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First of all, kudos to @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange for arranging such a magnificient event! The amount of amazing fics that have been produced as a result of this event has me all excited to read them!
Thank you very much for giving me this beautiful prompt by @cvclee! ❤️
Y/n calming a drugged, grief-stricken Uzair after Rehman’s death while he spirals from guilt, rage, and the warrant against him during his D2 crash out scene.
I know you had a different request initially, and I am sorry that you had to change it! But I really hope you like this and enjoy reading it!
The colourful specks of light seeped in from the large stained glass window into the lavish living room of the Baloch haveli. The haveli, which was always buzzing with its residents as well as the men of the gang, had found a rare peace and quiet today. Y/N sat on the sofa in the arms of her husband, who had finally managed to take some time out for her from his very ‘busy’ schedule.
She frowned as she stared at their box television which displayed the highlights of the 2006 FIFA World Cup, the commentator rambling a little too enthusiastically about Zinedine Zidane’s aggressive header on Marco Materazzi because the latter had insulted his sister. Y/N sighed and leaned against Uzair, glaring at him.
This was not the plan. They were supposed to watch a romantic movie, which was going to premiere on TV today. Everyone was talking about it. Ishq Junoon Deewangi. But Uzair with his honey-sweet words, had somehow managed to bargain with her so he could watch his match highlights.
Y/N huffed and turned her attention back to the TV. Suddenly, the lights around them flickered twice and then went off completely. Huh, maybe a power-cut. But the TV was still on. And it was not showing the football match highlights anymore.
It was showing Uzair. Bloodied, sweaty and deranged. He had a butcher’s knife in his hand, and he was tossing around a head. A human head. Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. He had beheaded Arshad Pappu and he was kicking the head, blood still spluttering from its mouth and eyes still wide open in horror, like it was merely a football. He thrashed the large blade onto it and cursed his audacity to work against Rehman Baloch. The crowd of Lyari surrounded the gruesome sight, and whispered about how the ‘Heir of the Baloch Gang’ had gone insane.
The news reporter was stating with a horrifying amount of calm and detachment, the atrocity Uzair Baloch had committed, and what a dreaded man he was.
No. No. No. What was this? This was not her Uzair. Her Uzair was sitting right beside her, after they had stayed back home when the entire family had decided to go on a short picnic. Afraid, she grabbed his hand resting on her shoulder, but a sticky warm fluid stained her fingers. A gasp escaped her lips. It smelled like blood. She knew it because the Baloch haveli was well-accustomed to the sight and smell of blood.
Shifting away, she turned towards Uzair. But he was no longer there. The spot where she had been resting against him moments before was now empty and cold. She held onto the couch as she looked around desperately for him. Her mind couldn’t wrap around how he had faded into sheer absence.
A sharp clang rang behind her. She snapped her gaze towards the noise, and there at the door stood Uzair. Bloodied, sweaty and deranged. Looking down at someone who was pleading inaudibly, he raised the butcher’s knife dripping with blood, and brought it down in a flash.
Y/N woke up gasping for breath and hoping that whoever was under the attack of the knife was still alive. As she clutched at her chest and grounded herself to her surroundings, she realized that she was still in her bedroom. It was a nightmare. Thank the merciful God, it was just a nightmare.
Taking a shaky deep breath, she glanced at the phone she had slept holding onto. Six missed calls from her Abbu. Nine from her brother. A moment later, she switched the phone off, turning a blind eye to the unanswered calls and messages.
The day after Uzair had killed Arshad Pappu, her father and brother had arrived at the Baloch haveli to take her back with them. According to them, it was too risky to leave their daughter alone in such a household. They had known about the black businesses of the Baloch family even before the wedding. But with Rehman gone and Uzair acting like he was not in his right mind, they worried, rightfully so, that the harm would sooner or later find its way to their daughter as well.
Y/N hadn’t actually understood the gravity of Arshad’s murder until the next day, when the video of Uzair kicking his head around was broadcasted on the news. It formed the headline of that day. She had come so close to fainting after seeing the brutality with which her husband had orchestrated his nemesis’s death. While she was aware of Uzair’s cruelty, it was the way he did not even look like himself that had put her off. The promise in his threatening words and his bloodthirst was not what Uzair was made of, even after being Rehman Bhai’s ruthless enforcer.
It suddenly made sense why ever since coming back home, Uzair had locked himself in the room. The only ones who were allowed, or tolerated inside were Hamza and his men. Not even her. Not even his wife. Y/N wondered if he had felt it too. She wondered if after washing off the blood, Uzair had faced the ugly truth that he had lost himself somewhere between Rehman Bhai’s death and his vengeance.
And because Uzair was locked away from the world, he had no idea that it was trying to take her away from him in the pretense of safety and protection.
Another day, another hopeless attempt to get past the locked door.
Except this time as Y/N stood in front of it, she found it slightly open. Her hands curled into fists at her sides and she mustered whatever courage there was left in her to finally face him, in whatever condition he would be. She pushed open the door, and the distinct smell of alcohol and smoke clouded around her. Disappointed but not surprised, she stepped inside.
And there he was.
Sprawled out on the couch with his head thrown back, as he stared at the ceiling absent-mindedly, looking particularly lost. She looked around and registered the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, the glasses of alcohol half-empty and the gun lying on the table. He had still not noticed her presence.
A pang of pity shot through her heart looking at what he had become in just a matter of a few days.
“Darwaaza kaise khola?”
Her quiet voice sounded strange even to herself, as if she had temporarily forgotten how to speak with him. She saw how he flinched at it, and it made her feel like she was not welcome here at all.
Uzair was quick to take the gun from the table and push it under a pillow, without looking away from her. He blinked, his own isolation staring back at him in the face and making him realize how ignorant he had been towards her in the fury of the last few days.
He rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter, noticing how clean she looked compared to the blood and dirt on him. He could have sworn, with the sunlight that she brought along with her in the room, that she was a hallucination of his. Similar to the ones where he had been seeing Rehman Bhai.
She walked in further with the gait of carefulness that had not been there before. And Uzair noticed it all too well.
“Hamza Bhai keh rahe the tumhe Dubai jaana hoga…”
The rush of anger made its way back to Uzair. Hamza had been persistent in his convincing, and now he had the nerve to involve her in it. Uzair gritted his teeth and retorted sharply, his voice coming louder than he intended to.
“Main kahi nahi jaa raha! Uss SP ka sar qalam karne se pehle toh kahi bhi nahi!”
Y/N’s brows knitted tightly at his stubborn ambition. Hamza had told her about it and Uzair’s insistence on revenge. She stepped forward, as she spoke.
“Uzair, tumhe samajh nahi aa raha! Tumhare khilaaf ATA warrant jaari-”
The ATA warrant. Dubai. That was all everybody cared about. Hamza, Jamali and now, even his wife. Did nobody realize that Rehman Bhai was gone? Nobody cared that his Rehman Bhai had died. At the hands of that bastard SP. Nobody understood that he ought to take the revenge for Rehman Bhai.
If anything, the drugs heightened his frustration. He stood up and took a step towards Y/N swiftly, and yelled at her.
“Are- mujhe nahi faraq padta kisi ATA warrant se! Jab tak uss SP ka sar kaatke main Lyari kabristan ke bahaar nahi lagaata, tab tak main yahan se kahi nahi jaa raha!”
Y/N flinched, staring at him in disbelief. In all these years of their marriage, he had never once spoken to her like that. She was very proud of that fact. But it also never taught her how she should react in this moment.
Uzair felt apologetic the second he realized what he had done. She had taken an involuntary step away from him. He had made her flinch. She was scared of him. Oh, he had made her afraid of him. He wondered if Arshad Pappu’s dirty blood on his hands was what drove her away too.
He rubbed a hand over his face and let out a frustrated groan.
“Tum yahaan se chali jao!”
The shocking words hit Y/N with a blunt force. How could he ask her to leave just like that? After spending days avoiding her entirely. The words carried more sting because everyone around her was asking her to do the same. Leave him alone. And she was fighting very hard against all the people, all alone, for his sake. How was she supposed to keep fighting if the very reason for her fight was himself asking her to give up?
“Main kahi nahi jaaungi!”
Uzair fluttered his eyes close for a moment and pinched his brows in exasperation. He should have expected this to happen when his wife was just as stubborn as him. He lowered his voice, and muttered again.
“Y/N, yahan se jaao! Hum baad mein baat karenge!”
“Nahi! Baad mein tum phir se apne aap ko ek kamre mein band kardoge, aur mujhe phir se bahaar tumhara intezaar karna padega! Tumhari fikr karni padegi!”
Uzair was taken aback by her agitated words. He hadn’t even thought of what she must be going through while he ruined himself in isolation. His next mistake was speaking without thinking.
“Toh mat karo mera intezaar! Mat karo meri fikr! Maine nahi kaha tha tumse ye sab karne ke liye!”
Y/N’s lips parted in shock. All she could manage was a glare, as she felt the tears of frustration blurring her vision.
“Hashr dekha hai apna? Biwi hu main tumhaari! Hoti hai tumhaari fikr! Nahi chhod sakti main tumhe!”
Uzair faltered when he saw the tears in her eyes. This was not what he had meant to do. Even in the high, he knew this shouldn’t have happened from him. With a heavy sigh, he stepped forward slowly. Carefully.
“Mera kehne ka woh matlab nahi tha…maine tumse kaha yahaan se chali jao kyunki- kyunki main yeh nahi chahta ki tum-”
He felt his own throat tighten around his words that refused to come out without being accompanied with sobs. He swallowed that lump of words in his throat, and leaned down to her level. His hands hovered awkwardly around hers, with an uncertainty of whether he should touch her or not. Whether he even had the right anymore.
“Y/N, tum jaanti ho na…main tumhe kabhi chot nahi pohochaunga? Main kabhi aisa kuch nahi karunga jisse tumhe takleef ho. Tumhe mujhse darne ki zaroorat nahi hai, mai tumhe kuch karne ki soch bhi nahi sakta. Tum jaanti ho, na?”
Y/N wanted to give him a thousand reassurances, because she couldn’t bear it to tell him the truth when he sounded so vulnerable, like a child desperately trying to make sure he hadn’t made a life-altering mistake. The truth was bitter. The truth was that she did feel scared of his newfound bloodthirst. Not him. But he looked so scared of scaring her away, she could not bring herself to say it aloud.
Instead, her control shattered. The tears slipped from her eyes as she broke down into sobs, feeling a strange guilt for not being able to deny his fears.
That was all the answer Uzair needed. His heart sank with the realization that he had indeed made her fear him, without wanting to do so. He was desperate to explain himself. He hesitantly grabbed her hand and made her look at him.
“Uss din maine jo Cheel Chowk mein kiya, woh-woh maine Rehman Bhai ke liye kiya. Woh Arshad usi laayak tha! Uski himmat kaise hui mere Rehman Bhai ke khilaaf ye saazish karne ki!”
His voice trembled and the rage coiled in his chest, as he continued.
“Aur mein uss SP ko bhi yahi sazaa dena chahta hun! Usse lagta hai ki mere Bhai ko maarke woh apna badla pura karega! Dikha dunga usse badla kaisa hota hai! Aesi berehem maut dunga ki uske jaane ke baad bhi uske daftar mein uski cheekhe gunjti rahegi!”
He had once again been distracted by his vengeful agenda. He turned his attention back to her, and his voice softened a little.
“Par ye sab main Rehman Bhai ke liye kar raha hoon! Koi samajh nahi raha! Rehman Bhai chale gaye, par kisiko kuch faraq nahi padh raha hai, maheru! Koi samajh kyun nahi raha! Unke bina ye haveli saans kaise le rahi hai? Rehman Bhai-”
It was Uzair’s turn to break down into inaudible cries, as he collapsed down on the floor with exhaustion. Y/N was next to him within a moment, as she tried to steady him and rubbed his back. It was painful to see him lose his composure like this.
“Main samajhti hu, Uzair! Main jaanti hu!”
She tried to console him through her own tears.
“Nahi! Nahi, tum bhi nahi samajhti! Rehman Bhai aise mujhe akela chhodke nahi jaa sakte! Main unke binaa kya karunga?”
Y/N cupped his face and wiped his tears, shushing his broken cries.
“Shaant ho jaao, Uzair!”
“Tum jaanti ho, mai jab chhota toh aur Bhai mujhe haveli mein pehli baar leke aaye the na, tab mujhe bohot bure sapne aata the! Mujhe- Mujhe mere ammi abbu dikhte the. Aur woh bure log, jinhone ammi abbu ko maara tha, woh ab mere peeche daud rahe the!”
Y/N stilled at his words. He was sharing a part of himself that he had never revealed to anyone before. She had heard of his dark childhood from everyone, except himself. Uzair sniffled, and recalled his buried memories.
“Tab main bohot darr ke uthta tha, aur Rehman Bhai ke kamre mein aake unko bhi uthaa deta tha! Kuch din baad, Rehman Bhai ne mere kamre mein sona shuru kar diya. Jab bhi mujhe bure sapne aate the, main unko pukaarta tha aur woh uthke mujhe shaant kar dete the!”
A small humorless smile appeared on his lips, like he had remembered a particular fond memory.
“Aur woh unki aadat hi ban gayi! Bade hone ke baad bhi, jab bhi main unko pukaarta tha na, woh ekdum darr kar uth jaate the! Kabhi kabhi toh Ulfat bhabhi bhi nahi utha paati, par phir mein chote se chote awaaj mein bhi unhe bulaata tha na, toh jald se uth jaate the! Hum sab unka issi baat pe mazaak udaate the!”
His face twisted and he lowered his gaze. Y/N’s heart felt like it was twisted into a knot because she knew he was thinking of that unfortunate day.
“Uss din,” his voice was almost audible as he spoke. “Uss din, aspatal mein bhi maine unko pukaara! Dheere se nahi haan, main jor jor se chilla raha tha, keh raha tha unse ki Rehman Bhai, utho, main aaya hun! Aapka Uzair! Par phir bhi-”
The tears spilled down his cheeks and his chest heaved with hiccups.
“Phir bhi woh nahi uthe, Y/N!”
Y/N’s own tears were difficult to hold back, as she rubbed his back in a comforting manner and wiped his tears.
“Sab meri galti hai!”
Suddenly, Uzair sounded angry again. But this time, he was angry at himself.
“Meri hi galti hai! Mujhe Rehman Bhai ke saath rehna chahiye tha! Main agar wahaan hota, toh aisa nahi hota! Toh phir aisa nahi hota na, Y/N?”
She nodded in approval of his words, but a very large part of her, which was too selfish, was glad that Uzair hadn’t gone with Rehman Bhai. The thought ashamed her, but if a cross-fire was so lethal as to spare no survivors, she couldn’t imagine losing her Uzair in it. He was broken to shreds like this, but at least he was in front of her. Breathing and alive.
Before she could assure him that he was not at fault in this, Uzair was grabbing on her sleeve and speaking more to himself than her.
“Par Hamza Bhai ke saath tha! Donga aur Siyahi bhi toh the! Aur Hamza, Hamza toh hamesha sabko bachata hain, na? Yaad hai, usne hi Faizal ko bachaya tha! Hamza ne toh Rehman Bhai ko bhi SP ke arrest se wapas laya tha? Woh toh har baar kamiyaab hota ha na? Phir iss baar, iss baar hi kaise usne-”
He clicked his tongue in disapproval and buried his tear-streaked face in his palms, as he cursed himself.
“Sab meri galti hain! Rehman Bhai mujhe maaf nahi karenge! Mujhe unke saath jaana chahiye tha!”
Y/N wiped away her tears and then pulled his hands away from his face. She held him and made him look at her.
“Uzair, meri baat suno! Isme tumhaari koi galti nahi hai! Koi bhi galti nahi! Agar tum jaate phir bhi shayaad-”
She left the painful part unsaid, before continuing.
“Agar yeh hi khuda ki marzi thi, yeh hi taqdeer ka faisla tha, toh isme tum kya Hamza kya, koi bhi kuch badal nahi paata, Uzair!”
His eyes narrowed at her, like he was almost believing her words about the inevitable destiny. Almost. But then the thought of an invisible power taking away his dear brother felt too offensive to him, and he leaned away from her touch.
“Mujhe aisi qismat pe bharosa hi nahi jo mujhse mere Bhai ko cheene!”
He looked at her, the stubborn defiance in his gaze wavering before cracking down entirely. Because no matter how vehemently he denied the truth, it was there staring at him in the face. The truth reminded him of itself when he walked into the factory cabin and found it empty. He saw it behind the locked doors of Ulfat Bhabhi’s rooms. He heard it in the eerie mournful silence between the gang members. The truth was all around him, and he could only go so long with avoiding it.
Y/N was right. The truth was inevitable.
His shoulders shuddered with the held back sobs before his lips quivered and his eyes shut tightly, giving away to the tears welling in his eyes and flowing down his face.
“Main aise nahi jee sakta, Y/N! Rehman Bhai ke siva- mujhe kuch samajh nahi aa raha main kya karoon! Mujhe unki zaroorat hai! Maine kabhi aisi duniyaa dekhi hi nahi hai, jisme woh na ho! Aur ab woh nahi rahe, mere paas kuch nahi bachaa hai!”
Y/N couldn’t watch him like this, so devastated and helpless. She wrapped her arms around his large trembling frame and tried to calm him down, patting his head. She knew what Rehman Bhai meant for Uzair. For him, Rehman Bhai was his God and he was nothing in himself, if not his most ardent devotee.
Uzair held onto her tightly, as his body shook with a struggle to breathe and the sobs that wrecked out of him.
“Mere paas kuch nahi bachaa hai, mujhe bohot akela mehsoos ho raha hai! Main bilkul khaali mehsoos kar raha hun!”
He jerked away Y/N’s hand and grabbed his chest, like it was physically paining him to experience so much grief. Y/N shifted on her knees and placed a hand against his on his chest, and rubbed it in a way that was meant to soothe him.
Her voice cracked, as she shook her head and met his eyes through tears.
“Nahi, aisa mat kaho! T-Tumhaare dil mein mere liye jagah hai na? Bolo, hai na?”
Uzair glanced up at her, crying endlessly. But because after everything, he couldn’t deny that she didn’t hold a place in his heart, he nodded slowly. She owned a major part of his heart, if not entirely. He loved her completely, hopelessly, perhaps- no, surely just as much he loved his Rehman Bhai.
His shoulders slumped down and he allowed her to hold him. Y/N hugged him tightly, wrapping her arms around his neck while his tears stained her sleeve. She weaved her fingers through his hair, and whispered.
“Tum akele nahi ho, Uzair! Main tumhaare saath hoon! Mai humesha tumhaare saath hoon!”
Uzair nodded against her shoulder, wiping his tears with the back of his hand.
“Aur haan,” Y/N added. “Rehman Bhai bhi humaare saath hai. Woh hume upar se dekh rahe hai, aur tum chahte ho na, ki woh tumpe naaz kare! Toh phir ye nasha karna band karo! Ye ATA warrant aur Dubai ke baare mein hum kaal baat karenge, main toh yahi hoon!”
Uzair’s heart ached to think of Rehman Bhai looking down at him and feeling ashamed of what he had become over the past few days. He wrapped his arms around her waist, letting himself feel the comfort of her embrace
“Main, main nahi chahta tum mujhse darr jao. Isliye main tumse door raha. Isliye maine tumhe jaane ke liye kaha! Mai nahi chahta ki tum yahan se chali jao!”
Y/N exhaled slowly and tightened her grip around him. She hummed, and pulled away just enough to look at him, as she brushed a thumb against the hints of tears on his cheek.
“Main kahi nahi jaa rahi. Main yahin hoon.”
Uzair held her hand in his, like he was ensuring this was real. He wanted to believe her, but he did not believe he deserved this kindness from her. He lowered his head and kissed her knuckles, before pressing her palm against his chest, where she could sense his frantically beating heart.
“Mujhe chhod ke mat jao, Y/N! Mere paas sirf aur sirf tum ho! Tumhaare alava aur koi nahi hai! Mujhe kabhi bhi chhod ke mat jaana!”
His pleading requests tugged at Y/N’s heart, and this time she could give him a thousand reassurances. So she nodded, and managed a weak smile on her tear-streaked face.
“Main yahin hoon, Uzair. Tumhare saath. Hamesha.”
Hearing her words, Uzair felt like he had been returned a breath that had been stolen from him years ago. He moved forward and pulled her into a suffocating hug, and muttered gratitude. Two rooms away, Y/N’s phone was being flooded with missed calls from her family, but it didn’t truly matter at this moment.
After all this, after the brutal murder and the blood that still remained under his fingernails, after the drugs and the avoidance and after the accusations of insanity, she had still chosen to stay with him. For Uzair, that was the biggest favour she had done for him. The biggest ehsaan which he wouldn’t ever be able to repay.
This one shot is my entry for the 'Dhurandhar secret santa gift exchange' event by @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange!! You are a diva for organizing this event!! Kudos to you 🌷🥳
Prompt by and written for @sweetestsummer 💜
A bestfriends to lovers arc between Uzair Baloch and reader/OC, both being oblivious idiots. A jealous Uzair tries his best to deal with his feelings, but ends up having an angry rain confession!
Special thanks to @obsessedwidskincare for helping me figure out the whole plot (more like she gave me the whole plot 😭) and @kamalkafool for making the plot better by her input!!
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. IT IN NO WAY OR FORM ROMANTICIZES, PROPOGATES OR JUSTIFIES THE ACTS OF CHARACTERS OR ANY REAL LIFE PERSONALITY. IT IS SOLELY WRITTEN IN CONTEXT OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE MOVIE.
Your friendship with Uzair Baloch was a knowledge as common as the fact that rehman dakaiti ki di hui maut badi kasainuma hoti hai. It all started when you were in highschool- you were one of the best in your class but only second in maths to uzair, honestly you despised him for being better at math than you. You prayed for him to score less or worse better fail once so you could be the undisputed topper. However you did not expect the way your wish was about to play off.
Six months before your high school finals Uzair’s parents had passed away. You heard the news from your father the evening they died. Your heart dropped in your stomach and you don't know why but you cried for him. You did not see him for two months after that. When he finally showed up after months, it was as if he was a ghost. He was a quiet boy back then but he had friends, he played football annoyingly well, enjoyed praise from the teachers and beating you in tests but now it was all gone.
During your pre finals, on the day of the math exam you were more worried for Uzair than yourself because this also happened to be the five month anniversary of his parents passing. Being seated on the row beside him on the adjacent seat, you could see exactly what he was writing. He, instead of writing the exam, had put his head down after just writing his name. You on the other hand were panicking more about him failing and not being allowed to sit for the final exam, than passing it yourself. You kept trying to draw his attention by whispering his name but it was as if he had gone deaf. When he finally lifted his head up to look at you, you looked around and thrusted your extra supplement at him; it had a few mcqs and short answers- enough to pass the exam.
Unfortunately, the invigilator turned around exactly when he was stupidly holding the cheat sheet like some random newspaper clipping and looked at you in utter confusion. You were caught passing an answer sheet to Uzair Baloch in the very subject you prayed for him to fail in. The principal called in your parents and his brother and sister in law. Luckily because of your clear record, his brother’s reputation and Uzair's parents’ recent passing, you both were forgiven and given a chance to take the exam again.
After the re-examination you approached him to tell him how If his stupid ass had taken the paper and copied the answers this wouldn't have happened, to which he called you stupid for doing this in the first place, he criticized your cheating skills and how you were crazy for trying to help him because you weren't even the best at the subject too- and according to him there were just as much chances of him failing if he copied your answers as had he not written anything at all. From there started an unlikely but a nearly perfect friendship.
Rehman and Ulfat were surprised to find that Uzair had done such a thing but then they realised that it was you who did this- it kind of soothed them that there was someone else who cared for Uzair. After that day on you kept pestering him like an insistent mosquito who did not leave even after a repellent was used. You kept showing at his home, kept trying to get him to study, trying to instigate him -challenge him to do better at the exams than you but the spark was lost. However this did not mean your efforts went in vain. You had kinda become friends with him. He tolerated you- more like you kept doing things and he tagged along, you kept blabbering and he kept listening.
He got to give his finals after the re-examination and passed. Not with flying colours but he did. He sat you down one evening after you had talked his ear off about college admissions and entrance exams - he didn't want to continue. He was going to join Rehman in his business and well, the famously known….extracurricular activities. He thought you would object and leave him, but you didn't. You just squeezed his hand and told him you were with him no matter what.
_____________________________
You were laying on the ‘khaat’ in the verandah of baloch haveli, after a lavish dinner. The said dinner was on occasion of Faizal finally passing his eight grade exams on his third try. The poor child was stressed and math was not his forte. You were just telling Faizal how yor colleges’ resident wanna be macho proposed to one of your classmates who was coincidentally sick that day; and with the worst stroke of luck when the guy went on his knee with a rose asking her out, she turned her face sideways and puked. Yeah, not a very successful proposal. While you were laughing in your hysterics, Uzair came back after a shower- in a loose t-shirt and pajama- tugged at your foot to make space for him to sit. You just lifted your head in response. He sighed and sat down with your head on his thigh.
“Are bhai Aaj toh kamaal ho gaya aakhir kaar humare shehzade ne aanthvi paas kar hi li, warna humein toh laga tha ki kaun isse nakal karwayega- aakhir sabki kismat Uzair jaisi toh nahi hoti.”
(oh boy! Finally at last our little prince passed eighth grade, otherwise we were worried who would let him cheat off of them- not everyone has luck like Uzair)
Rehman said with a teasing edge. While Uzair absentmindedly played with the hem of your sleeve.
“Kya matlab hai aapka Rehman bhai? Nakal Uzair nahi kar raha tha, main karwa rahi thi- dono baaton mein zameen aasman ka fark hai. Aur waise bhi Uzair hamesha hi awaal aata tha, fail toh door ki baat hai. Toh aap in dono ko ek doosre se na mawazein!”
(what do you mean Rehman bhai? Uzair was not cheating off me, I was the one offering-there is a big difference! And anyways he always used to come first in the class, failing a test is not even in question. Please don't compare him with Faizal here.)
“Appi aapne mujhe kyun toda?”
(why did you have to drag me down?)
Faizal who laid in Ulfat’s lap chimes in with a whine.
“Aww, Faizal tum jaante ho ki tum mere second favourite ho, lekin tumhare Abbu ki galatfehmi door karna zaroori hai.”
(aww Faizal you know, you're my second favourite, but your father had a misunderstanding and I had to clear it.)
You try to coo at the boy. It is true he was too much like Uzair but not completely. Faizal struggling with academics was a trait Rehman must've passed down to him, but you just can't prove it.
“Rehman rehne dein, Uzair ki vakalat karte hue y/n se koi nahi jeet sakta.”
(Rehman let it go, you can't win against her when she's defending Uzair. )
Ulfat winked at you. A hot flush spread through your cheeks at the teasing which was only apparent to you.
“Baat toh sahi hai!”
(That is true!)
Naieem whistled which led to everyone dissolving in laughter, except you.
_____________________________
You were standing out of your college gate for exactly seven minutes. Seven minutes too long. Uzair would always be there to pick you up even before you were done for the day. He was late, that too without prior information. When he finally arrived, you were ready to give him an ear full. He got down from the car to open the door for you and as soon as you sat in the car, he put on your favorite song first thing after getting in the car and turned the AC down to your preferred temperature while he himself preferred open windows if he had been with anyone else.
To your surprise a new guy who Uzair introduced as Hamza was tagging along. Hamza had saved Rehman bhai from a surprise attack and was then welcomed into the gang. For the next few weeks Hamza would tag along with Uzair to pick you up and drop you to the college. While Hamza was quiet most of the time, once in a while he would make a dry joke that would leave you laughing with tears in your eyes. This made you from a duo to a trio. Now Hamza was always with you and Uzair when both of them weren't working. As much as you missed spending time with Uzair one-on-one, Hamza felt like a brother you never had, and you assumed he too saw you like a sister.
Like any normal weekday morning, Uzair was driving you to the college and Hamza was tagging along.
“Suno, Aaj shaam ko der se lene aana. Humara astronomy club aaj raat ek meet karne waala hai.”
(listen, come a bit later to pick me up today because my astronomy club has a meeting tonight.)
“Bohot wakt lagega? Main intezaar kar loonga.”
(will it be long? I can wait.)
Uzair insisted.
“Nahi, nahi bohot wakt lag sakta hai shayad. Aaj woh blood moon hai na, toh Jupiter aur Venus dikhenge! Sara muje ghar chhod degi, nikalungi toh phone kar doongi.”
(it might take too long actually. Today we will see blood moon, so Jupiter and Venus will be visible! Sara will drop me home. I'll call you when I leave for home.)
You assured him.
“Aapko Astronomy mein dilchaspi hai?”
(you like astronomy?)
Hamza asked from the backseat, excited.
“Haan! Aapko bhi?”
(yes! You too?)
You clap your hands in excitement. Hamza nodded in agreement.
“Phir aap bhi chalein mere saath! Wahan hum sabko aur khushi hogi agar naye log hamein join karte hain.”
(Then you should join me! The club will be really happy if new people join us)
“Agar aapko ya aapke saathiyon koi aitraaz na ho toh.”
(if your colleagues have no issue with it then, sure)
“Bilkul! Kisi ko koi aitraaz nahi hoga, infact sab bohot khush honge!”
(ofcourse! Nobody will object, in fact everyone will be excited/happy)
He nods in response.
“Theek hai toh aap kal shaam aa jayen mere college ki chutti ke baad, hum wahin chatt par jaa kar set karne waale hain sab.”
(okay then you can come by the college after we are done with it. Our set-up is on the college terrace itself.)
“Aapke paas telescope hai?”
(Do you have a telescope?)
“Haan! Mere paas toh accha hai, Uzair ne pichle saal birthday par diya tha! Lekin humare club ke head ke paas bohot zyada accha waala hai! Uspe humne pichli baar Saturn ki rings dekhi thi!”
(Yes! I have a good one, it was a birthday gift last year from Uzair. But the club head has a better one! We saw saturn's ring with it last time.)
You see his eyes shine in excitement and wonder.
“Tum bhi aaoge na?”
(will you join us?)
You turn towards Uzair, wanting him to tag along with you and Hamza.
“Are nahi, nahi. Mujhe kuch samaj bhi nahi aayega tum log kya keh rahe ho, kar rahe ho.”
(Not really! I won't get what you're saying or doing there)
“Lekin main bataungi na tumhe! Chalo na!! Sachme bohot maza aayega!”
(but I will explain it to you! Please tag along! I swear it will be fun)
“Tum jaao na hamze ke saath, mujhe inn sab mein dilchaspi nahi hai. Tum dono dekho chaand-sitare.”
(You go with Hamza. I don't have any interest in all this anyways. You both go and see starts and the moon)
“Planets!”
You and Hamza both chime in, correcting him.
_____________________________
The astronomy club evening went amazing. Hamza fit right in with your club. You introduced him as your cousin because introducing him as a new member of Rehman bhai's gang was not a very feasible first introduction. Overnight you discovered Hamza was fun to be around! He knew about the planets and stars, even things you've never heard of. Being the same age, you both shared many interests apart from astronomy as well. Which led to you sitting in the back seat with Hamza instead of the passenger seat with Uzair, a couple of times now. Now on days when Uzair was busy, instead of taking an auto which you usually would - Hamza would pick you up also during these trips without Uzair you actually discovered that Hamza had taken a liking for Yalina.
Your father worked as an accountant for Jameel Jamali, which meant he was aware of all the illegal and unexplained wealth he had accumulated over the years through corruption, which also meant Jamali kept your family closer to save his ass, which meant you were ‘practically family’. Friendship with Yalina was four years younger than you but that gap did not feel much larger when all you did was gossip about your extended families, college friends, shenanigans and well men- more like men in her case and a single man in yours. She along with Ulfat bhabhi was the only one who knew about your omnipresent, pathetic and as obvious as an elephant, crush on Uzair. She had a new crush every week but by the weekend she would discover some red flag after intense stalking and drop that crush, like a hot potato.
Imagine your surprise when Yalina and Hamza had started ‘dating’ after both of them had individually tagged along with you to the same astronomy club meets. You were a third wheel at first but to your relief it changed when they started ditching you all together. You still spent time with Hamza but less than before, same was with Yalina - it was so weird and ironic that they were cutting on their time spent with you to spend it with each other.
_____________________________
You were standing in the kitchen, while Ulfat was instructing the cook how to make perfect biryani - the exact way Rehman liked. Meanwhile you were munching on chopped bits of carrots, while chatting with her. Out of nowhere you felt a hand cover yours and the other dive into your healthy snack bowl to see almost all of it gone into the fist of a giant.
Uzair stuffed his face with the stolen carrots while you hit his arm in vain.
He said casually as if you were not there trying to skin him alive.
“Aaj yahan kaise? Hamze ke saath kitabein khareedne nahi jaana? Aaj toh discount chal rha hoga na?”
(Why are you here? Don't you have to go book shopping with Hamza? The books will be at thr discounted price today right?)
He puts his chin on your head and sighs.
“Nahi! Aaj woh kuch aur kaam se bahr gaya hai, toh agle hafte jayenge.”
(Nah, he had some work today, so we'll go there next week"
You cut him off by shoving a cherry tomato in his mouth.
“Haan haan, ab toh Hamza ye Hamza vo. Uzair toh bas naam ke liye hai. Dekhein bhabhi, kya keh rahi thi aap ki, y/n ko mujhse accha koi nahi jaanta? Ab ye baat aap Hamza ke baare mein karein kyunki ab shayad main-”
(Yeah, its all hamza this, hamza that now. Uzair is just a chopped liver. See bhabhi, you said nobody knows her better than i do, but that should be said about hamza now because maybe now i am not that-)
“Bas karo! Itna drama?! Dekha bhabhi issi liye Faizal aisa hai! Issi ki wajah se. Hamza se jalna band karo! Lekin chalo ab tum itna roo rahe ho toh aalam bhai ke yahan doodhsoda aur uske baad Clifton pe bun tikki khilaungi, aur laut te hue ghar chalenge- tumhe main tumhari mann pasand Biryani bana kar khilaungi lekin kabhi ye mat kehna ki tum mere liye sabse zyada azeez nahi ho! Buddhu!"
( can you stop it now! Such dramatics! See bhabhi he's the reasin why faizal too is like this. Stop being jealous of hamza. But since you're feeling neglected, ill take you to aalam bhai's shop to have doodhsoda and fro there to clifton for some bun tikki- my treat- and then we'll go at my place and ill make you your favourite biryani but never ever say that you're not my most favourite! Idiot!)
“Main jalta-valta nahi samji?”
(I am not being jealous!)
“Haan, haan aur main Shah Rukh Khan hoon! Chalo ab!”
(Sure! And i am shah rukh khan. Now walk along!)
And as you had promised you made him Biryani just how he liked- a little thick gravy, more chicken and sticky rice. Nobody in your home including yourself liked biryani that way, but you could adjust a bit for him, afterall he was your bestest friend ever.
_____________________________
June was coming to an end with light rain, indicating the start of monsoon- which also meant it was Uzair's birthday month coming up and you had saved just enough for a nice gift. You were planning on something that he could keep for a long time, maybe a vintage watch or some jewelry he could wear daily.
Uzair was accompanying Rehman for a meeting with the PAC and therefore it was only Hamza picking you up from your college.
“Accha aap busy hain?”
Hamza asked, looking at you from the driver's seat.
(Right, so are you busy?)
“Waise toh nahi shayad main shaam ko sana ke saath Dolmen mall jaane waali thi, lekin woh baad mein bhi ho sakta hai. Kuch kaam tha?”
(Well not really, but i was going to the Dolmen mall with sana in the evening, but i can postpone that. You needed some help?)
“Zaroori nahi, bas woh Yalina ki saalgirah aa rahi hai toh uske liye tohfa lena tha. Uski pasand ka itna khaas andaza nahi hai mujhe. Main bas tasveer bhejun toh aap batana ki use pasand aayega ya nahi.”
Hamza said with a blush on his face, uncharacteristically shy.
“Ohoooo!! Baat birthday gift tak pohoch gai hai? Tumhari kismat acchi hai, main bhi Uzair ki saalgirah ka tohfa hi lene jaa rahi thi. Ek kaam karte hain saath chalenge! Pehle Dolmen mall chalte hain, agar wahan kuch pasand naa aya toh baazar chalenge.”
“Theek hai.”
Soon you found yourself standing outside the mall, while Hamza searched for a place to park. Unbeknownst to you, you were being watched.
_____________________________
Uzair had just been returning with Rehman from a meeting when he saw you standing alone outside the Dolmen mall. He was about to call you out when a light shower of rain started. He quickly asked Siyahi to pass the umbrella he kept in his jeep and all the cars during monsoons because you absolutely hated rain. It had been like this since you both became friends; even his first vehicle was a Jeep instead of a bike he wanted solely because he won't be able to pick you up or take you places on his bike during monsoons, a jeep was open enough for him and sheltered enough for you.
He jogged towards you with the umbrella after a nod from Rehman and reassurance from Donga and Siyahi, that they will look out for Rehman and not to worry.
However just as he crossed the road, Hamza had retired after parking the car, along with an umbrella- which he used to shield against the light rain. Hamza had been there for you before Uzair could reach you and it did not sit well with Uzair, not at all. The burning jealousy made him follow you and Hamza into the mall and then to the jewelry store. He sat at the cafe overlooking through the glass walls of the store.
____________________________
You told the employee Yalina's ring size and described what her preferences were. As the employee kept showing you various designs while you and Hamza argued over what was a better choice.
At last both of you found one that you both liked. It was a delicate, dainty silver ring with curved anterior segment- which had raised flower motifs. It fell into Hamza’s budget and you knew it would look beautiful on Yalina's hand.
“Tum pehenke dekho na, theek toh lag rahi hai na?”
You roll your eyes at his overt gentleness. They were truly a case of beauty and beast.
“Haan, haan kahin tumhari naazuk Yalina ko chubh naa jaye!”
He blushed, averting his eyes. You tried the ring on, it was a snug fit on you but it would be perfect on Yalina. You held your hand out for Hamza to see, he held your hand and brought it close to see. He then smiled and nodded in satisfaction.
It was then your turn to choose the ring for Uzair. You knew what he liked- mostly silver, plain with intricate details or carvings were okay but he did not like chunky or raised designs. You literally looked through almost all of their collection which was not upto the par at all. You were contemplating leaving and surfing through the main market for something he'd like, until you did see one which could be altered just a little to be perfect. It was a little over your budget but Uzair deserved everything.
After you specified the changes you wanted to the employee, you handed the ring to Hamza.
“Pehenke dikho. Aur dusri ungli mein pehen’na.”
“Accha? Angoothi ki nahi balki Ungli ki size-vize sab pata hai. Kaun jaane kaise-”
“Hamza!”
You smack his arm exasperated, while he just chuckled in the response.
“Acchi lag rahi hai lekin Uzair pe aur acchi lagegi.”
Hamza rolls his eyes at your simping for your not so secret crush and best friend.
_____________________________
From an outside point of view it looked like two people- just a couple were buying rings- maybe a gift, maybe to make their relationship official, and it looked the same from Uzair’s point of view too.
Were you in love with Hamza? And you hadn't even told him? Your best friend? Was he even your best friend anymore, with the amount of time you were spending with Hamza lately - yes Uzair was busy but still. He could feel his eyes mist over. He shook his thoughts off and left without sparing another glance your way. What he didn't know was that Hamza had seen him leaving. Hamza knew what Uzair felt for you- had known for a long time- and so Hamza could see the potential of the situation.
_____________________________
The moment Uzair stepped in the haveli, drenched, He made a bee-line to Rehman.
“Bhai, aap Hamza ko shirani sahab ke paas Balochistan bhej dein. Waise bhi usse seekhna hai, teen chaar hafte rahega toh theekse seekh jayega.”
“Uzair, woh tera aur mera kaam hai. Hamza saath aa sakta hai lekin hum mein se ek ko toh jaana hi hoga. Ulfat aur bacche nanihal chalejaynge Quetta aur main-”
“Nahi Bhai, aap nahi jaayenge. Aap rehne dein main aur Hamza chale jayenge.”
After he decided the details of the trip with Rehman, the next day Uzair walked into the factory, late evening. The boys were playing a game of football, but Uzair did not join him.
“Oi! Chal! Donga bada bol raha hai ki aaj woh jeetenge. Humara score-”
Hamza claps Uzair on the back.
“Kaam nahi hai factory mein? Ya Bhai tum logon ko football khelne ka paisa dete hain? Chup chap kaam pe lago, ek bhi galti hui phir dekh lena”
Uzair said loud enough for everyone to hear. The boys sensed a mood and because they did not want to be caught in the crossfire, they scrambled to get back to work.
“Kyun tere liye board chapvaun? Kaam pe lag. Din bhar Y/n ke saath awaragardiyon ke paise nahi dete Bhai.”
“Tujhe iss baat se masla hai ki main kaam nahi kar raha, iss baat se ki main awaaragardi karta hoon ya iss baat se ke y/n ke saath karta hoon ya phir iss baat se ki woh tere saath nahi jaati?”
“Zyada bakwas mat kar, samja? Jitne mahino se nahi jaanta tu, utne saalon se jaanta hoon usse. Tum dono ke beech ho bhi ho usse Mera aur uska talluq nahi badal jaata.”
Uzair stood up, he stood against Hamza as if to assert his point.
“Maine kab kaha humare beech kuch hai. Tujhe lagta hai kuch hai? Waise uski zewaron mein pasand badi acchi hai, khaas mauqe ke liya mera kabootar khaana bhi saja hi degi-”
Before Hamza could finish his sentence, all Uzair sees is red. He lunges at him, grabbing his collar.
“Zaban sambhal kar bol saale, uski taraf dekha bhi toh teri aankhein nikaal loonga-”
Donga and Siyahi, pulled Uzair away before the situation could escalate. Hamza is ushered out of the factory by the two of the boys. After a while when Uzair came back to his senses he asked everyone to leave him alone at the factory.
_____________________________
It was 9:34 p.m. and Uzair had not called you for two whole days. He had his moods but it never even meant that he ignored your calls. Eventually you called Hamza and he told you about the fight they had the very evening - leaving out the innuendo he made to instigate Uzair in the first place. He also informed you about the almost one month long trip to Balochistan on which Uzair and Hamza had to leave for the next week. You were furious if anything, firstly Uzair did not approach you when he had doubts about Hamza and your relationship, then he ignored you and now he's running away and pulling Hamza with him on a month-long trip to the middle of nowhere- where will be almost no way of communicating him if he did not want to talk to you?!
You asked Hamza to pick you up and drop you to the factory because you didn't want Rehman and Ulfat to worry in case the fight turned ugly, and kids did not deserve to see you two fight and choose sides.
The sky was dark and clouds ever darker when Hamza dropped you outside the factory.
“Shukriya Hamza, aur Uzair ki taraf se main maafi maangti hoon. Uska dimag thoda sa ghutne mein hai. Jab usse sab saaf ho jayega woh khud sharminda hoga, tumhe bohot chahta hai.”
Hamza nods in dismissal.
“Zyada jazbaati hai, pata hai. Bohot gussa kare toh fauran mujhe phone kar dena, main lene aa jaaunga.”
You roll your eyes, smiling.
“Jii Abbu! Aur kuch?”
He shakes his head and nods at you to go in.
_____________________________
The factory was quiet when you entered. Hamza had said Uzair was working but there were no lights on. You looked around at Rehman’s cabin but he wasn't there either, neither in the workshop area. Just as you were thinking of checking the first floor- which was more of a pseudo floor because it was only a metal elevated partition that had a platform and then a stairs that led to the rarely used terrace.
Looking around at the stairs you found Uzair sitting on the metal railing at the top of it, smoking. With the smoke that surrounded him it was very obvious he had smoked a couple of them.
“Uzair?”
“Kyun aayi ho yahan?”
He asked, descending from the stairs. You were ashamed to admit but somehow his dishevelled look was a turn on.
“Kya matlab kyun aayi ho? Do din se mera phone nahi utha rahe! Kya masla hai?!”
“Masla kuch nahi hai. Sab theek hai, ghar jao.”
“Nahi! Kuch toh masla hai tumhe mujhse, Aaj se pehle kabhi mere phone nazarandaz nahi kiye, aur Donga bhai ne bataya ki tumne Hamza pe haath uthaya? Dimag kharab ho gaya hai kya tumhara?”
“Toh ye takleef hai tumhe?! Hamza pe haath kaise uthaya maine? Bohot fikr hai uski.”
He threw the cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his boot.
“Kyun nahi honi chahiye? Ye tum jis halat mein ho- kitni ciggerate jala chuke ho? Marne ka shaukh chadha hai? Ya maarne ka? Aisa kya ho gaya jo haath uthana pad gaya?”
“Ussi se jaa kar poch lo. Kyun, nahi bataya usne? Ya tumne poocha nahi? Kisi aur cheez mein mashroof the?”
“Dimag toh theek hai tumhara? Kya bakwas kar rahe ho?! Main aur Hamza sirf dost hain-”
“Accha? Angoothiyan khareedti ho tum apne doston ke saath? Unke haathon se phenti ho? Din bhar ghoomti ho uske saath aur sirf dost hai?”
“Uzair tumhe ho kya gya hai?! Hum bhi dost hain! Tumhare saath bhi main aati thi na? Kya iska matlab ye hai ki humare beech dosti ke alawa kuch hai?-”
“Hum sirf dost hai?”
“Baat ye nahi hai Uzair! Tum kaise bartav kar rahe ho!? Tumhare dimag mein chal kya raha hai?”
“Maine jo poocha uska jawab do. Kya hum sirf dost hain?”
“Main iska jawab nahi doongi! Tum mere aur Hamza ke rishte ko humare beech jo hai usse mawaaz rahe ho? Itne saalon aur kuch mahino ke fark ka kya? Tumhe sach mein lagta hai ki main kisi se mohobbat karoongi aur tumhe bataungi bhi nahi? Issi liye jaa rahe ho Balochistan? Hamza ko mujhse door karne? Aur ye nahi dikha ki tum bhi ussi ke saath door jaa rahe ho? Tum kise saza de rahe ho? Usse, mujhe ya khudko?"
You wipe your tears that had unknowingly skipped down your cheeks. Uzair's face was unreadable.
"Jab apni galti samaj aaye tabhi mujhse baat karne ki koshish karna. Hum mall, tumhari aur Yalina ki saalgirah ka tohfa lene gaye the, aiyaashiyan karne nahi."
Walking away you did not look back. You did not want to cry in front of him but what were you supposed to do when he was the only one you could talk to, about your feelings.
Reaching the door you felt the overwhelming need to leave, you pulled the metal door, it rattled but did not open. You pushed it, and again it rattled but did not open.
“Y/n-”
“Mujhe koi baat nahi karni hai! Bhaad mein jaao tum aur bhaad mein Jaye Hamza. Mardon se doosri karni hi nahi chahiye!”
You pushed the gate hard but it did not budge.
“Meri baat suno-”
“Ye darwaza khul kyun nahi raha!”
You kicked the door hard.
“Pagal ho gayi ho?! Chot lag jayegi!”
Uzair pulls you away from the door by your arm.
“Tum apna kaam karo samje! Main Rehman bhai ko phone karti hoon, kisi ne bahr se band kar diya hai darwaza-”
You pull out your phone from the purse to call Rehman, but before you could even unlock it, Uzair snatched it from your hand.
“Pehle meri baat suno-”
“Bhaad mein jaao tum, mujhe tumhari koi baat nahi sun’ni”
You try to reach for your phone but he hides it behind his back.
“Uzair! Phone do! Mujhe nahi baat karni-”
He still keeps your phone out of reach. You however start tearing up out of frustration and anger.
“Rakho! Rakho apne paas nahi chahiye, lekin mujhe haath mat lagana!”
You walk away towards the other corner to find another door or a window. Uzair kept following you.
“Meri baat toh suno, main Ghar chhod dunga tumhe, lekin pehle sun toh le-”
The windows had grills on them, and you could not see around much in the dark. The panic had sat in and you were close to tears.
“Zabardasti mat karo, tumhe sach mein meri koi fikr hai toh mujhe jaane do. Tum Balochistan se wapas aa jaoge tab baat karenge.”
He sighed heavily, handing you your phone back.
“Raat bohot ho chuki hai. Ghar chood doonga. Tum jab chahogi tab baat karenge.”
He gently held your wrist and guided you through the backrooms to find a small metal door- for a secret exit you assume. He lets you go through first and then he follows behind.
The door opened into a cramped dark alleyway, the only light source was a dim street lamp on the next street. Which was almost of no use because you could not even make out the way you were supposed to go. He walks you upto the end of the alley and to his jeep.
“Hamza mujhe chhod dega ghar, tum ghar chale jaao, sab parehaan ho rahe honge.”
You begin to fail Hamza but Uzair holds your wrist.
“Main Hamza ko Balochistan aane se mana kar doonga. Agar tumhe woh pasand hai toh main tum dono ke beech nahi aaunga. Main Bhai se baat-”
It was as if gods were done with his stupid ass and wanted to tell him to shut up because out of nowhere rain started to pour down as if the clouds had bursted on top of you. In minutes you both were drenched, the idiot though, hovered his hands over your head to shield you from the rain. You were painfully in love with this stupid but you could not take his ignorance anymore! You took a big breath and let out every thought you had in your mind.
“Andhe ho?! Dimag nahi hi tumhare pas?! Matlab tumhe KAISE! KAISE SAMAJ NAHI AATA KI MAIN TUM SE MOHOBBAT KARTI HOON?! Yahan tumhari inhi ahmakana harkaton ki wajah se mujhe ye sab yahan ghatiya keechad aur bheegte hue kehna pad raha hai! Tum beech mein nahi aaoge?! Kya beech mein nahi aaoge haan? Tumhara ye chota dimag HUMARE beech hai! Tumhara izhaar karne ka intezaar karti toh mera menopause aa jaata lekin tumhe akal nahi aati!-”
You had thrown your hands out in frustration, but they cupped the back of his nape like they had their own mind. His lips were warm and cool at the same time against yours- wait what? His lips against yours- Uzair had leaned into your personal space and kissed you in the middle of your rant. The moment you realised what was happening you sucked in a breath and kissed him back with all the fervor and he matched yours. It was as if you both were trying to out-kiss each other, he pulled you in by your waist and as a result you had to lean back to keep kissing him.
He pushed you against the bonnet of his Jeep and pushed you up to sit you on it. Gasping for air you broke the kiss, panting.
You wordlessly pushed his hair back, that had fallen on his forehead, cupped his cheek. You both looked at each other as if you were trying to find words to say but just couldn't, so you leaned in again, hugging him as close as possible, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your hugs had always lasted way longer than a hug between friends should. It was as if you both would practically melt into each other.
After, what felt like forever, you broke the kiss, only to peck each other multiple times while giggling in between.
“Main tumse beintehaa mohobbat karta hoon. Jab maine tumhe aur Hamza ko saath dekha toh laga jaise mere seene dil kheench liya kisi ne. Mohobbat ka matlab nahi pata tha tabse tumse karta hoon. Main nahi jaanta ki tumne Hamza se nahi aur mujhse mohobbat kaise kar li, lekin-”
“Kyunki woh tum nahi hai. Woh Uzair nahi hai. Mere liye toh mohobbat, dosti, aur dushmani ka matalab bhi hamesha se Uzair hi raha hai.”
“Y/n-”
“Tumhe kuch kehne ki zaroorat nahi. Main jaanti hoon. Bas yahan mere saath baarish mein bheegte raho, mujhse maafi maango aur phir har baat par ek kiss chahiye mujhe.”
You loop your arms around his shoulders.
“Lekin tumhe toh baarish bilkul nahi pasand?"
He asked brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers.
"Ab hai."
His eyes were searching yours. He is the reason why you don't hate the rain anymore.
“Waise geele kapdon mein rehne se zukhaam ho jaata hai.”
You said biting your lip.
“Main tumhe ghar chhod deta-”
“Ghar chalo aur utaaro inhe. Tumhare bhi aur mere bhi.”
Who knew sneaking into baloch haveli, that too dripping wet was way easier than you thought, and so was being closer to Uzair than you ever thought possible.
Tags (Dm to be Added or removed from the taglist!):
First of all, a big big thank youuu to @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange for arranging this amazing event! It feels like the fandom has come alive again and now I have so many beautiful fics to read! YAAAYYY!! 🥳🫶
Also, you offered my prompt to one of my most favourite authorss and the OG fluff queen! Me 🤝 Saras Di's Uzair fics! The notification had me smiling and kicking my feet in the air!! 🤭🤭🤭
@mainyahaankyunhoon This was such an adorablee fic! You delivered so much more than what I had hoped for! Their backstory felt so special, and I have never once read anything like this about Uzair!! I absolutely loved how the reader takes a stand for him too.
Things just got better when Hamza entered the picture, and Uzair was being so stupidly oblivious. I did feel bad for him in the rain scene, when he was going towards Y/N with an umbrella but Hamza got their first!
And the confession?! It wasss a delayed gratification for me! I loved it soo soo much! Perfection! Chef's kisses! Thank youuu sooo sooo much, Saras Di for thiss wonderful fic! 🥹💗🫶
Alsoo, thank youuuu soo muchh @obsessedwidskincare and @kamalkafool for your behind the screen efforts! 🥹🫂
You all are so talented, lend me at least one-tenth of it, please! 🙇♀️🙇♀️
THIS FIC REALLY MADE MY DAY, MY WEEK AND MY MONTH!! THANK YOUUU SOOO MUCHHH!!🫵🫶🫂💗
As of now I only have a taglist for my series Maqsad-E-Wajood (Uzair Baloch x OC). But I was thinking of making a general taglist, which will be used for all my works.
Mostly, I write angsty and reflective oneshots. Maybe, I might write fluff in the future. You can go through my posts, and let me know if anyone wants to be added to the general taglist!
Thank you!
-summer.
Also, a special thank youu to @torumii for inspiring me to make a masterlist of my own! 🫶
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Harleen Didi has lived six years without Jassi. But Jassi only knows a world with Harleen Didi in it.
The microphone crackled once at the center of the stage and the audience gave up a hand of low-effort applause for the next participant. A little boy dressed in the pre-primary school uniform- the khaki shirt and brown shorts along with a checkered handkerchief pinned to his pocket, came on stage gazing around with his nervous eyes.
With a decisive sigh, he straightened up and clenched his fist at his sides in the attention position. Clearing his throat softly, the boy began singing in his adorably high-pitched tone.
“Phoolon ka taaron ka,
sabka kehna hai…
Ek hazaaron mein,
meri behena haii..
Saari umar hume sang rehna haii..”
The microphone blasted his voice till the far ends of the assembly hall. It sounded less like a song and more like an immensely aspirational speech given in a sing-song voice. After the three long stanzas when the song finally came to an end, he stared at the large audience waiting for any reaction and searching for familiar faces.
The sleepy students stared back at him impassively. An awkward sense of worry filled the little boy’s mind as he turned to exit the stage. Had he not sung nicely? Why was no one clapping?
“OYE JASSI!!”
A loud familiar voice from someone very enthusiastic in the audience made him pause in the tracks. He narrowed his eyes to search for that one face in the crowd of almost a hundred students. In the back row of the fifth graders’ line, a fair chubby girl stood on her tiptoes and waved fervently to him with an excited smile on her face.
His sister. His Harleen Didi.
A bright smile curved on his own lips, mirroring hers. He forgot all the worry about his performance, believing that it must have been good if she was looking so happy. Her proud claps echoed in the hall and invited the collective applause of everyone else who were about to doze off moments earlier.
After Jassi had climbed downstairs to go back and stand in the boys line, Harleen was pulled over by her class teacher, Veera Miss who then scolded her for acting out of line in the assembly, attracting the attention of the stern Principal as well.
Three lectures later during their recess, the entire fifth grade had got to know that Jaskirat Singh Rangi had dedicated his performance in the Solo Singing Competition to his big sister. The messenger of this news was also coincidentally Harleen Kaur Rangi.
The crumbs of motichoor fell down on the mud ground when the tiny hand fisted on the ghee laden laddoo with the fierceness of a stubborn child’s grip. Jassi winced as Harleen gritted her teeth and twisted his hand behind his back.
“Jassi, mujhe laddoo de! Ye aakhri waala mera tha!”
Jassi tightened his grip on the laddoo, causing it to fall apart in his palm.
“Nahi dunga! Haath chodoo!”, he whined stubbornly.
Harleen groaned with the kind of anger and frustration which can only be caused by your siblings grating on your nerves. She let go of his hand, but only to pinch his arm. This resulted in Jassi kicking her away and gobbling up the last laddoo himself.
He stared at her for a silent moment, trying to anticipate the mountain of anger that was going to collapse on him. She stared back in disbelief. What began there was an endless attack met with an equally strong defense of childish slaps accompanied with harsh hair-pulling. Hearing the ruckus outside, their mother glanced out from the window and shouted at them.
“Harleen! Jassi! Kya chal raha hai?!”
However irritated Harleen was, she was also her mother’s good girl who listened to everything she said. At once, she let go of Jassi with a jerk, and muttered under her breath while walking back towards their house.
“Tujhe toh main baadme dikhati hun!”
Jassi should have known better than to speak. But just to spite her, he teased.
“Main aapse darta nahi hu!”
Harleen heard that just in time before stepping inside the house. She turned to glare back at him sharply and closed the door for a moment so that their mother could not hear her prospective threat.
“Thik hai phir! Jab bacchu aa jayegi na, tab hum dono tujhse baat nahi karenge! Khaate baith phir mere hisse ke laddoo!”
That hit Jassi square in the chest. How dare his sister threaten him with that? And over the countless arguments they had had over the last few months ever since they got to know that there was a baby on the way, had he not convinced her that the baby was going to be a boy like him?
Huffing indignantly, he launched himself at her as he complained.
“Bacchu aayegi nahi, aayega! Aur hum dono ek team me honge, aap nahi!”
Both of them were successful in standing by their anger with their noses held high as they ignored each other. That went on only for two and a half days before little Jassi came to the fields, after trying and failing to find his Didi everywhere.
Harleen was laying down on the tall stack of hay, having nothing else to do and no one else to be with, when her Jassi was mad at her. She could have persuaded him, but she had chosen not to. She heard the breaths coming in short gasps and the sounds of hay being crushed under someone’s weight.
So, he was finally here.
Little Jassi crawled up on the stack of hay after much struggle, and fell on his back beside his sister with a deep sigh. He had prepared three different apologies in his mind based upon how angry Harleen Didi was, and he was determined to follow the mental scripts until his sister broke the silence first.
“Aaj us Pinde ke saath nahi jaana?”
Jassi looked at her, frowned and clicked his tongue in denial. A moment of quiet silence passed between them with both of them trying to find a way to ease the conversation into an apology. Jassi found the solution first.
“Abhi bhi gussa ho?”
Harleen could have said no, but in all honesty, she enjoyed seeing her little brother grovelling for her forgiveness. So, she shrugged and muttered.
“Thodi si.”
Jassi stared at her for longer, trying to gauge exactly how much of ‘a little’ angry she was. He pressed his lips together in a frowny pout and mumbled quietly.
“Maaf kardo. Aainda se nahi khaunga aapke hisse ka laddoo…”
Harleen narrowed her eyes at him. Even though she was very eager to forgive him and go back to normal, she raised her brow in full attitude and asked, “Pakka?”
“Haanji, pakka.”
He was kept on his toes for another second before Harleen grinned at him and nodded.
“Thik hai, kardiya maaf!”
The relief that flooded Jassi’s chest was immediate and indescribable. He smiled back at her, and nudged her shoulder.
“Waise aap sabse pyaari ho, didi! Jaise aap mere saath rehte ho, waisa koi aur nahi rehta! Isliye aap meri favourite ho na-”
“Chal bas kar ab tera naatak! Phir se kuch ho jaayega aur teen din mere paas dekhega bhi nahi!”, Harleen scowled at him half-heartedly, despite enjoying his words secretly.
Jassi frowned again, at the hint of slightest disappointment that his sister gave him. Maybe he hadn’t been completely successful in gaining her absolute forgiveness.
“Nahi! Aisa nahi hoga! Aapne bhi toh mere saath baat nahi ki!”, he complained immediately.
"Bohot hoshiyar ho gaya hai tu!"
Harleen smiled at his words and ruffled his hair, as both of them stared up at the sky which seemed all rainbows and sunshine to them, now that they had mended their laddoo conflict.
About an hour later when they were about to leave, Harleen extended her hand to help Jassi down.
“Ek baat batau?”
“Kya?”
“Agar bacchu aa bhi gayi na, phir bhi tu hi mera sabse pehla aur pyaara dost hoga!”
Jassi stopped and stared at his elder sister in awe. Harleen did not show her affection with words, she did it with actions. But on rare occasions like this one when she did, Jassi felt like recording this moment and storing it in his memory as an unforgettable landmark event.
Harleen did not pay attention to his dramatic freezing and walked away to their house.
“Sachhiiii?”
The squeal would have embarrassed Jassi if he had done it in front of his friends, but this was his Didi. He ran behind her and jumped on her, causing her to stumble in her steps and laugh at his antics. As they reached their home, Jassi added, quietly testing the waters and teasing Harleen who had made it very clear that she wanted a sister for company.
“Waise, bacchu aayegi nahi, AAYEGA!”
Harleen stared at him in disbelief and erupted in exasperation, before chasing him down all the way home.
“Jassi! Tu kabhi nahi sudhrega!”
Four heads peered over the borrowed camera as Pinda tolerated the complaints and cherished the praises for his patient photography. It was supposed to be a single photograph of all five members of the Rangi family, but due to the restless and complaining children and the neighbouring interruptions, it had turned into an hour long photoshoot.
“Meri aankhein itni choti kyu dikh rahi hain?”,Jasleen queried Pinda wondering if it was the camera’s fault or something lacking in her.
“Sundar hi toh lag rahi hain!”,Harleen was quick to console. She was always quick to understand.
“Haan, isme waisa hi hota hai!”
Pinda added, as he prayed to Waheguru to let this be the last photo he would click for the family.
Harleen hummed in satisfaction and then pulled Jassi away, along with her towards the house.
“Idhar aa! Kuch kaam hai!”
Jaskirat frowned in confusion as he got dragged away by his Didi. He glanced back at Jasleen who had now asked Pinda to click some solo pictures of her, and Pinda who was protesting just a second ago, had already propped up the camera gladly. Huh, surprising.
Entering the house, he frowned at Harleen who was picking something from a rolled ball of crumpled newspaper.
“Kya hua?”
Harleen came to stand in front of him and gestured to his right hand.
“Haath aage kar!”
Jassi listened immediately. Placing the saffron thread just below his wrist, she began listing her set of instructions as she tied the thread around with three tight knots near his pulse.
“Ab tu training jaa raha hai, toh zyaada hoshiyaari mat kar udhar! Tujhe banna hoga bahadur fauji, par mujhe mera bhai sahi salamat chahiye! Samjha?”
Jassi looked at her concerned face and nodded, a small smile appearing on his face. He glanced at the thread on his hand, and huffed.
“Iski koi zaroorat nahi thi! Hum ye sab thodi maante hai?”
Harleen frowned, knowing that she was pushing the boundaries of her religion. She patted his arm, and assured him with a small tilt of her head.
“Jab thoda kama lungi na, tab tere liye ek naya kadha khareedungi. Tab tak ise rehne de. Mere liye?”
She raised her brow at him hopefully, and Jassi couldn’t help but agree to her request. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and hugged her briefly. Harleen did not show it, but the tears were forming at the back of her throat and threatening to appear any moment now.
Harleen remembered the day her Jassi had arrived in her life.
It was a Thursday, she remembered it because she had been in her sports uniform. Her Baba had come to pick her up from school and they had hired an auto to the city hospital. Throughout the way, Harleen had bombarded her father with questions about the baby. So far, she had only known that she had a baby brother now.
Is he with Maa?
Did you meet him?
What did he say?
How does he look?
What is his name?
Her father did not answer any of her questions to keep her curiosity and his own sanity undisturbed.
Harleen had walked into the hospital holding her father’s hand, but the moment she stepped in the ward and spotted her mother, she let go of him and ran towards her mother, enveloping her in a hug. After all, she was meeting her after two whole days. She noticed that her mother looked tired, still beautiful as ever, but exhausted.
When her mother held the small baby wrapped in a soft white cloth in front of her, a loud gasp escaped her lips. Her eyes widened like saucers as she stared at this baby in front of her, almost as if he had grown a halo around him.
He was so small and tiny, and so delicate. Her Maa offered her to hold the baby but she denied by shaking her head. She did not trust herself enough to touch him. Her baby brother was too pure for the world, and perhaps for her too. What if she hurt him accidentally?
Harleen wouldn’t touch baby Jaskirat even after days of bringing him home. Instead, she kneeled near the bed beside where he was laid down and spent all her time staring at him in admiration and awe. Sometimes, she called his name out just so he would stare up at her with his big doe eyes and babble things she couldn’t decipher yet.
Some days later, in the morning when she was kneeling beside him like always, a miracle happened. Jassi was waving his hands in the air animatedly and suddenly he reached out and grabbed Harleen’s index finger, his tiny fingers curling tightly around it. Harleen felt like her brother had finally recognized her. She gasped and proudly showed her held finger to her Maa, who was sitting beside them.
Jassi was too strong, too firm in his grip for an arm-length baby. For several minutes after that, he did not let go of her. And, Harleen had no complaints about it. She loved it.
Over the months, it had become a habit. Harleen would sit beside Jassi, or take him in her arms after Maa had finally been able to convince her that she could do it without dropping him. Jassi would hold her finger and not let it go for hours. When someone else irritated him with their relentless cooing of how adorable he was, he would crawl onto Harleen’s lap and grab her finger as a shield.
Harleen used to kiss his small palm, and she had decided that she too, won’t ever leave her Jassi. No matter what happened, she would always be here for him to hold her finger. It was her secret promise to him, a promise she intended to keep forever.
That little baby who once refused to leave her finger, was now leaving her entirely to go and create the life of his dreams. Standing in the middle of the crowded Chakkiwara railway station, Harleen looked up at Jassi with tears in her eyes. Oh, and he was taller than her now. When had he grown up so much? Where had time gone so fast?
Pointing her finger at him threateningly, because for the love of God, she couldn’t let him see how crushed she was feeling to watch him go, she demanded a promise.
“Waada kar jaldi wapas aayega, aur apna khayaal rakhega!”
Jassi looked down at her finger and held it like he used to, with his whole hand. Harleen broke into a smile at his action, the nostalgia bringing both content and ache to her heart.
“Pakka, aapki kasam!”
Maa’s instructions snatched Jassi’s attention back, as she handed him his last bag.
“Theek se reh! Aaram se wapas aa! Aate time kisi ke liye kuch laa mat!”
“Mere liye lao!”,Jasleen chirped in and earned a soft glare from their mother.
Harleen helped him load the bags and watched as he boarded the train all alone. The four of them began jogging alongside the train when it began running, just to get a chance to look at their Jassi for longer, and for the last time in many months to come.
Harleen stood with her family, panting heavily as Jassi’s waving figure became smaller and smaller to them until it disappeared completely when the train had taken a turn on the curve of the station end.
Jaskirat had stared at the letter long enough for the words to begin dissolving against themselves and now they looked wrong. Grammatically incorrect, and terribly untrue. His, was a simple middle-class family. Such an enormous tragedy couldn’t have fallen upon them. He had always assumed that misfortunes like these demanded substantial victims. His family of five who had always kept to themselves and who lived in a small world of theirs, how could they become the prey of something so heinous?
The train journey to Chakkiwara was painful to say the least. The letter said that Sukhwinder’s men had hanged his Baba. But his Baba was a strong army man, even if he was retired. Even if he had surrendered his weapons. He couldn’t wrap his brain around how those dogs had managed to overpower his lion-like Baba.
His Harleen Didi. Whenever he thought of her, her bright smiling face came to his mind. Except this time, he remembered it and shuddered at the thought of what they had done to her. He couldn’t even imagine it. Those men had wanted their land and nothing else. They had wanted their land, and he would have given it away, even if it was unfair and unlawful. Those sick bastards had no reason to lay even a finger on his Didi and his little Jasleen.
For a brief moment, he blamed himself for going away, for wanting to become a soldier. Had he not gone, he would have been able to give his protection to the people who truly deserved it. His family. Not the nation, not the system which had closed its door on the face of his helpless mother. He would have protected his family. His Baba and Harleen Didi and Jasleen. He would have not allowed Sukhwinder’s men to strand his mother alone.
But he couldn’t think of Harleen Didi being helpless. She was the one who always found a way or a solution. She was the most headstrong one amongst the three siblings. She was the one who took stand for him and Jasleen. She was the one who fought for them. She must have definitely fought for herself too.
A tear escaped his eyes and he brushed it off quickly. He had failed his Didi, but he would not let it happen again with his Jasleen.
Back at home, there was this strange sort of coldness. It felt as if the walls of the house recognized the tragedy and leaned away from the roof in repulse of what was left of the family. Bereft of his family, the people he loved so much and who loved him back just as much, he did not know what to do. So, he sat in the corner of his house and stared into nothingness.
He had faced three walls and it had done nothing to comfort his restless heart. The low thrums of dhols and the sounds of trumpets vibrated against their walls. The celebratory band of Bittu's wedding. Sukhwinder's family was celebrating after inflicting so much pain on his family. How was his heart supposed to rest? He did not even want to comfort it. This pain- the feeling of missing them- was the only existing fragment he had in him of his family. Turning towards the fourth wall, the one that held their kitchen, he followed the same practice. Stare at it until he could see memories from the past that had taken place in that space, come alive again in the reel of his mind.
Except this time, he caught a movement from the corner of his eyes. His brows arched as he focused on a trail of black ants following each other linearly in the corner of the wall. Somehow, the disaster that had struck his family had caused no damage to this family of ants.
He stood up, and his gaze traced their path slowly. Up the corner of the wall, left towards the stove and up again to the rack of steel boxes. His Maa used to store flours in the upper rack, and there was no way the tasteless flours attracted the ants.
He took one heavy box down, and then another. On top of the third large box, he found a smaller steel dibba pushed all the way behind. When he reached for it and took it down, there were a hundred ants on it, and some of them climbed on his hand. Putting the dibba away, he slapped and shook the ants of his sleeves.
So, this was the target of the ants.
He took the tiffin and opened it slowly. Inside, there were six motichoor laddoos. The ants had been feeding off it. It seemed that the laddoos had been kept for many days by the way they had flattened at the bottom and the ghee had collected around them.
His mother, who looked worn out by the toll the grief had taken on her, had packed a plastic bag with documents and a pen in order to visit another government office, in the hopes that justice could still be in their reach.
She peeked in her bag to check if she had taken everything she needed one last time before stepping out. But she noticed the absence of one important document and clicked her tongue.
“Jassi! Mujhe almaari se tumhaare Baba ki file dedo!”
Jaskirat nodded and placed the tiffin away. Wiping his hands on his shirt, he walked over and opened the cupboard. He rummaged through the files at the bottom and finally pulled out the thick leather one. His Baba’s file. While taking it out, he accidentally knocked something out and it dropped to the floor.
But he ignored it and handed the file to his Maa, which she shoved into the bag. Gesturing to whatever had fallen down, she added before turning to leave.
“Kya hai woh? Uthaake rakh!”
He nodded obediently, and walked back to the cupboard to pick the fallen item. It looked like a quite old recorder. He pressed one of the buttons on it to see if it was still working, and it did work. A childish voice burst out from the small device, and it surprised both him and his mother. Jassi immediately recognized his own voice. He was singing a song, and it filled the empty silence of the house.
“Phoolon ka taaron ka,
sabka kehna hai..
Ek hazaaron mein meri behena hai..”
Jaskirat’s hands trembled around the recorder. Gone were the happy days from his childhood. Gone were his sisters who were one in a million. He immediately forwarded the audio, not wanting to cause more pain to his Maa who had frozen in the door after listening to her child’s cheerful voice.
The recording was just about to end when the song stopped, and another voice was heard. Little Harleen’s voice.
“Jassi ab mera naam bol!”
It was just a whisper, but it felt like someone had tied and tightened a noose around Jaskirat’s neck. On the other hand, the device sounded with little Jassi’s proud words.
“Meri Harleen Didi!”
Jaskirat turned the recorder off at once with a hard press and swallowed the lump in his throat. He pushed the recorder at the back of the cupboard’s drawer and closed its door with a loud thump.
He turned around to his Maa, but he could not meet her gaze. He was afraid that if he looked at her, he would start crying and his Maa would have to endure the burden of his own heartbreak as well.
His mother, who understood all her children very well, opened the door. But before going, she glanced at him, then at the opened tiffin on the counter of the kitchen and sighed.
“Usse haath mat laga. Harleen ne rakha hai. Usne sab se kaha tha haath nahi lagaane. Kuch zaroori hoga.”
And then, she left.
But Jaskirat stood there with a weight for his stomach as he walked over and his hands fumbled with the lid to close it. His mother had spoken out of a fragile need to keep the things of their family as they had been earlier. As if that could make them feel that they were not ripped away from them with the brutal cruelty. Jaskirat listened to her for the same reason.
When he lifted the lid though, a small chit of paper fell to the ground. He was confused as to where it appeared from. Maybe it was slid in the latch of the lid. He bent down to pick it up and then decided for no reason, to open it.
He unfolded the paper, and his heart lurched when he read the three words on it. Unmistakably written in Harleen Didi’s handwriting.
“Jassi ka Hissa.”
Jaskirat collapsed to the ground on his knees, tears which he had not allowed to surface filling his eyes. The sobs escaped his lips and echoed in the empty house, devoid of any warmth that had once been the nature of it.
He remembered the pointless fights he used to have with Harleen. Over the last laddoo. Over who got the biggest gift from their relatives. Over who was Maa-Baba’s favourite, and then Jasleen’s. He used to not leave a chance to tease her. Always taunting her at the tiniest of things. Pointing out her small mistakes. Making a case for how he was better than her at her favourite hobbies.
That was how they loved each other. It all felt silly and unnecessary at this moment. Because the truth was that he would take his own life without thinking for a second, if it meant having his Harleen Didi back.
In the evening, he would go with Pinda to collect the weapons and at night, he would enter the MLA’s house to bring Jasleen back home. The thought of what his little sister would be surviving there all alone made him feel even more helpless.
But he would go and get her. He would bring her back. But what about his Didi? How would he bring her home? Where would he find her? Which God would he have to fight to reach her? How was he supposed to beg the heavens to let her come with him? What could he give to get her back?
He was crying uncontrollably. All he knew was that he wanted his Didi back. What was left to life without her? Who would stand at the door waiting for him to return from training? Who would write him letters on behalf of the whole family? Who would fight with him on the smallest of things? Who would give him a stern scolding when he accidentally stepped out of line?
He lifted his hand to wipe his tears, but his gaze stalled on the saffron thread on his wrist which had shrivelled down to a thin strand, its fibre roughened over the months. It had become such a constant presence on his hand since his Didi had tied it on him for his protection, that he barely even registered it anymore. Perhaps, he should have tied a saffron thread onto her wrist as well. If whatever God that had blessed this thread was merciful enough, he would have protected his Didi.
It was the way that his Didi had left pieces of herself around him even in her absence. This worn out sacred thread. The laddoos which had been stored safely for him, hidden away from everyone’s hands. The countless questions through her letters. The embroidery crests she had practiced on his old kurtas.
But nothing could fill the void that she had left. In fact, it only aggravated his rage at those filthy, lowly men and what they had done to his innocent, sweet sister. His poor Harleen Didi. He made a resolve to himself; tonight, when he entered the mansion of Sukhwinder Singh, not a single man would survive death from his hands. He would avenge every torture they had put his Didi and his Jasleen through.
The metal door of the prison cell shut on him with a clang.
The death sentence had been declared. Jaskirat had shed a few tears, mourning not the end to his own life, but the addition he had made to the losses his Maa, Jasleen and even Pinda had to bear.
Sitting in the dark cell with a foul smell, he stared at the wall again. He had accepted the fate of his death long back ago. The judicial system had made its delays this time too, but it had passed the judgement which Jaskirat had made peace with on the night of his motivated massacre itself.
Now, he closed his eyes and prayed to Waheguru for a death that would come soon. If he was leaving his Maa and Jasleen, he would not appreciate dwindling in the middle. Besides, it had been months since he had seen his Harleen Didi and his Baba. He longed to go and reunite with his Didi. He would wipe her tears, hug her fiercely and apologize a million times for what had been done to her and for his own failure to protect her.
This time, he would hold her finger and never let it go again until their next lifetimes.
[Author's Note: I love Harleen so much even though she only had a screen time of few seconds and no dialogues. The mental image I have created of her as an elder sister is so sweet and deserving of all the love. I could write even more of her, but this was a small 'my kind of appreciation'! I hope you enjoyed reading it! Thank you!]
Shehzaad’s funeral had been a quick affair in the dunes of Balochistan, along with those of the four other boys. It was supposed to be a long hour of mourning, but the decaying bodies demanded a rushed goodbye. Mahgul had returned home with a quiet certainty that she would not be staying here for long. She had a motive, and to accomplish that, she had a very important person to meet.
Convincing her Ammi and the elders to send her back to Lyari had been a challenge. She had given the excuse of collecting Shehzaad’s belongings from his university, even if that would give her only a week’s time to do whatever she was about to. Daadu had agreed only on the condition that Bahad would accompany her this time as well, and a strict warning that they were supposed to return as soon as possible.
Her mother however, an emotional woman with an afraid heart who knew the epistemology of loss well enough, had teared up at her stubbornness. Mahgul couldn’t see her mother’s glossy eyes but she winced when her mother pulled her hair too tightly while tying it in a braid and turned around to face her with a scowl on her face.
“Ammi, iss mein rone waali kya baat hai? Ek hafte ka sawaal hai! Bahaad bhi toh aa raha hai na mere saath!”
Her mother let go of her hair, the half-tied braid slowly falling apart, as she complained.
“Ammi, Shehzaad mera sabse qareebi dost tha! Mera eklauta dost tha! Uske liye itna karna mera farz banta hai! Mein jaaungi!”
Her refusal to back down only frustrated her mother further. The elder woman stood up abruptly and walked away towards their stove, settling down in front of it while wiping her tears.
“Bilkull apne Abbu pe gayi hai! Unko bhi farz nibhane ka bada shauq tha! Tu bhi unki tarah mujhe yahan akela chod kar chali jaa! Phir toh tere dil ko aaram milega naa!”
Her mother always did this. She couldn’t even call it blackmail, when her mother recalled her father because she had seen that woman suffer through everything alone and yet stay strong for her.
Mahgul did not know her father. But from the melancholic remembrances she had heard of him, she knew it was a pride to be called his reflection. Her Abbu had been an active member of the Baloch United Force. He was martyred in the attack near Panjgur when Mahgul was merely six years old. Even before that, when he was alive, he used to be away stationed in Quetta and Gwadar for most of the times. So instead of memories, Mahgul’s nose, her fierce loyalty and leadership, and the anecdotes from their past were the only things she possessed of her father.
She crouched down next to her mother, and tilted her head to meet her eyes.
“Ammi, sirf iss baar jaane dein! Hum sahi salaamat wapis aa jayenge! Aapki kasam!”
She knew her mother couldn’t resist much when she spoke in that earnest tone. When she saw her mother’s gaze soften, like she was considering relenting, Mahgul nudged her and asked.
“Aap kahe toh mein bhi ek AK leke jaau?”
Her mother finally smiled and squeezed her cheeks lovingly, as she muttered begrudgingly.
“Jaldi wapas aana hai,gul!”
Mahgul found herself in that very same hotel of Karachi once again, but this time in a different room and with an unwilling Bahad.She hadn’t told him or anyone for that matter, what she was going to do.She had seven days in her hand, and it was more than enough.
In the sweltering heat of the first afternoon itself, Mahgul and Bahad waited in the Principal’s office in the Karachi Medical College. Bahad tapped his foot on the floor idly, and Mahgul nudged him to stop the irksome noise while they observed the numerous trophies and certificates lined up on the wall behind the Principal’s chair. The college looked prestigious and influential, and yet it had not been able to protect its students.
A few moments later, a frail old man walked in while cleaning his specs, and a lady janitor trailed behind him carrying a large box. The box of Shehzaad’s belongings.
The Principal clearly expected them to collect the belongings and leave. He had already opened his register without even sparing them a glance. Bahad almost stood up from the chair, but then Mahgul’s sharp voice startled everyone present in the room.
“Uss din aap kahan the?”
Bahad glanced at her in surprise as he lowered himself back onto the chair, after taking the box from the janitor. The Principal looked up at her over his glasses, and raised a questioning brow.
“Kya?"
Mahgul leaned forward over the table, and asked with a strong determination to get her answers, a sign that she was not going to back down.
“Uss din- jis din LTF ne Shehzaad aur baaki ladko ko college se uthaya, tab aap kahan the?”
The Principal bristled at the audacity of this twenty-something year old girl to demand answers from him. Especially when she was in a position of disadvantage to him due to her tribe and her helplessness. He realized that the condescending pity he had shown her beforehand had been misplaced. She did not seem to need it at all. Pushing his glasses back up, he muttered gruffly.
“Hum college mein nahi the. Koi masla?"
A sudden anger erupted in Mahgul’s chest at the Principal’s careless indifference. As if lives had not been lost that day. Or rather, the lives lost mattered any less simply because they were Baloch lives. She clenched her fists on the table, and tried hard to keep her voice low.
“Masla hai! Aapke college ke ladko ko aap hi ke college se koi utha leta hai aur aapko unki kadar bhi nahi! Jab aapko iss haadse ke baare mein pata laga toh aapne kuch bhi koshish ki, un ladko ko waapis laane ke liye? Unka haal jaanne ke liye?! Ya phir aapko bhi rishwat mili thi kisi namakharam officer se?!”
Mahguls’s blunt words and her angry demand for an explanation left the room stunned. The Principal glared at her in disbelief, mainly at her unapologetic exposure of his failure to take the right action. He banged his hands on the table, and yelled at her furiously.
“Apni zaban sambhalke baat kare, mohtarma! Ye humara college hai, aapki basti nahi! Waise bhi, LTF ne unhi ladko ko uthaya tha jo dehashatgard the! Bloody terrorists!”
His hatred for their clan dripped from every single word of his. Mahgul could not take any more of it or the humiliating accusations of terrorism. She stood up abruptly with such force that her chair was pushed back with a scraping sound against the floor, and she banged her hands on the table so loudly that even the Principal’s photoframe on it shuddered in its effect.
“Shehzaad dehashatgard nahi tha! Naa hi woh chaar ladke!”,she yelled and her voice trembled with rage.
Bahad who had been reluctantly quiet until now, finally intervened by grabbing Mahgul’s wrist trying to calm her down. However, she did not listen to him and shrugged his hand off harshly.
“Mujhe bolne do, Bahad!”
She turned towards the baffled Principal, and spoke again.
“Aapko kya lagta hai? Aise Balochon pe zulm karke aap apne mulq ki hifaazat kar rahe hai? Itne jurm karne ke baad usse Allah ka nek kaam ka naam dene mein sharam nahi aayi aapko!”
“Bass! Salma! Inhe bahar fek do!”, the old man yelled at the janitor, fuming with rage and humiliation.
But before the lady could step near them, Bahad was already pulling her out of the office. Until the Principal was out of their sight, Mahgul hadn’t stopped glaring daggers back at him.
Mahgul settled down on the cold blackened floor of the room, and pulled the large box of Shehzaad’s belongings towards her. Ever since they had returned back, Bahad had been scolding her for speaking so out of turn in front of the Principal. He had begged her to swallow her anger and not invite any more danger than what was already hovering over them like a low-hanging sword.
She went through the stuff in the box.Thick textbooks, notebooks half-filled with Shehzaad’s beautiful handwriting. His stationery. His college bag. Inside it were some more textbooks and notebooks. Mahgul went through those too, because to her, it meant feeling nearer to Shehzaad than she could ever get the chance to be after his death had created this insurmountable distance between them.
At the bottom of the bag, she found a crumpled piece of paper. Two, actually.
Maybe it was some rough work. An errored note. Pass-time sketches, perhaps. Her brows furrowed in curiosity and concentration as she slowly unfolded the ball of paper.Pressing her palm onto it, she glided it downwards to flatten the wrinkles on it. There was something written on it, and Mahgul understood at once from the structure of the writing that it was a letter.
15. 11. 200X
Daadu,
Yahan sab bohot achaa hai, alhamdullilah! Saare professors ne sikhana bhi shuru kar diya hai! Hum bohot mann lagaake padhte hain. Zohrab, Baseer, Hassan aur Sangeen bhi dheere dheere idhar ke tareeqon se waaqif ho rahe hai.
Bas koi dost nahi ban paya. Hum sab Baloch hain isliye baaki ladke humse baat nahi kartey. Jo kartey hain, woh bhi sirf hum sab pe dhoons jamane ke liye. Par hume lagta hai kuch din aur agar yahan rahe, toh unke saat bhi rafaqat banaa hi lenge.
Magar yahan ka rehan sehan aur khaana bhi achaa hai. Aap sab ki thodi yaad aati hai, par hum yahan bhi bohot zyada khush hai. Humari fikar mat karna. Baki sab khairiyat? Badi ammi, chaachi aur Mahgul kaisi hai? Sabko humari taraf se adaab aur Assalam-alaikum!
Shehzaad.
Mahgul’s heart ached as she read the letter. This was her Shehzaad speaking to them from almost over a year ago. She couldn’t even imagine how out of place he must have felt in the first few days in this unknown city. All because the entitled sons of this land had been taught to despise the Baloch people and never accept them.
She looked at the second crumpled ball of paper. Maybe, it was a letter too. She unfurled it carefully, because this one was in a worse condition. As if someone had crushed it in the hopes that if they did it hard enough, it would disappear without leaving any trace behind. When the content of the paper was revealed, for a moment Mahgul could have assumed it belonged to someone else. The handwriting in this one was messy and sloppy and almost illegible.
The paper had dark blotches on it, where ink had spread away from the haphazardly-written words. Water? Something else? They couldn’t possibly be tears, Mahgul thought to herself. She would only know once she had read this letter too.
23. 08. 200X
Daadu,
Humne yahan rehne ki bohot koshish ki. Sach mein. Magar hum aur yahan nahi reh sakte! Hum jaante hu agar humne dakhila radd karva diya toh Rehman Bhai aapse naraaz ho jayenge, hume maaf karna daadu!
Yahan humara koi dost nahi hai. Ab toh Zohrab vagera bhi class mein nahi aate.Woh bhi tang aa gaye honge. College mein kuch ladke hai, woh hume bohot tang kartey hain! Gaali-galoch, exam ke pehle humari kitaabein churaate hain. Daraate hain, dhamkaate hain. Kehte hain hum wapas Balochistan zinda nahi jaa payenge! Aur bhi bohot kuch kartey hain!
Ek dinn hume aur Sangeen ko unhone college ke ek kamre mein band karr diya tha. Hum poori raat andar qaid the.Chilla rahe the, gidgida rahe the, par kisiko shayad sunayi hi nahi diya hoga Jab agli subah Professor ko bataya, toh unhone hume hi daatna shuru kardiya! Yahan woh log hume aatankwaadi kehte hai! Hume pata nahi humnekiya kya hai aisa! Par itna jaante hai ki aur yahan yeh sab nahi seh saktey! Hume lene aajao Daadu. Hum aur kuch bhi kar lenge, bas Karachi mein nahi reh sakte hai!
Hume ghar aana hai!
The letter wasn’t signed. The blotched paper once again became stained with tears. Mahgul’s fresh tears as she stared at the paper in disbelief. She had read the letter and heard Shehzaad’s voice in her head. And, he sounded scared. Desperate. Alone. He wanted to come back home, and she was certain that Daadu would have allowed him to do so without another question. But this letter hadn’t reached them.
Her shaking fingers traced over the dried blotches on the paper. Shehzaad’s tears. He had been crying, and she wasn’t there to console him or make him laugh like she had done every other time. Shehzaad needed their help, and they had failed to offer it.
Shehzaad and the other Baloch boys had become the scapegoat of the bullies’ cruelties, while everyone in Balochistan was assuming that they would be happy and learning and living a much better life than what they could have experienced in the deserts of Balochistan, a better life they had deserved.
Her hiccups echoed in the empty room, as Mahgul folded back the two letters into proper squares. She did not put them in Shehzaad’s bag again, she would keep them separately with her. She couldn’t stop sobbing.
Just as she was about to zip the bag, Mahgul spotted an envelope at the back of it. Her heart twisted in dread at the thought of reading another painful letter, an account of what Shehzaad had suffered. She picked it up with careful fingers, and turned it over. It had Shehzaad’s name and ‘Balochistan’ written over it.
Tearing it open, she pulled the folded slip of paper which was inside it. A teardrop fell over the new clean paper and dampened it. Mahgul took a moment to wipe away her tears, not wanting to ruin it if it could be anything of importance to Shehzaad. A moment later, she unfolded the crisp clean paper.
It was another letter. Dated after the last one. The most recent letter. But it was different. Different from the last two she had read, but similar to all the ones they had received from Shehzaad before. He talked about his well-being, and how he was happy and grateful to be in Karachi and that college. There was no mention of the alienation he faced or of the bullying he was forced to tolerate. Not once.
She almost felt like the last two letters had been wrongly planted there. They felt like a bad dream after reading this new letter in which nothing bad had happened to Shehzaad. Supposedly. Or maybe-
The realization dawned upon Mahgul like a fever, slow and terrible. Shehzaad must have written the first letter, trying to tell them that something felt wrong there and he felt out of place. But then, he must have decided to not send it. She assumed the second letter, the worst one, must have been written immediately after something bad had happened with him again.That explained the unintelligible writing, the tear stains.
And the third letter. The nice and clean one. The one wherein Shehzaad was once again happy and grateful, and the one which was folded in an envelope must have been the letter he was meaning to send, but never got the chance to do so.
The three letters now laid in front of Mahgul. Two times Shehzaad had tried to tell them, and the one time he had been successful in hiding his fear and pain. Three times they had been so close to finding out what he had been going through all alone in Karachi, and three chances they had lost to save him.
Mahgul now knew that even before his death- brutal killing by that SP, Shehzaad had been going through a lot for a long time.
All because he was a Baloch boy.
Mahgul had had seven days in her hand when she had entered Karachi, and now she was only left with two. Two days, given the resistance the big brawny man was showing her, were not enough to do what she wanted to.
The day after they had collected Shehzaad’s belongings from his college, Mahgul had started showing up at the Baloch Haveli ambitiously. It was a little farther away from the hotel they were staying in, so she had to take a taxi that drove her through the narrow alleyways.
Upon reaching there, she wasn’t allowed inside. As expected. When she told one of the men standing outside that she was here to meet Uzair Baloch, they had exchanged a confused glance and then had raked a suspicious gaze over her before going inside the haveli. It seemed that it was unusual for visitors to come asking for Uzair Baloch.
The man who had gone inside had come out minutes later with a big brawny man alongside him.The big brawny man had introduced himself as Hamza, and had asked her why she was seeking out Uzair Baloch. It took her some time to recognize the man, but soon she remembered him from one of Rehman Baloch’s visits to Balochistan.
He had stood out amongst the men in earthy Balochi kurtas. A new man in the gang. Later when the Sher-E-Baloch had sat for lunch, she had overheard him telling Daadu that this new man was the one who had saved Faizal and had tried saving Naieem too. Ever since then, he had accompanied Rehman on every visit. Recently, he had started arriving alone as well, if there was any urgent task or shipment of weapons due.
Years later, Daadu had told her on one of their routine walks that Hamza had been the one to bring a dying Rehman Baloch to the hospital in a desperate effort to save him, but it had seemed like Azra’il, the Angel of Death himself had made his decision.
Hamza, whom she still liked to refer to as the big brawny man hadn’t allowed her to set foot in the Haveli, much less meet the younger Baloch brother. It had become a pattern over the five days. She reached the Haveli, Hamza interrogated her. He asked her the reason for her requested meeting, and she refused to tell him. He didn’t allow her to come inside. She kept insisting for half an hour more, and then she went back to the hotel disappointed with her failure. The four days of back and forth travel had emptied her pockets and now she would have to walk all the way to Lyari on foot.
Today, Mahgul had decided that she would not leave the haveli until she had met Uzair Baloch, be it by hook or by crook. She left the lodge early when Bahad was still asleep, and began her journey to Lyari.
Even at nine in the morning, the scorching heat was taking a toll on the crowd. The narrow lanes that lead to the Baloch haveli smelled of metal, grease and the spice of fresh paya being prepared. The hawkers yelled loudly to attract customers as they were setting up their shops and stalls. Large banners with Arshad Pappu’s photograph, half-burnt and destroyed, loomed from the roof of some chawls but nobody dared to look up at them. The only image that came to the mind of the fellow citizens of Lyari when they heard the Pathan leader’s name, was the image of a feral Uzair Baloch gripping his severed head and kicking it to the ground like it was a football. It was the most horrific sight the people of the lawless town had ever witnessed.
Mahgul reached the Baloch haveli and spent the next few hours observing the routine of the people that lived inside it. One by one, the men of the gang had arrived and she watched them as they made their way inside the house. Some time later, a young boy whom she recognized as Faizal, Rehman Baloch’s youngest son, pranced out in a rush, stuffing a rolled roti in his mouth, dressed in a school uniform that she had noticed on many students here. He got into a car, accompanied by a man and the car drove out of the gates of the haveli.
Minutes later, Hamza had emerged from the haveli. When his gaze fell on her, something flashed through his eyes. Frustration or dread, she wouldn’t know. But their routine followed again. She requested him, very impolitely with her patience running thin after all these days, and he denied her. Again. She glared at this big brawny man whom she wished to punch in the face at the moment, but all she could do was huff indignantly and stubbornly sit on the steps of the Haveli.
She knew better than to expect that Hamza or any of the men would show pity or even acknowledgement at her insistence. But she stayed there anyway. In the afternoon, when the sun had positioned itself right on top of everyone’s head, Mahgul’s luck finally seemed to shine.
She heard the footsteps first, quiet and intentful. Her back straightened up when she noticed the woman who had almost walked past her. Almost, because the beautiful woman, dressed in plain blue, had halted in her way when she had noticed her. Mahgul felt self-conscious under the observant scrutiny of the woman’s gaze, while she stood up immediately and stepped in front of her.
She knew who the woman was. Ulfat Baloch. Wife of their Sher-E-Baloch.
As far as Mahgul’s memory went, she remembered seeing Ulfat only twice. Once when she had come to Balochistan with a toddler Naieem in her arms. The second time, when she was pregnant with her younger son, Faizal. Mahgul herself was a child of five years the first time, but she remembered wanting to look as pretty as the wife of Sher-E-Baloch. The second time however, she had observed the woman and her actions closely. That, and how the woman held herself were enough to tell her that Ulfat Baloch was a woman of quiet power. She was the matriarch of the household, whom she imagined to have some say in the affairs of their political and criminal world.
“Assalamualaikum!”,Mahgul greeted her with a respectful gesture of Adab, which was returned by the woman.
What better way to step into the forbidden house than to do so with the permission of its matriarch?
Ulfat narrowed her eyes at the young girl in front of her and asked, “Aap kon?”
“Ji, main Mahgul. Balochistan se hun. Aapki madad chahiye thi.”
She could see the doubt flicker in the elder woman’s gaze, so she took the cue to explain herself further.
“Karachi Medical College mein padhne waale humaare kuch ladko ko Chaudhary Aslam ne dehashatgardi ke naam par uthaya aur unhe berehmi se maar diya. Unn ladko ka dakhila Rehman Bhai ne hi karvaya tha.”
Mahgul noticed how Ulfat visibly winced at the reminder of her late husband. She continued, “Rehman Bhai humaare rehbar the, muhafiz the. Unke guzarne ke baad hum Baloch bebas ho gaye hai. Hume insaaf chahiye tha, isliye yahan aa gaye.”
She lowered her gaze solemnly, and muttered.
“Hum Uzair miyan se milna chahte the. Par…humse kaha gaya ki woh mumkin nahi hai.”
Ulfat’s brows arched at that. Nobody had visited from Balochistan after Rehman’s death, except a messenger from Shirani Sahab to offer his condolences. Nobody had come asking for help. But looking at this girl who trusted their family enough to come all the way here, Ulfat felt responsible to ensure that Rehman Baloch’s protection existed over his people even after his passing. She wanted his enemies to tremble after hearing his name alone.
With an approving nod, she glanced at the haveli and spoke confidently.
“Aapko Uzair se milna hai, mil sakte ho. Main unse keh doongi aapse jaldi mulaqaat karein. Filhaal hume Faizal ko lene jaana hai, aap deewankhaane mein intezaar kar sakti ho.”
Mahgul nodded instantly, eager and relieved that her week-long struggle could finally come to an end if the man agreed to see her.
Uzair reeked of cigarettes, alcohol and blood. Maybe the last one was just his mind playing tricks on him again, but he knew he was in a bad place. Willingly. He didn’t want to get out of it or improve. He felt like he didn’t deserve to be well and happy after what had happened to his brother. So even after many warnings from Ulfat Bhabhi and Hamza, he hadn’t stopped the drugs or the self-destruction that came with it. He had also noticed that Hamza was effortlessly taking over the duties he was supposed to carry out, so there was no immediate fall-out in the working of the gang.
Hamza had also been telling him about a woman who had wanted to meet him for the past few days, but he had paid no attention to it. The boys snickered about the strangeness of a woman coming in search of their Uzair Bhai, because that was a first.
Had the stern scolding call from his sister-in-law not come, he would have never agreed to see whoever this woman was. But in this Haveli, everyone listened to Ulfat and that was a rule set early on by his brother. Regardless, he would have obeyed her instructions because that’s how he had always been. And if not for that, she had given him an eye-opening speech on how he was obligated, after Rehman, to take over the duty of endowing the same favors his brother had bestowed upon his people.
After the call had ended, he had reluctantly asked Hamza to let the woman in.
A few minutes later, the door to the room opened and Hamza walked in, stepping aside to make way for the woman. Uzair sat up from where he was practically sprawled out on the sofa, leaning forward to take a better look at the door where he expected the strange woman to appear any moment now.
What help could she want from him that had compelled her to wait outside their haveli for five days straight?
The swish of her blue dupatta appeared before the person itself. Uzair slowly settled back against the sofa, but his eyes still remained trained on the door. The woman stepped in quickly and assertively, as if she had imagined this- walking in, several times.
He did not fail to notice the smug glance she shot at Hamza, like something had transpired between them. Something that he did not have an idea of. The woman then turned her focus on him, and greeted him with a polite nod.
“Assalamwalaikum!”
Without looking away from her, he brought the forgotten cigarette dangling in his fingers to the wooden armrest and snubbed it out with a decisive press.
“Walaikumassalam…?”, he greeted in his gravelly voice, still rough from all the substances he had inhaled prior.
“Mahgul.”
She quipped in quickly at his expectant prompt for her introduction.
Mahgul. Uzair mentally repeated the name once, registering it. Had he known her from before? Probably not.
“Kya kar sakte hain hum aapke liye?”
Mahgul narrated her tragedy to him, the painful words which had become desensitized due to the multiple repetitions, now came mechanically to her. Uzair heard it all- how the boys were abducted by the SP and their orchestrated deaths were framed as a terror elimination.
Uzair mourned them, he really did. But the unfortunate had already occurred. He did not know how he could be of any help to her now. So, he waited for her to explain further and when she didn’t, he raised a questioning brow.
“Toh, ab aap kya chahti hain?”
A moment of silence later, he added.
“Talaafi?”
She visibly recoiled at his words, looking like she had been struck with his audacity to think that she would want compensation for those lives lost. As if any amount of compensation could be enough.
Mahgul had meant to use her knowledge of Rehman’s death to provide Uzair Baloch an incentive. However, it was decided that she was only going to use it as a last resort. That decision was nullified when Uzair made that insensitive offer of remuneration.
“Hum jaante hai,” she began. “Rehman Bhai ke inteqaal ke peeche SP Aslam ka haath hai.”
Uzair stiffened at that and so did Hamza. She had clearly touched a raw nerve. Rehman’s death and the person behind it was an open secret. Everyone in Lyari knew it, but not a single soul dared to speak aloud about it.
“Wohi SP Aslam ne inn Baloch ladko ko bhi maara hai. Khair,maana agar unn ladko ke liye nahi- par, woh Sher-E-Baloch, aapke bhai ke gaddi tak pohoch gaya aur aaj bhi azaad ghum raha hai?”
Mahgul scoffed bitterly, and then made a clear statement.
“Jahan tak hum jaante hai, Rehman Bhai ne unke saath hue har galat cheez ka badla liya hai.”
Uzair understood what this woman was trying to insinuate. His fingers curled into a tight fist, as he muttered with restraint.
“Lyari ke siyaasati haalat thik nahi hai. Badla lena naamumkin ke barabar hai.”
That earned him a look of disbelief from her as her gaze flitted between him and Hamza. He could hear the hypocrisy (or was it deceit?) in his own words. Since when did the law-defying gangsters of Lyari begin caring about politics?
“Humne suna tha Naieem ke guzarne ke baad bhi waqt sahi nahi tha. Phir bhi Rehman Bhai ne bhare baazaar mein Babu Dakait ko maar diya tha, aur nateeje mein unki party ko unhi ki wajah se bhaari matra mein votes mile the. Hum galat toh nahi ho sakte.”
Oh, she was opening all the floodgates. Uzair sighed, and for a second he wanted a cigarette in between his fingers so he could take the habitual long drag he was used to, when he got quietly frustrated.
“Toh aap kya umeed rakhti hain humse?”
“Yahi, ki aap uss SP Aslam ko wohi berehmi dikhaye, jo usne hum Balochon ko dikhayi hai. Uss ke saath waisa hi bartav kare, jis rawaiyye se woh humaare saath pesh aaya hai.”
She lowered her gaze solemnly and muttered.
“Ek aap hi hain jo hume barhaq insaaf de sakte hain.”
Uzair felt the same sense of responsibility which he had felt when Hamza made him realize that he was Rehman’s successor. The same way he had felt when Ulfat Bhabhi told him that he owed it to his people to protect and shelter them.
A contemplative silence fell in the room. Moments later, Uzair asked her.
"Filhaah kahan thehri hain aap?”
“Bilaal Hotel.”
Mahgul wondered if that was it. A dismissal? But then, Uzair announced his decision.
She pressed her lips in a thin line as she decided not to push further, and ended the conversation with a curt nod. This did not mean anything, but it was also not a straight-up refusal. Maybe, it could mean something if her words had played the right way in his mind.
Uzair glanced at Hamza, and gave a quiet order as she was about to leave.
“Hamze, inhe chhod aa.”
“Shukriya”, Mahgul responded softly. Uzair knew she meant it for everything, especially listening to her.
Hamza had realized that this woman was more clever than he had initially given her credit for. She knew what things to say and what was the right time to say them.It did not require a genius to understand that she was trying to mold Uzair into working towards what were her intentions, just like he was.
Uzair was an easy target. Like a soft clay that could be shaped into any desired form, given the slightest touch with enough pressure and the right amount of water.
That night, while pouring him a drink, Hamza casually asked Uzair.
“Bhai, tu uss ladki ki baat maanne waala hai?”
Uzair heard the underlying condescension in his tone, which was enough of a hint of discouragement. Clicking his tongue, Uzair responded just as casually.
“Dekhte hain. Waise bhi ye…bhaukne waale kutte kaatte nahi hai.”
[Author's Note: This chapter became lengthier than I had imagined it to be. It is based on the character of Uzair Baloch from Dhurandhar and not the real person. In this story, Uzair is neither sent to Dubai, nor is he arrested there. I hope you enjoyed reading it! Do tell me if you think there is any scope for improvement. Thank you!]
Arjun Singh Rangi was a brave man. A fauji. A Lieutenant Colonel in the Indian Armed Forces. He was the head of the humble Rangi family which consisted of his beloved wife, Prableen Kaur Rangi and his two dear daughters, Harleen and Jasleen, and his son- Jaskirat whom he held very close to his heart.
Since his childhood, Jaskirat or Jassi, as they called him, had looked up to his father as a role model. He worshipped the man and admired his values. When his father was away at posting, his Maa would tell him and his sisters anecdotes about him, that way his Baba was still near him even though not physically present. He thought of his father’s bravery, the love he harboured for his nation and his family, and his heart swelled with pride.
From a very young age, Jaskirat had decided that he wanted to be like his father. And, he made sure that the world knew it too. When the elders and his teachers asked him what he wanted to become when he grew up, he would say that he wanted to become his father. Everyone used to laugh at him, and he would never understand why.
Rajkumar Abhimanyu was a brave boy. He had always been brave. The glorious Prince was said to have inherited the best qualities of and from all five Pandavas. But he liked to believe that his courage came from his Pitashree, Gaandivdhaari Arjuna.
Abhimanyu’s father hadn’t been around when he was born and he hadn’t appeared once in thirteen years of his life. Both of his Mamashrees, whom he loved and adored deeply, had been his guardians and the constant anchor in his life.
His mother, Subhadra had told him how his father’s cousins had tricked them in a game of dice and had stripped them of their wealth, honour and the self-respect of their common wife, Draupadi. He had learnt that his father, his uncles along with his other mother had gone into twelve years of Vanvaas and one year of Agyatvaas.
The little boy, merely ten years in age, had decided then and there that he would serve himself to avenge the disrespect of his father and his family. Even when he had never met Arjuna, Abhimanyu practiced day and night to become a warrior as skilled as his father.
It was a pleasant summer night and the Rangi children’s Baba had come home for a holiday. It was a rare occurrence, so the three siblings were eager to make most of their time in the company of their Baba.
It was after dinner that the children had rushed upstairs to the roof and pulled their father with them. Laying down on the thick blankets, the trio stared at the starry night sky while their Baba told them the incidents from his posting at the border. The stories soon shifted into the recalling of the bravery their Baba’s friends had shown in times of emergency. The kids were awestruck by these people and their willingness to put themselves at risk for their country. To their small minds, these people, their Baba and his friends were like superheroes from their comic books.
After an hour or so, Baba was left with no more stories. The girls, Harleen and Jasleen had fallen asleep halfway through the tales and were snoring heavily. Looking at the peaceful faces of his children, Papa Rangi laid down beside them and closed his eyes with a sigh. Jaskirat had closed his eyes momentarily, but he was wide-awake and curious to listen to more stories about what happened in the army cantonments.
When he propped himself on his elbow and looked at his Baba trying to sleep, Jassi understood that he must be exhausted and homesick and that it wouldn’t be right to wake him up. So, he allowed his father to drift into slumber, while he fell onto his back and counted the stars in the sky before sleep took over him too.
After every visit when his Baba told him such stories of his fellow soldiers, Jaskirat was moved by their sacrifice. He used to get inspired by them. He imagined himself in their place, protecting his country and its people, bringing pride to his family and donning the wardi his father had worn too.
Subhadra was seven months pregnant and her husband who had devoted his afternoons to her, chose a particularly niche topic of discussion that day. Warfare. Who discusses battle formations with their pregnant wife? Gaandivdhaari Arjuna.
As she settled down on the chaise, her hand resting on her swollen belly, she tried her best to observe the circular formation in which the miniature soldiers were arranged in the sandpit. She would have rather enjoyed talking about their baby- guessing whether it would be a boy or a girl? Discussing the names they had selected for it, and the impulsive purchases she had been making of baby toys.
But her husband had already begun to explain the advantages of this specific type of Chakravyuha, the Padmavyuha, the lotus trap. She listened attentively as he told her the methodical way to penetrate the deceptive Vyuha. Entering it was comparatively easy, but emerging out of it unharmed was the real challenge. Subhadra only knew of three warriors who could infiltrate the trap, and all of them were her family. Arjuna, Krishna, and her nephew Pradyumna.
Subhadra was paying attention to what Arjuna was saying, until her eyelids began to flutter close, surrendering to darkness while Arjuna’s monotonous lecture acted as a lullaby to her.
Arjuna looked over at his wife, who had dozed off halfway through his discourse. He put the pointer down and walked towards her sleeping form, an involuntary smile curving on his lips. He placed a kiss on her forehead, and draped a quilt over her.
In her womb, the growing foetus had assimilated all the knowledge required for entering a Chakravyuha but it was never taught how to come out of it alive and safe. Years later, the formidable warrior Prince would be defeated by this unlearned knowledge alone.
Jaskirat was taught courage by his father. He was taught loyalty. Patriotism. Selflessness. So, that was all he had when he enrolled in the training academy after clearing his NDA examination.
The letter had come almost a year later. A bad news. The tragedy that had struck his family. His father, his brave and strong Baba was gone. Hanged to death on the tree in their farmland. His Didi, the girl he only ever imagined with a bright smile on her face, was brutally raped and murdered. His chotti Jasleen, had been abducted and taken away to God knew where and his Maa, oh his mother who had been stripped off all that she had was wandering from police station to doors of politicians, begging for justice that he was told was abundant and fair in this nation. A blatant lie, as he now realized.
So when he got down at the Chakki Bank railway station after securing the AK 47 and the pistol from Pinda’s acquaintance, he had been driven by the very same principles that he had inherited from his father. He had trespassed into the haveli of Sukhwinder Singh, without caring for himself even when he knew what this could result in if things didn’t go his way.
But things had gone his way. He hadn’t left a chance for anyone to turn the situation against him. An hour of gunshots and harrowing screams later when he had completely forgotten himself, Jaskirat Singh Rangi stood painted in the blood of the twelve men he had massacred. Without flinching once.
The fear got to him only when he reached his sister. Dread twisted deep in his stomach before seeing her. But he had managed to rescue her and bring her back home, despite the cruelty those twelve men had repeatedly subjected her to.
The FIR, the court case and his sentence followed. He had imagined it would happen in the days before he had committed the crime. However, he had never thought of the increased pain it would inflict upon his surviving family. That was the hardest part of it all. Seeing his mother break down and cry in front of his lawyer, begging her to save him. Jasleen telling him repeatedly that he should not have done this for her, even though the relief in her eyes when he had stepped in that dark room contradicted her words.
Apparently the system and the judiciary which had denied a simple hearing to his innocent mother, was surprisingly fastidious and quick in delivering justice to those twelve men who did not even deserve an ounce of it.
On the thirteenth day of the barbaric war, the vast armies clashed once again in the blood-soaked ground of Kurukshetra. Prince Abhimanyu had fought ferociously since the war had begun, fuelled by the sacrifices of his family in the past dozen days.
But now he stood along with the four Pandavas in front of what looked like a challenge to them. Amidst an attack, the Kaurava army had suddenly realigned itself into a novel formation. The Pandavas waited for the dust that had risen as an effect of the more than thousand footsteps to settle down and then the realization dawned upon the eldest son of Pandu.
Padmavyuha.
No one in the Pandava army knew how to break into the Vyuha. No one except Arjuna. But the devious Kauravas had planned an attack of the Samsaptakas to challenge Arjuna and drive him away in the southern direction. They knew the Pandava force would be indestructible if they had Dhananjaya by their side.
Prince Abhimanyu approached his uncles and declared that he was aware of the ways to tear into the Vyuha, but he did not know how to come out of it. Yudhisthira, his eldest uncle, motivated him to go ahead and enter the formation. He assured Abhimanyu that the four of them, Bhima, Nakul, Sahdev and he himself would follow him closely and create a path for him, assuring his safety.
Gaining his permission, the fearless Prince, vowed that his actions would bring pride and joy to his uncle Krishna and his father. He swore that if he let go even a single enemy without killing him, then he would not be called Arjuna’s son!
And so the land of Kurukshetra witnessed the sixteen year old young man piercing through tons of soldiers, wringing out arrows from his quiver and aiming them at the masses. He pounced on his enemies and ended up killing Bribhala and a hundred other small kings. He slaughtered Duryodhana’s son, Lakshmana and made Dushasana and Karna faint. The Prince faced seasoned warriors like Dronacharya and Bhishma with the vigour and rage resembling that of an angry God.
The Kaurava leaders feared that if this continued, their entire Akshauhinis of the army would be wiped out single-handedly by Abhimanyu. They had to put an end to the Prince’s wrath. Saindhava blocked the path of Pandavas who were closely following Abhimanyu, and fought with them skillfully making sure that Abhimanyu had to step further in the Vyuha all alone.
The Prince was now alone and surrounded by warriors like Duryodhana, Dushasana, Dronacharya, Ashwatthama, Kripacharya, Shalya and Shakuni.
When Jaskirat was sentenced to death by hanging, he had let go of all his aspirations and hopes, along with his will to live. He had accepted his fate and he was not guilty for the ‘crime’ he had committed.
So even when he was kidnapped during the jail transfer, and brought in front of the Chief of India’s Intelligence Bureau, Ajay Sanyal, whom he had only seen in newspapers, it did not make him feel like there was a way out. Instead, he folded his hands in front of the prestigious man and told him that he had nothing left to give to his nation.
But Sanyal was a man who had not bent in front of terrorists in their own land, Jaskirat Singh Rangi was an easier nut to crack for him. He told the hopeless young man that it was better to die after causing an uproar rather than accepting a mistaken death placed on his name. Jaskirat knew he had already created the ruckus where he wanted to, but he listened to the Indian officer.
Jaskirat had learnt to be brave, resilient and patriotic from his father. So even when he had nothing left, he joined hands with Ajay Sanyal and Sushant Bansal and became a part of their mission. He had been told the potential cost of it- of being declared dead to his family and the possibility of never coming back,
But he agreed to that cost as well, in the hopes that his otherwise fruitless life would become of some use to his nation and he could follow the steps of his dear Baba.
Abhimanyu knew the cost of entering the Vyuha too, but he stepped in anyways because even death was better than having to surrender and accept defeat. He would not bring shame to his father’s name at least in this lifetime.
The intimidated elders attacked the lone Pandava warrior together but Abhimanyu fought them all strenuously. Dronacharya, the guru of the Pandavas and Kauravas, killed his horses and charioteer, and destroyed his chariot so that it would render the Prince unable to navigate through the battlefield.
The rest of the warriors showered arrows at him from all the directions, until an injured Abhimanyu stepped down from the chariot with his mace in his hand. He began fighting against all warriors single-handedly. It was an egregious scene, a stain on the Kuru clan.
Ten warriors giving all their strength and combating with a single young Prince, like a pack of wicked wolves surrounding and capturing a lion’s brave cub in a deadly hunt.
When Abhimanyu’s mace gave away and fell from his hands, and blood spluttered at the corner of his lips, the older men closed up on him slowly. But even then the Prince did not think of surrender even once. He marched towards the ruins of his chariot and dismantled its wheel with great force.
When Ashwatthama and Dushasana attacked him with swords, he lifted up the huge wheel and thrashed it against their weapons with a roar. Not a single soul in that force pitied the boy who was wounded and was rapidly losing blood and strength.
Arrows were shot at him and they pierced through him. Swords slashed against his armour but still managed to cut through his skin and organs. Duryodhana struck him with his mace on his head and back, until the Prince had coughed up blood. The wise gurus, who had failed to be the protectors of Dharma every single time remained mum and failed yet again as Abhimanyu’s body gave out and he collapsed onto the ground, barely conscious.
Jaskirat Hamza Ali Mazari stepped into the dirty lanes of Lyari in Pakistan after burying what little was left of himself. He had burnt his family photo, the only material memory of them was turned into ashes back in Afghanistan. The year he spent at Aalam Bhai’s shop was a test of his patience. There were nights where he thought that he could never do what he was here to do. He feared he would have to spend his entire life stuck working as a waiter in this shop.
What started then was a series of repeated torments on his deadened heart. His mind worked efficiently, strategically infiltrating Rehman Baloch’s gang and acquiring their trust with every word he uttered and every action he did. Even then, his deadened heart hadn’t gone completely numb. Everything did hurt him sometimes, like an overwhelming flood of grief had washed over him. But Hamza had learnt to fight and fight was what he did.
The guilt gnawed at him when he had honey-trapped Yalina Jamali, the shrewd politician’s daughter for his own selfish benefit. As he saved Rehman from the SP and became an inseparable member of the gang, accompanying Rehman and Uzair in all their endeavours, life had begun to feel monotonous.
It was then that the meeting with Major Iqbal had happened. Deal of arms and ammunition. Hamza had reported it to Aalam Bhai. A potential attack on Gujarat. He was assured that the Indian force would take appropriate defensive measures. But all hell broke loose on the night of 26th November. The numerous television screens in Iqbal’s office showed him the horrors in Mumbai. Bomb blasts. The terrorists captured in CCTV’s holding the guns he had handed them himself. People, his people screaming and being scared for their life.
He had stood amongst those monsters, paralyzed in shock and terror. He could see the blood on his hands. Warm and red, dripping. He was the killer of his people. He saw his mother’s face, looking at him the same way she had done when he was sentenced to death. The Major’s shove snapped him out of it, and he was forced to scream the chants of ‘Allah hu Akbar!’ along with the others while his nation bled because of them.
That night in front of Aalam Bhai, for the first time he had stepped foot in this land, he acknowledged his belonging to his country. He vowed to end every man who had stood in that room and rejoiced at the slaughter of his people. Iqbal, Khanani, Mir, Bhuttovi, he would finish them all.
And so, he began his advance towards the core of Pakistani terrorism. Little did he know, with every step he took deeper into the labyrinth, he was making it harder for himself to walk out of it unscathed.
Hamza went on to kill Rehman while putting up a facade of his failed saviour. He pulled the right strings with Uzair, the man who had always trusted him too easily, and sent him away. Uzair was a thorn he had pricked out of his path effortlessly. It began after that, his reign. His rule. He became the King of Lyari. The Badshah of Karachi. People prayed for his long life and manifested glory to him.
He devised his way through the twisted politics of Pakistan meticulously, changing alliances and coming to power once again. He reported on the trade of fake currencies and drugs that was ruining his country’s economy and youth.
Then came the unfortunate night and it truly tested how much blows his heart could take before crumbling into pieces. Pinda, his best friend, had arrived in Pakistan and he had become someone Jaskirat could barely recognize. A drug dealer. And even when Hamza himself had become completely unrecognizable, Pinda had managed to recognize him just well.
Hamza had only wanted to silence him and keep his secret from coming out, but he had ended up killing him. His best friend. His sister’s husband. Iqbal’s guest. What happened after that still remains as a repressed blur to Jaskirat. Aalam Bhai had volunteered to be killed. Martyrdom was a euphemized word, but the truth was ugly. He had killed Aalam Bhai too.
That night, Yalina had held a gun to his head. She had come to know about his deception, or his truth. Neither of them was exclusive of the other. She had blamed him for ruining her life, rightfully so. But she had loved him immensely and truly, unlike him, so she had stayed with him regardless. Just warned him of the SP who had begun to doubt him.
Since then, he had gotten things on his feet. Within the span of less than three months, over a hundred members of terrorist organizations had been killed by unknown men. Wiped out in masses across Pakistan.
The final blow was the meeting in Muridke Minar. Stealthily planned. The explosives hidden under arms. The fight with Mir and Iqbal that had felt endless but he had powered through it, brutally hurting them. He had ran after Iqbal, who was now trying to escape like a coward and had slashed the blade against his legs with a roar, before dragging him to the petroleum truck and blasting him to shreds.
Killing him was a delayed gratification that Hamza had craved, but it changed nothing for Jaskirat. He did not run away, he waited outside the Minar for the inevitable to happen. But he had managed to make a last call to Yalina. He had told her his real name- Jaskirat. He had realized bitterly that he had indeed ruined her life, and now Zayan’s too. No amount of remorse could free him of the injustice he had committed with his own wife and son.
When Omar came for him and arrested him, he himself walked into the police van without a protest. The hours that followed were torture. Chained up and bloodied, he was whipped, beaten up, even given electric shocks, but he hadn’t uttered a single word. No matter how hard they tried, they were not able to gain a single piece of information from this Indian captive.
When his sword broke down and Dushasana’s son struck him hard with a blow, Abhimanyu fell to the ground with a thud. The young boy had been subjected to a lot of torture with the blows and slashes.
Amongst the warriors, Angraj Karna was the one who stepped forward. The man knew that this valiant Prince lying in front of him was his own nephew. If nothing else, then at least in blood. But the men too far gone in war never recognized even their own. Suryaputra Karna was no different. He did not see Abhimanyu as his own, just like the Kauravas.
A sharp pain shot through Abhimanyu as Karna speared his sword through his abdomen with a cutting force. His entire body jerked to blunt pain and then stilled as the burning sensation of blood seeping out spread throughout his body.
Moments later, the victorious howls of the Kaurava men echoed in the silent ground while life slipped out of the brave Prince’s body.
The four Pandavas mourned, from a distance, the death of their courageous nephew who had been slaughtered by the Maharathis, and whose death was being celebrated as a victory when it was nothing but shame.
After spending two decades in the sordid streets of Lyari and then the treacherous politics of Pakistan, Jaskirat Singh Rangi had still yielded himself. He had not given up when he had to toil in the Baloch gang. He had not given up when he had lost three of his closest people in the same night, two to death and one to truth. He had done it to himself with his own hands.
He had stayed patient and strong throughout the wait, and the slow killings of the terrorists. He had fought tooth and nail with Iqbal.
But after coming back to India, when he had slipped away to Pathankot in the naive hopes of seeing his family again and his nephews and telling them that he had been alive all along, he had not been prepared for the oblivion.
When he got down from the rickshaw at the other end of the narrow path that led to his home, his eyes full of hope found his mother at the gate. She was sweeping the ground, she looked a little older and a lot exhausted. He spotted Jasleen on the roof wringing out the water from washed clothes. She still looked the same to him, his chotti but she had two children of her own now. His two nephews were playing in the courtyard, just like he used to play with Pinda in the evenings after school.
His eyes filled with tears as he took slow steps towards their house. He was finally going to meet his family after years of pining for them. Then suddenly, his mother looked right at him and she averted her gaze and closed the gate on him. He paused in his tracks, feeling as if he had been shaken out of a dream and the reality had broken his rose-tinted vision.
He saw it then- his mother, who had accepted that her son was long gone and he would never return back. His sister, who had taken to believe her mother and her two sons to be her only world. Even if they had looked at him, they would not see their Jaskirat. They would not recognize him. The twenty years had changed a lot in him too.
So, the man who had suffered injustice, a death sentence, forgetting himself and taking up a new name and life in a hostile land felt like giving up here.Jaskirat Singh Rangi, who had been undefeated by everything, was destroyed by his own family, when they had been unable to recognize him. What else was left for him now? Where else would he go if not his home?
Jaskirat Singh Rangi had truly died that day, standing in front of his home and being so near yet feeling so far. He never walked down that impassable path to what was once his home.
If Arjun Singh Rangi had not taught his son to be so brave, patriotic and selfless, then perhaps Jaskirat would have never done what all he had done.
And, If Arjuna had been there to protect Abhimanyu, he would have emerged out of the delusive Chakravyuha, alive and glorious.
Author's Note: The more I wrote this, the more parallels I saw between Jaskirat and Abhimanyu. Even the fact, that both Yalina and Uttara had to spend their entire lives alone with a son to raise on their own. I hope you liked reading this! Thank you!
Why are you full of rage? Because I am full of grief.
Mahgul wasn’t there when the news was delivered.
If she had been there, she believed she would have reacted the same way.
Mariam filled a glass with cold water and offered it to her before sitting down on the edge of the cot. Mahgul took the glass reluctantly but did not raise it up to her mouth. She just sat slumped against the wall, staring down blankly at the floor. Mariam looked at the young girl with pity and reached out to wipe the remnants of tears from her face with her sleeve.
Mahgul finally looked up at her, eyes reddened with all the crying. The tears had not even stopped when she had collapsed to the floor, limp and unconscious.
“Is he really not going to come back, Aapi?”
The weakly-asked question had no answer. If Mariam gave one, it would break the girl all over again. With a resigned sigh and heavy heart, she pulled Mahgul into a tight hug.
“Oh Jaani!”
Mahgul knew he wouldn’t be coming back.
Shehzaad. Her best friend. Her only friend.
It was a normal day in the deserts. Mahgul was already exhausted after helping her mother carry the pots of water home from the nearby oasis. That’s when her Mariam Aapi burst into their hut, her eyes filled with tears. The words spilled from her mouth- unfortunate and dreadful.
“Uss SP ne humaare Shehzaad ko maar diya!”
Mahgul barely registered the words that came after that, because those eight words rang in her ears. Her heart dropped to her stomach. No, that couldn’t be, right? It must be some other Shehzaad. Some other boy. Not theirs.
Their Shehzaad had gone to study in the medical college in Karachi. He was going to make them proud. He was going to get a degree and much to her annoyance, convince her that the pen was indeed mightier than the sword. Stupid Shehzaad and his stupid beliefs, she’d exclaim.
But the cries soon echoed through their basti, confirming her nightmare to be true. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, while Mariam went on and on about how he had been killed with four other Baloch boys. SP Chaudhary Aslam had shot them under the guise of uprooting terrorist organisations in Pakistan.
Mahgul was crying louder now and she couldn’t breathe. She hated that country with all her heart. Hated its people. And now, she regretted ever sending her Shehzaad in that corrupt land.
The memories came in flashbacks. She remembered the day Shehzaad had come to know about his confirmation in the medical college. He had come running to their hut to tell her the good news, grinning ear-to-ear. Rehman Baloch, their messiah, their Sher-E-Baloch, who was also only a memory now, had made it possible for him.
He had urged her to take inspiration from him and begin her education as well. He had told her that the pen was mightier than the sword, and with the degrees and a rightful place in Pakistan, both of them could raise their voices and demand their freedom. Their azaadi.
That Shehzaad was shot dead by an SP because he was believed to be a terrorist.
She had run out of her hut in the direction of the sounds of wailing. In the centre of their basti, their leader, Daadu was on his knees. His turban, his pride tossed on the ground as he cried over his grandson. The news could not be false. Mahgul could not hope otherwise anymore.
She should have been there, her heart said. She should have gone to Karachi with him, like she had said she would. She should have never listened to him. She could see Shehzaad at the back of her mind, looking over his packed bags the night before he had to leave.
Mahgul was leaning against the door, watching him warily.
“Main bhi aajau?”
“Kidhar?”
“Karachi. Tumhare saath.”
He had scoffed, in a way that sounded like a laugh. Ofcourse, he thought she was joking.
“Koi zaroorat nahi. Mujhe waha jaake padhna hai. Tumhari tarah nahi. Haan, agar tum bhi college me dakhala karane ka soch rahi ho toh zaroor saath chalo.”
Mahgul had rolled her eyes at him. Him and his never-ending preachings of education. A moment later, she spoke again but this time the concern in her voice made sure that Shehzaad took her seriously.
“Tum wahaan ke logon ko jaante nahi ho!”
“Aur tum jaanti ho?”
Could he ever stop joking? She frowned at him and crossed her arms angrily.
“Main tumhaare saath chalti hoon. Kisine tumhe kuch kardiya toh?”
Shehzaad had stared at her for a whole moment. And then, he burst out laughing. Mahgul glared at him and decided that she had had enough. Just as she turned to leave, or pretended that she was going to leave, he stopped her.
“Ruk jaao, ruk jaao!”
His eyes softened a little along with his smile. He could tell that his best friend, always ready to pick up a sword or a gun, was concerned over him. He had also assumed that the fights she had been picking up lately were so that it would make it easier for them to part ways. Idiot.
“Mujhe koi kuch nahi karne waala, Mahgul! Aur agar kisine kuch kiya bhi, toh main apne aap ko bacha lunga! Tumhari kasam!”
She had turned to him with a frown on her face, unconvinced by his words. She gave him a judgemental head-to-toe glance, and then looked away in disapproval.
“Tum kaise khudko bachaoge? Tumhara toh qalam hi tumhari talwaar hai na? Baste mein se qalam nikaaloge, tab tak koi maarke chala jaaye!”
He huffed at her audacity to mock him just as they were about to have an emotional moment. Pulling at her braid, he muttered with a sarcastically sweet smile.
“Tum fikar mat karo! Agar mar bhi jau, toh tumhare gudi pe bhoot banke baith jaunga!”
She should have gone with Shehzaad. Her vision blurred as she watched the women howl over their heir. The wind had begun to rise and flow in the other way, carrying sand with it and making it difficult to see ahead. Mahgul felt that the wind too was mourning the Shehzaada of the Baloch.
But then she felt that wind was suffocating her. She couldn’t breathe properly. Was the wind punishing her for leaving Shehzaad alone? The air suddenly grew more humid and she could feel it against her skin. The sand lifted further in the air making it impossible to see beyond it. The brown of the sand was beginning to look like black. Mahgul gasped for breath, like that could help her get out of the darkness surrounding her.
The last thing she heard was her mother screaming her name and running towards her, while she fell to the ground and the darkness enveloped her completely.
Mahgul had cried in the arms of Mariam Aapi until she couldn’t. She had wanted to cry more but she had dried all her tears. Mariam Aapi had come to tell her that Shirani was sending Bahad to Karachi to recognize and bring back Shehzaad’s body. Mahgul had asked for permission from her Ammi before she knocked on Bahad’s door. A teary eyed Mahgul faced a similar looking Bahad and asked.
“Main bhi aajau?”
Bahad needed someone with him while he recognized his brother’s dead body. He couldn’t bring himself to deny her. Even if he had, Mahgul wasn’t going to listen to him this time.
Bahad and Mahgul had rented a small room in a smaller hotel in Karachi. Daadu had said that Rehman Baloch would have extended help if he had been alive. But after his passing, his family was dealing with a grief of their own and it wouldn’t be right to demand favors from them. Mahgul was aware that SP Aslam also had a hand in the killing of their Sher-E-Baloch.
After freshening up and bracing themselves for whatever sight they would have to come cross, the young pair stepped out towards the hospital with heavy hearts.
Mahgul sat on the steel bench, her fingers twisting in her lap anxiously while Bahad talked with the hospital superintendent and slipped a bundle of notes to him to let them step over a few protocols.She was not ready to go inside and no amount of waiting would prepare her for it.
The morgue was cold, its ghastly walls tiled with white marble clearly reflected the truth that this place was built for unpleasant moments like this.Not a semblance of warmth, not a semblance of life. When Mahgul entered the room behind Bahad, the cold bit at her skin and it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
The foul smell that overpowered their senses was nauseating, the stench of rot. Mahgul realized that they had kept Shehzaad waiting for too long. Five mortuary chambers had been pulled out, the bodies on them covered with a plain white cloth. One of them would be Shehzaad. She would have to recognize him to take him home.
They moved towards the bodies with slow, scared steps. There was only so much courage they could muster to recognize their dear friend’s dead body.
Upon reaching near the first body, Bahad glanced back at her and received a curt nod. A ‘go ahead’. With a deep breath, he reached out and pinched the cloth with quivering fingers. A sharp tug of the cloth and bile rose in Mahgul’s throat, an instant reflex to the gruesome sight in front of her.
It was not Shehzaad. But the body was in a grotesque condition. She saw Bahad look at the superintendent and shake his head in denial from the corner of her eye. The superintendent gestured towards the second body. They stepped around the stretcher towards it, but Mahgul could not take her eyes away from the first corpse. A boy her age. It was not Shehzaad. And, she did not know whether to be relieved or even more afraid for him.
The second body was not Shehzaad’s. Nor was the third one. But with both of them, the certainty that the next one would be his had increased marginally. They stood in front of the fourth corpse now and with a mechanical practice that the last three had given him, Bahad pulled down the cloth from this one too.
Mahgul heard a sharp gasp of breath beside her. She felt her own breath catch in her throat as her eyes widened in shock. Her Shehzaad. Almost unrecognizable. His face was pale, bruised and battered. The red blood sticking grimily at the corner of his lips and on his forehead which seemed to have been struck with something heavy, contrasted against the grey of his tight lifeless skin and the hollow of his cheekbones.
Seeing him like this made Mahgul’s stomach twist into a knot, making her sick. She slapped her palm over her mouth and tried to swallow the acid she tasted at the back of her throat.
The superintendent, an experienced worker who had seen this horrified look of recognition many times before, knew what it meant. He approached them and then pulled the cover off the body completely.
A choked sound escaped from Mahgul, not a sob but something akin to a plea of helplessness. There were wounds, multiple. Wounds of bullets that had penetrated his body and had left no mercy behind. Mahgul recognized that these were not the wounds from a civilian rifle, but an AK-47 or AK- 56. A deliberate choice for a brutal killing.
The bullets had left deep holes in Shehzaad’s body, through and through. The blood had spattered across his midriff and nobody had cared enough to clean it or the rotting wounds.Mahgul’s eyes, stinging with tears, averted away from him as she felt the acid in her throat reach up to her mouth. Her palm pressed tighter to her mouth, as she rushed out of the morgue feeling the sudden, uncontrollable push of her insides coming up.
Mahgul sat on the creaky bed in their dimly lit room alone. Bahad had gone to fetch dinner for the night, even though she had insisted she wasn’t hungry or even willing to eat after the vomiting. He had switched on the box television- a luxury they chose not to have back in Balochistan- to provide a sense of company to her while he was gone. The noise of the news anchor now hovered in the background while Mahgul thought of it. Shehzaad’s body, and the multiple things it gave away.
The wounds. The multiple cavities in his body. He had not been shot once. The bullets had been fired multiple times. And the choice of gun. It was an AK-47 or 56. The SP had not murdered Shehzaad, he had butchered him and the other boys. His intention was said to be to investigate and eradicate Baloch terrorism, but it did not look like that. To Mahgul and to all those who had eyes, it looked like the poaching of an innocent and helpless herd by a hunter who had done it with an ulterior motive in the jungle of politics.
“Aquib Ali Zarawari ne SP Chaudhary Aslam ko Tamgha-E-Imtiaz se nawaza..”
For a moment, Mahgul felt that she had heard it in her head, a product of how much she had been thinking of that bastard. But she trusted herself enough to know that even in her subconscious, all she would wish for the SP was ruin and death. Her brows furrowed as she turned her attention to the television.
And there he was.
The SP dressed sharply in the khakee uniform, as he marched onto the stage and received the award and the badge from the Prime Minister Zarwari. She had known this nation was shameless and cruel even in its cowardice. But this? Pride over the manslaughter of not men, but literal children of the enemies? She wondered if there were any more lows they could meet.
A sharp rage coiled in her stomach as the news anchor praised the patriotism and dedication of the SP.
The patriotism and dedication meant never accepting Baloch in their own land.
The patriotism and dedication meant killing the men of the Baloch United Force.
The patriotism and dedication meant abducting and raping the Baloch women.
The patriotism and dedication meant poisoning the innocent children of the Baloch.
The patriotism and dedication meant painting four college students as terrorists.
The patriotism and dedication meant brutally killing Shehzaad such that even his body was unrecognizable.
The praises had to stop. She grabbed the remote on the table and hurled it at the TV across the room with such force and rage that the remote hit the system, and the screen glitched before it turned off. The sudden and complete silence in the room gave space for her anger to exist without clashing against the overbearing praises for SP.
A stunned Bahad stood at the doorstep of the room, a plastic bag of streetside mutton biryani in his hand.
Bahad and she sat across from each other at the table and ate in silence. Or rather, Bahad ate in silence while Mahgul simply mixed the rice and peeled the flesh off the bones of mutton pieces, without taking a single bite. The television remained turned off.
“Woh SP Pathan hoga na?”
It was her who broke the silence first. Bahad paused mid-bite and looked up at her, surprised by the obviousness of her question. He nodded, and gulped some water.
“Tabhi toh itne berehmi se sabko maara.”
The quiet settled once again.
“Mujhe uss SP ko maarna hai.”
Mahgul had taken the decision the moment the full extent of Shehzaad’s death had settled over her. It had come to her with an absolute, irreversible clarity and she was certain that it was not just a thought formed in the heat of grief.
However, Bahad believed it to be exactly that. A rushed wish that took birth in her heart as an immediate effect of the loss. His chewing slowed down and he answered quietly.
“Hum sabko uski maut dekhni hai, Mahgul. Par hum kuch nahi kar saktey. Suna hai uss ke peeche ISI ki hamayat hai.”
The anger returned instantaneously at his helplessness. Chosen helplessness. Mahgul jerked her hand and let the rice from her fingers fall onto her plate before she leaned back and glared at him.
“Toh kya kare? Haath pe haath rakh kar baithe rahe? Tumhe kuch kaise nahi lag raha? Aaj usne humare Shehzaad ko mara hai! Kal mujhe maar dega, parso tumhe! Fir humare pure khandaan ko!”
She hadn’t realized when she had raised her voice at him. Bahad pushed his plate away, knowing that there was truth to her words.
“Jab Rehman Bhai the tab kam se kam unka ikhtiyar tha, lekin ab kya hai? Agar hum aise hi chup rahe toh ye log hume khaa jayenge, Bahad! Isliye keh rahi hu, mujhe uss SP ko maarna hai! Mujhe uska kata sarr chahiye!”
Bahad lowered his gaze, instead of straightaway accepting or denying her ambition. He couldn’t see past her determination, because it was the righteous thing to do, stand up for themselves. But agreeing with her was difficult for his logical mind when her aim was next to impossible.
Mahgul did not want him to join in on her mission, not when it was nothing but a shapeless idea driven by a consuming rage and desire for vengeance, a full stop to all the suffering they had endured all these years until now. Neither did she expect acceptance. All she wanted was acknowledgement, that her desire had come from a place of rightful want, a rightful entitlement.
And, Bahad gave her precisely what she wanted, when he asked-
“Akele kaise kar legi tu?”
Mahgul exhaled slowly in a gratified manner, as she leaned forward and picked up the succulent piece of mutton, finally having a bite of her dinner. She had already begun to think of it.
The razor scraped against the mirror, arranging the powder into three lines. The man bent down low over the table, snorted one line through a needle and fell back on the sofa with a thud and an exasperated groan. He looked clearly disoriented with his dilated pupils, as he sniffled at the bitter feeling of the drug sliding down his throat.
When Rehman Dakait was announced dead, everyone knew that all hell would break loose in Lyari. Only a few people cared enough to mourn for the irreparable loss of his family. But no one thought what it would do to Uzair Baloch, his brother.
Uzair, who had sworn his loyalty and life to his elder brother. Uzair, who was the constant shadow of his brother. Uzair, who did not know how to survive when he had lost his opaque substance.
So he did it his way. Alcohol, drugs and escape.
In the first few days, when his cries still echoed fresh in that hospital corridor, he was still reeling from the shock. So, he had made the arrangements for his brother’s burial like any dutiful brother would. He had stood with Faizal, who was crying and overwhelmed, and he had patted his back and consoled him. However, no one was there to pat his back. The only person who ever did that was his Rehman Bhai, who was now lying lifeless, wrapped in the kafan.
Then came the realization that he was indeed, gone. Their haveli, the garage, their adda- the world felt empty without him. Empty in a way that Uzair felt someone had carved his heart out of his ribs, and what remained was only a hollow feeling of grief that would never go away. The silence was haunting and Uzair could still hear his brother’s voice around him.
The guilt settled low in his stomach like a termite that gripped the ground and then grew upwards, eating everything that came in its way. Uzair should have been there by his brother’s side, the way he always had been there. Uzair should have protected him from the danger, from the SP and from Arshad Pappu’s sabotage.
He remembered the first time he had protected his Rehman Bhai. He had only been seventeen and it was from a fired bullet. Uzair had stepped in front of his Bhai and the bullet had grazed his shoulder instead, but his Bhai was safe. He had barely felt any pain because of that wound, what he felt instead was pride. Utter and unwavering pride that he had finally been of some use to his brother who had done everything in his power to keep him safe and protected. It was one of his greatest achievements.
Now, he felt like a failure. By some cruel twist of fate, Rehman Bhai had ordered the shipment of the arms on the same day as the water pipeline inauguration. In a distant blur of memory, he remembered telling Hamza to stay with Rehman Bhai while he went to get the shipment all because he thought of political events as tiresome. He should have stayed with his brother. That was his greatest mistake.
But Hamza should have also been able to protect his Bhai. He had Donga and Siyahi with him too. Besides, Hamza had always been able to protect. Hamza had always played the saviour. He had saved Faizal and he had tried his best to protect Naieem. He had saved and freed Rehman Bhai from the SP once. How had he failed this time?
While the entire Karachi kept its eyes peeled to see who would take over the throne of Lyari after Rehman Dakait, Uzair drowned himself in drugs and alcohol because it was easier than drowning in the shame of not becoming someone his Bhai would be proud of.
“Jameel Sahab bol rahe the tere khilaaf ATA ka warrant aa sakta hai.”
Uzair looked at Hamza upon hearing his words of warning. Hamza was the only person who hadn’t looked at him differently after his “madness” had died down. Everyone else held fear in their eyes, ever since he had brutally beheaded Arshad in front of the masses in broad daylight. It was a manifestation of his rage and agony. He had believed he could serve justice to his Rehman Bhai if he tormented his killers enough, and that it would bring peace to his soul. But the realization arrived later as an afterthought, that the only way Rehman Bhai would have found true peace was in the company of his beloved wife, Ulfat Bhabhi and his kids, Faizal and even Naieem. Uzair wondered if his existence or absence mattered or if it would have affected that peace.
Hamza had also been kind enough to look after the matters of the gang and pay the boys for their loyalty when he was spiraling downwards.
His ego heightened by the effect of the inhaled drug couldn’t tolerate the idea of the Prime Minister sending Rangers after him. As if avenging his brother’s death was a crime he had committed.Bloody pimps. He grabbed his gun swiftly and turned off the safety, as he roared.
“Saala Lyari mein koi ghuske dikhaye, laasho ke pahad khade nahi kiye toh-”
“Uzair! Pagal ho gaya hai tu!”
Hamza yelled at him, his voice louder than Uzair’s as he reached out and snatched the gun away from his hand.
“Agar kal ko ATA ka warrant nikla toh tujhe yaha se usse pehle nikalna padega! Ye police ya LTF nahi aane waali iss baar, Rangers aayenge aur woh bhi tujhe khatam karne ke liye!”
He tossed the gun on the table behind them and grabbed the back of Uzair’s neck, his voice dropping lower.
“Meri baat sun! Dimaag se kaam le! Yahan se nikalne ki tayari kar, Uzair!”
Uzair looked at him for a long moment. He understood the risks of being here and coming into the hold of the Rangers. They would arrest him and sentence him to death. So he could run away to Qatar or Dubai and save himself.
Or
He could stay here and kill that bastard SP Aslam and avenge his brother’s death at the cost of his own life. He did not need to think twice about his choice. It was as clear as daylight to him. He took a slow step forward, the effect of the drug slowly wearing off and pushed Hamza away with a hard shove.
When he spoke, it was not just a declaration. It was a vow taken for blood and death.
“Jab tak main uss SP ka sar kaatke Lyari kabristan ke bahar nahi taangta, tab tak main yahan se nahi jaanewalaa!”
Uzair walked past him and took a long swig of the alcohol, letting it burn down his throat as an aftermath of his words, a reminder of what he owed to his brother.
Uzair’s earliest memory was with his mother on the night of Eid. He remembered the celebrations, the daawat and the people. But he and his mother, the both of them were away from all of it. They stood on the rooftop in a comfortable solitude and silence, while his mother fed him the naan and his favourite murgh mussalam, while showing him the luminous moon.
Uzair’s second earliest memory was Rehman Bhai forcibly dropping him at the Municipal school, as he cried and begged that he did not like going there at all and that he would rather stay home with his Bhai and the other older boys who had accepted him just like Rehman did.
He did not remember what had happened between the span of those two memories, but whatever had happened, it had changed his life completely. Rehman Bhai never once talked about his parents or how they had died, no matter how many times Uzair begged him to tell the story.
But Uzair was determined and curious, a dangerous combination. Once when Rehman was a little drunk and lounging alone in his cabin, Uzair sat down in front of him and demanded that Rehman tell him the story of his parents. He promised that he wouldn’t feel sad and that he deserved to know how his family had ended.
Rehman did not tell him the whole story. He just told him the facts that the Pathans had murdered his parents for some petty land issues. When Uzair had asked him how he had survived, he was told that even as a child, he had high survival instincts. A five-year old Uzair had stayed hidden in their attic, afraid of the loud people and when he had come down and realized that his parents wouldn’t wake up, he had run away from there.
That stayed with Uzair. He had hidden and he had run away and somehow survived without his parents.
He was not going to hide or run this time.
[Author's Note: This was my attempt at beginning a series. It is based on the character of Uzair Baloch from Dhurandhar and not the real person. In this story, Uzair is neither sent to Dubai nor is he arrested there. I hope you enjoyed reading it! Do tell me if you think there is any scope for improvement. Thank you!]
I'm sorry if this is stupid 😭 but from where do we know that aalam bhai's original name was kanhaiyya and jamali's was venkat? And like was rizwan's name revealed?
Hii!
For Aalam Bhai's name, I read a comment under the YouTube video of the Kanhaiyya song that said that Aalam Bhai's real name might have been Kanhaiyya as during those times people from Bareilly had such names. I was inspired to write this from that comment.
But I have no idea about Jameel Sahab's real name or if it was Venkat. Was that given somewhere? And as far as I remember, I don't think Rizwan's name was revealed but I have read a few fics where his real name is said to be Dhruv. Maybe I should watch D2 once again! :)
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The loose trousers, now ripped at his knees? Begged. The flashy T-shirt which had lost its colours? Borrowed. The Motorola MicroTAC phone in his pocket? Stolen.
Over the years, theft had become more of a habit than a skill. The city of Bareilly provided a buzzing site for it, filled with locals and tourists who came in search of the jhumka of Bareilly. Some of them would go home and realize that they had lost one of their belongings.
But, Kanhaiyya was a soft-hearted boy.
The elders of the village had accepted him as their collective son. They had often condemned his unethical ways. They had tried to reform him, but all in vain. He used to joke around with them whenever they scolded him for his thievery. Especially in front of Vikas Baba who was a priest in a nearby Krishna temple.
“Tumhara Kanha kare toh natkhat, aur ye Kanhaiyya kare toh jurm!”
He used to flex whatever he had stolen- sometimes a gold luxury watch,other times a wallet filled with cash, rarely a phone, and used to argue fervently, without meaning any of it.
“Ab jaisa naam, waisa kaam!”
Vikas Baba then used to run behind him with a stick despite his weak knees.
“Bhagwan maakhanchor the! Paaketmaar nahi!”
Kanhaiyya’s laughter echoed loud in the temple’s courtyard.
One summer morning, as Dadi sat under the shadow of the banyan tree enjoying the kulfi that Kanhaiyya had bought for them, her eyes narrowed at him. She clicked her tongue in disapproval of what he had become.
“Ye chori-chakari karke tujhe kya milta hai?”
Kanhaiyya threw a disinterested glance at her and muttered.
“Do time ka khana, kapde aur ek makan.”
He had had this conversation many times.
“Woh toh mai bhi tujhe de doon!”
“Aur jab aapka beta aapko Banaras bula lega? Tab kya? Bheek maangne pe utar jau?”
Dadi knew she would never get invited to her son’s house now that her daughter-in-law did not like her interference. All she wanted now was that Kanhaiyya, her son not in blood but bond, would make a good life for himself.
“Ye chori ki cheezein kabhi tikti nahi hai! Achaa kaam nahi hai, Kanhaiyya!”
There was a long pause. If not her scoldings, if not her lectures, then at least the faith of his dead parents could budge him. That was what Dadi thought.
She bent down to caress the back of his head, and asked.
“Tere maa- baap tujhe swarg se dekhenge, toh kya sochenge tere baare mein? Kaisi zindagi banayi hain tune apne liye?”
Kanhaiyya knew nothing of his parents. Except for the tale that Dadi had told him once. It sounded like a poorly made-up sad story to his teenage self. His mother had died while giving birth to him. His father, a patient of terminal illness, had wept and wept in the hospital. He had lamented that there would be no one to take care of his newborn son.
Dadi was there at that time. She had assured his father that if he ever needed someone to look after his son, she would be there. Only eight years later, his dying father had found Dadi’s address in Bareilly. He left his young son at the station and headed straight to the hospital. When Kanhaiyya turned up at the doorstep of the scribbled address, he had found the door locked. As it turned out, Dadi had gone to Banaras to stay with her son.
Poor Kanhaiyya was left to fend for himself all alone in this unknown city. He slept outside Dadi’s house at night and wandered around during the daytime. It was then, that he had taken to stealing. It started with food. Rotis, sweets and prasad. Soon he was stealing money when he realized that it brought greater returns than anything else.
Dadi returned a whole year later. The old woman who lived alone in her shabby house had recognized this boy in an instant. She took him in her arms, and apologized for her absence. It was her who had given him the name- Kanhaiyya. She used to say that he was in Gokul now, and that she was his Yashoda Maiya.
Like any other person, he should have felt grief at the thought of his long gone parents. But he felt nothing. No matter how much he tried. He gave a slight shrug, and answered.
“Jo sochna hai woh soch lenge. Mujhe toh ye bhi nahi maloom woh kaun the. Yaad bhi nahi kaise dikhte the.”
Dadi sighed heavily, her heart had always ached for this boy orphaned too early.
“Woh chhod! Kal ko tu shaadi karega! Tere biwi bachhe honge! Tu kya chahta hai? Tere bachhe tujhe aise yaad rakhe?”
Kanhaiyya was getting irritated. He didn’t want to get married. Or have kids. It would be considered a success if he was able to die with a respectable profession to his name. He threw aside the stick of the kulfi and stood up abruptly. His voice came louder than he intended it to.
“Koi mujhe yaad rakhe ya na rakhe, mujhe koi farak nahi padhta!”
“Koi aur yaad rakhe na rakhe, bas tu mujhe yaad rakh! Mujhe achaa lagega!”
Aalam remembered the words he had spoken before sending Hamza back outside. Now as Omar grabbed him by the throat and demanded who else was with him in this espionage, he waited eagerly for death. Although he knew, it would not come to him so kindly. Maybe now was the time that he might have to pay back for his sins, for all his thefts.
When Hamza walked in a moment later, Aalam looked at him. Even as the blood from the cuts he had made himself seeped into his eyes, it could not hide the pride that flickered in Aalam’s gaze for Hamza. Jaskirat.
The day Hamza Ali Mazari had successfully killed Rehman Dakait and had made everyone believe that he had tried to be the saviour once again, Aalam knew this boy would go places. And by places, he meant Lyari, Karachi and the rotten terrorism inside Pakistan.
His job would be done then. It might have been considered done that day as well.All he had to do was bring Hamza till here, lead his way up to Lyari’s throne. Teach him patience and give him tactics until he could handle everything on his own. He was Hamza’s charioteer. Saarthi.
Hamza had it in him to become Arjuna. Hamza would be the Mahanayak. Aalam had done his job as his Krishna.
He wasn’t expecting Hamza to raise his gun at him.The first bullet hit him and a sharp pain shot through his abdomen, blood splattering on his kameez. He barely registered the second and third bullets, until all he could feel was warm blood seeping out and the strength in his body giving out.
As his body fell limp in Omar’s hold, he thought of the favour Hamza had done for him. A favour he hadn’t even asked for, a favour he wouldn’t be able to repay in this lifetime. The favour of death. A peaceful one at that. He knew it must not have been easy for him to press the trigger, but he had done so.
It was as if this Kanhaiyya had whispered in his Arjun’s ear.
As his breaths shallowed in his burning chest and darkness enveloped around him, he heard Hamza’s low voice. Jala do inki laashe. Burn their bodies.
Not only had his Hamza given him a peaceful death, but also a ceremonious funeral. In his last breath, Kanhaiyya felt grateful that his immoral life tainted with thefts and lowly crimes had attained a legitimate end with a sacrifice for his motherland.
Months later, when Hamza travelled to Dubai for his meeting with Sanyal Sir, he carried the cremated ashes of Aalam Bhai and Pinda with him. He requested Sushant Bansal to scatter Aalam Bhai’s ashes in the Ganga river.
Aalam Bhai never got the chance to tell the story of his life. But Hamza remembered that he was from Bareilly. Flowing through the Ramganga river, he hoped that his ashes would reach the banks at Bareilly and Aalam Bhai would reunite with his motherland once again.
[Authors Note: I was inspired to write this after reading a comment under this song on YT. Also, this sounded way way better in my head. I had also written more than half of the backstory of Aalam Bhai (how he was recruited), but it wasn't satisfactory. Also, I have my entrance in a week . So I thought it would be wise to post at least this much. If and when I complete Aalam Bhai's backstory, I will post it in a second part or maybe, edit this one if its possible.]
Everyday I read some new piece of fiction on the internet and I just think about how lucking I am to be reading this for free. This is one those pieces.
The loose trousers, now ripped at his knees? Begged. The flashy T-shirt which had lost its colours? Borrowed. The Motorola MicroTAC phone in his pocket? Stolen.
Over the years, theft had become more of a habit than a skill. The city of Bareilly provided a buzzing site for it, filled with locals and tourists who came in search of the jhumka of Bareilly. Some of them would go home and realize that they had lost one of their belongings.
But, Kanhaiyya was a soft-hearted boy.
The elders of the village had accepted him as their collective son. They had often condemned his unethical ways. They had tried to reform him, but all in vain. He used to joke around with them whenever they scolded him for his thievery. Especially in front of Vikas Baba who was a priest in a nearby Krishna temple.
“Tumhara Kanha kare toh natkhat, aur ye Kanhaiyya kare toh jurm!”
He used to flex whatever he had stolen- sometimes a gold luxury watch,other times a wallet filled with cash, rarely a phone, and used to argue fervently, without meaning any of it.
“Ab jaisa naam, waisa kaam!”
Vikas Baba then used to run behind him with a stick despite his weak knees.
“Bhagwan maakhanchor the! Paaketmaar nahi!”
Kanhaiyya’s laughter echoed loud in the temple’s courtyard.
One summer morning, as Dadi sat under the shadow of the banyan tree enjoying the kulfi that Kanhaiyya had bought for them, her eyes narrowed at him. She clicked her tongue in disapproval of what he had become.
“Ye chori-chakari karke tujhe kya milta hai?”
Kanhaiyya threw a disinterested glance at her and muttered.
“Do time ka khana, kapde aur ek makan.”
He had had this conversation many times.
“Woh toh mai bhi tujhe de doon!”
“Aur jab aapka beta aapko Banaras bula lega? Tab kya? Bheek maangne pe utar jau?”
Dadi knew she would never get invited to her son’s house now that her daughter-in-law did not like her interference. All she wanted now was that Kanhaiyya, her son not in blood but bond, would make a good life for himself.
“Ye chori ki cheezein kabhi tikti nahi hai! Achaa kaam nahi hai, Kanhaiyya!”
There was a long pause. If not her scoldings, if not her lectures, then at least the faith of his dead parents could budge him. That was what Dadi thought.
She bent down to caress the back of his head, and asked.
“Tere maa- baap tujhe swarg se dekhenge, toh kya sochenge tere baare mein? Kaisi zindagi banayi hain tune apne liye?”
Kanhaiyya knew nothing of his parents. Except for the tale that Dadi had told him once. It sounded like a poorly made-up sad story to his teenage self. His mother had died while giving birth to him. His father, a patient of terminal illness, had wept and wept in the hospital. He had lamented that there would be no one to take care of his newborn son.
Dadi was there at that time. She had assured his father that if he ever needed someone to look after his son, she would be there. Only eight years later, his dying father had found Dadi’s address in Bareilly. He left his young son at the station and headed straight to the hospital. When Kanhaiyya turned up at the doorstep of the scribbled address, he had found the door locked. As it turned out, Dadi had gone to Banaras to stay with her son.
Poor Kanhaiyya was left to fend for himself all alone in this unknown city. He slept outside Dadi’s house at night and wandered around during the daytime. It was then, that he had taken to stealing. It started with food. Rotis, sweets and prasad. Soon he was stealing money when he realized that it brought greater returns than anything else.
Dadi returned a whole year later. The old woman who lived alone in her shabby house had recognized this boy in an instant. She took him in her arms, and apologized for her absence. It was her who had given him the name- Kanhaiyya. She used to say that he was in Gokul now, and that she was his Yashoda Maiya.
Like any other person, he should have felt grief at the thought of his long gone parents. But he felt nothing. No matter how much he tried. He gave a slight shrug, and answered.
“Jo sochna hai woh soch lenge. Mujhe toh ye bhi nahi maloom woh kaun the. Yaad bhi nahi kaise dikhte the.”
Dadi sighed heavily, her heart had always ached for this boy orphaned too early.
“Woh chhod! Kal ko tu shaadi karega! Tere biwi bachhe honge! Tu kya chahta hai? Tere bachhe tujhe aise yaad rakhe?”
Kanhaiyya was getting irritated. He didn’t want to get married. Or have kids. It would be considered a success if he was able to die with a respectable profession to his name. He threw aside the stick of the kulfi and stood up abruptly. His voice came louder than he intended it to.
“Koi mujhe yaad rakhe ya na rakhe, mujhe koi farak nahi padhta!”
“Koi aur yaad rakhe na rakhe, bas tu mujhe yaad rakh! Mujhe achaa lagega!”
Aalam remembered the words he had spoken before sending Hamza back outside. Now as Omar grabbed him by the throat and demanded who else was with him in this espionage, he waited eagerly for death. Although he knew, it would not come to him so kindly. Maybe now was the time that he might have to pay back for his sins, for all his thefts.
When Hamza walked in a moment later, Aalam looked at him. Even as the blood from the cuts he had made himself seeped into his eyes, it could not hide the pride that flickered in Aalam’s gaze for Hamza. Jaskirat.
The day Hamza Ali Mazari had successfully killed Rehman Dakait and had made everyone believe that he had tried to be the saviour once again, Aalam knew this boy would go places. And by places, he meant Lyari, Karachi and the rotten terrorism inside Pakistan.
His job would be done then. It might have been considered done that day as well.All he had to do was bring Hamza till here, lead his way up to Lyari’s throne. Teach him patience and give him tactics until he could handle everything on his own. He was Hamza’s charioteer. Saarthi.
Hamza had it in him to become Arjuna. Hamza would be the Mahanayak. Aalam had done his job as his Krishna.
He wasn’t expecting Hamza to raise his gun at him.The first bullet hit him and a sharp pain shot through his abdomen, blood splattering on his kameez. He barely registered the second and third bullets, until all he could feel was warm blood seeping out and the strength in his body giving out.
As his body fell limp in Omar’s hold, he thought of the favour Hamza had done for him. A favour he hadn’t even asked for, a favour he wouldn’t be able to repay in this lifetime. The favour of death. A peaceful one at that. He knew it must not have been easy for him to press the trigger, but he had done so.
It was as if this Kanhaiyya had whispered in his Arjun’s ear.
As his breaths shallowed in his burning chest and darkness enveloped around him, he heard Hamza’s low voice. Jala do inki laashe. Burn their bodies.
Not only had his Hamza given him a peaceful death, but also a ceremonious funeral. In his last breath, Kanhaiyya felt grateful that his immoral life tainted with thefts and lowly crimes had attained a legitimate end with a sacrifice for his motherland.
Months later, when Hamza travelled to Dubai for his meeting with Sanyal Sir, he carried the cremated ashes of Aalam Bhai and Pinda with him. He requested Sushant Bansal to scatter Aalam Bhai’s ashes in the Ganga river.
Aalam Bhai never got the chance to tell the story of his life. But Hamza remembered that he was from Bareilly. Flowing through the Ramganga river, he hoped that his ashes would reach the banks at Bareilly and Aalam Bhai would reunite with his motherland once again.
[Authors Note: I was inspired to write this after reading a comment under this song on YT. Also, this sounded way way better in my head. I had also written more than half of the backstory of Aalam Bhai (how he was recruited), but it wasn't satisfactory. Also, I have my entrance in a week . So I thought it would be wise to post at least this much. If and when I complete Aalam Bhai's backstory, I will post it in a second part or maybe, edit this one if its possible.]
A heartbroken Yalina cannot accept that her Hamza has left. Disappeared into the web of lies he had lived through. Grieving, she writes letters to him and asks her father to somehow make sure they reach him. Jaskirat. The letters hold all the things she wanted to tell him, and all the things that have been going on around her after he left. Losing him has made her realize that she would like to have him back again, despite every lie and her broken trust.
Ha
Jas
Hamza,
Abbu said that you were gone. Gone. Where? When? How? He did not tell me anything. He told me that forgetting you would be better for us all. Is it that easy? To forget everything? Did you forget me so soon?
I have so many questions. Was everything a facade to you from the start? Did you never love me? I like to believe that you did. It helps me keep my sanity.
I don’t know what to do here. Zayan keeps asking me when you will come back. I don’t have any answers. I let him watch TV and play video games for longer, so that it will distract him from his endless questions. I feel like a terrible mother.
Did you feel like a terrible father? When you left him? As much as I thought I would have wanted you to feel half as much pain as I am experiencing, I don't.
Abbu has decided that Zayan and I should shift to Islamabad. I will complete my medical degree there. And later, he wants me to settle down in Vancouver.
Vancouver. I have only ever visited Paris until now. I had loved it so much, and I had dreamt of travelling the entire world. After you became the King of Karachi, I thought we would fulfill that dream of mine together.
I wish we could have gone to Vancouver that night. I wish you had come back that night.
Recently, I have been thinking a lot about coming to India. Maybe then, I can find you there.
If this letter finds you, then please come back. I am still waiting for you.
We have shifted to Islamabad. I have enrolled into the medical college. But everything feels different here.
Zayan insisted that I make a phone call to you, so that he could talk to his Abbu and ask him to come home. Foolishly so, I tried ringing your number. Ofcourse, no one picked up. His questions had to stop. I told him that his Abbu was a superhero and the world needed saving. I told him that you would come back after saving the world.
In a few years, he will stop believing in this and I will have to find another reason, another excuse.
You did save your world though, and destroyed mine. The news channels are still covering the deaths of the people whose names were in your diary, even after months.
Abbu was asking that I allow Zayan to stay back with them in Karachi. He thinks I won’t be able to take care of him alongside the degree. I did not agree, and brought him here with me. I cannot lose Zayan as well, he is all I have got.
I don’t understand why everyone is trying to take everything away from me.
Also, it was revealed that Uzair Baloch was also an Indian spy. Did you know? Of course, you might have. I believe you both worked together. I wonder what Ulfat Bhabhi must have felt about it. I couldn’t believe it myself. He had been in the politics and gangs of Lyari for such a long time.
God knows what will happen to him after his conviction.
What happened to you? I want to know. Where are you? Are you safe? Happy? Did you return back to your land? Did you meet your family? Do you have a wife there? I hope not. Or else, I would come there and then burn you alive in your sleep.
A teardrop marked the end of that line.
At least then, I would be able to see you.
I am writing down the address of our Islamabad house below. If you come, and when you do, come there.
I had a big fight with Abbu. As it turns out, he was not sending you my letters. I found the last two still tucked away into his drawer. I threatened him that I would cut off all contact with him if he did not send these to you wherever you are. He told me the reason was my safety. But I do not care about it anymore.
I am ready to go to the depths of hell if it means somehow reaching you. You will think I am being stubborn, and I know you do not like it, but as I said I do not care anymore.
Sometimes when I think for too long, I think it’s all my fault.
I didn’t let you know because I didn’t want you to feel guilty. Also because I knew, that you did not have much time. But that day, Omar had come home along with his Task Force.
He had held Zayan at gunpoint. My little boy, he was so scared and it was hurting him. Omar asked me if you were an Indian agent. I wanted to fight for you, tell him otherwise, I really did. But I just couldn’t.
That bastard had my boy.
I felt so helpless and I just broke down into cries so I could have our Zayan, safe and sound in my arms. Now I feel like I should have defended you that day, should have fed them some lies.
Remember what I had told you the night that I had come to know of your truth? I had said that I wanted my child safe. In that moment, in front of Omar, my worst fear had materialised.
But I should have tried anyway. Unfortunately, I am not as smart as you. I couldn't imagine something bad happening to Zayan. I thought I saved him, but at what expense? I should have tried harder.
Maybe then, you would still be here with us. You, me and Zayan. And I wouldn’t have to write letters that wouldn’t be read or responded to, while making sure my Abbu sends them.
He is searching for a place for us in Vancouver through his contacts. Once it is fixed, I will write to you that address as well. By any miracle, if you happen to come and find us again, we would both be there.
- During the earlier days of Rehman and Ulfat's marriage, there were multiple times when Uzair almost called Ulfat "Ammi" because she cared for him so lovingly and that reminded him of the blurred memories of his own mother. Ulfat noticed that, but she neither pointed it out nor asked him to stop calling her that.
- Jasleen Singh, slowly met the same fate as her mother, Prableen Kaur Rangi. Both widowed and being left with two children (until her mother had lost her son too) a son and a daughter, and only having each other. When Jasleen looked at herself in the mirror, her mother stared back at her for a moment and then she was herself again.
Years later, when Jasleen's son tells her that he wants to join the army, her heart lurches. She sees her Jassi Bhai in him. Although she allows him to do so, she vows to protect her son and the remaining of her family from any doom that could come their way. Because, she doesn't want to turn into her mother once again and she doesn't want her daughter to experience what she did when they had brought the news of her Bhai's kidnapping.
(Although I have said this before, I will say it again!)
- JASLEEN, her name derived from her two elder siblings- JASKIRAT and HARLEEN, both of whom she lost at the end.
- Just like that, I wonder what Jaskirat's father's name is. Maybe something beginning with Har? Since, his mother's name is Prableen it is quite possible that the Rangi parents named their first child, Harleen after both of them.
- Tittu, a member of the MLA'S family begs Jaskirat not to kill him for old time's sake. He says they used to play together in childhood. They did. Ghar-Ghar and other pretend games. Tittu used to become the Raja, and Harleen was always the Rani. Tittu argued that he deserved the throne because he actually lived in a haveli while Harleen said she deserved it because she was the eldest of them all. Jaskirat became the Commander-in-Chief (senapati) and they all persuaded Jasleen to play the maid. Pinda was always unexpectedly happy to play her counterpart.
Years later, when Tittu assaulted Harleen, ordered by his Uncle just for a piece of land, it was not just the atrocity committed by him that shook her, but also the betrayal of her trust, not only in friendship but also in humanity.
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