chardikala🪷

For the next several days, Iqbal seemed to forget that there was a world outside the four walls of your home. Or perhaps he simply chose to pretend there wasn't one. The moment he had returned from work, his attention had become almost entirely consumed by your recovery. He did not hover over you in a way that made you feel helpless, nor did he constantly ask you whether you were all right. Instead, he watched. He noticed the smallest things—the way you moved when you thought nobody was looking, the way your hand sometimes instinctively travelled towards your throat whenever you remembered what had happened, the way you would wake from sleep with your breathing uneven before forcing yourself to calm down. He noticed everything. And he did something about none of it. At least, not directly.

Iqbal had always been a man of action. He was not particularly gifted when it came to explaining his feelings, and perhaps that was why his care for you appeared in the strangest, quietest forms. He would leave for work early in the morning only after making certain that you were comfortable. Before stepping out, he would stand beside the bed for a moment, his eyes moving over your sleeping form as though committing the sight of you to memory. Sometimes, you would wake just enough to feel the mattress dip beneath his weight. Sometimes, you would feel the back of his fingers brush against your forehead. And sometimes, you would hear his voice before you properly opened your eyes.

"Tabiyat theek hai?" The question would always be soft. And if you gave him the smallest nod, he would remain there for another moment before finally leaving. But his instructions to everyone else were anything but soft. The household had practically been turned into a sanctuary of silence.

Sakina had been told to make sure that nobody disturbed you unnecessarily. The servants had been instructed to keep their voices low around your room. Even Laiba, despite her endless energy and seemingly unlimited supply of questions, had somehow been convinced that her mother needed "extra rest." Iqbal had not needed to explain why. Everyone had seen enough. They had seen the blood. They had seen Iqbal's face when he had come out of that room. And they had seen the way he had carried you upstairs. No one asked questions. Perhaps they were too afraid of the answers. So the house adjusted itself around your recovery. And Iqbal adjusted himself around you. The strangest part was that he never made you feel as though you were a burden. If you wanted to sit in the garden, someone would bring a chair. If you wanted to walk around the house, he would quietly follow you. If you complained that everyone was treating you as though you were made of glass, he would simply raise one eyebrow and tell you that you were being dramatic.

"Main tumhein sheeshe ka bana hua nahi samajhta," he had told you once, his expression perfectly serious. "Lekin iska matlab yeh bhi nahi hai ke tum apni haalat bhool kar hero banne ki koshish karo."

You had stared at him. "Main hero banne ki koshish nahi kar rahi."

"Haan. Tum sirf apne aap ko takleef dene ki koshish kar rahi ho."

"Iqbal."

"Ji?"

You had glared. He had looked entirely unbothered. And somehow, despite everything, you had laughed. It had been the first proper laugh you had managed since that night. Iqbal had not smiled immediately. He had simply looked at you. As though that tiny sound had been something he had been waiting to hear for days. Then, very slowly, the corner of his mouth had lifted. That was how it continued. Small things. Little moments. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that could erase what had happened. But enough to remind you that there was still a life waiting for you on the other side of the fear.

Iqbal resumed going to work after a few days, but his routine was no longer the same. He would leave earlier than usual, after making sure that you had eaten something and taken your medicines. He would tell Sakina precisely when you were supposed to have your next dose and would repeat himself so many times that eventually even Sakina had begun assuring him that she was perfectly capable of remembering.

"Major Saab, aap fikr na karein. Main sab sambhaal loongi."

Iqbal would still look unconvinced. "Phir bhi."

"Ji."

"Usko akela mat chhodna."

"Ji."

"Agar uski tabiyat—"

"Major Saab."

He would stop. Sakina would look at him. "Main sambhaal loongi."

And only then would he finally leave. But leaving did not mean staying away. By three or four in the afternoon, when most people expected him to remain at work for several more hours, the sound of his car would be heard outside the house. At first, you had thought it was coincidence.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Soon, you realised that Iqbal had begun returning home early every single day. Sometimes he would arrive with files still tucked beneath his arm. Sometimes he would have his spectacles on, his expression tired from the day's work. Sometimes he would enter the room while still speaking to someone on the telephone, only to end the conversation the moment he saw you awake.

His priorities were embarrassingly obvious. And you didn't know what to do with them. There were moments when you wondered if he understood what he was doing to you. Because how were you supposed to remain afraid of a man who spent his evenings checking whether you had taken your medicine? How were you supposed to convince yourself that he was waiting for your confession when he was sitting beside your bed at midnight, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders because he thought you were cold? How were you supposed to keep looking at him and wondering whether he knew everything when he was doing everything in his power to make you feel safe?

It made everything worse. And somehow, it made everything better. Your body began recovering slowly. The bruises faded. The pain in your legs became manageable. The soreness around your throat slowly eased, although the memory of those fingers remained much longer than the physical marks ever could. You started walking around the house again. At first, only for a few minutes. Then longer. Iqbal insisted on being there. You would tell him you could walk perfectly well by yourself. He would tell you he knew. You would ask him why he was still following you.

He would simply say, "Mujhe tumhare saath chalna pasand hai."

And that would be the end of the argument. One evening, you had finally managed to spend almost the entire afternoon out of bed. It had been a strangely ordinary day. There had been no nightmares.

No sudden panic.

No moment where you had felt as though Rashid's shadow was following you through the corridors.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you had almost felt normal. By evening, exhaustion had settled into your bones. You had returned to your room and changed into something comfortable before climbing onto the bed. Your body still ached in places, but the pain was no longer sharp enough to frighten you.

You lay on your stomach, a book open beneath your hands. The room was quiet. Outside, the last light of the evening filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the floor. You had become so absorbed in the book that you barely noticed the door opening.

Iqbal entered quietly. You only realised he was there when you felt the mattress shift. Your eyes moved briefly towards him. He had changed out of his work clothes. There was something almost domestic about him now. Something you had never imagined you would associate with Major Iqbal. He sat beside you for a moment.

"Thak gayi ho?"

You turned a page. "Thodi."

Iqbal hummed. He didn't ask you to stop reading. He didn't tell you to sleep. Instead, after a moment, you felt his hand move towards your back. You glanced over your shoulder. He had a small bowl of oil with him.

"Yeh kya hai?"

"Tumhari tangon aur kamar mein dard ho raha tha."

You blinked. "Main theek hoon."

"Main jaanta hoon."

"Phir?"

"Phir bhi." There was no arguing with him when he used that tone.

You turned back towards your book. A moment later, you felt the warmth of his hands against your back. The touch was careful. Measured. Nothing like the desperate urgency that had existed between you before. Iqbal seemed to be learning you all over again. Learning where he could touch you. Learning where he should stop. Learning when to ask. Learning when silence was enough. His fingers moved slowly across your back, easing the tension that had gathered there over the past several days.

You could feel the warmth of the oil spreading across your skin through the thin fabric of your clothes. Your eyes remained on the page. But you weren't reading anymore. You could feel him behind you. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The warmth of his hands. The quiet patience with which he cared for you. And somewhere between one paragraph and the next, you realised that the silence between you no longer felt quite as frightening as it once had. Perhaps that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Because you were beginning to get used to this. To him. To the way his hands were becoming familiar. To the way his presence no longer made your heart race because of fear. To the way you could lie there, completely still, and allow yourself to be cared for. You lowered the book slightly. Iqbal's hands paused.

"Bas?" he asked. You looked over your shoulder at him. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then you slowly placed the book aside. And Iqbal's hands returned to your back.

His hands were warm with oil as they moved beneath the loose fabric of your kurta, gently massaging the tension from your back. His touch remained slow and careful, never hurried, his palms working over the aching muscles before gradually moving lower towards your waist. When his hands reached your lower back, his fingers pressed gently into the sides, rubbing the warm oil into your skin.

The warmth of the oil, combined with the heat of his hands, sent a strange shiver through you. Your body relaxed beneath his touch almost involuntarily, and a soft sound nearly escaped your lips before you caught yourself, pressing your face a little deeper into the pillow as though suddenly very interested in the book lying forgotten beside you.

Iqbal, however, seemed to notice. His hands paused for the briefest moment. And then, without saying anything, he continued.

The soft fabric of your kurta pressing against the bed, while Iqbal's large, warm hand slides beneath the hem again. He resumes to massage your back, his touch firm and steady. As his palm glides lower, hitting that agonizingly sensitive spot at the base of your spine, a soft moan escapes your lips. Iqbal chuckles, the sound a deep vibration that you can almost feel. His hand continues its descent, slipping past the fabric and sliding deep into the waistband of your pants. You stiffen instinctively, your breath hitching as you wonder where this is going, but he stops. He doesn't push further; instead, he lets his hand rest there, the heat of his palm searing against your skin.

"Begum, tumhare jism ki khushbu mujhe pagal kar rahi hai," he whispers, his voice thick with desire. "Kitni narm ho tum... bilkul ek khwaab ki tarah. Mera dil karta hai bas tumhe dekhta rahoon, choota rahoon, tumhe choomta rahoon."

He shifts his weight, settling himself behind you. He doesn't sit on your legs instead, he carefully makes space, guiding your legs to spread apart just enough so he can fit perfectly between them. You remain on your stomach, your heart hammering against the mattress. Suddenly, his hand hooks into the waistband of your trousers and panties. With one smooth, confident motion, he pulls them down, exposing your hips and the curves of your backside to the cool air.

"Iqbal... aap kya kar rahe hain?" you whisper, your voice trembling.

He leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Bas apni biwi ko thoda sukoon dena chahta hoon, meri jaan." he murmurs sweetly, though the hunger in his voice is undeniable.

He reaches for a small bowl of oil beside him, lathering more oil his hands until they are slick and glistening. When he places his hands on your buttocks, the sensation is electric. He massages the flesh with slow, circular motions, kneading you with a level of care that makes you gasp. You bury your face in your arms, breathing heavily, your body humming with anticipation.

As he works the oil into your skin, his hand accidentally—or perhaps purposefully—slips into the crease between your buttcheeks. He rubs that sensitive area, the friction of the oil making it feel incredibly intense. Then, without warning, he slides a single finger forward, gliding past your folds and entering your vagina. [DO NOT and i mean it do not oil as a lubricant during vaginal sex does not matter if it is baby oil or coconut oil it will give you yeast infection or some other problem this story is fictional]

You clutch the pillow tighter, your knuckles turning white as he moves his finger in and out in a slow, torturous rhythm. You are already slick for him, and the addition of the oil makes the penetration feel seamless and deep. He doesn't stop at one he adds a second finger, stretching you open and performing a rhythmic "come hither" motion, curling his fingers against your G-spot. Just as you are about to peak, he abruptly pulls his fingers out with a wet pop. Your cunt feels suddenly empty, gasping and throbbing for more. Without wasting another second, he grips your hips and lifts them high, forcing you to support yourself on your elbows and knees, leaving your ass thrust up in the air. He dives in, his face pressing against you as he begins to eat you out from behind.

The sensation is overwhelming. His tongue is broad and hot, licking you with long, sweeping strokes from bottom to top. He focuses on your clit, swirling around it with a precision that makes your toes curl. Every now and then, his tongue moves up, teasing the entrance of your hole, licking the opening with a flicking motion that sends shivers up your spine. You can feel the wetness of his saliva mixing with the oil and your own juices, creating a slippery, intoxicating mess. Midway through his feast, his free hand reaches down to his pajama string. He undoes it with a quick tug, freeing his cock, which is straining hard and pulsing with need. While he continues to devour you—his tongue relentlessly working your clit into a frenzy—he begins to jerk himself off. The sound of his hand sliding over his shaft mixes with the wet sounds of him eating you out. You can hear his breathing become heavy and ragged, matching the rhythm of your own. You moan and cry out in pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Just as you are on the precipice of a shattering climax, your body arched and shaking under the onslaught of his tongue, Iqbal abruptly pulls away. The sudden absence of his warmth leaves you gasping, your cunt throbbing and desperate for the release he just stole from you.

Before you can even moan in protest, he grips your waist and flips you over with a swift motion. You land on your back, your chest heaving, sweat clinging to your forehead and cheeks. You breathe heavily, your eyes clouded with lust and confusion. With an eager intensity, he reaches for the hem of your kurta and pulls it over your head in one fluid movement, tossing it aside. You are left exposed, wearing only your bra, your nipples hardening in the cool air and the heat of his gaze.

Then, the mood shifts. Iqbal reaches into his waistband and pulls something out that makes your heart stop. It's not his cock—it's his gun. He holds it firmly, the safety on, but the cold steel is unmistakable.

Panic surges through you, momentarily eclipsing the lust. Your mind races you are a spy, and the terror that he has finally discovered your secret crashes over you. You tense up, your muscles locking, certain that this is the moment your cover is blown and your life is over. But Iqbal doesn't say a word. His expression is dark, possessive, and devoid of any anger—only a twisted, dominant hunger.

He doesn't use the weapon to threaten you. Instead, he guides the smooth, cold barrel of the gun toward your entrance. You gasp as he slowly pushes the muzzle into your vagina. The contrast is agonizing the freezing metal sliding into your burning, slick heat. He pushes deeper, stretching you out, his eyes locked onto yours as he watches the way your body accepts the foreign object.

He shifts his body, positioning himself right beside your head. The gun is buried deep in your cunt, filling you with a hard, unyielding pressure, while his actual cock—thick, pulsing, and leaking salty precum—is positioned directly above your face.

He presses the head of his cock against your lips, smearing the salty lubricant across your mouth. The scent of him fills your nostrils, mixing with the metallic smell of the gun inside you. You are trapped between two different kinds of steel—one cold and lifeless in your depths, one hot and living at your lips.

You open your mouth, instinctively wanting to take him in, even as the terrifying reality of the gun deep inside you sends shivers of fear and arousal through your spine. You can't stop what is happening you are completely at his mercy. You think to yourself that whether he knows your secret or not, he has found a way to claim every single part of you, breaking your will and your body all at once.

Iqbal doesn't hesitate. Seeing your cunt stretch and clench around the cold barrel of the gun drives him into a frenzy. He thrusts his thick, pulsing cock deep into your mouth, filling your throat and cutting off your breath. He groans, a guttural sound of pure triumph, throwing his head back as you struggle to breathe through your nose, your throat muscles instinctively relaxing and tightening around him.

He doesn't move his cock at first he simply stays buried deep, savoring the feeling of you taking him. You look up at his face, twisted in an expression of raw, hedonistic pleasure. Tears gather in the corners of your eyes from the depth of the penetration, and saliva leaks from the corners of your mouth, dripping onto your chin.

Slowly, he begins to move. While his cock remains deep in your throat, his other hand stays gripped on the gun inside you. He begins to slide the metal barrel in and out in a painfully slow, methodical motion. The contrast is maddening—the hot, rhythmic throb in your mouth and the cold, stretching slide in your cunt.

"Dekho meri jaan... tumhare jism ne is bandook ko kitni shiddat se apna liya hai," he rasps, his voice vibrating through your jaw. "Bilkul waise hi jaise tumne mujhe apna liya hai."

He continues the torture, his breathing ragged, but just as he reaches the edge, he pulls his cock out of your mouth with a wet slide. He doesn't cum. Instead, he sits back on the bed, his eyes dark and commanding, motioning for you to get on top of him.

He slowly slides the gun out of your cunt, the metallic sound echoing in the silent room. As he holds it out, you reach for it, your fingers brushing his as you take the weapon from his hand. You climb over him, straddling his lap. You don't slide down onto his cock, and he doesn't ask you to. Your soaking wet cunt is hovering just inches above his straining head.

Instead, you take the gun—still slick with your juices—and press the muzzle firmly into his mouth.

The power shift is instantaneous. You are now the one holding the weapon you are the one in control. You look down at your husband, the man who just dominated you, now silenced by the very object that was just inside you. You begin to hump your cunt against his cock, the friction of your wet folds rubbing against his head without fully taking him in, driving both of you to the brink.

As you grind against him, Iqbal doesn't resist. He closes his eyes, leaning into the sensation, his tongue swirling around the cold steel of the gun, greedily licking your juices off the metal. He is savoring the taste of you from the barrel.

"Tumhe kya laga... main tumhe yeh taqat nahi doonga?" he mumbles around the gun, his voice muffled but dripping with desire. " Junoon sa sawar hota hai jab meri begum ka mujh par ikhtiyar hota hai. bandook tumhare haath mein hai, lekin tumhara wajood sirf meri thakan mita sakta hai."

You would be lying if you said you didn't feel a surge of dark electricity. Having the gun in your husband's mouth while you hold the grip, feeling his cock throb against your clit, creates a cocktail of fear and lust that makes your vision blur. You are the spy, the infiltrator, and for this moment, the master of the house. You look down at him, your eyes dark and clouded with a mix of adrenaline and lust. The feeling of the gun in his mouth, the cold steel replacing his tongue, makes you feel a power you've never experienced as his wife—or as a spy. You lean down, your breasts brushing against his chest, and whisper into his ear while you continue to grind your wetness against the head of his cock.

"ghulaam hain aap mere, Iqbal." you murmur, your voice a sultry, dangerous purr.

He lets out a muffled groan of approval around the barrel, his eyes flashing with pride at your boldness. You continue to hump him, your silk providing a thin, friction-filled barrier that makes every slide against his cock feel like a spark of electricity. As the tension reaches a breaking point, your grip loosens slightly, and the gun slips from your fingers, clattering softly onto the bed beside you. The moment the weapon is gone, Iqbal's hands snap to your waist like vices. He pulls you flush against him, his strength overwhelming as he drags you down, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your neck and chest.

"Meri ziddi biwi... tumhari yeh shararat mujhe aur pagal kar rahi hai," he growls, his teeth grazing your collarbone. "Tum chahe jitni bhi taqat dikhao, tumhara jism mere liye cheekh raha hai. Tumhe meri zaroorat hai, jaan... meri zaroorat hai."  He begins to suck and bite at your chest, his hands gripping your hips firmly, lifting you slightly and then slamming you back down onto his cock in a rhythmic, punishing pace. You throw your head back, your moans filling the room, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you both spiral toward the edge of a cliff.

"Iqbal...ab aur nahi... main bas...!" you cry out, your voice breaking as the pleasure becomes too much to bear.  Just as you are about to scream, just as your muscles tighten for the final plunge into orgasm—a sudden, loud, and rapid series of knocks thunder against your bedroom door. The sound is violent and urgent, slicing through the haze of lust like a knife. You both freeze instantly, your hearts hammering against each other's chests. The sudden intrusion brings the reality of the world back crashing in, leaving you breathless, and exposed.

You rushed to fix yourself as the knock on the door grew louder, your fingers hurriedly adjusting your clothes while Iqbal stood nearby looking almost comically awkward. For a moment, his eyes moved towards you, then towards the door, and then back to you again, as though he was trying to decide what exactly he was supposed to do.

Another knock sounded.

Iqbal cleared his throat. "Main... washroom jaa raha hoon."

You stared at him for a second before realising exactly why he had suddenly decided that the washroom was the safest possible destination. You couldn't help but smile. "Ji, jaiye."

He gave you one last slightly embarrassed look before making his way towards the washroom, and you quickly fixed your dupatta properly, smoothing it over yourself before walking towards the door. The moment you opened it, you found Laiba standing on the other side. She immediately looked up at you with the most impatient expression her little face could manage.

"Ammi! Aapne itni der kyun laga di darwaaza kholne mein?"

"Achha? Itni der?"

"Haan!"

"Maaf kardo." She seemed to consider your apology for approximately half a second before deciding that it was acceptable. You smiled and reached for her hand, taking it in yours as you led her away from the doorway and towards the living room. "Chalo, batao. Kya hua?"

Laiba, however, seemed to have been waiting for precisely this question. With a sudden burst of excitement, she pulled something from behind her back. It was a photo frame. Or, at least, it was supposed to be a photo frame. You stopped walking. Your eyes widened. The frame had clearly been made from ice-cream sticks, each one painted in a different colour. Some were pink, some blue, some yellow, some green, and some appeared to have been painted with several colours at once. The paint was messy in the most charming way possible, with tiny fingerprints visible in places where Laiba had obviously decided that brushes were unnecessary. And then there was the glitter. There was so much glitter. You were almost certain that Laiba had somehow managed to use an entire year's supply of glitter for one single craft project.

It was scattered across the frame in thick, uneven patches, catching the light whenever you moved it. Some of it had escaped onto Laiba herself. There was glitter on her cheeks, glitter tangled into her hair, glitter on her sleeves, and probably glitter in places neither of you would discover until several weeks later. You stared at her. She stared back at you. "Wah."

Laiba's face immediately brightened. "Achha haina?"

You carefully took the frame from her hands, trying not to touch too much of it because you had a feeling that if you did, the glitter would somehow multiply. "Bahut achha hai."

You looked down at the picture inside. And your expression softened. It was a photograph of the three of you. You, Iqbal, and Laiba. For a moment, you simply stared at it. There was something strangely precious about seeing the three of you together like that, preserved inside a frame that had been created by tiny hands with crookedly painted sticks and entirely too much glitter. A smile slowly spread across your face.

"Yeh tumne banaya?"

Laiba looked offended. "Aur nahi toh kya!"

You laughed softly. "Achha, baba. Lekin kaise banaya?"

"School mein banaya. Teacher ne sabko banana sikhaya tha." She stood a little taller as she explained it, clearly very proud of herself. "Maine khud sab colours lagaye. Aur glitter bhi."

You looked at the glitter again. "Yeh toh dikh hi raha hai."

Laiba didn't seem to understand the accusation in your voice. Instead, she grinned. "Bahut saara glitter achha lagta hai."

"Haan, bilkul." You glanced down at your own hands and immediately noticed a few tiny specks of glitter already clinging to your fingers. You sighed. Laiba had somehow managed to turn a simple photo frame into a glitter-based biological weapon. Still, you couldn't bring yourself to complain. You looked at the photograph once more before carefully placing the frame on the table. You did so with exaggerated caution, making sure your hands didn't brush against the sides any more than necessary.

"Ammi?"

"Hmm?"

"Isko yahin rakhenge?"

You nodded. "nahinmain esko kahin khaas jagha rakhungi."

Laiba smiled proudly. You looked at her face, at the glitter sparkling across her cheeks and caught between strands of her hair, and shook your head with an affectionate smile. "Bas ek baat batao."

"Kya?"

"Yeh glitter tumne apne upar bhi lagaya hai ya sirf frame par?"

Laiba immediately looked down at herself. You raised an eyebrow. She looked back up at you. And then, with the complete confidence of a child whohad absolutely no regrets, she said, "Thoda sa."

You stared at her. "Thoda sa?"

"itu sa."

You glanced at the glitter covering half her face. "itu sa?"

Laiba giggled. And from somewhere behind you, you heard the faint sound of door opening. You turned your head slightly. Iqbal stepped out, now looking considerably more composed than he had a few minutes earlier. His eyes immediately fell upon Laiba. Then the glitter. Then the photograph. For a moment, he said nothing. Laiba proudly pointed towards the table.

"Abbu, dekho! Maine banaya!"

Iqbal looked at the frame. And despite everything, the faintest smile appeared on his face. "Achha hai."

Laiba's eyes widened. "Bas achha?"

Iqbal looked at her seriously. "Bahut achha hai."

She beamed. You couldn't help but smile as you watched the two of them standing there, the glitter-covered photo frame between you all. For a moment, everything felt incredibly ordinary. And perhaps that was what made it so precious.

Laiba had somehow managed to capture Iqbal's complete attention—or at least, that was what she believed. The reality was that Iqbal was sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking far too serious for a man who had been invited to a tea party hosted by a kid and conducted entirely inside a tiny plastic kitchen. In front of him sat a collection of miniature utensils, a plastic plate with nothing on it, and a tiny pink cup that Laiba had declared to be his tea.

"Abbu, aapko chai pasand aayi?" Laiba asked proudly.

Iqbal lifted the little cup to his lips and took an exaggerated sip of absolutely nothing. "Haan. Bohot achhi hai."

Laiba beamed. "Aur chahiye?"

Iqbal looked at the cup.Then at his daughter. "Thodi si."

"Thodi si nahi. Puri piyenge."

Iqbal paused. "Achha."

And so he drank his imaginary tea. Laiba immediately turned back towards her plastic kitchen, entirely satisfied with her father's performance. She picked up a tiny plastic spoon and began stirring something in a miniature pot, her tongue poking slightly out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. Iqbal watched her for a moment, and despite himself, the corner of his mouth lifted. He loved this. He loved watching her play. He loved the way she could transform a handful of plastic toys into an entire world of her own. He loved the way she treated him as though he were the most important customer in the entire restaurant, even when the only thing she had served him was imaginary tea in a cup barely large enough to fit two fingers.

He loved his daughter more than he could ever explain. And he loved you. That was precisely the problem. Because while Laiba was busy preparing another imaginary meal for him, Iqbal's mind kept wandering back to you. He couldn't help it.

Every few moments, his eyes would drift towards the doorway, almost instinctively, as though he might catch sight of you walking past. He wondered what you were doing. Whether you were upstairs. Whether you were reading. Whether you had finally gotten comfortable after spending so much of the past few weeks recovering. And, perhaps more importantly, whether you were craving what he is craving too.

He had spent days taking care of you. Days of watching over you, making sure you ate, making sure you slept, making sure you took your medicines. He had been so careful with you that sometimes even he wondered if he was being too cautious. Every movement had been measured. Every touch gentle. He had been terrified of hurting you without meaning to. But now you were better. You were walking around the house again. You were moving more easily. You were reading, talking, laughing occasionally. You were becoming yourself again.

And Iqbal, for the first time in days, wanted something selfish. He wanted you.

Alone.

He wanted to close the bedroom door and have an hour where nobody needed anything from either of you. He wanted to hear you moan his name while you take his cock. He wanted to worship your body . To him, your body was a shrine, and he wished only to perform ibaadat before it. He desired to lose himself in the sajda of your beauty. He wanted the intimacy of being your husband.

That was all. And apparently, even that was too much to ask.

"Abbu!"

Iqbal immediately looked at Laiba. "Ji?"

She held out a tiny plastic plate towards him. "Yeh lo."

He looked down. "Ye kya hai?"

"Khanna."

Iqbal stared at the empty plate. He had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do with it. Then Laiba looked at him expectantly. He sighed quietly.

"Achha."

He pretended to eat. Laiba watched him carefully "Sab khao. Healthy banana haina?"

Iqbal looked at the plate again. "Sab?"

"Haan."

He nodded solemnly. "Theek hai."

He continued pretending to eat. Laiba smiled happily. Iqbal's eyes drifted towards the doorway again. Nothing.

He was beginning to wonder if you had somehow disappeared from the face of the earth. He knew that was ridiculous. You were somewhere in the house. Probably upstairs. But he had been trying to get a moment alone with you for what felt like an eternity.

And every time he thought he was finally going to manage it, something happened.

The previous evening, he had almost convinced himself that he could finally spend some time with you when Laiba had suddenly decided she wanted to show him a drawing.

Before that, you had been sitting together when someone had come to deliver a message. Before that, you had been trying to rest.

And just few minutes ago when he had you all to himself...

Now he was drinking imaginary tea.

"Abbu."

"Hm?"

"Abbu, aap meri baat sun rahe ho?"

"Haan."

Laiba narrowed her eyes. "Achhe se?"

"Haan, bilkul."

"Kya keh rahi thi main?"

There was a pause. Iqbal stared at her. Laiba stared back. He had absolutely no idea. She folded her little arms across her chest.

"Aap sun hi nahi rahe the."

Iqbal sighed. "Main sun raha tha."

"Nahi."

"Haan."

"Nahi."

"Achha, tum hi bata do."

Laiba immediately started explaining whatever she had been talking about, and Iqbal listened this time, nodding at appropriate intervals. But even as he listened, some small part of him was still thinking about you. It wasn't that he wanted to escape his daughter. Never.

He would happily spend an entire day sitting on this floor, drinking imaginary tea and eating imaginary food if that was what she wanted. He would listen to every story she invented and play every ridiculous game she created. But there was a difference between loving time with his daughter and wanting time with his wife. One did not cancel out the other.

If anything, the fact that he loved both of you so deeply was precisely why he wanted both. He wanted his family. But he wanted the part of his family that belonged only to him, too. He wanted you.

———

You hurried towards your room as Laiba's voice followed behind you, warning her father the imaginary tea too hot. You smiled faintly to yourself as you pushed open the door. And then you stopped. Your eyes immediately fell upon the object lying on your shared bed.

A gun.

You stared at it for a moment. Then you looked around trying not to remember what was happening just moments ago here and where this had been. A strange warmth crept up your face.

Of course. You quickly walked over to it, picked it up carefully, and opened his side of the bedside drawer. The drawer was otherwise exactly what you had come to expect from him. It was filled with the small, unremarkable things that belonged to his everyday life: a few strips of medicine, his spare pair of glasses, the small cleaning kit he used for them, some rubber bands for tying bundles of papers together, a handful of loose coins, a pen, and a few folded receipts with handwriting across them that had become so faded and messy that you couldn't make out what they said.

You placed the gun carefully inside, pushing it towards the back before closing the drawer. Your fingers remained on the handle for a moment. Then you stepped away. You should have gone to take your bath. That had been your intention when you came upstairs. But there was something else you needed to do first. Something you had been avoiding for days. You stood beside the bed, staring down at your phone.

It had been days. Days since everything had changed. And if Iqbal knew—if he truly knew who you were, what you had come here to do, and why you had entered his life in the first place—then surely, by now, something would have happened. You were almost certain of it.

No.

You were certain of it. You knew enough about Iqbal. You had heard about his methods during training. You had studied the kind of man he was supposed to be, the kind of man who could make people talk when they desperately wanted to remain silent. The kind of man whose name alone could make people afraid. You had expected that man. You had prepared yourself for that man. But the man you had come to know was different. He was gentle with you. Patient with you. He was the man who remembered exactly how you liked your tea. The man who worried when you were unwell. The man who could spend an unreasonable amount of time listening to Laiba explain something that made absolutely no sense and still pretend to understand every word.

He loved his daughter with a tenderness that had surprised you. And somehow, somewhere along the way, he had begun to love you with that same frightening sincerity.

The thought made your chest ache. Because if he knew the truth about you, he would never allow Laiba to remain this close to you. He would never allow you to sit beside his daughter, fix her hair, listen to her stories, or kiss her forehead goodnight. And you knew enough about him to understand that he would not simply let you walk away either. The thought of it made your fingers tighten around your phone.

You had to tell them. You had to let Mustafa and Alam know that you were still here. That you were alive. That you had not abandoned the mission. You couldn't continue existing inside this house without communicating with them. Not after everything that had happened. Not when every day you remained silent made the situation more complicated.

You looked towards the closed door. The house was still full of life outside. Laiba's voice carried faintly from somewhere nearby. You could hear Iqbal responding to her. For a moment, you closed your eyes. You needed to think. You needed to come up with something.

You couldn't simply walk out of the house whenever you wanted. You couldn't risk being followed. You couldn't suddenly disappear without raising questions. And after everything that had happened recently, you couldn't trust that any meeting would be simple.

So you had to be careful. You unlocked your phone. Your fingers moved over the screen. You didn't type an explanation. You didn't mention names. You didn't mention anything about what had happened. You didn't even write the exact time or date. You simply sent the information they needed to understand. A meeting place. A way to recognise the meeting. Enough for them to know that you were asking to meet. And nothing more. You stared at the message after sending it. For several seconds, you didn't move. Then you locked your phone and placed it down.

It was done. There was no taking it back now. Whatever happened next would happen. You took a slow breath and finally turned towards the cupboard. If you were going to leave the house, even briefly, you needed a reason. You couldn't make anyone suspicious. You opened the cupboard and pulled out a fresh suit. The thought of everything you had to arrange made your head feel heavy. But there was nothing else you could do. You gathered your clothes and headed towards the bathroom, leaving your phone behind. For now, at least, you had done what you needed to do. And somewhere beyond the walls of this house, you could only hope that the people waiting for your message had understood exactly what you meant.

———

His eyes drifted towards the doorway once again.

Laiba immediately noticed. "Abbu?"

"Hm?"

"Aap kahan dekh rahe ho?"

"Kahin nahi."

"Ammi ko dhoondh rahe ho?"

Iqbal's gaze snapped back to her. For one brief second, he looked caught. Laiba's face immediately broke into a mischievous grin. Iqbal narrowed his eyes. "Kya?"

"Aap Ammi ko dhoondh rahe the."

"Main kisi ko nahi dhoondh raha tha."

"Dhoondh rahe the."

"Nahi."

"Haan."

Iqbal picked up the tiny plastic cup again. "Chai peeyo."

Laiba burst into laughter. Iqbal shook his head, but he was smiling now too. He had been caught. And apparently, his daughter had decided that this was the funniest thing that had happened all day. "Aap Ammi ke paas jaana chahte ho?"

Iqbal stared at her. There was no possible answer to that question that wouldn't make him look guilty. So he chose silence.

Laiba's smile grew wider. "Aapko Ammi ke saath akele rehna hai?"

Iqbal's eyebrows rose. "Bas."

She giggled. "Abbu ko Ammi ke saath l-o-v-e hai!"

"Laiba."

"L-o-v-e hai!"

"Laiba, kisne seekhaya tumhe ye?"

She was laughing now, completely delighted by herself. Iqbal reached forward and gently caught her around the waist, pulling her towards him. "Bohot zyada bolne lagi ho tum."

Laiba squealed and tried to escape. "Chhodiye!"

"Abhi toh tum bohot bol rahi thi." Iqbal started to tickle her. She kept trying to escape the tickle attack failing miserably. Through her giggles she managed to scream out for help, "Ammi!"

Iqbal finally let her go. Laiba immediately scrambled away from him and ran towards the little kitchen again. Iqbal sat there for a moment, watching her. Then he looked towards the doorway one more time. Still nothing. He rubbed his face with one hand. He was going to lose his mind.

"Abbu!"

Iqbal looked at his daughter. "Kya hua?"

"Abbu, ab aapko khana banana hai."

He stared at her. "Main?"

"Haan."

"Abhi toh chai pi."

"Ab khana."

Iqbal looked at the tiny plastic kitchen. Then at his daughter. Then towards the doorway. He could almost imagine you standing somewhere beyond it, laughing at him. And somehow, that thought made him smile. Perhaps he would have to wait. Perhaps he would have to sit here for another hour, pretend to eat another imaginary meal, and allow Laiba to boss him around until she finally got bored. Because despite everything, despite the fact that he desperately wanted to be alone with you, he couldn't bring himself to disappoint her. So Iqbal sighed, reached for the tiny plastic spoon, and settled himself more comfortably on the floor.

"Achha," he muttered. "Banao khana."

Laiba immediately began working again, completely satisfied. And Iqbal picked up his imaginary cup of tea. But his eyes still wandered towards the doorway. Because somewhere in the back of his mind, he was already thinking about the next opportunity. The next time he could catch you alone. The next moment when he could finally have you all to himself. He just hoped Laiba wouldn't find him first.

Iqbal had begun to think that perhaps, if he played with Laiba long enough, she would eventually tire herself out. It was an optimistic thought. A foolish one, perhaps, but an optimistic one nonetheless.

After the imaginary tea party came what Laiba proudly announced as her next game, and Iqbal immediately realised that he had made a terrible mistake by assuming she had any intention of resting.

"Abbu, ab hum teacher-teacher khelenge."

Iqbal looked at her. "Teacher-teacher?"

"Haan."

He glanced at the little plastic kitchen set scattered around them, then at the empty cup still in his hand. "Chai khatam nahi hui abhi."

She gave him an impatient look. "Abbu, woh toh pehle wala game tha."

Iqbal stared at her for a moment before slowly putting the tiny cup down. "Achha. Theek hai."

Laiba immediately began preparing for her new role. Within minutes, she had somehow transformed herself from a little girl playing with a plastic kitchen into the strictest teacher Iqbal had ever encountered.

She had draped your dupatta around herself like a sari, though most of it was trailing behind her and one end had somehow become caught beneath her foot. A small stick was clutched firmly in her hand, which she had apparently decided was an essential piece of teaching equipment.

Iqbal, meanwhile, had been demoted to student. He sat on the floor with his legs crossed, looking at his daughter with an expression of growing disbelief.

"Abbu, seedhe baitho!"

"Seedha baitha hoon main."

"Seedhe!"

Iqbal straightened his back. "Aise?"

Laiba looked him up and down. "Haan."

Iqbal nodded. "Achha."

"Haath table par rakho."

"Konsa table?"

Laiba pointed towards one of the cushions. "Yeh."

Iqbal looked at the cushion. Then at her. "Yeh table hai?"

"Haan."

He obediently placed his hands on the cushion. Laiba nodded approvingly and turned around. Iqbal's eyes immediately moved towards the plush toys she had arranged around the room. There were at least six of them.

A teddy bear was sitting near the window. A rabbit was leaning against the wall. One of them had been placed on a chair, while another had somehow been positioned directly in front of a small table. Iqbal looked at the collection. His eyes narrowed. "Yeh sab students hain?"

"Haan." Laiba pointed her stick towards the teddy bear. "Tum!"

Iqbal looked at the teddy. Then back at Laiba. "Main?"

"Nahi! Woh uska naam Chunaid hai!"

"Oh." Iqbal nodded seriously.

"Ji."

"Khade ho!" The teddy bear remained motionless. Laiba slammed the stick against her palm. "Notebook kahan hai?!"

Iqbal watched silently. The teddy, unsurprisingly, continued to ignore her. Laiba's face became increasingly stern.

"Kitne badtameez bacha hain! Khaana khana bhi bhulte ho?!"

Iqbal couldn't help himself. "Haan."

Laiba immediately turned towards him. "Tum Chunaid ho?! Chunaid se jawab manga maine!"

Iqbal's mouth closed. "Ji."

"Chup chaap baitho!"

Iqbal lowered his gaze. "Ji, madam."

Satisfied, Laiba returned to her imaginary class. For the next several minutes, Iqbal was subjected to an educational experience that made absolutely no sense. Laiba taught mathematics without using any numbers, geography without mentioning a single place, and history that seemed to involve nothing but a mysterious princess who apparently lived inside her school. Every few moments, she would turn towards one of the plush toys and scold them for something completely incomprehensible.

"Physical tum inside ho aur mentally? Outside ho." The rabbit stared blankly ahead. "Parents ka number do aapne!"

Iqbal looked at the rabbit. Then at Laiba. He was beginning to understand why teachers looked so tired all the time. Laiba pointed her stick towards another plush toy. "Aur tum! Tum class mein baat kar rahe the! Fish market hai ye?"

Iqbal glanced around. There was no one talking. Not even the rabbit. Not even the teddy. Yet somehow, the entire classroom was apparently full of misbehaving children.

"Sabko punishment milegi!" Laiba announced.

Iqbal raised his eyebrows. "Sabko?"

"Haan."

"Kyun?"

"Kyuki sabse gandi class hai ye. Boht zyada shor karte hain sab."

Iqbal looked around the room. "Kaunsa shor?"

Laiba's eyes narrowed. "Abbu."

"Ji?"

"Ache bache baano ya fir peeche jakar khade ho jao hands up karke."

Iqbal immediately lowered his head. "Sorry."

Laiba nodded. For the next few minutes, he behaved exactly as instructed. He sat quietly. He listened. He answered questions whose answers did not exist. He was scolded twice for things he had not done and once for something the teddy bear had apparently done. At one point, Laiba became so absorbed in her role that she marched towards the plush toys, waving the stick in the air.

"Sab chup! Kisi ki awaaz nahi aani chahiye!"

Iqbal watched her. "Ji."

Laiba spun around. "Aap bhi!"

Iqbal immediately nodded. "Main bhi chup." He pressed his lips together. Laiba continued. And Iqbal began to wonder if there was any possibility that this child would ever run out of energy. He had genuinely thought that playing with her would tire her out. He had been wrong. Terribly, hopelessly wrong.

By the time Laiba finally finished shouting at her imaginary students, Iqbal had begun to think that perhaps he was the one who needed a nap. Laiba, however, looked as energetic as ever. She adjusted your dupatta around her shoulders and looked at him proudly.

"Abbu, aapne bohot achha padha. Unko toffee milegi."  Iqbal stared at her. She sat down in front of him. Iqbal looked at her carefully. There was a brief moment of silence. Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps she was finally tired. He waited. Laiba looked at him. Iqbal looked back. "Abbu?"

"Hm?"

"Ab hum kya khelenge?"

Iqbal's face fell. "Kuch nahi."

Laiba's eyebrows knitted together. "Kuch nhi?"

"Haan."

"Kyun?"

"Kyuki ab tum padhai karogi." The pout appeared instantly. Iqbal had seen that pout before. He knew it well. It was the pout that meant Laiba had absolutely no intention of accepting whatever he had just said.

"Par Abbu..."

"Nahi."

"Please."

"Bilkul nahi."

"Bas thodi der."

"Laiba."

She crossed her arms. "Main nahi karungi."

Iqbal sighed. "Achha, tumhe yaad hai tumhara homework kya hai?"

Laiba's expression changed immediately. Iqbal knew that look. She was thinking. And he already knew she was going to try to negotiate. "Main baad mein karungi."

"Nahi."

"Thodi der baad."

"Nahi."

"Kal."

"Bilkul nahi."

Laiba looked deeply offended. Iqbal, however, remained firm. "Ab tum apna homework karogi, phir apni kitaab padhogi. Uske baad jo tumhara kaam hai woh khatam karogi, aur phir agar tumhara mann hua toh khel lena." Laiba's pout deepened. Iqbal continued before she could interrupt. "Aur haan, apne toys bhi theek jagah rakhogi. Aur Ammi ko pareshaan nahi karogi. Aur apna khana waqt par khaogi."

"Abbu..."

"Ji?"

"Itna sab?"

Iqbal nodded. "Haan. Itna sab." Laiba looked at him as though he had personally betrayed her. Iqbal almost smiled. "Chalo. Ab jao kitab laao."

"Main nahi jaa rahi."

"Laiba."

She slowly got to her feet, dragging your dupatta behind her. She walked a few steps. Then turned around. "Abbu?"

"Hm?"

"Aap mere saath padhoge?"

Iqbal shook his head. "Nahi. Main kitchen mein jaa raha hoon."

"Kyun?"

Iqbal glanced towards the kitchen. "Ammi ki madad karne."

Laiba immediately looked suspicious. "Aapko ammi ke saath khelna hai?"

Iqbal froze. He knew exactly where this was going. "Main kitchen mein jaa raha hoon."

"Ammi ke paas?"

"Haan."

Laiba narrowed her eyes. Iqbal tried to maintain a completely innocent expression. "Padho, Laiba." She stared at him for another moment before finally turning around.

"Theek hai."

Iqbal waited until she had taken a few steps towards her study table. Then he quietly smiled to himself. Perhaps, finally, he would get the chance to see you. Perhaps, finally, he would be able to spend a little time with his wife without a plastic tea cup, a classroom full of plush toys, or a tiny teacher interrupting him. He got up from the floor, straightened his kurta, and headed towards the kitchen.

———

The kitchen was quiet in the afternoon, the house having settled into a brief lull. You had just finished bathing and had wrapped your damp hair in a towel, deciding to make afternoon tea for yourself, Iqbal, and your father in law before he could complain about being hungry later.

You stood by the counter, crushing cardamom and ginger with the little pestle, the sharp, warm fragrance filling the kitchen. You were so focused on what you were doing that you didn't hear anyone enter. Two arms suddenly wrapped around your waist from behind. You jumped, nearly dropping the pestle.

"Iqbal!"

A soft laugh sounded against your hair. "Arre, dara diya?"

You turned your head, glaring at him over your shoulder. "Haan! Aapko awaaz karne mein kya problem hai?"

"Surprise kaise hota phir?"

"Chor ki tarha aaye aap."

Iqbal only laughed and pulled you a little closer, his chin resting near your shoulder. You could feel the warmth of him against your back, his arms comfortably settled around your waist as though he had no intention of letting go anytime soon. You tried to return to your tea, but his presence made even that difficult.

"Iqbal, chhodiye. Chai banani hai."

"Bana lijye."

You paused. "Aap aise pakad kar rakhenge toh kaise banaungi?"

"Mere hatho se azadi toh nahi milegi. Agar aise banti ho toh bana lijiye, Begum."

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't stop the smile from appearing on your face. "Aaj bohot badmaash ho rahe hain aap."

"Main? Main toh bohot shareef hoon."

"Bilkul nahi."

He laughed again, his hold tightening for a moment before he finally rested his cheek against the side of your damp hair. You were about to say something when he noticed the wet strands escaping from your towel.

"Ab toh haath hataiye."

He was silent for a moment. "Nahi."

You sighed, already knowing that getting him to move would be more difficult than making the tea itself. "Iqbal."

"Hm?"

"Please."

That finally made him loosen his arms, and you immediately turned back towards the stove before he could change his mind. But even as you resumed crushing the ginger, you could feel him standing right behind you. Close. Far too close. And hands still on your waist. You shook your head, hiding your smile as you continued preparing the tea. Behind you, Iqbal simply watched, looking entirely pleased with himself.

The steam from the tea pot rising in swirls around you, but you can barely focus on the task. Iqbal is pressed firmly against your back, his chest a wall of heat. His arms are wrapped tightly around your waist, locking you in place, and he has begun to grind his hips against you in a slow, rhythmic motion. The hard length of his cock is pressing right through the fabric of your clothes, rubbing against your backside with every deliberate thrust. You grip the edge of the kitchen counter, your knuckles turning white, as you try to keep your balance and your composure.

"Jaan, yeh chai itni zaroori hai kya?" he whispers, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against your ear. "Tum aise kaanp kyu rahi ho... tumhare jism ko pata hai ke tumhe kya chahiye. Tumhe meri pyaas bujhani hai, hai na?"

You try to answer, but a soft gasp escapes you as his right hand leaves your waist. It slides under the hem of your kurta, his palm warm and calloused, gliding up the curve of your stomach until he reaches your breast. He squeezes you firmly through the bra, his thumb flicking over your nipple, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. At the same time, his other hand dives down, slipping into the waistband of your trousers. He doesn't hesitate, his fingers finding your soaking wet center and rubbing your clit with a focused, heavy pressure while he continues to grind his hips against you.

"Ah... Iqbal... koi aa jayega..." you moan softly, your head falling back against his shoulder. "Please rukiye main...main chai bana rahi hoon."

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through your entire spine. He increases the pressure on your breast, squeezing it almost painfully, while his fingers work your pussy into a frenzy.

"Koi nahi aayega, meri jaan. Sab masroof hain," he groans, his breath hot and smelling of desire. "Mere hath mein ho tum, fir bhi is dil ki tishnagi nahi bujhti. Mujhe tumhara sirf waqt ya jism nahi, tumhari her saans par apna ikhtiyar chahiye. Tumhe toot kar chahna hi meri rooh ka sukoon hai." You moan out at his words, feeling an intense high from his overwhelming love and pleasure he is providing you with. The way he makes you feel like the happiest person alive somehow triggers a sharp pang of guilt. It consumes you from within, making you feel like a betrayer.

“Aap ki yeh shiddat mujhe nasha deti hai...” you bit your tongue from both fear of letting, ‘magar khuda ki qasam, yeh sukoon ab ek ehsaas-e-gunaah ban chuka hai.’ Slip out and in fear of moaning out loud. You bite your lip, trying to stifle a loud moan as he hits the perfect spot. The combination of his hard cock grinding against your ass and his fingers teasing your clit makes your legs feel like jelly. You are no longer thinking about the tea all you can feel is the overwhelming need for him to stop teasing and finally slide inside you. As you struggle to maintain your balance, he finds the exact rhythm that sends you spiraling. His fingers work your clit with an expert, relentless pressure while his hips slam against you, the friction of his cock through the fabric driving you toward the edge. He leans in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a husky, seductive murmur.

"Meri jaan-e-jahaan... Tumhare jism ka noor," he whispers, his breath hitching. "meri rooh ka sajda hai.”

He bites down on your neck sucking on spot and when he releases his mouth a string a saliva connects his lips and your neck. Again right beside your ear he whispers, "Meri jaan, mere wajood mein khud ko riha kar do."

The words are the final trigger. Your muscles seize, and a violent wave of pleasure crashes over you. He puts his mouth over yours swallowing your moan, your body shuddering uncontrollably as you reach a powerful, toe-curling orgasm. You collapse backward, leaning your full weight against his chest, your breathing ragged and heavy. Sweat trickles down your neck and back, the heat of the moment leaving you completely spent and dizzy.

For a few seconds, the world is silent, save for the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing. But then, a sudden hiss breaks the silence.

The tea has boiled over. The liquid bubbles over the rim of the pot, splashing loudly onto the stove. Both of you snap back to reality instantly.

"Oh!" you gasp, the haze of pleasure vanishing as panic sets in.

Iqbal reacts quickly, his hands leaving your body to reach forward and twist the gas knob off with a sharp click. At the same time, you scramble around the counter, your hands shaking as you frantically search for a kitchen cloth to stop the disaster.

"Kahan hai! Kahan!" you mutter to yourself, grabbing a towel and rushing back to the stove.

You press the cloth against the spilling tea, trying to soak up the boiling liquid before it ruins the floor, but you aren't fast enough. Despite your frantic efforts, a steady stream of brown liquid escapes the counter, dripping and running down the side of the cabinet and splashing onto the tiled floor in a wide, steaming puddle. You stand there, chest still heaving from the activity, looking down at the mess on the floor while Iqbal stands behind you, a smile still playing on his lips despite the chaos.

———

The three of you sat together in the living room as the evening slowly settled over the house. The television played the daily news, its volume just loud enough to fill the silences between conversations. Jahangir occupied his usual place in his wheelchair, his attention fixed entirely on the screen, while Iqbal sat beside you with a small distance between the two of you.

There was enough space separating you that your shoulders did not touch. Still, every now and then, you caught yourself smiling into your teacup. It was the kind of quiet domestic moment you had never imagined yourself having. Sitting between a father and son, drinking evening tea, listening to the television, feeling almost as though you belonged there.

The news anchor moved from one story to another, speaking about the country’s development, military strength, new resources, and the supposed progress being made across Pakistan. Jahangir muttered something under his breath each time the report shifted towards the actual problems faced by ordinary people.

You lowered your eyes towards your tea. You didn’t say anything. But something about the evening news unsettled you. Perhaps it was the way Jahangir spoke about the country, with that unwavering belief in strength and power, as though a nation’s greatness could be measured by its military rather than the lives of the people living within it. Perhaps it was simply the familiarity of the arguments.

Because the more you listened, the more you realised something you had spent so long trying not to think about.

The people on both sides of the border were not as different as everyone insisted they were. The word border suddenly seemed absurd. There were people here who woke up every morning worrying about the same things people back home worried about. The price of food. The cost of electricity. The rising prices of everyday necessities. The fear of losing a job. The exhaustion of working all day and still wondering whether there would be enough left at the end of the month.

The news moved to footage of heavy rainfall. You watched silently as water flooded streets and entered people’s homes, families standing helplessly as they tried to save whatever belongings they could. Your fingers tightened around your teacup. You had seen this before. Not here. Back home. India.

The word came to you so naturally that it hurt. You remembered the monsoons. The roads turning into rivers. The familiar chaos of people trying to protect their homes from water. The smell of wet earth. The sound of rain against windows. The small inconveniences that had once seemed so ordinary that you had never thought they could become precious memories. Now you would have given anything to experience them again. Your eyes began to burn. You blinked quickly.

No. Not here.Not in front of them. You lowered your face further, pretending to take another sip of tea as your vision blurred for a moment.

You wondered if Jahangir had ever stopped to think about it. If he had ever considered that the people he spoke about as awam were simply people. People who wanted to eat.People who wanted to sleep peacefully. People who wanted their children to be safe. People who wanted to come home after a long day and know that their house would still be standing. The same people existed on both sides of the border.

The same lives.

The same struggles.

The same hopes.

And yet somewhere, years ago, a line had been drawn across a map, and suddenly people like you had been taught to call one another strangers. You swallowed hard. You had always known where home was. Or you thought you had.

India had been home because you had been born there. Because you had grown up there. Because every memory of your childhood belonged to its soil. Because somewhere in that country, there had been a version of you who knew exactly where she belonged. But now?

You looked around the room. At Jahangir. At Iqbal sitting beside you. At the house that had slowly begun to feel familiar. Your home was here now. That was the cruelest part.

The idea of home had somehow crossed the border without you. You had come here believing that Pakistan was simply a place you needed to enter for a mission. A temporary destination. A country you would eventually leave behind. Instead, you had found a husband. A daughter. A family. A life. And now you were sitting in the middle of that life, listening to the news and mourning the one you had left behind.

You finished your tea quickly. The last sip felt strangely bitter. You placed the cup down carefully, afraid that if you remained there any longer, the tears burning behind your eyes would finally fall. You didn’t want anyone to see. You didn’t want Iqbal to ask what was wrong. Because what could you possibly tell him?

That you missed home?

That you missed India?

That you sometimes woke up longing for a place you could never return to?

That the country you had been born in had become something you could only carry inside your memories?

You stood quietly.Iqbal glanced towards you. You gave him the smallest smile you could manage. Nothing was said. You walked away before your expression could betray you. And as you disappeared down the hallway, the thought stayed with you. Perhaps this was how you would spend the rest of your life. Building a home far away from the home you had been born into. Creating a life in a country that had once been foreign to you. And perhaps the cruelest irony was that, in order to return to the home you belonged to, you had to betray the home you had built.

You had come here to betray Pakistan for India. To betray Iqbal for the country you called your own. But somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred. Because now, when you thought of home, you thought of two places. And neither one belonged entirely to you anymore.

There was no document waiting to prove that you were Indian. No passport in your name that could take you back to the woman you had once been. No certificate that could tell the world where you belonged. You had left that identity behind.

And now, standing alone in the hallway, you realised that perhaps the hardest part was not that you had lost your home. It was that you had found another one.

And you didn’t know which one you would have to lose first.

i feel like a poet also last part inspired by “mujhse Ppehli si mohabbat mere mehboob na maang”

also sorry for late update