a face that had been angry about something for a long time and had organized itself around the anger without letting it show, which is a different thing from hiding it, more structural than that. He tracked the door every time he entered a room. He had already agreed to something before he walked in, which was visible to anyone paying the right kind of attention, and he was the kind of person who assumed nobody was paying the right kind of attention and was therefore briefly readable before he realized he was being read.

He sat two chairs away and said nothing for the first hour.

He said nothing the way a man says nothing when he is listening more carefully than the people who are speaking.

By the end of the first week they were running drills together. Not because they had been assigned to each other. Because they had identified each other as the two people in the room operating at the same specific frequency — the frequency of people who have been careful for long enough that the careful has become something structural, something installed below the level of decision.

By the end of the second week they had established the wordless grammar that develops between people who are very good at reading and therefore spend energy reading each other. Not competing. Not performing. Just noting. Continuously, precisely, noting.

He noted: Jaskirat's Punjabi surfaced when he was tired. The specific music of it, the cadence. He did not file this as a vulnerability — it was a tell only if someone in the room was looking for it, and the only person looking for it was himself. He filed it as information about what Jaskirat was like when his guard was down. This was useful information. It was the kind you could not fabricate.

Jaskirat noted: he was careful in a specific way. Not the training-room careful, the careful you learn in the first week. The older kind. The kind that comes from having learned early that certain things about you are information, and information is always also risk. He had been careful in this way his whole life and it showed in the way nothing showed — which is its own kind of showing, to the right pair of eyes.

There was a night, late, in the kind of hour the training left them with — both of them sitting outside on concrete because neither could sleep, which was a pattern they had both noticed without naming — when Jaskirat said: "Where are you actually from."

He had given the city all week. Just the city, just the cover. He looked at Jaskirat in the specific half-dark of a Delhi night and understood that the question was not an interrogation. It was a parallel disclosure. I am from somewhere too. I am carrying something too. I am asking because I want to be asked back, because the weight of performing nowhere gets heavy by the end of a training day and even careful men occasionally need to set something down.

He said the city. He did not say what the city was built on top of. What language its hills spoke at night. What the mountains looked like from the window of his childhood home. What his mother's voice sounded like when it was not performing any language except her own.

Jaskirat nodded. He did not ask further.

He understood the shape of a door that stays closed and he respected it the way men who have their own closed doors respect each other's. This was the beginning of the thing between them — not friendship, which is the wrong word, too soft for what develops between two people who have both agreed to something enormous and are now circling each other in a training room, both precise, both carrying things they have been told to put down and haven't quite managed. Something more structural than friendship. The recognition of a parallel weight.

They trained for months.

He learned Jaskirat's tells the way you learn a landscape you might someday need to navigate in the dark: exhaustively, without sentiment, with total retention. The jaw tension that meant Jaskirat was containing something he would not say. The particular stillness that meant he had made a decision and was done renegotiating it. The way he reached for his left wrist when he was afraid, not consciously, just the gesture of a man touching the only thing he hadn't agreed to put down.

Jaskirat learned his tells.

There was an exercise — the fourth month, when the training shifted to close-quarters — where they were paired against each other, full resistance, no holds. He was good at this. He had always been good at this. But Jaskirat was also good at it, and Jaskirat had the specific advantage of a man who fights like he is not afraid of losing, which is the most dangerous kind of opponent, because caution in a fight is always also a vulnerability.

They went fifteen minutes. Full resistance. Neither one conceding.

At the end Jaskirat was on the floor and he had two fingers pressed into his own bleeding lip and they were both breathing like they had been underwater and the instructor had stopped counting rounds because it had stopped being useful to count rounds, and after a long moment Jaskirat looked up at him from the floor and said: "You fight like you're angry about something you're not going to tell me."

He thought about the mountains. He thought about Pashto at 3am. He thought about the smooth Urdu he had installed in the back of his throat where the other language used to live.

He said: "So do you."

Jaskirat's mouth moved. Not quite a smile. The thing adjacent to a smile in men who have forgotten how to do the easy version.

They got up. They ran the next drill.

This is what he carries from the training months: not the techniques, not the protocol — those are installed, those are simply there now, below decision. He carries the specific texture of being known sideways, incompletely, accurately. Jaskirat never knew his real name. Jaskirat never knew the language. But Jaskirat knew the shape of the closed door and knew not to push it and knew how to sit beside a person in a difficult hour without making the difficulty worse, and this — this is the thing that did not have a name but was real, and was the closest thing to keeping he had in those months, and he did not understand its weight until it was very far away.

[There is a concept in Pashtunwali — the code that has governed Pathan life for centuries, older than the borders that divided the land it came from — called nang. Honour. Not in the diluted sense the word has acquired in translation, not the performance of honour for external observers. The real thing. The internal accounting. The question you answer only to yourself, in the language your mother spoke, in the quiet that is not available in any other register.

Nang demands: you protect your own. You stand with your people. You do not walk into the enemy's house and call it service.

He made a different calculation.

He has been making it every year in Lyari. Every morning, waking up in a city at war with itself in at least four directions, in a neighbourhood that had buried over 3,500 of its own people between 2000 and 2010 — 3,500 people which is a number that appears in every report and means nothing and means everything, which is not a statistic but a city inside a city gone — waking up in this place, in this name, in this language, and making the calculation again.

The mission against the nang. The hundred and sixty-six who did not get out of November 2008 against the voice in the back of his throat that sometimes surfaced at 3am and said: what are you doing in this man's house. What have you made of yourself.

He answered the voice in Pashto.

He was the only person in Karachi who could.

The Pashtun who chose the mission over nang is not a traitor in the simple sense. He is something more complicated. He is a man who looked at the code his mothers' mothers lived by and said: I understand this, and I am going to do the other thing, and I am going to carry the weight of that in the language the code was written in, which is a language nobody around me speaks, which means I am carrying it entirely alone.

Alone is the operative word.

It is always the operative word with him.]

Lyari. The years.

He arrived without ceremony, one more body in a city that had stopped asking where bodies came from. He made himself small and steady and unremarkable. He learned the neighbourhood the way he had learned everything since the training: with his whole body, not just his mind. The acoustics of the lanes — narrow enough that sound bounced differently than in open streets, which meant you could sometimes hear a conversation three turnings away if you knew where to stand. The specific light at different hours: mornings gold over the rooftops, evenings purple-grey, nights orange-lit because the city never fully turned itself off. The weight of the air in the wet season versus the dry, the salt in it, the sea underneath everything.

He learned Lyari in the language Lyari spoke — Balochi-inflected Urdu, its own rhythms, its own music — and he absorbed it the way he had absorbed everything he needed to survive in a space that was not built for him: completely, below the level of decision, until it felt natural, until Rizwan Shah's voice came out of his mouth with the cadences of a man who had always spoken this way.

He did not think about Pashto during the days.

He thought about it at 3 in the morning, which was when the cover name went quiet.

There was a man in the outer circles of Rehman Dakait's network named Gulbaz. He had come from Khyber in the late nineties when moving to the city was survival. He had a voice that carried the mountains in it — the register that comes from growing up in altitude, in space, in the acoustic landscape of a place where sounds travel far. He spoke Urdu in a way that said: this is not my first language, and he was careful about it, and the careful cost him something visible to anyone who knew the specific texture of that kind of careful.

He watched Gulbaz smooth the Pashto from the back of his throat in meetings. Watched him absorb the jokes — the particular jokes, the ones that establish hierarchy while maintaining deniability — with the expression of a man who has decided that absorbing is cheaper than responding, and has made this decision so many times it has become a reflex. Watched him make himself smaller in rooms that would have been easier if he had been something else.

He did not say a word.

He could have spoken to Gulbaz in Pashto. Three minutes, maybe less. The specific relief of it — the language your mother gave you, your real name's language, the one that lives in the back of the throat and hasn't been let out in years. He could have given Gulbaz that. Given himself that.

He did not. The mission was the mission.

He is still not sure whether not speaking was the right thing or simply the necessary thing. He has given up trying to locate the difference because the difference has nowhere to go, and some questions you stop asking not because you've found the answer but because the asking costs more than you have left to spend.

[The black foal speaks. In the folktale this is not magical — it is simply the foal's nature. It sees clearly. It speaks plainly. It does not soften the warnings or dress them in comfort.

"Be careful," the foal says. "She is plotting against you."

"I know," the prince says.

"You should leave."

"Not yet."

The foal and the prince have this conversation in different forms across different dangers. The foal warns. The prince acknowledges. The prince stays, because the time is not right, because leaving before the right moment means the waiting was for nothing.

There is a word in Dari — saburi — close to the Arabic sabr but with something additional in it, something that comes from being embedded in a specific landscape of endurance, a specific cultural memory of waiting out larger forces than yourself.

Saburi is the patience of a people who have been invaded and occupied and starved and bombed and who are still here, still telling the same stories in the same courtyards.

He learned this word and then learned what it cost to live it.

Rizwan was Hamza's foal.Not in the sense of being lesser — in the sense of being the keeper. The one who called the cover name knowing it was a cover name. The one who could read the face behind the face, who knew there was a language beneath the Urdu that never came out, a name beneath the name that was never spoken.

Hamza knew.

This is the sentence with the most weight. Hamza knew, and the knowing made the years possible in a way that no operational review can account for. The knowing was structural. It was the difference between wearing a disguise and becoming the disguise.

Between the prince in the garden who is still a prince and the gardener who looks in the mirror one day and cannot find the prince anymore.

Hamza gave him the diary and said leave.

And the keeping stopped.

Some things do not require elaboration. Some things are their own elaboration.]

Lyari. The operations.

There is a chapter of the years that he keeps in a specific place — not sealed, not forgotten, just stored at a remove, the way you store things that are both necessary to keep and costly to access. The chapter called: what they did together.

He and Hamza worked through a list that had no official name, in a file that officially did not exist, of men who were in Karachi and should not be. Zahoor Mistry. The Khanani brothers. Men whose names appeared in briefings about attacks on trains and markets and all the ordinary places where people are when they become targets without knowing it. Each one documented. Each one removed.

He was beside Hamza for all of it — the logistics, the intelligence, the specific precision that the training had installed in both of them, the shared body count that accumulated across the years like sediment.

He filed all of it. Sent to Aalam, through Aalam to Sanyal in Delhi, each transmission a thread in the net they were building.

He did not grieve any of the men they removed.

He is not certain this is a healthy thing.

He is also not certain that healthy is the right metric for what they were doing in those lanes at those hours, and some distinctions you stop pursuing because pursuing them is a luxury the work did not allow and now, in the after, there is a habit of not pursuing that has outlasted the necessity.

Then: the Uzair Baloch framing.

He wants to be precise about this because the imprecise version is comfortable and the precise version is the true one and he has been in a line of work that requires him to know the difference. What happened: Hamza engineered the fall of Arshad Pappu. Uzair Baloch was positioned as the instrument. The evidence was real — Uzair had done it, the football scene, that specific and extreme violence — but the positioning of the evidence, the way it surfaced, the record that brought the police and the gangs simultaneously to bear: that was constructed.

His testimony was part of the construction.

His statement — Rizwan Shah, loyal aide, credible witness — was one of the load-bearing pieces that made Uzair's guilt legible to the people who needed to believe it. He gave the statement accurately. He said what had happened. He selected which part of what had happened to say, which is not lying, which is the specific discipline that the work requires, which is also, on reflection, a form of violence with a clean face.

He is precise about this. He was part of the mechanism that destroyed a man's position in the world. The man had done what he was said to have done. He had also been selected for destruction for reasons that had nothing to do with Arshad Pappu and everything to do with what Hamza needed next. Both of these things are simultaneously true. He was the instrument of both.

He moved on. He has been very good at moving on.

He is less certain, in the after, that moving on and accounting for are the same thing.

He is less certain, in the after, that he has done the accounting.

Lyari. The night of the ammunition.

This is the one he returns to. Not the operations, not the kills, not the testimony or the years. This one. The specific and complete texture of this one night.

He had known something was wrong before they arrived. He had known the way you know things after years in Lyari — not with the mind first, with the body.

The way the men at the perimeter were positioned. He had read it and he had not said anything because saying it would have required explaining how he knew, and explaining how he knew required a kind of precision about his own perception that he had learned to keep internal.

They delivered the ammunition.

Major Iqbal took Hamza.

He sensed it the moment the room changed — not saw, sensed, the way you sense a door closing before you hear it — and he moved and the door was already locked and he was on the outside of it and Hamza was on the inside and there was a wall between them and the wall was not going to move.

He wants to be precise about what those minutes were like. He has been precise about most things for most of his life and he is going to be precise about this too, because imprecision is a way of protecting yourself from what something actually was and he has decided, in the after, that he is done protecting himself from this particular thing.

The minutes were this: he was outside a locked door with Hamza on the other side and he did not know what was happening on the other side and he could not get through and he had a choice. He could make noise — draw attention, attempt a breach, do the thing that felt like action. Or he could wait. He could trust the plan that Hamza had built, the explosives planted in the ammunition with Shirani's help, the sequence that required only the right moment and someone with the nerve to detonate it and accept whatever the detonation cost.

He waited.

He stood outside a locked door in Lyari and he held the detonator and he waited and he did not know whether Hamza was alive and he had to hold that not-knowing in the same body he was using to calculate the timing and he held it with the specific discipline of a man who has been trained to hold incompatible things simultaneously, which is what the work had made him, which he was grateful for in that moment in the way you are grateful for things that cost you.

He detonated at the right moment.

Hamza survived.

The mission continued.

He has told this story to himself many times since. He has accessed every part of it: the locked door, the not-knowing, the waiting, the detonation. He has been precise about all of it. He has not been able to access the part where he finds out Hamza is alive — the specific physical fact of that relief, what it did to his body, whether it was grief or something adjacent to grief or simply the release of a tension that had been held at a specific pitch for a specific duration and was now permitted to come down.

He is not certain he has words for that part.He is not certain words are the right tool for it.

He moves on. He is very good at moving on.

[The foreign kingdom in the folktale is not a punishment. The prince arrives in disguise because the world that was supposed to hold him became hostile, and the disguise was survival. Disguise in the service of survival is not deception. It is the oldest form of intelligence work.

But the folktale's foreign kingdom is neutral about what the prince is underneath the disguise. The king weeps when he learns the truth. The wound was only concealment.

Lyari was not neutral.

Lyari had opinions. Lyari had men who made those opinions legible at tables and in rooms, in the specific kind of joke that establishes hierarchy while maintaining deniability. He sat at those tables. He heard every joke. He filed every joke. He smiled the particular smile that covers nothing while appearing to cover everything, and he passed the chai, and he was grateful — this is the word, grateful — that Hamza was in the room, because Hamza knowing was the thing that kept the prince from disappearing entirely into the gardener.

He sat in the house of men who would have put him out of it if they had known what language he thought in at 3am.

Malik Khorsheed hid his name.

He hid his name and his origin and his blood and his mother tongue and the mountains in the frame of a childhood window and the specific and irreducible fact of being Pathan in a room full of people who had decided, historically, specifically, what Pathans were.

The folktale was not built to contain this.

The folktale gives you concealment. It does not give you the particular violence of concealing the thing that makes you who you are in a room that would hate you for it. It does not give you Gulbaz smoothing the Pashto from his throat three tables away while you sit with your cover name and your filed observations and your mouth closed around the language you share.

This is the thing no briefing prepares you for and no commendation acknowledges: the cost of being underground in an enemy's city is not the danger. Danger has procedures. The cost is this.

The moving on.

The accumulated weight of all the filing and moving on over all the years.]

The city continued. The generators ran. The chai stalls were open. A child was kicking something down a lane too narrow for the sound to go anywhere except straight up. The city was having a morning the way it always had mornings — without ceremony, without registering that something had just ended inside it, without any awareness of what it had housed for years in its lanes.

He had been invisible so long that the invisibility had started to feel like the truth about him rather than a technique. This is the specific damage of years of cover work and it is not the damage the briefings address. The briefings address the obvious damage. The other kind — the slow replacement of the self with the cover, the gradual installation of the cover's reflexes where the self's used to be — this is the damage that does not surface in any assessment because the assessment cannot reach it, because by the time it is extensive enough to measure the person being assessed has become too skilled at covering to let the assessment find it.

He had Rizwan's reflexes now. Rizwan's read of a room. Rizwan's smooth cityless Urdu belonging to no one in particular.

His mother's language was still there. He checked. Below all of it. Still accessible. He visited it at 3am and found it and said his real name in it and put it away again.

He did not know how long this would be true.

He carried the diary six weeks before opening it. The interval is precise information about how a person manages something they cannot put down and cannot look at simultaneously. Six weeks is how long it took to find the internal stillness — not silence, Lyari has never had silence, but the internal kind you construct with effort inside the noise.

He opened it on a Tuesday.

The handwriting was small and pressed hard. He read three pages. He read about Punjab. About a family that had been held in trust while Jaskirat became Hamza, about a before that still existed, waiting, however painfully, however imperfectly.

He closed it.

He sat until the room changed quality around him.

He thought about his own before. The house facing the mountains. His mother's voice. Her hands — the shape of them visible, the details beginning to thin at the edges, the specifics being replaced by the impression of specifics. He is losing her in increments he did not consent to. This is what the years do. Nobody puts it in the contract because the contract cannot hold everything the work actually takes.

He thought about Jaskirat. He thought about Punjab waiting. He thought: even his grief has an address.

He thought: mine has a language nobody in this city speaks.

He thought: I have been keeping it alone for years.

[The black foal, in the end, gets to carry the prince home. It has held the real identity through the whole disguise. It has been the one witness. And when the truth is spoken and the recognition is complete, it carries the prince back to where he came from.

Not every foal gets to make that journey.

Hamza went home.

I keep saying this because it is the precise shape of the wound. Hamza went home in the direction of his real name, toward the people who know it, into the life that was held in trust. He has the problem of return, which is a real problem, which will break him in specific ways and remake him in others. But there is a door. The door exists.

Rizwan has the problem of remaining.

This is the distinction that does not appear in any briefing or assessment or commendation file. The distinction between the person who goes home and has to navigate the re-entry, and the person who does not go home yet, who keeps being the cover in the in-between, whose in-between has no clear end date, whose cover name is doing more and more of the work that used to be shared with the real one.

Malik Khorsheed got forty days of feasting and a flying horse and a father weeping in the palace gardens.

He gets Tuesdays. The diary. The hands that know a city he is leaving in the specific way that you know something you will not return to — completely, with the knowledge sitting in the body permanently, unreturnable. The real name, in the language nobody here speaks, in a room inside himself that he visits deliberately, carefully, because the passage has grown unfamiliar and he knows what it means when familiar things become unfamiliar and he is not ready to know that about this.

He is a Pathan who spent years in a Baloch city, in the house of men who would have put him out of it for the language in the back of his throat, doing work that required him to bury the first true thing about himself.

He has no other option and he has not run out of the patience for it, and this is the only ending this version of the story has: not the feast, not the father, not the flying horse home.

He is the foal.

Just the foal in the garden of a city that was never his, hands in the wrong soil, still knowing — with complete precision, with the certainty of a man who has lost almost everything except this one thing — exactly what he is underneath the dirt.]

Sometimes at the wink of night he thinks to himself — Am I the foal or simply the prince refusing to leave because of the timing?

Do what you will with this.

fin.

author note: This one was strange to write.

Rizwan is a relatively minor character compared to Jaskirat , which meant I had far less material to work with than I usually do. But the moment I came across the story of Malik Khorsheed, the parallel lodged itself in my brain and refused to leave.

The more I thought about it, the more interested I became in the person who doesn't get the ending the folktale promises. So this ended up becoming less of a character study and more of a literary analysis disguised as one.

If you choose to read it that way, you're probably not wrong.

Thank you for reading!

khoonaurkhanjar

WHERE THE PRINCE DOES NOT GET A CELEBRATION 😭😭😭

I could have pointed out my favourite lines, but everything was so emotional! Especially Jaskirat and his friendship- no, their recognition of parallel weights! And I did not miss the references from Jaskirat's Rakhi headcannon/fic.

Rizwan remains a severely unsung hero!

Kudos to @writrsblu for paralleling such folk tales so amazingly!

#dhurandhar #dhurandhar fandom #dhurandar the revenge

A husband like Jassi? Yes. BUT A BROTHER LIKE JASSI?! PLEASE BHAGWAN JI! If not this, at least bless me in my next lifetime!

#dhurandhar #dhurandar the revenge #jaskirat singh rangi #dhuranandar2

•18+ Adults Only

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Ekti Ekti Ghabarlis Na, but it is Jasleen and Prableen Kaur Rangi.

#dhurandhar #dhurandar the revenge #jasleen kaur rangi #prableen kaur rangi #Spotify

obsessedwidskincare

Raziya Gundo Mein Phas Gayii 👀👀

Uzair Baloch x reader Summary- Crackfic hai boss, with fluff ka tadka🤪 Warning- Pure Uzair fluff! For a change, he is flirty and not bhondu🫩

Hello, Hello 🎤

Mike Testing

1, 2, 3...

So I wanted to surprise my second child on Tumblr, the incredible @mainyahaankyunhoon. Girlie is just about tolerating the excessive heat while slaying exams, managing stress, dealing with her dean, keeping up with Tumbr and Instagram and what not 😭😭😭

So I decided to go ahead and write this fic for her, based on her idea🤓

My first child @roses-and-iron helped proof reading this, suggesting a title worthy of such a crackfic. I swear you guys, you have no idea how COOL Nini is🥹

Also beating my wifey @twinblueflamee as it seems I have more self-control as this fic is less than 5K words😼🙂‍↔️🙂‍↕️

To any of you who don't like it- I am sorry!

To anyone who likes it- It is a labor of Love and Chai Mocha drip⏰️

To all the writers- You guys are incredible! Seriously, the mehnat should be loved and appreciated🫶🫶🫶

To all people on Tumblr- The world is a shitty place. Let girlies live a little more on this platform without being Judged🫂

mainyahaankyunhoon

Before Uzair could reply, you fill him in. ‘Are inka woh mota billa. Factory mein rehta hai. Loafer saala chindi aashiq. Fenke hue chicken se meri Raziya ko behla fusla ke maa bana diya.’

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 If I would've been pele I would've cried

‘Naam bhi kitna behuda ashleel hai’ you say under your breath.

‘Aye ladki woh bohot bade footballer ka naam hai. Tameez se’

Do I look like igaf?

‘Par aapka billa toh badtameez hai. Jahil, playboy!’ you throw the unsolicited character certificate at him.

LMFAOOO 😭😭😭

‘Aapko ladies wear mein dilchaspi abhi hui hai ya yeh shaukh pehle se hi hai’ you ask him, only for the tanker aka Hamza to laugh and disappear into the crowd.

Clock ittt🤏🤏🤏

‘Dekhiye..’

‘Dekh raha hoon’ he says, staring at you, specifically your lips.

😳😳😳😳

He sighs, ‘Pata hai! Isiliye puch raha ke main tumhare type ka kaise banu?’

EK PLATE UZAIR PACK KAROOO

‘Jaisa billa waisa baap. Jahil! Besharam! Behaya!’

You're just like your father is not an insult anymore - it's a flirting mastercalss now☝️☝️☝️

Faizal and fiza are my OTP😭😭☝️ the rizz and yearning Faizal and pele inherited are from none other than Uzair Baloch.

‘Aap mera fayda uthana chahte hai?’

‘Nahi! Main toh keh raha hu tum mera fayda uthao’ he breathes in your face to carry on worshiping you with his hands, body and lips.

RESPECTFULLY KNOCK ME UP SIR IM ON MY KNEES FOR YOU😭😭😭🥵

You quip at him ‘Billa meri beti pata le gaya aur Baap mujhe’

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

In the end - conclude with ki pele ki koi galti nahi hai- jaisa malik waisa billa- dono mein se kisi ko zikro gilaf use karne ka salika nahi hai😂😏

I LOVE YOU SM YOU ARE THE BESTTEESSSSTTTTT EVERRRR I CANT WAIT TO HAVE KY UNIVERSITY FINALS TO BE PAMPERED LIKE THIS BY YOU @obsessedwidskincare and @twinblueflamee 😋😋😋😋😚😚😚😚😚

khoonaurkhanjar

THIS. A COLLECTION OF MYY FAVV LINESS! AND ALSO ULFAT TEASINGG THEM TOOO! 🫶

#dhurandhar #uzair baloch #uzair x reader

hum-suffer

Ni Main Vaari Jaavan (Mera Sohna Hathiyaar) 3

Trigger warning: graphic description of what the OC feels during the terror attack scene. To reiterate; I despise all those terrorists and in no way am I condoning or glorifying their deeds and I hope they burn in hell for all eternity.

Another trigger warning: slight su*cidal thoughts. You'll understand in context but warning nonetheless.

—————————————————————————

They stay in contact.

The next time they meet, is two days before the attack.

Afsana, having been tracking Mir and Iqbal constantly, had reported to Aalam and Hamza that the two slippery bastards were meeting the Khanani brothers soon and they seemed too excited for it to be a simple meeting.

Aalam nods, and they send the message home.

____________________________________________________

On the day of the attack, Afsana is the last one to reach there. She'd been to Hyderabad for an educational conference, and Iqbal had called her back to Khanani brothers' warehouse by the evening. Something urgent and something that she'll love, he'd said.

She walks in through the doors just as Javed Khanani recieves Rehman at the door of the warehouse, the silence of the night being an ominous spectator to the rising amount of excitement in the bastards and dread in Hamza and Afsana.

"You're late, Afsana bi!" Javed Khanani jokes, one hand still on Rehman's shoulder. "Iqbal Sahab was disappointed that you couldn't make it in time."

Afsana smiles at him, almost indulging,"Getting out of commitments is not as easy for some of us as it is for you, Javed Miyan."

His smile falters for a moment before he carries on, gushing to Rehman about the show they've missed, ignoring Uzair and Hamza's snorts.

She walks into the room right after Rehman, pausing slightly at the sight in front of her.

Her heart seizes.

Iqbal, Mir, Khananis, David, Bhuttovi, Cheema.

This is not the crowd she expected.

Fuck.

She can feel her shoulders trembling as she hears Bhuttovi congratulate Rehman on the quality of the guns and ammunition, how he thinks Gazwa-e-Hind will start from Mumbai.

Iqbal turns to greet them, pulling Rehman in a half hug and shifting a satellite phone in his hands to give her a respectful aadab.

He nods at Rehman to take a seat and pulls out a chair between himself and Rehman,"Afsana Sahiba, aaiye. Hindustani sarkar aur uski nakamiyabi dekhiye."

With her legs shaking, hidden by her grey anarkali, Afsana moves, sitting between the two men with a murmur of thanks and a passing smile at Iqbal.

The news channels start taking about he details, recapping the events and revealing the place of the police and the army men. Footages move, blurry and clear alike, and the headlines scream at her like they're blaming her for this, for her incompetence, for her inability to predict this.

So many dead already.

The terrorist is a veritable boy against her age, carrying a gun like it's his destiny.

Beside her, Iqbal is talking on the phone, guiding the boys.

Afsana tunes him out for a moment, crossing her knees and folding her shaking hands on her thighs, under her dupatta, to hide them from sight. Suddenly, Javed, Rehman and Iqbal chukle, as if they were sharing a drink after a victory.

"Rehman bhai, you've outdone yourself." Iqbal says, chuckling still, as he reaches for another satellite phone to give the boys another instruction. To kill every foreigner and Jew. The anchor on the TV again repeats the information, displaying the movements of the armed forces and Satyaa wants to strangle every media personnel there.

Why are they showcasing this, why are they helping Iqbal, why are they making it easy?

Bhuttovi calls out, almost playfully, "Kamaal hai, Afsana Sahiba, hum udhar aag laga rahe hai aur yaha aap dupatte mein chip rahi hai."

She raises an eyebrow of her own at him, stepping into the careless body language of her uncle, whom Jaskirat killed six years ago.

"Ab aap November ke mahine mein AC chalayenge toh Hindustan mein lagi hui aag se humein kya hi farak padega, Bhuttovi sahab?"

He laughs, convinced by her lie, and immediately gestures at another man, who increases the temperature of the AC.

She dips her head in a nod of gratitude.

"More than eighty people are dead." The anchor says. "Several hundred were injured."

Another anchor speaks,"Forty hostages were taken."

Before Afsana can come out of her stupor, before she can feel blood running back in her numb hands, a bomb blasts on the screen.

Afsana physically jolts and immediately looks at her right, where Rehman too, had startled just as she did, albeit at a lesser reaction.

Her cover isn't blown. Thank god thank god—

Why? Why thank him when there are people dying, why thank him when she can hear sirens, why thank him when the gunshots echo in her ear through the telecast?

She'd rather she blow her cover here and die but she's no use dead, she needs to be useful, she needs to help, she needs to help Jaskirat, she can't help her country but she can help Jaskirat, she needs to stay alive she needs to—

But she can't hear how many more are dead, why can't she hear them, they've been speaking constantly, they've been reporting to Iqbal constantly, giving him and the rest of them all the hints, why can't the anchors speak now, why have they stopped their reporting—

Oh.

Everyone is chanting.

She curls her numb fingers into a fist and chants with them. Her words pass through her throat but don't reach her ear, lost in the celebration of men who think blood and death are reasons to rejoice, who have no humanity in their darkned souls, who have no sense of morality left. They're no humans, the men around her and Jaskirat. They're demons, designed to spread destruction.

When Iqbal stands up to lead the chants, he leads them like he won a battle, like he personally felt the satisfaction of the blast.

As the rest of them chant, Iqbal grins down at her. "Ab toh tempreture thik hai na, Afsana Sahiba?"

She smiles at him,"Humara kitna dhyan rakhenge aap, Major sahab? Shukriya."

The pit in her stomach deepens with each syllable, every breathing brushing on her lungs like it's passing through a barrage of thorns, pulling her heart like it was a blackhole. She'd rather that she dies here, with her heart pumping too much and throwing her into a cardiac arrest, than see this. She'd rather she slit her own throat than see this.

It's her fault, it's her fault, it's her fault, it's her fault—

He smiles at her like along with his victory, her words are a point of pride. "We'd already taken away their intellect when you came to us, Afsana Sahiba," he says, sitting back down to guide the rest of the boys, looking at her like he's expecting a pat on the back,"Now, we take their security."

"Did they have any to begin with?" Mir laughs behind her and she's saved from answering the question, even as Iqbal laughs right alongside him and she has to pretend to hide a cheeky smile behind her hand.

They stay like that until the news telecasts go repetitive.

When everyone starts to disperse, Iqbal asks Rehman and Afsana to stay behind for tea.

Rehman refuses politely, saying something about an early morning audit that he has to do in his factory.

Afsana refuses, too,"Teen ghante drive karke aayi hun, Major Sahab. Aur subah ek online lecture bhi dena hai. Maaf kijiyega, iss baar nahi ruk paungi."

Iqbal pats Rehman's shoulder and smiles,"No worries. This party of ours will keep going on for some more time. We can have tea later."

____________________________________________________

She drives to the port.

He doesn't follow.

She calls them both.

____________________________________________________

Jaskirat is drunk when he comes to the port.

It's almost dawn, the sky looks like spilled water from a mosaic painting, and she's been sitting here, curled up under the useless light, when Alam comes there, Jaskirat in tow.

"We passed on the intel." He says, gritting his teeth and almost growling,"Got it there before time. Then how the hell did this happen?" He asks, almost crowding Alam.

Satyaa looks at the water below.

She feels filthy.

Wonders, if she could wash off the guilt and the horror if she dived.

If she didn't survive.

But her very soul feels stained, feels like it is darkened with the darkest of inks, with the reddest of blood.

Her unsalvagable soul isn't the concern here.

Jaskirat is telling them how he's the one who put the gun in the boy's hand, the one who was arrested. Kasab.

He sounds ruined, too.

He snarls that he wants to kill them all. Every one of those perpetrators.

"I can do it in an hour," Satyaa says, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears. "I have an open invitation there. I could wear a bomb under my dress and press the trigger when I go there. One try, and end them all."

Aalam, bless him, becomes the voice of reason even as Jaskirat snarls at her in a no, yelling that if anyone will kill them it'll be him and he'll do it one by one, make them regret it and make them beg.

Aalam forces them both to think again. Forces them to think about India, it's reputation and the repercussions of killing such big names without any proper back-up or false story to fall on.

He passes his book to Jaskirat and looks at Satyaa.

"Revenge can only be extracted if you stay alive." He repeats. "Your life means his motivation," he gestures at Jaskirat, ignoring the flash of surprise in her eyes that he's figured out that they mean something to each other. "Stay alive. Keep him alive. Keep our mission alive."

She nods.

Jaskirat looks at them, his eyes swollen and red but feline and dangerous. Determined.

"Ghayal hoon, isiliye ghatak hoon."

____________________________________________________

sunf1over

AGLE JANAM

A poem from Ulfat to Rehman.

(It’s a little too much hindi in the starting, idk what happened to me🫠 but I’ve tried to translate the meaning and have also provided a kind of glossary.)

𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙪 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙢 𝙠𝙚 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙫 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖, 𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙢𝙖𝙞 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙝𝙧𝙖 𝙢𝙤𝙙𝙝 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙣, 𝙖𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙫𝙞𝙧𝙖𝙝 𝙠𝙞 𝙥𝙮𝙖𝙖𝙨 𝙠𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖.

𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙪 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙢 𝙠𝙚 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙫 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖, 𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙢𝙖𝙞 𝙖𝙠𝙝𝙞𝙮𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙤𝙙𝙝 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙣, 𝙖𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙖𝙣𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙜 𝙠𝙚 𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙜 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙟𝙖𝙡𝙣𝙖.

𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙪𝙟𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙝𝙞 𝙫𝙞𝙮𝙤𝙜 𝙠𝙖 𝙨𝙝𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙥 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙚, 𝙈𝙖𝙞 𝙢𝙖𝙧 𝙟𝙖𝙪𝙣.... 𝙖𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙗𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙖𝙣 𝙠𝙞 𝙖𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙟𝙞𝙮𝙚.

𝙈𝙖𝙞 𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙞 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙚 (तले) 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙞 𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙤 𝙟𝙖𝙪𝙣, 𝘼𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙟𝙚𝙚𝙫𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙧 𝙣𝙞𝙮𝙖𝙩𝙞 𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙩𝙖 𝙧𝙖𝙝𝙚. 𝙈𝙖𝙞 𝙙𝙝𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙝 𝙗𝙖𝙣 𝙠𝙖𝙧 𝙗𝙞𝙠𝙝𝙖𝙧 𝙟𝙖𝙪𝙣, 𝘼𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙟𝙚𝙚𝙫𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙟𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙝𝙨𝙤𝙤𝙨 𝙠𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙖 𝙧𝙖𝙝𝙚.

𝙈𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙚 𝙠𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙖𝙙 𝙗𝙝𝙞 𝙩𝙪 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙬𝙖𝙯𝙖 𝙩𝙖𝙠 𝙩𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖, 𝙆𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙞 𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙖 𝙣𝙖𝙖𝙢 𝙙𝙤𝙝𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙖. 𝙃𝙖𝙧 𝙖𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙖𝙯 𝙥𝙖𝙧 𝙖𝙠𝙝𝙞𝙮𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙝𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙖, 𝘼𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙝𝙞𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙪𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙠𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙩 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖.

𝙃𝙖𝙧 𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙧e 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙠 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙪 𝙧𝙤𝙮𝙚, 𝙃𝙖𝙧 𝙙𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙣 𝙖𝙪𝙧 𝙠𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙡𝙞 𝙝𝙤𝙩𝙖 𝙟𝙖𝙖𝙮𝙚. 𝙈𝙖𝙞 𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙪𝙥 𝙠𝙖𝙧 𝙨𝙤 𝙟𝙖𝙪𝙣, 𝘼𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙪 𝙖𝙨𝙢𝙖𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙪𝙟𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙩𝙖 𝙧𝙚𝙝 𝙟𝙖𝙖𝙮𝙚.

𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙪 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙢 𝙠𝙚 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙫 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖, 𝙆𝙞𝙨𝙞 𝙠𝙞 𝙮𝙖𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙣 𝙠𝙤 𝙖𝙥𝙣𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙠𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖. 𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙪 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙢 𝙠𝙚 𝙗𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙫 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙖, 𝘼𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢 𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙞 𝙠𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙩 𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙚 𝙠𝙞 𝙖𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙩 𝙟𝙚𝙚𝙣𝙖.

[ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴅᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪʀꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ᴀᴠᴇʀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴜʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇʟᴏᴅʏ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ.

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴍᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ᴅɪᴇ…. ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴ.

ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇꜰᴜʟʟʏ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ, ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇ ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ. ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ꜱᴄᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍɪꜱᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ.

ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀᴡᴀʏ, ʀᴇᴘᴇᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴇᴍᴘᴛʏ ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛʏᴀʀᴅ. ᴀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴍᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴛᴜʀɴ ɪɴ ʜᴏᴘᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɴ ᴅɪꜱᴀᴘᴘᴏɪɴᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ.

ᴍᴀʏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴏᴜʀɴ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴅᴀʏ ᴍᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴇᴍᴘᴛɪᴇʀ. ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ʜɪᴅᴇ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀᴍᴏɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ, ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ.

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ’ꜱ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴛɪᴏɴ.

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʟɪᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ.]

ʙʜᴀᴀᴠ – ꜰʟᴏᴡ. ᴠɪʀᴀʜ – ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀᴄʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴇ. ᴀᴋʜɪʏᴀɴ – ᴇʏᴇꜱ. ᴀɴᴜʀᴀᴀɢ – ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄʜᴍᴇɴᴛ. ʀᴀᴀɢ – ᴍᴇʟᴏᴅʏ. ᴠɪʏᴏɢ – ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏʀ ʟᴏꜱꜱ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ. ꜱʜʀᴀᴀᴘ – ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇ. ᴍɪʟᴀɴ – ᴜɴɪᴏɴ. ᴛᴀʟᴇ (तले) – ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ. ɴɪʏᴀᴛɪ – ᴅᴇꜱᴛɪɴʏ, ꜰᴀᴛᴇ. ᴅʜᴜɴᴅʜ – ᴍɪꜱᴛ. ꜱʜᴏᴋ – ᴍᴏᴜʀɴɪɴɢ.

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khoonaurkhanjar

A MASTERPIECEE! 🤌

To think that Ulfat went through all this alone and wished for Rehman to come back every single day! 😭💗

#dhurandhar #rehman dakait #rehman baloch #ulfat baloch #ulfat dakait

writrsblu

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐲𝐚𝐫𝐢 - Uzair Baloch {TEASER}

The thing nobody tells you about watching someone die is how quiet it is.

Zoya had always imagined violence would announce itself — that it would be loud, that it would look like the films where the score swells and everything slows down and even horror gets to be beautiful. She had grown up in Lyari. She knew what guns sounded like.

She was not prepared for Uzair. She was not prepared for the fact that he did not change. That was the thing.

That was the thing she could not survive. Not the act itself, not the blood that followed, not the sound Arshad Pappu made when he understood what was coming — but the continuity of Uzair through all of it. The way his face stayed exactly as she had always known it. Patient. Still. Dark eyes that gave away nothing and yet always, always found her across a room.

He stood in that market and he listened to Arshad Pappu talk, the expression he wore was the same one he wore when he was waiting for chai to cool, or standing in a doorway watching her pack her notes into her bag, or sitting very quietly at the far end of a room while everyone else moved and made noise around him.

And then he did what he did.

Zoya ran six streets before she sat down on a kerb and understood that she had never known him at all.

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diviniyae

decorative dividers

credit not needed. recoloring welcomed. feel free to edit as you need!

writrsblu

a glimpse of Uzair Baloch

تَقولُ الريحُ إنَّها تَعرِفُ الشَّوق — كذَبَت، ما لامَسَت اسمَكِ قَط. وتَقولُ النارُ إنَّها تَعرِفُ الحَرق — ضَحِكتُ، فالنارُ أبرَدُ مِن لَحظَتِكِ فقط.

The wind claims it knows longing — it lies; it has never touched your name. The fire claims it knows burning — I laughed, for fire is colder than one glance from you.

-blu

#dhurandhar #dhurandar the revenge #dhurandhar fandom #uzair baloch

miraclejin1204

Dhurandhar 2 went by so fast, at such a maddening pace that I had no time to process the music.

Didn't realise that the sad song they played when Aalam dies is called Kanhaiya...

A devotional song in braj bhasha because Aalam was from Shri Krishna's bhoomi and likely a Krishna bhakt, upholding his Dharma with a sagacious patience, living among Vidharmis. His Veergati sent him to Vaikunth Loka to his Krishna's Lotus feet.

He lived up to the standards of the Bhagwat Geeta to the fullest.

Oh my heart is smashed into smithereens.

khoonaurkhanjar

😭😭😭

Aalam Bhai has my whole heart!

#dhurandhar #aalam #aalam doodh soda #dhurandar the revenge #dhurandhar album

rehmandakaitswife

im rly proud of the transition 😋😋

sweetestsummer

Arjuna Bina Abhimanyu

Two glorious heroes, two tragic ends.

Arjun Singh Rangi was a brave man. A fauji. A Lieutenant Colonel in the Indian Armed Forces. He was the head of the humble Rangi family which consisted of his beloved wife, Prableen Kaur Rangi and his two dear daughters, Harleen and Jasleen, and his son- Jaskirat whom he held very close to his heart.

Since his childhood, Jaskirat or Jassi, as they called him, had looked up to his father as a role model. He worshipped the man and admired his values. When his father was away at posting, his Maa would tell him and his sisters anecdotes about him, that way his Baba was still near him even though not physically present. He thought of his father’s bravery, the love he harboured for his nation and his family, and his heart swelled with pride.

From a very young age, Jaskirat had decided that he wanted to be like his father. And, he made sure that the world knew it too. When the elders and his teachers asked him what he wanted to become when he grew up, he would say that he wanted to become his father. Everyone used to laugh at him, and he would never understand why.

Rajkumar Abhimanyu was a brave boy. He had always been brave. The glorious Prince was said to have inherited the best qualities of and from all five Pandavas. But he liked to believe that his courage came from his Pitashree, Gaandivdhaari Arjuna.

Abhimanyu’s father hadn’t been around when he was born and he hadn’t appeared once in thirteen years of his life. Both of his Mamashrees, whom he loved and adored deeply, had been his guardians and the constant anchor in his life.

His mother, Subhadra had told him how his father’s cousins had tricked them in a game of dice and had stripped them of their wealth, honour and the self-respect of their common wife, Draupadi. He had learnt that his father, his uncles along with his other mother had gone into twelve years of Vanvaas and one year of Agyatvaas.

The little boy, merely ten years in age, had decided then and there that he would serve himself to avenge the disrespect of his father and his family. Even when he had never met Arjuna, Abhimanyu practiced day and night to become a warrior as skilled as his father.

It was a pleasant summer night and the Rangi children’s Baba had come home for a holiday. It was a rare occurrence, so the three siblings were eager to make most of their time in the company of their Baba.

It was after dinner that the children had rushed upstairs to the roof and pulled their father with them. Laying down on the thick blankets, the trio stared at the starry night sky while their Baba told them the incidents from his posting at the border. The stories soon shifted into the recalling of the bravery their Baba’s friends had shown in times of emergency. The kids were awestruck by these people and their willingness to put themselves at risk for their country. To their small minds, these people, their Baba and his friends were like superheroes from their comic books.

After an hour or so, Baba was left with no more stories. The girls, Harleen and Jasleen had fallen asleep halfway through the tales and were snoring heavily. Looking at the peaceful faces of his children, Papa Rangi laid down beside them and closed his eyes with a sigh. Jaskirat had closed his eyes momentarily, but he was wide-awake and curious to listen to more stories about what happened in the army cantonments.

When he propped himself on his elbow and looked at his Baba trying to sleep, Jassi understood that he must be exhausted and homesick and that it wouldn’t be right to wake him up. So, he allowed his father to drift into slumber, while he fell onto his back and counted the stars in the sky before sleep took over him too.

After every visit when his Baba told him such stories of his fellow soldiers, Jaskirat was moved by their sacrifice. He used to get inspired by them. He imagined himself in their place, protecting his country and its people, bringing pride to his family and donning the wardi his father had worn too.

Subhadra was seven months pregnant and her husband who had devoted his afternoons to her, chose a particularly niche topic of discussion that day. Warfare. Who discusses battle formations with their pregnant wife? Gaandivdhaari Arjuna.

As she settled down on the chaise, her hand resting on her swollen belly, she tried her best to observe the circular formation in which the miniature soldiers were arranged in the sandpit. She would have rather enjoyed talking about their baby- guessing whether it would be a boy or a girl? Discussing the names they had selected for it, and the impulsive purchases she had been making of baby toys.

But her husband had already begun to explain the advantages of this specific type of Chakravyuha, the Padmavyuha, the lotus trap. She listened attentively as he told her the methodical way to penetrate the deceptive Vyuha. Entering it was comparatively easy, but emerging out of it unharmed was the real challenge. Subhadra only knew of three warriors who could infiltrate the trap, and all of them were her family. Arjuna, Krishna, and her nephew Pradyumna.

Subhadra was paying attention to what Arjuna was saying, until her eyelids began to flutter close, surrendering to darkness while Arjuna’s monotonous lecture acted as a lullaby to her.

Arjuna looked over at his wife, who had dozed off halfway through his discourse. He put the pointer down and walked towards her sleeping form, an involuntary smile curving on his lips. He placed a kiss on her forehead, and draped a quilt over her.

In her womb, the growing foetus had assimilated all the knowledge required for entering a Chakravyuha but it was never taught how to come out of it alive and safe. Years later, the formidable warrior Prince would be defeated by this unlearned knowledge alone.

Jaskirat was taught courage by his father. He was taught loyalty. Patriotism. Selflessness. So, that was all he had when he enrolled in the training academy after clearing his NDA examination.

The letter had come almost a year later. A bad news. The tragedy that had struck his family. His father, his brave and strong Baba was gone. Hanged to death on the tree in their farmland. His Didi, the girl he only ever imagined with a bright smile on her face, was brutally raped and murdered. His chotti Jasleen, had been abducted and taken away to God knew where and his Maa, oh his mother who had been stripped off all that she had was wandering from police station to doors of politicians, begging for justice that he was told was abundant and fair in this nation. A blatant lie, as he now realized.

So when he got down at the Chakki Bank railway station after securing the AK 47 and the pistol from Pinda’s acquaintance, he had been driven by the very same principles that he had inherited from his father. He had trespassed into the haveli of Sukhwinder Singh, without caring for himself even when he knew what this could result in if things didn’t go his way.

But things had gone his way. He hadn’t left a chance for anyone to turn the situation against him. An hour of gunshots and harrowing screams later when he had completely forgotten himself, Jaskirat Singh Rangi stood painted in the blood of the twelve men he had massacred. Without flinching once.

The fear got to him only when he reached his sister. Dread twisted deep in his stomach before seeing her. But he had managed to rescue her and bring her back home, despite the cruelty those twelve men had repeatedly subjected her to.

The FIR, the court case and his sentence followed. He had imagined it would happen in the days before he had committed the crime. However, he had never thought of the increased pain it would inflict upon his surviving family. That was the hardest part of it all. Seeing his mother break down and cry in front of his lawyer, begging her to save him. Jasleen telling him repeatedly that he should not have done this for her, even though the relief in her eyes when he had stepped in that dark room contradicted her words.

Apparently the system and the judiciary which had denied a simple hearing to his innocent mother, was surprisingly fastidious and quick in delivering justice to those twelve men who did not even deserve an ounce of it.

On the thirteenth day of the barbaric war, the vast armies clashed once again in the blood-soaked ground of Kurukshetra. Prince Abhimanyu had fought ferociously since the war had begun, fuelled by the sacrifices of his family in the past dozen days.

But now he stood along with the four Pandavas in front of what looked like a challenge to them. Amidst an attack, the Kaurava army had suddenly realigned itself into a novel formation. The Pandavas waited for the dust that had risen as an effect of the more than thousand footsteps to settle down and then the realization dawned upon the eldest son of Pandu.

Padmavyuha.

No one in the Pandava army knew how to break into the Vyuha. No one except Arjuna. But the devious Kauravas had planned an attack of the Samsaptakas to challenge Arjuna and drive him away in the southern direction. They knew the Pandava force would be indestructible if they had Dhananjaya by their side.

Prince Abhimanyu approached his uncles and declared that he was aware of the ways to tear into the Vyuha, but he did not know how to come out of it. Yudhisthira, his eldest uncle, motivated him to go ahead and enter the formation. He assured Abhimanyu that the four of them, Bhima, Nakul, Sahdev and he himself would follow him closely and create a path for him, assuring his safety.

Gaining his permission, the fearless Prince, vowed that his actions would bring pride and joy to his uncle Krishna and his father. He swore that if he let go even a single enemy without killing him, then he would not be called Arjuna’s son!

And so the land of Kurukshetra witnessed the sixteen year old young man piercing through tons of soldiers, wringing out arrows from his quiver and aiming them at the masses. He pounced on his enemies and ended up killing Bribhala and a hundred other small kings. He slaughtered Duryodhana’s son, Lakshmana and made Dushasana and Karna faint. The Prince faced seasoned warriors like Dronacharya and Bhishma with the vigour and rage resembling that of an angry God.

The Kaurava leaders feared that if this continued, their entire Akshauhinis of the army would be wiped out single-handedly by Abhimanyu. They had to put an end to the Prince’s wrath. Saindhava blocked the path of Pandavas who were closely following Abhimanyu, and fought with them skillfully making sure that Abhimanyu had to step further in the Vyuha all alone.

The Prince was now alone and surrounded by warriors like Duryodhana, Dushasana, Dronacharya, Ashwatthama, Kripacharya, Shalya and Shakuni.

When Jaskirat was sentenced to death by hanging, he had let go of all his aspirations and hopes, along with his will to live. He had accepted his fate and he was not guilty for the ‘crime’ he had committed.

So even when he was kidnapped during the jail transfer, and brought in front of the Chief of India’s Intelligence Bureau, Ajay Sanyal, whom he had only seen in newspapers, it did not make him feel like there was a way out. Instead, he folded his hands in front of the prestigious man and told him that he had nothing left to give to his nation.

But Sanyal was a man who had not bent in front of terrorists in their own land, Jaskirat Singh Rangi was an easier nut to crack for him. He told the hopeless young man that it was better to die after causing an uproar rather than accepting a mistaken death placed on his name. Jaskirat knew he had already created the ruckus where he wanted to, but he listened to the Indian officer.

Jaskirat had learnt to be brave, resilient and patriotic from his father. So even when he had nothing left, he joined hands with Ajay Sanyal and Sushant Bansal and became a part of their mission. He had been told the potential cost of it- of being declared dead to his family and the possibility of never coming back,

But he agreed to that cost as well, in the hopes that his otherwise fruitless life would become of some use to his nation and he could follow the steps of his dear Baba.

Abhimanyu knew the cost of entering the Vyuha too, but he stepped in anyways because even death was better than having to surrender and accept defeat. He would not bring shame to his father’s name at least in this lifetime.

The intimidated elders attacked the lone Pandava warrior together but Abhimanyu fought them all strenuously. Dronacharya, the guru of the Pandavas and Kauravas, killed his horses and charioteer, and destroyed his chariot so that it would render the Prince unable to navigate through the battlefield.

The rest of the warriors showered arrows at him from all the directions, until an injured Abhimanyu stepped down from the chariot with his mace in his hand. He began fighting against all warriors single-handedly. It was an egregious scene, a stain on the Kuru clan.

Ten warriors giving all their strength and combating with a single young Prince, like a pack of wicked wolves surrounding and capturing a lion’s brave cub in a deadly hunt.

When Abhimanyu’s mace gave away and fell from his hands, and blood spluttered at the corner of his lips, the older men closed up on him slowly. But even then the Prince did not think of surrender even once. He marched towards the ruins of his chariot and dismantled its wheel with great force.

When Ashwatthama and Dushasana attacked him with swords, he lifted up the huge wheel and thrashed it against their weapons with a roar. Not a single soul in that force pitied the boy who was wounded and was rapidly losing blood and strength.

Arrows were shot at him and they pierced through him. Swords slashed against his armour but still managed to cut through his skin and organs. Duryodhana struck him with his mace on his head and back, until the Prince had coughed up blood. The wise gurus, who had failed to be the protectors of Dharma every single time remained mum and failed yet again as Abhimanyu’s body gave out and he collapsed onto the ground, barely conscious.

Jaskirat Hamza Ali Mazari stepped into the dirty lanes of Lyari in Pakistan after burying what little was left of himself. He had burnt his family photo, the only material memory of them was turned into ashes back in Afghanistan. The year he spent at Aalam Bhai’s shop was a test of his patience. There were nights where he thought that he could never do what he was here to do. He feared he would have to spend his entire life stuck working as a waiter in this shop.

What started then was a series of repeated torments on his deadened heart. His mind worked efficiently, strategically infiltrating Rehman Baloch’s gang and acquiring their trust with every word he uttered and every action he did. Even then, his deadened heart hadn’t gone completely numb. Everything did hurt him sometimes, like an overwhelming flood of grief had washed over him. But Hamza had learnt to fight and fight was what he did.

The guilt gnawed at him when he had honey-trapped Yalina Jamali, the shrewd politician’s daughter for his own selfish benefit. As he saved Rehman from the SP and became an inseparable member of the gang, accompanying Rehman and Uzair in all their endeavours, life had begun to feel monotonous.

It was then that the meeting with Major Iqbal had happened. Deal of arms and ammunition. Hamza had reported it to Aalam Bhai. A potential attack on Gujarat. He was assured that the Indian force would take appropriate defensive measures. But all hell broke loose on the night of 26th November. The numerous television screens in Iqbal’s office showed him the horrors in Mumbai. Bomb blasts. The terrorists captured in CCTV’s holding the guns he had handed them himself. People, his people screaming and being scared for their life.

He had stood amongst those monsters, paralyzed in shock and terror. He could see the blood on his hands. Warm and red, dripping. He was the killer of his people. He saw his mother’s face, looking at him the same way she had done when he was sentenced to death. The Major’s shove snapped him out of it, and he was forced to scream the chants of ‘Allah hu Akbar!’ along with the others while his nation bled because of them.

That night in front of Aalam Bhai, for the first time he had stepped foot in this land, he acknowledged his belonging to his country. He vowed to end every man who had stood in that room and rejoiced at the slaughter of his people. Iqbal, Khanani, Mir, Bhuttovi, he would finish them all.

And so, he began his advance towards the core of Pakistani terrorism. Little did he know, with every step he took deeper into the labyrinth, he was making it harder for himself to walk out of it unscathed.

Hamza went on to kill Rehman while putting up a facade of his failed saviour. He pulled the right strings with Uzair, the man who had always trusted him too easily, and sent him away. Uzair was a thorn he had pricked out of his path effortlessly. It began after that, his reign. His rule. He became the King of Lyari. The Badshah of Karachi. People prayed for his long life and manifested glory to him.

He devised his way through the twisted politics of Pakistan meticulously, changing alliances and coming to power once again. He reported on the trade of fake currencies and drugs that was ruining his country’s economy and youth.

Then came the unfortunate night and it truly tested how much blows his heart could take before crumbling into pieces. Pinda, his best friend, had arrived in Pakistan and he had become someone Jaskirat could barely recognize. A drug dealer. And even when Hamza himself had become completely unrecognizable, Pinda had managed to recognize him just well.

Hamza had only wanted to silence him and keep his secret from coming out, but he had ended up killing him. His best friend. His sister’s husband. Iqbal’s guest. What happened after that still remains as a repressed blur to Jaskirat. Aalam Bhai had volunteered to be killed. Martyrdom was a euphemized word, but the truth was ugly. He had killed Aalam Bhai too.

That night, Yalina had held a gun to his head. She had come to know about his deception, or his truth. Neither of them was exclusive of the other. She had blamed him for ruining her life, rightfully so. But she had loved him immensely and truly, unlike him, so she had stayed with him regardless. Just warned him of the SP who had begun to doubt him.

Since then, he had gotten things on his feet. Within the span of less than three months, over a hundred members of terrorist organizations had been killed by unknown men. Wiped out in masses across Pakistan.

The final blow was the meeting in Muridke Minar. Stealthily planned. The explosives hidden under arms. The fight with Mir and Iqbal that had felt endless but he had powered through it, brutally hurting them. He had ran after Iqbal, who was now trying to escape like a coward and had slashed the blade against his legs with a roar, before dragging him to the petroleum truck and blasting him to shreds.

Killing him was a delayed gratification that Hamza had craved, but it changed nothing for Jaskirat. He did not run away, he waited outside the Minar for the inevitable to happen. But he had managed to make a last call to Yalina. He had told her his real name- Jaskirat. He had realized bitterly that he had indeed ruined her life, and now Zayan’s too. No amount of remorse could free him of the injustice he had committed with his own wife and son.

When Omar came for him and arrested him, he himself walked into the police van without a protest. The hours that followed were torture. Chained up and bloodied, he was whipped, beaten up, even given electric shocks, but he hadn’t uttered a single word. No matter how hard they tried, they were not able to gain a single piece of information from this Indian captive.

When his sword broke down and Dushasana’s son struck him hard with a blow, Abhimanyu fell to the ground with a thud. The young boy had been subjected to a lot of torture with the blows and slashes.

Amongst the warriors, Angraj Karna was the one who stepped forward. The man knew that this valiant Prince lying in front of him was his own nephew. If nothing else, then at least in blood. But the men too far gone in war never recognized even their own. Suryaputra Karna was no different. He did not see Abhimanyu as his own, just like the Kauravas.

A sharp pain shot through Abhimanyu as Karna speared his sword through his abdomen with a cutting force. His entire body jerked to blunt pain and then stilled as the burning sensation of blood seeping out spread throughout his body.

Moments later, the victorious howls of the Kaurava men echoed in the silent ground while life slipped out of the brave Prince’s body.

The four Pandavas mourned, from a distance, the death of their courageous nephew who had been slaughtered by the Maharathis, and whose death was being celebrated as a victory when it was nothing but shame.

After spending two decades in the sordid streets of Lyari and then the treacherous politics of Pakistan, Jaskirat Singh Rangi had still yielded himself. He had not given up when he had to toil in the Baloch gang. He had not given up when he had lost three of his closest people in the same night, two to death and one to truth. He had done it to himself with his own hands.

He had stayed patient and strong throughout the wait, and the slow killings of the terrorists. He had fought tooth and nail with Iqbal.

But after coming back to India, when he had slipped away to Pathankot in the naive hopes of seeing his family again and his nephews and telling them that he had been alive all along, he had not been prepared for the oblivion.

When he got down from the rickshaw at the other end of the narrow path that led to his home, his eyes full of hope found his mother at the gate. She was sweeping the ground, she looked a little older and a lot exhausted. He spotted Jasleen on the roof wringing out the water from washed clothes. She still looked the same to him, his chotti but she had two children of her own now. His two nephews were playing in the courtyard, just like he used to play with Pinda in the evenings after school.

His eyes filled with tears as he took slow steps towards their house. He was finally going to meet his family after years of pining for them. Then suddenly, his mother looked right at him and she averted her gaze and closed the gate on him. He paused in his tracks, feeling as if he had been shaken out of a dream and the reality had broken his rose-tinted vision.

He saw it then- his mother, who had accepted that her son was long gone and he would never return back. His sister, who had taken to believe her mother and her two sons to be her only world. Even if they had looked at him, they would not see their Jaskirat. They would not recognize him. The twenty years had changed a lot in him too.

So, the man who had suffered injustice, a death sentence, forgetting himself and taking up a new name and life in a hostile land felt like giving up here.Jaskirat Singh Rangi, who had been undefeated by everything, was destroyed by his own family, when they had been unable to recognize him. What else was left for him now? Where else would he go if not his home?

Jaskirat Singh Rangi had truly died that day, standing in front of his home and being so near yet feeling so far. He never walked down that impassable path to what was once his home.

If Arjun Singh Rangi had not taught his son to be so brave, patriotic and selfless, then perhaps Jaskirat would have never done what all he had done.

And, If Arjuna had been there to protect Abhimanyu, he would have emerged out of the delusive Chakravyuha, alive and glorious.

Author's Note: The more I wrote this, the more parallels I saw between Jaskirat and Abhimanyu. Even the fact, that both Yalina and Uttara had to spend their entire lives alone with a son to raise on their own. I hope you liked reading this! Thank you!

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WE HAVE WRITERS LIKE THIS IN THE DHURANDHAR FANDOM ??? BRO WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN WRF 10/10

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THANKK YOUU SO MUCHH! I am soo glad that you liked reading this! 🥰

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“MERI BEHEN KITTHE HAI?”

No answer. So the weapon answers for him.

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A BROTHER'S RAGE! 🔥

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