CHAPTER SIX: SHARDS OF HER
Ayesha smoothed her dupatta, checking her reflection one last time. She was supposed to leave the house in ten minutes to attend another charity event alongside Ulfat, a public appearance meant to bolster Rehman’s image as he officially entered the political arena.Her phone screen lit up, a text notification from her mother destroying those plans. Her family had decided to drop by for a surprise visit. Ayesha groaned, burying her face in her hands.
The news of Meerab had faded from conversations, replaced by newer scandals and fresher gossip, but the stain left behind on Ayesha's life refused to disappear, because unlike the city, families never moved on from old wounds, they preserved them, polished them, and brought them out whenever they needed to remind someone of their place.There was a particular feeling that arrived before them, a heaviness in the chest, an old exhaustion that had nothing to do with the present and everything to do with years of being judged, corrected, compared and reminded of her mistakes until those mistakes became larger than the person herself.
She was sitting near the window when she heard familiar voices entering through the front hall, layered over each other with artificial warmth and the sharpness people hide beneath concern, and for one brief moment she closed her eyes, because she already knew what this visit was going to be.
Her older sister, Rabia entered first, wrapped in expensive fabric and the same superiority she had carried since childhood, the kind of woman who smiled with her mouth but never her eyes, who had spent years making Ayesha feel too emotional, too dramatic, too loved by everyone around her. Even as children, she had hated how easily attention settled on Ayesha, how relatives softened around her, how their mother forgave her quicker.
Behind her came the younger one,Hina quieter but worse in different ways, carrying that old jealousy that had never really disappeared, only matured into politeness sharp enough to cut without leaving visible wounds. Ayesha could still remember the night her secret had stopped being a secret, the trembling fear in her chest when their father had found out she had been seeing someone a young Iranian Baloch man she had once believed she might actually build a life with. She had never discovered exactly how the family found out, not officially.
Her younger sister had watched her too carefully back then, had asked too many innocent questions, had lingered outside doors just long enough to hear fragments, and within days the entire house had turned into a courtroom. Her mother crying. Her father raging. Phones being taken away. Doors monitored.
A rushed marriage arranged so quickly it barely felt real, as if the family had wanted to bury the scandal before it could breathe properly.
At the time they had practically handed her over.
Because back then Uzair was just another dangerous man with money and influence and rumors around his name, someone useful enough to marry her off to but not respectable enough to envy.
Funny how quickly people change once power arrives.
Now the same family that had once whispered “gangster hi hai” behind closed doors spoke his name carefully in public.
Now they watched his cars.
And hated that Ayesha had ended up with the man who rose higher than any of their polished husbands ever did.
Her two sisters-in-law entered last, both carrying expressions of rehearsed sympathy, though one of them barely bothered hiding her satisfaction. They had never forgiven fate for giving Ayesha the life they believed should have belonged to one of them.
Ayesha stood politely when they entered.
Everyone kissed her cheeks.
Everyone held her hand too long.
Everyone looked at her like they had already heard the story and simply came to watch the aftermath with their own eyes.
“Tum kitni kamzor lag rahi ho,” her older sister said first, sitting down dramatically. “Khud ka khayal hi nahi rakha tumne.”
(You look so weak. You haven’t taken care of yourself at all.)
That practiced smile women learn early.
The one that hides exhaustion.
Or maybe they simply didn’t care enough to.
Tea arrived. Cups clinked softly. Fake concern floated through the room like perfume too strong to breathe around.
“We heard…” one of the sisters-in-law began carefully, pretending hesitation she clearly didn’t feel, “about that girl.”
Silence tightened instantly.
Ayesha kept her eyes on her cup.
“What girl?” she asked quietly.
Her older sister gave a soft sigh, leaning back as if burdened by the ugliness of the topic.
“Ayesha, please. Poora shehar baat kar raha hai. Family isi samay hi kaam aati hai”
(The whole city is talking. This is exactly what family is for)
The younger sister spoke next, too casually.
“They say Uzair bhai was seen with her everywhere.”
Ayesha’s fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
“They also say she ran away with someone,” another added quickly. “Who knows what truth is anymore.”
The room filled with that particular kind of silence women create when they want pain to linger properly before cutting deeper.
Her older sister tilted her head slightly and said in a softer voice, “Tumne notice nahi kiya tha pehle?”
(Didn’t you notice earlier?)
Not sympathy for her, but
Ayesha finally looked up.
“What exactly are you trying to say?”
The older sister shrugged lightly. “Bas yahi ke mard jab badalte hain na… aurat ko sabse pehle pata chal jata hai.”
(Just that when men change, women always know first.)
One of the sisters-in-law gave a small laugh into her tea.
“Waise bhi…” she muttered, “aise mardon pe bharosa bhi kitna kar sakte hain.”
(Anyway… how much can you trust men like him.)
As if they had not all benefited from Uzair in one way or another.
As if they had not proudly used his name when convenient.
Ayesha felt something cold move through her chest.
Shagufta, her elder brother's wife, began again.
The same Shagufta whose husband had spent nearly six years unemployed before Uzair had pulled strings and secured him a well-paying position in Dubai.
Gratitude, however, had never been one of Shagufta's strengths.
She stirred her tea lazily and said with false sympathy, "Allah sabr de tumhein, Ayesha. Waise sach kahun toh jab maine suna ke Uzair ka naam kisi aur aurat ke saath aa raha hai, mujhe bilkul hairani nahi hui, kyunke mard jab ghar mein sukoon na mile toh bahar dhoondhne lagte hain, aur tum dono ko dekh kar toh kaafi saalon se lag raha tha ke ghar sirf naam ka chal raha hai."
(May God give you patience, Ayesha. To be honest, when I heard Uzair's name being linked to another woman, I wasn't surprised at all, because when men don't find peace at home, they start looking elsewhere, and seeing the two of you these past years, it seemed your marriage was functioning only in name.)
Her younger sister immediately frowned.
"Bhabhi, yeh kis tarah ki baat hai?"
(What kind of thing is that to say?)
"What? Main jhoot bol rahi hoon?"
Before anyone could answer, Nida, the second sister-in-law, joined in.
Nida had always been worse.
Shagufta at least pretended to be concerned.
Nida enjoyed cruelty openly.
She leaned back against the sofa and laughed softly.
"Aur waise bhi..." she said, looking directly at Ayesha. "Aurat ko apne mard ko sambhalna aana chahiye. Shaadi ka matlab sirf gehne pehen lena aur badi gaadi mein ghoomna nahi hota. Kuch zimmedariyan bhi hoti hain."
(And anyway... a woman should know how to keep her husband. Marriage isn't just about wearing jewelry and driving around in expensive cars. There are responsibilities too.)
Her sisters exchanged looks.
But Nida was just getting started.
"Agar bachcha hota to alag baat hoti."
(It would have been different if you had a child)
Her mother looked up sharply.
"Main bas sach bol rahi hoon Ammi.Aaj mujhe bolne dijiye"
(I'm only speaking the truth. Dont stop me rom speakingtoday.)
Then she turned back to Ayesha.
"Tumhari shaadi ko kitne saal ho gaye? Aur aaj tak koi aulaad nahi. Mard chahe jitna bhi mohabbat kar le, ek waqt ke baad usse apna ghar, apna waaris chahiye hota hai. Tumne kabhi socha ke shayad Uzair thak gaya ho?"
(How many years has it been since your marriage? And still no child. No matter how much a man loves a woman, eventually he wants a family, an heir. Did you ever think maybe Uzair got tired?)
Ayesha felt something twist painfully inside her chest.
Not because the words were true.
But because they had been aimed exactly where they would hurt most.
Nida continued mercilessly.
"Bura mat manna, lekin jis aurat se apna mard na sambhale aur jo usse bachcha bhi na de sake, usse phir doosri auraton se shikayat karne ka bhi koi haq nahi banta."
(Don't take it badly, but a woman who can't keep her husband and can't give him a child doesn't really have the right to complain about other women.)
The sentence hit the room like a slap.
Even Shagufta looked slightly uncomfortable.
Her mother stood up immediately.
For the first time since they arrived, genuine anger appeared on her face.
But years of bitterness had finally found an audience.
"No, Ammi, kyun bas? Har waqt Ayesha hi bechari kyun hai? Humne bhi zindagi dekhi hai. Farq bas itna hai ke humne apne ghar bachaye."
(No, why enough? Why is Ayesha always the victim? We've lived life too. The difference is we protected our homes.)
Just humiliation so old it almost felt familiar.
Because suddenly she was young again, standing in front of her family while they discussed her future like punishment, while everyone decided what kind of girl she was, what kind of life she deserved.
How quickly women become failures in other people’s stories.
Then another voice joined in.
"People are talking everywhere. Imagine how embarrassing this is for our family."
"Our family?" Ayesha repeated quietly.
"Yes, our family," her mother snapped. "Whether you like it or not, your actions affect us too."
Ayesha felt something tighten inside her chest.
The kind she had swallowed for years.
Her eldest sister leaned forward.
"You know what your problem is?" she asked. "You always wanted to be different. Even when you were young you thought rules applied to everyone except you. You had that affair, everyone knows it, proposals stopped coming, people talked behind our backs for years, and still we stood by you. You always acted like some tragic love story heroine."
Ayesha stood up so suddenly that even her mother looked startled.
For the first time in years she wasn't crying.
She wasn't defending herself quietlyShe was angry.
"Stood by me?" she repeated.
"When exactly did that happen? Was it when every proposal meeting ended with one of you reminding people about my past before I even got the chance to explain myself? Was it when every family gathering became a courtroom where I had to apologize for mistakes I'd already paid for ten times over? Or was it when all of you decided that one bad decision should define the rest of my life forever?"
Ayesha laughedbitter sound.
"No. Don't look shocked now."
Her eyes moved from one face to another.
"You want the truth? Fine."
Her voice trembled slightly.
With years of resentment finally finding words.
Ayesha continued."Yes. I had a past. Everybody knows that. I made mistakes. Everybody knows that too. But what none of you ever understood is that after years of being judged, years of being looked at like some warning sign for other girls, years of hearing whispers every time I entered a room, Uzair was the first person who simply accepted me."
Her younger sister scoffed.
"Accepted you? He's a low life gangster."
That made Ayesha laugh again.
A harsher laugh this time.
The silence that followed was almost amusing.Because everybody understood exactly what she meant.
"Where was this disgust when your husband needed a government contract and suddenly Uzair's contacts became useful? Where was this moral outrage when your son's admission got approved after one phone call? Where was this concern for my reputation when all of you were happily attending functions in cars arranged by him and introducing yourselves using his name because it opened doors that were previously closed?"
Her sister-in-law finally spoke.Her sister-in-law finally spoke.
Her voice was growing louder now.
Years of humiliation pouring out.
"For years all I heard was gangster this, criminal that, bad influence this, dangerous man that. But the second he started sitting with politicians, the second important people started shaking his hand, the second photographs with ministers appeared in newspapers, suddenly everyone forgot how much they hated him."Her mother stood up.
Her eyes filled with tears.
"You don't get to do this anymore. You don't get to come into my house and act like victims while pretending you've always wanted what's best for me."The room had become painfully quiet.
Ayesha's breathing had become uneven.
Years of pain rising all at once.
"You know what's funny?" she asked softly.
"Everybody believes that Uzair hurt me the most."
"But every time something went wrong in my life, every time I was drowning, every time I felt like I wasn't enough, it wasn't strangers I heard in my head."She looked directly at her mother.
The words landed harder than shouting ever could.
Her mother's face changed.
Ayesha wiped her eyes angrily.
"At least Uzair never pretended to be something he wasn't."
The room remained silent.
"He never claimed to be perfect."Her voice cracked.
"But all of you spent years pretending you loved me while making sure I never forgot my worst mistake."
For the first time in a very long time, Ayesha wasn't the girl defending herself.
She wasn't asking to be understood.
And as her family sat there in uncomfortable silence, unable to deny a single thing she had said, she realized something that hurt almost as much as it freed her:The people who had spent years teaching her shame had never actually forgiven her.
They had only learned how to use her guilt whenever it suited them.
And suddenly, after all these years, she was tired of carrying it for them.
