#akshay

Ulfat was arranging the wrought-iron table in the garden, preparing for the ritual that unfolded every evening without fail. Every day, at exactly five o’clock, Rehman arrived.

For one sacred hour, they sat beneath the fading amber sky, listening to their neighbour, Akhtar Sahab—a renowned ghazal and thumri singer—practice his evening raags.

Sometimes they spoke softly about their day. Other times, silence settled comfortably between them, accompanied only by music and cigarette smoke curling into dusk.

Today began no differently.

Rehman entered through the garden gate and pressed a lingering kiss to Ulfat’s forehead. His gaze lingered on her with dangerous devotion; the kind of love that could nurture life just as easily as destroy it.

Together they settled into their chairs while Ulfat poured tea with effortless grace.

Right on cue, the deep hum of the tanpura vibrated through the evening air, signalling the beginning of Akhtar Sahab’s riyaaz.

But today, another voice emerged beside his.

A new voice.

A hauntingly beautiful feminine voice drifted through the breeze like incense smoke—soft, intoxicating, impossible to ignore. Ulfat paused mid-motion and slowly lifted her eyes toward the neighbouring terrace, trying to catch a glimpse of the unseen singer. She saw nothing.

Only heard.

The voice unsettled her in the most comforting way imaginable.

Beside her, Rehman had already fallen under its spell. The melody seeped into the hollow places inside him, places untouched since childhood, wrapping around old wounds with terrifying tenderness.

“Koi nayi hai shayad…” Ulfat murmured quietly, still straining to glimpse the owner of the voice.

“Hmm… sundar gaa rahi hai,” Rehman replied, the strange calm spreading through him like opium.

The tabla rhythms deepened.

Above them, Bhairavi sat cross-legged beside the tanpura, utterly consumed by the thumri she sang. Her eyes remained closed as though she were not performing, but praying. Each note left her lips with reverence, devotion pouring into every syllable.

When the composition ended, Akhtar Sahab gave a slow approving nod, the ghost of a smile appearing beneath his moustache.

Bhairavi’s face lit up instantly.

Acceptance.

Her childhood dream had finally taken shape.

To become a disciple of Akhtar Sahab had once felt impossible. Yet now, here she was—sitting before the very man whose music had shaped her upbringing.

“Tume wo chamak hai, bas aur thoda mehnat hai phir aasman chu logi tum.”

Bhairavi immediately bent down to touch his feet, just as her parents had taught her.

Her family carried music in their blood.

During Partition, her grandparents had been displaced from their homeland. To survive, her grandmother Asha—a once locally celebrated Kathak dancer—began teaching young girls in cramped courtyards and narrow lanes.

Her grandfather Dheeraj taught tabla to eager students with worn-out hands and fading eyesight.

The legacy endured.

Bhairavi’s mother, Shanti, now taught Kathak, while her late father—once Dheeraj’s devoted disciple—had also taught tabla before his death. Bhairavi had inherited not only their talent, but also the crushing expectations attached to it.

Becoming Akhtar Sahab’s disciple was more than achievement.

It was duty. Inheritance.

A worker suddenly interrupted the moment.

“Sahab wo Rehman bhai ke parivar wale aye hain.” The servant hurried away.

Bhairavi froze.

Rehman?

As in Rehman Dakait?

A flicker of unease crossed her face before Akhtar Sahab gently patted her head.

“Acche log hai woh, humare acche dost.”

He gestured for her to follow.

Carefully placing the tanpura beside the harmonium, Bhairavi rose and followed him downstairs.

-------------------------------------------------

“Arre Rehman bhai aap aaj yahan?” Akhtar greeted warmly before embracing him. Their friendship stretched back decades, bound together by old loyalties and buried favours.

“Aye baithiye.”

Rehman and Ulfat settled onto the sofa while Ulfat’s eyes subtly wandered around the room, searching.

Searching for that voice.

“Arre Khalid! Chai lao jaldi!” Akhtar ordered before turning back toward Rehman.

“Bataye Rehman Bhai kese ana hua?”

“Bas wahi haar bar ki tarah, aapke sangeet ki gunj hume khich layi Akhtar bhai.” Rehman praised.

Akhtar smiled proudly.

Meanwhile, Bhairavi had quietly descended from the terrace and now stood hidden behind the curtains, peeking nervously into the living room.

“Aaj ek nayi awaz sunne ko mili aaj,” Ulfat said immediately, unable to conceal her curiosity despite the softness of her smile.

Akhtar laughed.

“Beta Bhairavi bahar aao tumse milne aaye hain! Wo Bhairavi thi, humari nyi shisya, aaj hi ayi hai, ye humare wo Shanti jo kathak sikhati hain unki beti hain.”

“Bhairavi…” Rehman repeated the name under his breath.

The word itself felt cool against his tongue.

Bhairavi hesitated before stepping into the room, her anklets chiming softly with every step.

Rehman’s breath nearly faltered.

Brown eyes. Chocolate skin glowing beneath the golden wash of evening sunlight. Long braided hair. A modest salwar suit.

She stood slightly behind her guru like a sheltered creature unaware of the wolves staring at her.

“Prana—” Bhairavi caught herself nervously. “Assalam walekum.”

“Walaikum assalam,” Ulfat replied warmly.

Yet beneath that warmth lurked something darker. Protective, Possessiveness.

The girl looked painfully innocent for a world like theirs.

“Kitne saal ki ho Bhairavi?” Ulfat asked gently.

“Ji ek mahine pehle 21 ki hui.”

Bhairavi fidgeted with her fingers as she spoke. She had always been painfully shy, especially around strangers. Before coming downstairs, she had rehearsed conversations in her mind repeatedly so she would not embarrass herself before her guru.

Seeing her nervousness Ulfat stood up. Bhairavi straightened instantly.

Ulfat took her hands into her own. Soft. Far too soft.

That was the first thought crossing Ulfat’s mind.

Bhairavi’s cheeks flushed crimson at the sudden contact. Startled, she instinctively looked toward Akhtar Sahab, who merely smiled knowingly.

“Tum bohot sundar gaati ho Bhairavi. Jese tumhari awaz suni khudko rok hi nahi payi tumse milne.”

As Ulfat caressed her cheek affectionately, a strange nickname formed silently inside her mind. Small chipmunk.

Rehman noticed it. The blush creeping across Bhairavi’s face. The way Ulfat eyes lingered.

The way she touched her.

Jealousy burned inside him, sharp and ugly—yet beneath it coiled another emotion.

Relief.

At least he was no longer alone in feeling it.

“Akhtar ji. Mein chati hun ki aap Bhairavi ke sath har sham, humare yahan Riyaz karein!” Ulfat exclaimed brightly while wrapping an arm around Bhairavi.

“Arre aap kyun itni dikkat—”

“Inki awaz bohot mithi hai, Ulfat ko bohot pasand ayi, humare varande mein mein intezam karwa denge?” Rehman interrupted smoothly, never taking his eyes off Bhairavi.

“Humari biwi ko jo pasand..hume bhi wahi pasand…”

He lit a cigarette leisurely.

The moment Bhairavi glanced toward him, a strange sensation crawled beneath her skin. Her fingers instinctively twisted around her dupatta.

“Ab unki tammana hum puri na kare toh kese hoga?” Rehman added with a charming smile that made Akhtar laugh.

“Yeh sahi kaha apne Rehman bhai! biwi khush toh Ghar khush!” Akhtar clapped his hands on his own joke.

Ulfat tightened her arm around Bhairavi.

“Toh bhaishab hum han samjhien?”

“Kya bolti ho beti?” Akhtar asked gently.

Bhairavi swallowed hard.

All three of them were staring at her now.

“J-Ji…” she stammered softly, lowering her eyes. “Aap jo chahein guruji…”

Ulfat hugged her immediately in excitement.

Bhairavi stiffened completely in her arms.

“H-heh…”

Nothing coherent escaped her lips.

She truly was terrible with people.

“Hum abhi jake taiyari shuru karwate hain! Kal se ayega thik hai!” Ulfat clapped happily, already planning every detail inside her head.

Rehman watched his wife fondly before turning toward Akhtar.

“Shukriya Akhtar bhai, Aaj apne Hume bohot khus Kiya hai.”

“Esme kya bhai, apne humari itni madat bhi jo ki hai! Ye toh uske samne kuch nhi!”

Meanwhile, Ulfat still hadn’t released Bhairavi.

“Tumhe khane mein kya pasand hai?” she asked softly.

“Uh huh?” Bhairavi blinked nervously, overwhelmed by the attention.

“Tumhe khane mein kya pasand hai..?”

“J-Ji kuch b-bhi!”

“Accha mithe mein kya pasand hai?”

“J-Ji siwaiyan?”

“Kabse sikh rahi ho?”

“Ji bachpan se jab mein 5 saal ki thi.”

Ulfat nodded slowly, though her gaze occasionally drifted toward the girl’s lips.

Taking Bhairavi’s delicate hands once more, she whispered softly,

“Mujhe tumhari awaaz bohot khubsurat lagi…”

Bhairavi blushed instantly.

“Ekdum mishri hai tumhari awaz mein.”

Ulfat’s thumb slowly stroked the back of Bhairavi’s hand while she admired those wide doe eyes—eyes that nervously flickered between her and Rehman before lowering again.

Ulfat noticed everything.

Every tremble.

Every blush.

Every nervous glance.

“Chalein Jaan?” Rehman finally asked, snapping Ulfat out of her trance.

“…Han chaliye…”

Reluctantly, she loosened her hold on the girl.

Rehman stepped beside his wife.

“Bhairavi…”

His deep rough voice cut through the room heavily.

“Aap bohot sundar gaati hain, humari begum ko bohot pasand ayi aap...abb jo unhe pasand hai aur humein pasand naa aye esa toh kabhi ho hi nhi sakta.”

He wrapped an arm around Ulfat’s waist before lowering his voice further.

“Aur humari begum ko kuch pasand aye aur hum unhe usse na de toh hum kese shohar hue?”

There was something deeply unsettling behind his smile now.

Something hunting.

Bhairavi gulped nervously, unconsciously tightening her grip around Ulfat’s hand.

“Rehman Usse dara kyun rahe ho?!” Ulfat swatted his arm with mock annoyance.

“Jaan bas bata raha tha!” he defended lightly.

“tum unpe dhyan na do! Kal milte hain? Thik hai? Ye samajho abb tum humari ghar ki hui...”

Ulfat gently patted Bhairavi’s head.

And for reasons she could not explain, Bhairavi felt something cold settle deep within her chest.

Idk what is that 😭🙏 should I continue?

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