aapki pyaari Vi

Hello everyone ! Just an introduction to what you might expect and come across while on my page and some things about me.

I am Viv, I'm a '08 liner and a very lazy fan of numerous things who gets sudden motivation to put out few pieces of fanfics. I have my interests in women's cricket, the dhurandhar fandom, House M.D. stuff, Derry Girls and what not. So if we have any interests in common you might find few of my reblogs funny or any fanfics I might write.

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Uzair leaned against the wall of the government office outside, his feelings as sensitive as the paint which was chipping away from the wall with every touch. He had no idea what he was doing here or what he wanted to talk about with Hamz - no, Jaskirat. The name felt foreign on his tongue, devoid of any emotion. To him, he was still his ‘hamze’, but right now, as Uzair waited aimlessly, his hand tracing over his gun’s outline, which was tucked away in his hidden holster. He wished to kill Hamza, wished, because he knew he couldn’t do it himself. Maybe he might kill Hamza, but he had no guarantee of how long he would survive with the guilt and betrayal. He had survived and managed to push through jail with one aim in his mind: to get answers. It was his sole purpose which kept him from completely losing his mind and helped him hold on to the ounce of sanity he still had in himself. But after pulling the trigger on Hamza, he had nothing to maintain his sanity for. He was dead for his hometown, his people, and he’d be damned if he were to start a new life in India or anywhere else because Uzair was tired. He was utterly tired and deprived of interaction, of happiness, of love.

He slowly sat down on the ground, unbothered by his clothes. His head fell backwards on the wall with his legs propped up and his hands resting on his knees. People stared at him, taking in his lanky frame; he still looked lean, but his muscles had significantly lost mass due to the jail food. But Uzair wasn’t the one to care about his physique, at least not now.

Inside the building, Jaskirat was having the worst breakdown he had after coming back to India, his breathing ragged as he repeatedly splashed water on his face. He contemplated calling Sanyal or Doval to let them know how much of a danger he is in, but a part of him wanted Uzair to be free for a while. Not the patriotic part, but rather the much-flawed version of him he had become while in Pakistan. The version which challenged his morality and ethics. The same version which he had tried to stop from taking control of his new life.

“Apane desh ke baare mein soch Jassi, usne kiye hue aparaadhon aur usane tumhaare desh ko kitana nukasaan pahunchaaya hai, isake baare mein soch" Jaskirat mumbled to himself as he repeatedly splashed his face with water, hoping that the cold feeling would make him think straight. But a memory of them resurfaced when he was still a newcomer in Rehman’s gang and stood idly at Uzair’s side.

It had been a deal which Uzair convinced Rehman to break off by saying that supplying arms and ammunition would lead to the loss of life of the poor kids, his eyes glistening as Rehman hesitated, but soon listened to him. He is not entirely bad. Jaskirat had once thought, and he was thinking about that yet again. It was very evident that Uzair was also just a normal boy at the start, but Rehman had managed to strip him of his humanity and empathy over time, making him a perfect pawn.

Despite his moral ethics telling him otherwise, Jaskirat found himself logging off his computer and taking a step outside, his hands at his side, ready to swing if triggered. His eyes scanned the outside scenery, soon halting at Uzair, who looked utterly lost. The glint in his eyes was gone, and there were heavy eye bags adorning his face, which Jaskirat was very angry that he missed. His feet felt heavy as he took careful steps towards the taller one, his eyes searching for any visible weapons. As Jaskirat stood in front of Uzair, he didn’t know how to address him. But how do you address someone you betrayed, killed their dearest and ghosted?

Uzair looked up slowly as Jaskirat extended his hand out for him. He debated on taking the offer, but soon placed his hand on Jaskirat’s, pausing as he felt his supposed best friend’s touch again. Jaskirat soon led them to a secluded alleyway, which led to a farm. He leaned against the wall as Uzair stepped into the light, his eyes scanning the field, “Maine aap ke antaqal ki khabar pa-”

“Aur kitna bewakoof banaoge Hamze?” Uzair interrupted him, his voice breaking slightly as Jaskirat closed his eyes shut, his lips flattening as he regretted ever opening his mouth. The two stood in silence, the occasional breeze pulling them back into reality as Uzair’s eyes bored holes in Jaskirat’s frame, and Jaskirat would give up millions to know what was running through Uzair’s mind in that moment.

“Es waqt bhi mission pe hai?” Uzair spat as Jaskirat shook his head as a no, “Maine chodd diya hai abhi k-”

“Meri zindagi tabha karke abhi chodd diya hai?” Uzair’s voice jumped an octave as he stepped closer to Jaskirat, his face mimicking the same despair it had when Rehman had died. Jaskirat’s fist clenched as he averted his eyes down, unaware why he was so unsure of what to do. “Pata hai Rehman bhai acche nahin the lekin-”

“Lekin kya Uzair? Mere desh ne kya bigadha tha jo itni berehemise unhne maara, maarte hue dekha, tune bhi? Kya zaroorat thi Iqbal se haath milaneki?” Jaskirat didn’t shout; he didn’t need to. He knew somewhere the same old Uzair who had stopped Rehman for harming kids would understand where Jaskirat was coming from. He hoped that Uzair understood otherwise; there was no point in ever reconciling with him. He watched as Uzair simply lowered his head, his steps faltering as he stumbled lightly but caught himself before losing his balance, “Samjhta hu lekin manzur nahin karna chahta”, he mumbled before looking up again at Jaskirat.

“Kabse hai Hindustan mai?” Jaskirat asked as Uzair scoffed, “Taqriba ek saal se, pura saal laga tujhe dhundhne ke liye, aur kuch teen yaha pohochne ke liye” Jaskirat hummed at that as Uzair bent down to pick up a few rocks, his gun tucked away pressing against him as he did the motion, reminding him of his alleged motive as he paused for a second but stood up, pushing the thought away. “Kuch dinon ke liye reh sakta hoon tere saath?” He asked, throwing one rock at a time into the field in front of him, watching the piece disappear into the tall grass. “Aur uske baad? Pakistan ke liye toh mar chuke ho” Uzair halted his movements like it physically hurt him to move, his hand in mid-air as his fingers clenched around the rock, the sharp edges grounding him, distracting him from the fact that he had thrown his life away and had no idea what he was going to do now. “Pata nahin”, he mumbled before throwing the rock near their feet.

Jaskirat scoffed, the initial awkwardness between them now gone as they stood beside each other, half angry and half frustrated at their circumstances. He made a mental note of how Uzair’s lips still went into the involuntary pout when he was stuck somewhere, a detail he had long labelled as character analysis for his mission- but why was he now focusing on them with no mission to complete on his hand? He pushed the thought away before questioning Uzair further, “Kuch saman laye ho?” Uzair nodded his head, “Thode kapade aur nakali passport”

Jaskirat hummed and motioned him to stay right there as he walked back to his office. He claimed to feel unwell, and his previous breakdown in the restroom had already been witnessed by several colleagues, who, out of concern, reported it to his superior. He wasn’t really a chatterbox or an extroverted person, but his colleagues admired his honest and gentle approaches and were there for him within their capabilities and boundaries. Grabbing his stuff from his desk, he found a sticky note on his computer with a ‘hope your doing well :(’ scribbled. He shook his head at the use of the wrong ‘you’re’.  

Soon, he joined Uzair, who stood with his bag in one hand, eyeing a cigarette that an old man was having. He had long forgotten the feeling in jail, and he hadn't gotten the time or the appropriate peace to enjoy one after he had escaped. Jaskirat made a note of it, stepping away to buy a packet. The shopkeeper looked at him with a questioning face to which Jaskirat pointed at Uzair, “Dost ke liye”.

At his abode, Jaskirat made sure that Uzair sat idly on his couch as he took out his secret phone, dialling a number he didn’t ever think he would ever come across again as he focused on making a quick sandwich for Uzair. He let out a frustrated groan as the phone failed to connect, throwing it away in a cabinet in his kitchen. He brought the plate to Uzair paired with some coffee, “Shayad ye khane mai aitaraaz nahin karoge” Uzair looked at him with the pathetic, glossy puppy eyes, which made Jaskirat stop in his tracks, his heart beating with a swell of a particular emotion he had tried to bury down for years. He gulped hard as he forced himself to avert his gaze, clearing his throat. “Shukriya”, Uzair murmured before biting down on the sandwich, probably not having eaten properly in months.

As he finished his food in silence, Jaskirat switched on the television sitting on the opposite side of the sofa. As the news anchors argued on some topic, the shorter man threw the cigarette packet at Uzair silently. Uzair stared at it, then at Jaskirat, making Jaskirat confused. “Nahin chahiye?”

“Chahiye!” Uzair responded too quickly as Jaskirat pointed at the coffee table’s drawer, opening which Uzair found a lighter. He took one cigarette out and lit it softly. He took in drag but ended up coughing out loud, which drew a chuckle from an amused Jaskirat. Uzair looked at him with an accusatory gaze, “Daant mat dikhao zyada”, he retorted, which made Jaskirat laugh even harder. He remembered the day Uzair had taught him how to properly smoke one, “Madad chahiye?”

It took everything in Uzair to not wipe away the smirk off  of Jaskirat’s face as he reluctantly nodded. Jaskirat made his way towards him, Uzair shifted, thinking he would sit in the now freed-up place, but Jaskirat came and sat right beside him sideways. His right leg folded and pressed against Uzair’s thigh while his other leg rested. Uzair turned his head to look at Jaskirat with a confused gaze. “Hamze?” The dead name slipped as he watched Jaskirat’s eyebrows flick for a second, his expression changing slightly. “Mere taraf muh karke baitho”, he spoke as Uzair shifted, his back resting against the handrest of the sofa, sitting cross-legged in front of his fabricator.

Jaskirat took the cigar from his hand, their fingers brushing as he then brought it to his lips, stopping a millimetre away. His hand came up, ran through Uzair’s hair and then rested on the nape of his neck like it had hundreds of times earlier. He took a long drag, his eyes closing for a moment, he held his breath for a second, pulling Uzair closer, staring into his eyes as he softly let the smoke on his face. Uzair inhaled some of it, his lungs burning a bit. “Aankhen band karlo Uzair”, Jaskirat spoke again, his voice now rough.

Uzair did and heard Jaskirat take another drag. And then a gasp fell from Uzair’s lips as their lips touched, and Jaskirat transferred the smoke from his mouth into Uzair's. The latter took a deep breath, breathing in the rest of the drug's smoke, and it actually worked. He couldn't quite believe it as he felt his lungs warm up, the smoke filling them.

Even though the transfer had finished and both of them knew that, they still didn't let go. Uzair now slowly realised what was happening, and damn, Jaskirat's lips felt good and soft, his beard a stark opposite of rough. Uzair couldn't get enough of them, so he started moving his lips. Jaskirat copied Uzair's action and lifted himself onto his knees, leaning on Uzair. His strong hands guided the taller perfectly, and if he wasn't already seated, Uzair knew his legs would have given up under him. Uzair's hands were now busy creeping under Jaskirat's hoodie while Jaskirat buried his hands in Uzair's hair, holding onto him for dear life as his mind lost itself.

Only when his lungs started to burn, Uzair pulled back. He blew out the smoke to the side just to be able to taste Jaskirat again. The latter was such a good kisser that Uzair was on the verge of crying, both because of his sensitivity and his stupidity for not kissing Jaskirat when he laid his eyes on him in the office.

They hungrily kissed over and over until Uzair had to pull away once more because he was really out of breath. Jaskirat could feel Uzair's cold hands on the hot, bare skin of his waist. With his hands, he ruffled Uzair's hair, still panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath. Suddenly, Jaskirat removed one of his hands from Uzair’s nape, and without even thinking about it, the boy whined. "Apna ghar nahin jalana mujhe ye cigartte se”, Jaskirat said with a deep, almost hoarse voice. Uzair's eyes followed Jaskirat's hand to the joint that was still lying on the table, where Jaskirat put it down before kissing Uzair. But their session was yet again interrupted by a ringtone. Jaskirat pulled away as he realised what he was doing. He hurriedly disappeared into the kitchen, found his secret phone, which was ringing and picked it up.

Uzair had gone insane much earlier than expected, his eyes sunken in and cheeks hollowed by the initial three months, his beard and hair displaying a few whites from his head going haywire 24/7 by the one-year mark. He had all that he needed at his disposal, including spiteful comments made by the guards occasionally, which he didn’t understand at first. His lifeless eyes would look up in the direction a voice had called him a traitor, his eyebrows furrowing and mouth agape but he didn’t have the desire to be seen for what it was. He had made peace with being misunderstood the moment he realised Hamza wasn’t coming back, he wished that Hamza was dead. Deceased. Not because he hated him, but rather because he needed a plausible reason to defend not getting him out of jail, not breaking in and kidnapping him away to safety, not. . . visiting him. God, he needed a reason so bad.

It was after a year and a half that it was made known that the Pakistan government had disclosed him as a spy and increased his sentence. Uzair felt hopeless; he remained secluded in a corner, his mind a battlefield as he was stripped of his dignity in jail. Occasionally, Ulfat would visit him; he could feel the warmth of her voice and the regret of not being able to do anything. He missed his nephew, but he knew better not to let himself be seen in such a state. His friends also paid visits to him, bringing intel whenever possible, which was very difficult without their masterminds- Rehman and, of course, Hamza.

It had been the same day all over and over again for Uzair, but an unfamiliar shadow was cast upon his slumed figure as he looked up, his eyes squinting to adjust to the brightness outside as he slowly stood up, stepping out of the dark corner of his cell, and the face of his visitor became clear to him.

Rizwan.

He looked impossibly buff, his features a lot more relaxed and many scars adorned on his skin than Uzair could recall. He had trusted Rizwan when he helped catch Arshad. Had. Uzair didn’t know whom to trust now. Rizwan offered him a bow, a hand on his chest as he spoke softly, “Aap kese hai bhai?” His voice hushed as if he knew it was morally wrong to ask the question, but Uzair just hummed. His eyes focused in a way that conveyed he didn’t wish to engage in small talk.

“Ji aapki thodi madad chahiye thi, " he spoke as he gestured to a nearby guard to open up the gate as he stepped inside. Uzair scoffed slightly, “Zaroorat ke waqt hi dushman yaad aate hai aapko” Nevertheless, he gestured to him to talk. Upon further discussion, Rizwan revealed that he needed a few contacts and addresses to catch the co-conspirators of their mission. He phrased his words very carefully, but Uzair was already informed about Hamza being a spy, and he very conveniently connected the dots of Rizwan potentially being one despite not being the smartest in the room. He felt the need to swing at Rizwan, to scream in his face for taking away his nephew, his brother and for the state he was in, but Rizwan was his only ticket out. So, he tried his luck, “Mai aapki madad ek hi shart pe kar sakte hai.” Uzair let his head fall back on the wall as Rizwan tensed up a little, “Darkhwast farmaiye”

“Tumhe mere qatal ki kahani banani hogi-”

“Aisa mai kyu karu-” Rizwan interrupted, but Uzair quickly stepped up to him, his hand resting on his shoulder, pulling him closer by his neck as he whispered, “Kyunki tumhe meri zarorat hai aur mujhe teri, agar aapko aapka kaam mehfoos rakhna hoga.” He felt Rizwan’s muscles tighten up as he placed his other hand on his chest, tapping softly as he added, “Ghabarao mat, mai aapke kaam ke beech nahi aaunga, apni shakal bhi nhi dikhaunga.” His face wore a sickly smile as he looked at Rizwan with hopeful eyes.

“Apna qatal dikhake aap kya karogey, ghar toh-”

“Hamza ke pass jaunga, usko dhund nikalunga” Uzair’s eyes dissociated as he talked about his dear friend, a million questions raced in Rizwan’s mind, major ones being about Jaskirat’s safety. “Badla?” He asked grimly as Uzair looked at him and chuckled, “Wazaht”

Wazaht. Clarity. It was the only thing going through Uzair’s mind as he visited Yaline in disguise. Lyaari was busy half-mourning his alleged death while he stood in front of Yalina in dark clothes and a shawl draped around him, as she looked at him with questions in her eyes, as she spoke about how he once mumbled about going back to Pathankhot when he was drunk in their initial days of the relationship. The two had dated briefly but never got serious as Hamza got too involved in politics, and she feared he would turn out like his father. “Bhabhi ka khayal rakhna.” his hand came to rest on her head as he turned around with tears in his eyes.

He had lived in illegal houses near the border as he found out ways to get into India, how he was going to find Hamza, and get there. The process wasn’t easy at all; it took him almost two years to get exact intel on Hamza’s location or who he now knew as Jaskirat. And another year to get through the borders.

It had been roughly five years since Jaskirat was appointed to a desk job by the government, with no field work and no manipulations. Just him and his logbook, working as an LDC. His colleagues had questions about him but never dared to ask them upfront; after all, it was unlikely that an immensely strong,slightly emancipated man would be working at such a job.

The initial months of his work life were a haze, getting to know people strictly professionally as he learned quickly how to do his assigned work. He never made any real attempts to nurture any friendships and drifted away from everyone. He would especially wander off during the lunch break, as it physically hurt him to see people laugh together and mingle. His mind went back to a place he had burned and cleared from his mind, a memory so distant that it hurt like a freshly picked scab of anguish. He avoided many things, such as playing football, having sugar in his tea, and smoking, though he sometimes found himself eyeing the familiar, cheap brand. Most importantly, he avoided human interactions.

He lived in his pristine, clean quarters provided by the government; they had been lenient on him, providing a salary higher than what his post deserved, providing him with quarters fully paid for, and a few other prerequisites.

It was a rather monotonous day at work as Jaskirat was tied up with typing in entries, his gaze would often drift to his hands, and he would pause for a moment, remembering what all these hands had done in the past, but the rhythmic sound of the fan creaking above his head and the voice of his colleague uttering his name brought him back.

“Jaskirat sir ess maamale mein aapakee madad karenge“, as a shadow loomed over him as he registered the presence of another person, he didn’t speak until he was spoken to and didn’t bother to look up. After a long pause, he sighed as he spoke, ”Kahiye?“ The question loomed in the air for a while as Jaskirat swiftly closed a few files on his desk, but the voice that replied back to him made him pause.

“Ji subsidy ki rakham mere acount mein kab mantaql hogi?” The heavy emphasis on the use of Urdu and the underlying accent that Jaskirat had worked hard to get rid of from his own tongue drained the blood from his face. He didn’t dare to look up and meet the eyes of the person he was now acutely aware of who it might be. Jakirat’s hands trembled slightly, and now he could hear his own heartbeat blasting in his head. He knew that voice too well, so well that the face of the person it belonged to was now flashing in his mind, but he didn’t have the courage to glance up and look at the actual person.

His eyes welled up a little, a montage playing in his mind of all the memories he had made with him, and of course, the last time he had met him. Jaan laga dunga tujhe nikalwane mai he had said, ignoring how much it pained his heart to say that, but in this life, he had put his country above his people. He didn’t really see what good it did for him other than eliminating the nasty people who harmed his country, but he did the same when his family was attacked, and the outcome stayed the same. His life is being played with for a greater good.

“Account number batayein”, he mumbled, but flinched as he heard a loud bang. It was ridiculous. The same man who had fought demons, killed and tortured many, endured hell and back, was now being startled by the mere sound of a hand slamming down against wood. In a fit of turmoil, he looked up with wide eyes and was met with what he had feared and craved for the past five years. Uzair. Standing in front of him in flesh and bones.

He looked different. Different, as in there was no slightly smeared kohl adorning his eyes, his hair was cut modestly and tamed, he wore a crimson kurta rather than his personalised shade of dark greens and greys. But what caught Jaskirat off guard were his eyes, they were sunken, and held the same furry and patheticness they did when Rehman had died- was killed by Jaskirat. For a moment, the clerk feared for his life, his hand clutching the desk for dear life as he sat upright, feet planted and ready to run, had Uzair decided to swing at him or worse, shoot. But his worry was then replaced by the realisation, slow, daunting realisation that Uzair wasn’t doing any of that.

He made a mental note of how Uzair was breathing harshly as it pained him every time he inhaled, his hand, which he had slammed on the desk, shaking softly. His mouth agape as he took a step forward, fully flushed against the cubicle’s wall. “Ek pal ke liye baat karein, Hamze?” His voice broke at the supposed name of Jaskirat, like he knew it was a lie but wanted to make himself believe otherwise. Jaskirat sighed; his mind went through various scenarios, flipping through his book of moral ethics, which seemed to change with every new life he lived. “Mere office hours chal ra-”

“Mein ruk sakta hu, fursat milne pe bahar ajana”, Uzair interrupted. His voice was a lot softer and defeated than Jaskirat would’ve imagined. Not seeing a way out of this situation, he nodded hesitantly. Uzair nodded back as he walked away softly, his jaw clenching as he looked around him to see if anyone saw him or not. He bent down to pick up his backpack and walked out the door, bending down to not get smacked as Jaskirat watched his exfiltrating figure. He swiftly stood up and escaped to the restroom, his steps hurried and unbalanced.

Once inside, he looked at himself in the mirror, and for a split second, he still saw Hamza staring back at him. Hamza, who would’ve run into Uzair’s arms like a best friend he was to him. But he was Jaskirat. He still had the magnificent beard, but his equally luscious locks were fitted into his pagdi, saffron in colour, which stood in contrast to his expressions currently. He felt unworthy of wearing such a sacred piece on his head while his heart debated going back to Uzair. Moments passed as he stayed silent, in dilemma and very much glad to see Uzair, but what was he supposed to do stopped him.