#azhagiwrites

A Rehman Dakait x Reader fic Masterlist

a/n: This is a fic for @mainyahaankyunhoon, a writer I've always silently admired since my early days in the Dhurandhar fandom :) I loved the prompt of Rehman x singlemother!reader, and I really hope I've done justice to your idea. Also, a HUGE thank you to @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange for organising this event! Thank you so much for taking the effort to create such an amazing event, and I'm so honoured to be part of it :) This fic is VERY canon divergent. It is solely based on Akshaye Khanna’s portrayal of Rehman Dakait in the movie Dhurandhar and has nothing to do with the gangster Rehman Dakait in any way, shape or form. I sincerely hope he is being tortured in the worst way possible, wherever he is. Rest of the notes (and a psa) are at the end! PART 2 | PART 3

You were running late.

Lyari traffic was insane. Crowds of men moving across narrow roads, hawkers pushing carts full of vegetables and fruits through throngs of bodies, jeeps whirring past like traffic rules didn’t exist, shaking everything in their wake. Your rickshaw was speeding too — there were really no laws in a town governed by guns and knives— but the people in front of you were making it difficult.  The heat didn't help either. It felt like the sun had developed a grudge against humanity, and no amount of water seemed capable of soothing your dry throat.

Naturally, you blamed Khanani.

The man had somehow transformed petty revenge and employer entitlement into an art form. After you'd blackmailed him into hiring you, a tactic you had to use to keep a roof over your head and pay fees and bills on time, he had developed an uncanny habit of finding ‘urgent’ work fifteen minutes before your lunch break. Never enough to keep you until evening — that would’ve gone against the terms of your contract — just enough to ensure you left at the worst possible time, when Lyari's roads became a battlefield of traffic and impatience.

Today was no different.

Your feet were on the road before the auto could halt, and you threw a few notes at the driver before rushing through the school gates, weaving past the security guard and into the lobby. The space was empty now, save a tired receptionist, the afternoon chatter long gone, and your eyes immediately darted across the room for a familiar mop of black hair, a blue backpack, anything that belonged to Ayaan, but there was no sign of him. 

You walked towards the classrooms, heart pounding against your ribs as you searched for your son. The corridors were eerily quiet now, stripped of the chaos that usually accompanied dismissal, and with every empty classroom you passed, the knot in your stomach pulled a little tighter. Just as you were beginning to wonder whether he'd wandered off somewhere he wasn't supposed to, you heard an unmistakable childlike voice from the ground. 

“Aur agar Babar fifty maarta na…” 

Relief hit you so abruptly that you nearly laughed. Following the sound, you walked out into the courtyard, only to find your son standing on top of a bench, cricket bat tucked beneath one arm as he passionately lectured his class teacher about a match she couldn’t care less about, unlike his almost religious devotion with which he followed cricket. His tie was crooked, his shirt untucked as he gestured dramatically with his free hand. He picked up his bottle — presumably to use it as a makeshift bat — when he saw you. 

“AMMI!”

He abandoned both his audience and his cricket analysis without a second thought, sprinting across the courtyard and nearly crashing into you as his small arms wrapped around your waist. “Aap phir se late aayi.”

You scooped him into your arms before he could protest, pressing a quick kiss against his temple and silently thanking every higher power in existence for the fact that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. 

“Haan, aur tum phir Rukhsaar ma’am ko cricket padha rahe the,” you muttered, adjusting his shirt. “Bag lekar aao, ghar chalte hai.”

Ayaan nodded enthusiastically and rushed towards the neem tree under which he had abandoned his backpack, nearly tripping over his own shoelaces in the process.

"Ma’am, aap please thoda jaldi aayein."

You turned to find Rukhsaar — his class teacher — offering you a tired but sympathetic smile.

"Ayaan aap ke liye roz intezaar karta hai. Complain nahi karta, lekin aap har din ek ghante late nahi aa sakte. Bahut bhook lagta hai usko." She adjusted the stack of notebooks in her arms before continuing gently, "Hum jaante hain aap bahut kaam karte hain par please."

Guilt settled heavily in your chest.

“Haan,” you admitted quietly, watching him walk towards you, backpack bouncing against his shoulders with every step. “Koshish kar rahi hu.”

Ayaan arrived a few seconds later, backpack slung over one shoulder and cricket bat clutched triumphantly in his hand.

“Chalein?” he asked, as though he hadn't just lectured a teacher on batting techniques.

You shook your head fondly and took his hand.

“Chalein.”

The journey home passed much like every other weekday. Ayaan narrated every important event of his day with the urgency of a war correspondent, pausing only to take dramatic breaths before launching into the next story. By the time you reached home, you knew which classmate had stolen whose eraser, who had cried during mathematics, and why Pakistan's batting order needed immediate intervention. 

Once you were home, however, your peace was short-lived.

Ayaan was left in the care of the house help with strict instructions to finish his homework while you freshened up and rushed back to Khanani's office, somehow managing to make it before the clock struck 2. He had recently decided he needed a new cricket bat, and unfortunately for your bank account, your son rarely abandoned an obsession once it took root.

By the time you got home again, the sun had already set. Ayaan finished his homework at the dining table — he always managed to convince the househelp that he could play first and complete his homework once you were home — while you answered emails from Khanani, both of you occasionally stealing food from the same plate. It wasn't the life you had imagined at twenty-seven, but it had become its own comforting routine, even if you woke up with dark circles under your eyes the next day.

Ayaan had fallen asleep on the couch halfway through a cartoon, teddy bear dangling from one hand while the television cast blue light across the room. You carried him to bed without waking him, pausing only when he mumbled something incoherent about cricket before burying his face deeper into your shoulder.

A few hours later, a terrified scream shattered the silence.

You were out of the chair before the scream even ended, not caring about the email you were drafting or the toe you stubbed as you rushed towards the singular room. Somewhere, something clattered to the floor in your haste, but your only concern was the cry that had torn through the apartment.

He was sitting upright in bed, small shoulders shaking violently beneath his blanket, tears streaming down his face. The nightlight cast long shadows across the room, making him look much younger than five.

“Ayaan?” You gathered him into your arms. “Kya hua? Bad dream dekha?”

Your son buried his face in your neck, clutching your nightsuit so tightly that the fabric bunched beneath his fists. For a moment, all you could hear were ragged little breaths.

Then, in a voice so small it barely sounded like him, he asked:

“Vaapas nahi aayega na?”

Your breath caught as he choked out another sob, his tears straining your neck and your clothes. He didn't sound hopeful when he asked it; if anything, he sounded afraid of the opposite answer, as though some lingering part of the nightmare had followed him into the waking world and he needed you to reassure him that it wasn't real, that the door wouldn't suddenly open one day and bring old fears back with it. 

You tilted his face towards yours, your heart breaking when you saw his puffy, red eyes and the dried tracks of tears running down his cheeks.

“Abhi tak aaya hai?” you asked softly.

Ayaan shook his head.

“Phone kiya hai?”

Another shake.

“Darwaza knock kiya hai?”

“Nahi.”

You brushed a damp curl away from his forehead.

“Toh phir kyun lagta hai ki aaj aayega?”

His lower lip trembled.

“Bad dream mein aaya.”

Your heart clenched at the sound of it.

Children were strange that way. They could spend months avoiding a subject, refusing to utter a name, pretending a person no longer existed — only for a nightmare to drag every buried fear back to the surface. The words were small, but they carried a weight no five-year-old should have been carrying.

You pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Woh nahi aayega, mera sher,” you whispered. “Kabhi nahi aayega. Aur main yahin hu.”

Ayaan eventually drifted back to sleep with his face pressed against your shoulder, small fingers still curled into your nightshirt, as if he were afraid you might disappear too. You remained there long after his breathing evened out, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and wondering when exactly motherhood had become synonymous with helplessness.

~~~~~~

Rehman was mad. 

Livid. Furious, even. 

He had been the Baadshah of Lyari, Sher-e-Baloch, leader of the town's largest gang for longer than Jamali had been married, and yet the man still had the audacity to grin at him when an international delivery under his supervision went downhill.

Jamali had welcomed Rehman to his estate with a clap on the shoulder and a slimy smile that made Rehman want to strangle him. Worse, he was acting as though he had no idea the shipment had gone awry, even though he had explicitly assured Rehman that he would ensure the shipment reached its destination on time due to his connections. Rehman knew the man wasn't the brightest politician, but screwing up an entire international delivery required a level of incompetence that bordered on talent.

“Fikr mat kar,” the slimeball had said. “Mera bachcha hai tu. Sab theek kar dunga, tum tension mat lo. Juice lega?”

Rehman had stared at him like he had grown a pair of horns. 

“Juice?”

“Haan.” Jamali had gestured towards the jug on his desk, too relaxed for a man responsible for losing a shipment worth more than most people would see in their lifetimes. “Aam ka hai.”

For a brief moment, Rehman had genuinely considered smashing the jug on his pudgy head.

“Jamali sahab,” he said slowly, the way one spoke to particularly stubborn children, “meri delivery gaayab ho gayi hai.”

“Haan, toh dhoondh lenge.”

“International delivery.”

“Rehman baccha , duniya khatam nahi ho gayi.”

No, but Jamali's chances of surviving the morning certainly were.

He left the estate an hour later with his temper hanging by a thread and absolutely nothing to show for it. Uzair, thankfully, didn’t say a word, probably picking up on the headache that was building behind Rehman’s eyes, and broke all traffic rules so he could get home by 11, so he could pop a pill or two and calm down before lunch was served. Khanani had also requested a meeting — that fucker was probably more slimy than twenty Jamalis combined, and while the latter at least treated his workers well, the former was known across Lyari for overworking all his employees, going as far as refusing to send them home till he was satisfied, even if it meant they would have to walk the streets of Lyari alone at midnight.

By the time he reached the haveli, all Rehman wanted was a cigarette, a quiet verandah, and ten uninterrupted minutes to himself. He had barely settled into his chair when something green came flying over the wall and landed on the ground with a sharp thud. 

Rehman's eye twitched. 

Couldn’t a man get five minutes of peace? 

Muttering a curse under his breath, he bent down and picked it up, briefly contemplating whether murder would be considered a reasonable response in this situation. He was an atheist, but if gods were listening, then surely they understood that a man with a splitting headache was being tested beyond human limits. Whoever had launched the ball into his verandah had approximately thirty seconds to explain themselves before Rehman seriously considered driving it to Clifton and throwing it into the Arabian Sea. 

He turned the ball around in his hands, intending to throw it to Uzair, but the scrawled writing made him stop.

UKG-E

Rehman wasn’t stupid. He knew there was a school next door — he barely saw it during working hours, since he was usually at the factory till the sun set — but not once had the workers in the haveli ever mentioned a tennis ball landing in the verandah. It could’ve been a kid from that class; which five-or six-year-old was strong enough to launch a ball from the school grounds, over the compound wall and into the neighbouring house without touching a window or a door?

He was answered a minute later, when one of his guards hobbled in. 

“Rehman bhai, ek bachcha aaya hai, kisi ball dhund raha hai.”

Rehman was unconvinced, but gestured for him to be let in.

A few moments later, a small boy stepped onto the verandah, tie loosened, shirt untucked and a cricket bat clutched in his hand. He looked tiny, almost minuscule against the tall walls of the haveli, like an insect that had flown in somehow. The child offered a polite salaam before his eyes landed on the tennis ball.

“Woh meri hai,” he said, pointing at it. “Cricket khel rahe the, six maara.”

Rehman looked at the ball.

Then at the boy.

Then back at the ball.

No.

Absolutely not.

There was simply no way this tiny creature had launched a ball over a compound wall that half the grown men in Lyari would struggle to climb.

“Uncle?”

Rehman blinked, realising he had been staring for an uncomfortable amount of time. He almost felt sorry for the kid — did an older bully send him to retrieve the ball? How else does one have the gall to stand in front of the most feared person in Lyari, holding their hand out for a tennis ball that was so run-down that it could barely qualify as one anymore?

“Tumne maara tha?”

The boy nodded immediately. “Haan.”

“Nahi.”

The answer escaped before Rehman could register what he was saying.

The boy frowned. “Haan.”

“Beta, jhoot bolna buri baat hai.”

The child's eyes widened in genuine offence.

“Uncle, main jhoot nahi bol raha hu! PT period hai, Tariq sir bathroom se waapas aa jayenge. Mujhe ball leke school jaana hai, warna Tariq sir mujhe khelne nahi denge.” Tears immediately began gathering in his eyes. “Sorry. Main agli baar itna zor se nahi maarunga.”

Rehman sighed and held out the ball before the child could start crying properly. The transformation was immediate. The boy snatched it from his hands as if it were treasure and hugged it to his chest.

“Shukriya!”

He turned to leave before Rehman stopped him.

“Naam kya hai tumhara?”

The boy paused.

“Ayaan.”

“Ayaan kya?”

The boy looked at him in disbelief, like the concept of a surname wasn’t known to him. His shoes were streaked with mud, Rehman noticed. 

“Bas Ayaan.”

“Achcha. Bas Ayaan, main Rehman hu.” 

Ayaan nodded and was halfway out of the gate when Rehman, driven by an instinct he didn’t know he had, called out after him. 

“Aur suno…” 

Ayaan turned to look at him through the bars of the gate. 

“Agli baar ball mere haveli mein nahi, samundar mein phekna.”

Ayaan giggled. “Khuda hafiz, Rehman uncle!”

Rehman nodded. 

“Khuda hafiz, Ayaan.”

The boy took off after that, sprinting at a speed Rehman hadn't thought physically possible for someone whose bat looked larger than his torso. The sight pulled a smile from him, and as Ayaan disappeared back towards the school grounds with the ball tucked in his hand, Rehman realised that, for the first time that day, the headache pounding behind his eyes felt a little easier to ignore.

~~~~~~

“PAAGAL HO KYA?”

You had picked up Ayaan from school early that day, only to be informed by his teacher that your son had left the school grounds during PT period, climbed into the neighbouring haveli belonging to Rehman Dakait of all people, held an entire conversation with the man, retrieved his cricket ball, and returned to school, all within five minutes.

The ensuing panic ensured Ayaan spent the remainder of the school day seated outside the principal's office.

He was now sitting beside you in the auto as it rattled through Lyari's crowded streets, hands folded neatly in his lap, gaze fixed firmly on his fingers as you rambled, alternating between fury, panic, and relief that he was unharmed.

“Agar kuch ho jaata toh?” you demanded. “Kaun dhoondta tumhe? Kaun mujhe batata tum kahan ho? Tumhe andaza bhi hai kitni darr gayi thi main? Ek minute ke liye teacher nahi thi, aur tum seedha kisi ajnabi ke ghar mein ghus gaye!”

“Ammi—”

“Nahi, Ammi mat karo!” you snapped, ignoring the auto driver’s flinch. “Kya soch rahe the? Agar woh aadmi bura hota toh? Agar tujhe kuch ho gaya toh? Kya karti main? Kahan dhoondti?” 

Ayaan’s shoulders curled slightly.  “Bas ball lena tha.”

“Ball?” you repeated incredulously. “Ball? Ek ball ke liye tum compound wall paar karke kisi ke ghar chale gaye?” 

“Wall paar nahi kiya,” he muttered.

“Ayaan!”

“Sorry.”

“Tumhe teacher ko batana chahiye tha! Guard ko batana chahiye tha! Mujhe phone karva dete! Kuch bhi karte, lekin yeh nahi!”

Ayaan rubbed his eyes and crossed his arms, his eyes blinking the way they would when he would get close to crying. 

“Sorry.”

The tiny apology took some wind out of your anger, but not enough.

“Tum paanch saal ke ho,” you said, voice trembling now from panic you hadn't fully recovered from. “Main tumhe do minute ke liye nahi dhoond paayi aur meri jaan nikal gayi. Dobara kabhi aisa mat karna. Samjhe?”

He nodded rapidly.

“Zor se.”

“Ji.”

You leaned back in your seat, letting out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, and scrubbed your hands down your face, thanking the gods that he was safe. Entering Rehman Dakait’s house was something even his closest confidants thought twice about, and your son had boldly done that, had a conversation with the man, called him Uncle — which would’ve been understandable had that not been the most dangerous person in Lyari — and run out with a tennis ball any other trusted adult could’ve retrieved. 

Of course, Ayaan was clueless about Rehman’s identity, and you intended to keep it that way for as long as possible. He was still young enough to believe the world was mostly good, that adults could be trusted, and that every problem could be solved with an apology and a promise not to repeat it. You weren’t planning to introduce him to words like gangs, wars, violence, or the complicated web of loyalties that governed Lyari long before he was old enough to understand them. 

The plan had always been to save enough money to leave. A better city, a better country, anywhere Ayaan could grow up without learning how violence and politics were two sides of the same coin, without learning to be invisible but not weak, without learning how to wield a gun or identify a bomb before he knew the elements that made them. 

At least, that’s what you hoped. 

~~~~~~~~~

a/n: THINGS PICK UP IN PART 2 OKAY. This was supposed to be a four-part series but somehow extended to ten and tbh, I feel ten parts would do way more justice to this amazing prompt. I don't know whether I will be able to get all parts of it out by the 30th, but rest assured, at least Part 3 will be out by then. College is unfortunately starting so the entire fic might take till august to finish, but I hope I finish it before my next round of exams start lol. Please comment/dm if you want to be added or removed from the taglist!

An Uzair Baloch x Reader o/s Masterlist

a/n: Canon divergent. This is solely based on Danish Pandor’s portrayal of Uzair Baloch in the movie Dhurandhar and has nothing to do with the gangster Uzair Baloch in any way, shape or form. I sincerely hope he meets a horrible death. This has also not been proofread. Rest of the notes are below! click here for the song

Uzair had been warned about heartbreak before. 

Pyaar kar, Rehman bhai had told a thirteen-year-old Uzair, after listening to him ramble about the girl who lived two streets away, the one whose schedule he had somehow memorised without meaning to. Beintehaa pyaar kar. Lekin yeh mat sochna ki sirf pyaar karne se sab theek rahega. Ki har baar pyaar hi kaafi hoga.

Ulfat had nodded from where she sat near her husband, handing him a cigarette before turning to Uzair again. Aur bilkul yeh mat sochna ki woh tumhare dimaag mein ghus ke tumhare lafzon ka asli matlab samajh legi. Say things properly, she had meant, for a relationship could not survive misunderstanding cloaked in silence.

He had rolled his eyes then, filing their words away under the same mental category reserved for advice old people gave without understanding how the current world works — the kind that sounded unnecessarily serious when you were thirteen and convinced love was supposed to be simple, fulfilling, and, most of all, an unstoppable force that could survive even the worst of tides. 

Now, he wished he had heeded his bhabhi’s advice. 

He stood in front of open, black gates, watching the lights change colour from red to yellow to red again, the chatter from the guests turning into unintelligible noise to his ears. He knew what was happening — the news had gone beyond the two streets he once called home — and he also knew he wasn’t welcome. 

Yet, he walked in. 

Phir le aaya dil, majboor kya kije Phir le aaya dil, majboor kya kije Raas na aaya rehna door, kya kije 

He had promised himself he wouldn’t come. Promised himself that he wouldn’t sneak into your haveli again. Promised himself that he would drink his problems away in the sanctuary of his room, playing Rafi over and over again till his voice eclipsed the sound of tears and the heaviness of regret and love that still pressed his chest every waking moment. 

His heart, however, had a wish of its own. 

He stared up at your balcony, pretending like every ridge of it wasn’t memorised already — the chipped corner near the railing, the windchime that only rang properly when the breeze came from the east, the faint patch of paint your younger brother had ruined with a cricket ball years ago. His eyes traced the familiar path instinctively, like they had done a hundred times before.

“Pagal ho kya?” you had hissed the first time he climbed up, grabbing his wrist the second his head appeared over the railing, pulling his form from the night. “Koi dekh leta toh?”

He had nearly slipped trying to pull himself over properly, landing awkwardly on your balcony with all the grace of a falling bookcase, still not used to the height he had gained a year ago, right before he turned sixteen. 

“Are, par aaya toh na,” he had muttered defensively, dusting his trousers off like that somehow restored his Balochi dignity.

You had stared at him in complete disbelief.

“Kuch ghante mein school mein milne vale the. Tab tak intezaar nahi kar sakte kya? Raat mein aane ki kya zaroorat?” you asked, glancing nervously towards the door like your father would appear anytime during his nightly rounds. 

He, however, had just run a hand through his hair. “Mujhe bas meri chaand dekhna tha. Socha abhi aa bhi lu, teri ghar itni paas toh hai.”

“Agar abbu ne dekh liya na, hum dono zinda nahi bachenge,” you had whispered harshly, hazel eyes widening. “Tumhari laash balcony ke neeche milegi aur meri ghar ke andar.”

“Mujhe koi taqlif nahi hai,” Uzair had grinned quietly, unable to stop looking at you. “Kam se kam aakhri cheez jo dekhunga, woh tum hogi.”

That had made you laugh softly, your cheeks blooming pink like the roses Ulfat bhabhi grew behind the haveli, the shyness in you still untouched even a month into dating. You had looked away almost immediately after, hiding your smile behind your hand while scolding him under your breath, the fabric of your white nightgown swaying in the breeze as you kissed his cheek.

And Uzair had remembered thinking, very clearly, that sneaking into your balcony was probably worth dying for.

Dil keh raha, use muqammal kar bhi aao Woh jo adhuri si baat baaki hai

He tore his eyes away from the balcony, forcing himself to act like he was admiring the haveli’s decor instead, his gaze drifting toward the courtyard where strings of jasmine had been woven around the trees. A single flower loosened from above, falling slowly through the warm air before landing in his open palm, its smell wafting through the breeze as it entered his lungs.

For a moment, he simply stared at it.

Jasmines were never his favourite flower — indeed, he used to be partial towards sunflowers — but that had changed when you first sat next to him in eighth grade, after months of him pestering Fathima ma’am to let him sit with his friend. She had raised an eyebrow then, considering Uzair was always around his friends, but there was a sly smile on her face when she finally gave in. 

“Yeh lo,” you had grinned, dropping a crushed jasmine flower on his history notebook two months later. “Teri khadoos handwriting se thodi achchi khushbu aayegi. Pass kaise hua mujhe pata nahi—”

Uzair’s jaw had dropped as he stared at you incredulously. “Meri handwriting utni buri nahi hai!”

“Andha ho gaya hai kya? Uzair, Allah ki kasam, doctor bhi sharma jaayega yeh dekhkar.”

You had laughed before he could retaliate, stealing his pen and scribbling your name dramatically across the top of his page instead, ending it with a small heart. He still remembered the jasmine tucked behind your ear that day, the faint smell following him long after you had left.

Since then, jasmines became his favourite flowers, because they were your favourite flowers, and he used that to his advantage, especially after you started dating. He always made something out of them, be it small bouquets, bracelets, anklets, or just pieces that decorated your carefully maintained hair.

“Main baat kar rahi hu tumse.”

Your voice had sounded older that day. Quieter. Exhausted in a way his twenty-year-old mind had not known how to respond to. And Uzair, irritated by the tension gathering between your brows and the constant snapping, had simply reached over and tucked another jasmine flower into your dark tresses, hoping your annoyance would dissolve the way it usually did.

It hadn’t.

But he realised that too late.

Woh jo adhuri si yaad baaki hai Woh jo adhuri si yaad baaki hai

The flower fell from his hands, and he stepped out into the lights again, praying desperately in his mind that your brother was occupied with stuff inside the house to notice his presence. Not that he would do anything — Uzair’s reputation for being a seasoned killer had grown a bit too much for that — but it was probably for the better that his presence remained a secret. He looked around.

Tables had been arranged across the courtyard, surrounded along the perimeter by an elaborate buffet, the heavy aroma of chicken korma, paneer rolls, and mutton biryani slowly drowning out the faint traces of jasmine that still lingered in the warm night air. Waiters moved hurriedly between guests, balancing silver trays, laughter rising and falling beneath the music, the haveli glowing so brightly that it almost looked like the house was inhabited by a picture-perfect family.

Oh, but he knew how far from reality that was. 

You had let it slip while dining at the Baloch haveli on your anniversary, your presence in his house more routine than new. Rehman bhai had passed you another plate of hot naans, and you, too comfortable to observe formalities, were chattering away to glory. 

“Rehman bhai, Ulfat bhabhi, daawat ke liye shukriya,” you had thanked them between morsels, wiping palak sabzi from your chin with the back of your hand. “Ghar mein hum aise nahi khaate. Kabhi ammi apni diet ke liye gyaraah baje khaati hai, Faraz football practice ke baad teen baje khaata hai, aur abbu toh har din daftar mein hi rehte hain, aur main baarah baje khaati hu. Aur—”

Rehman bhai’s expression had shifted almost immediately, concern softening the amusement in his eyes as he exchanged a glance with Ulfat bhabhi.

“Aap log saath mein khaana nahi khaate?” he had asked carefully.

You had blinked at the question, like the answer was obvious. “Eid pe khaate hain?”

The silence that followed had felt oddly heavy before Ulfat bhabhi quietly added another spoonful of biryani onto your plate.

“Toh ab khaogi.”

Uzair chuckled dryly at the memory, at the way Rehman bhai and Ulfat bhabhi had slowly begun treating you like family long before anyone said it aloud, like your place beside him had become such an obvious truth that nobody felt the need to question it anymore. Two children who had loved each other since thirteen and dated since sixteen — nothing was supposed to go wrong. His life had been supposed to move forward with yours stitched into every part of it. He wasn’t supposed to be standing here now, learning how enormous loneliness could feel when shaped exactly like another person’s absence.

Lost in the haze of memory, he barely noticed when the smell of mouth-watering food dissolved into sophisticated room freshener and louder congratulations, the warm orange lights of the living room-turned-banquet hall spilling across the marble floors as he wandered closer.

And then he heard it.

Your laugh.

Karte hain hum aaj qubool, kya kije Ho gayi thi humse bhool, kya kije 

For a second, Uzair didn’t even look up. It had been six months since he last heard that sound, and for one foolish moment, he convinced himself he had imagined it again, his heart conjuring familiar beauty to survive your absence. 

But, he couldn’t keep his gaze averted for long. 

He slowly raised his eyes to look at you, taking in the soft pink of your anarkali — your dream walima outfit, as you had described to him so many times during late-night conversations — the delicate embroidery glimmering beneath the chandelier lights every time you moved. Your hair now fell over one shoulder in loose curls, softer than the tight braids you used to wear with him, and the diamonds resting against your throat caught the light whenever you tilted your head to laugh again.

He couldn’t remember the last time you laughed with him so freely. 

Your husband — Uzair swallowed that word with a bitter taste in his mouth, relishing how it got stuck in his throat like his body was refusing to believe it — wore a matching suit, his arm resting around your shoulders with the same shyness and hesitation that Uzair recognised from his first month of being with you. The unfamiliarity of it struck him unexpectedly; once upon a time, you had looked at him like that too, all shy smiles and nervous glances, before the passage of time had made touching each other feel as natural as breathing.

Somewhere along the way, Uzair had mistaken that comfort for permanence.

Karte hain hum aaj qubool, kya kije Ho gayi thi humse bhool, kya kije 

In hindsight, the signs had been painfully obvious.

He would return your calls hours later. Forget details you repeated thrice. Promise he would make time after one last job, one last delivery, one last mission. And you — who once waited awake for him without complaint — had slowly begun sounding quieter each time he came back.

At first, it was alright. You understood where he came from and the demands of being Rehman’s right-hand man, and even encouraged him to pay attention to his work during his work hours and bother about everything else later. College had occupied your mind too, with courses and academic excellence becoming your priorities.

The plan was simple during your first year — you would call him at 9 pm, when the lights in your house would dim, and he would answer on the second ring if he was free, the fifth if he was slightly busy, and just not pick up if he was caught up in work. It worked fabulously for a year, but the demands of his job caught up, and most times, he wouldn’t even call you back later. 

He still remembered the first time that happened. 

It was during your final exams, and after careful consideration, you had decided that the only call that week would be on a Tuesday, the day after your toughest exam, giving you enough time to recharge before drowning in revision all over again. 

He missed your call. 

The worst part was the fact that he didn’t text you until two days later. 

Uzair: Sorry baba, thoda busy ho gaya tha, delivery mein thode problems ho gaye the Uzair: Exam kaisa gaya?

You hadn’t replied till that night. 

You: Haan kyunki do din ke liye tune apne phone ko ek baar bhi nahi check kiya, na? 

Uzair: Tu jaanti hai vaisa nahi hai. Bas busy tha

You: Do din ke liye koi utna busy nahi hota. Rehman bhai bhi mujhse mile the kal aur unhone bola ki tera kaam kal hi khatam ho gaya tha. Kya teri ‘chaand’ ko ek text bhej nahi sakte?

Uzair had started typing an explanation, but your next messages stopped him in his tracks. 

You: Chhod You: Tum samjhoge nahi You: Main padhne ja rahi hu

Uzair had stared at the messages for a long time afterwards, irritation slowly eclipsing the guilt gnawing at his chest. A part of him understood why you were upset, but another — the louder, more defensive part — couldn’t understand why love suddenly seemed to require constant explanation from him. He had spent the last two days exhausted, handling work that left his bones aching and his mind numb, and somewhere in his nineteen-year-old brain, he had convinced himself that you should simply know that none of it changed how deeply he loved you.

So he had put his phone aside and told himself he would make it up to you later.

The problem was that ‘later’ kept arriving too late.

Dil keh raha hai, use mayassar kar bhi aao Woh jo dabi si aas baaki hai 

Your brows furrowed, eyes glazing in the way they did when you hadn’t eaten or drunk something in a long time, and Uzair felt the primal urge rise inside him again — to take you away from the noise for just an hour. To pull you out of the house, bedecked in your wedding finery, sit you inside his jeep, and drive you to that tiny chai stall on 4th Street where the owner had stopped giving the two of you menus years ago because he already knew your order by heart.

The place where you always stole fries from his plate while insisting yours tasted worse for some reason, where your head would eventually fall against his shoulder once the day got exhausting, where the two of you had once spent three straight hours discussing baby names before dissolving into laughter halfway through because neither of you trusted Uzair to name a living human being responsibly.

“Mehmood-ul-Machhar?” you had wheezed between peals of laughter, nearly dropping your chai in the process. “Aisa naam rakhoge? Trauma milega use.”

Uzair had nearly spewed chai through his nose from laughing so hard. “Trauma nahi, izzat,” he had argued between coughs, taking another sip before he could start laughing again. “Saare machhar uske paas jaayenge aur phir woh unko maarega. Puri Lyari uska shaan karega. Mehmood-ul-Machhar, machharon ki faateh!”

Your eyes glinted with mischief. “Aur siyasti log hamare bacche ko dekhne ke liye itna paisa denge na, hum is sheher chodke Switzerland mein settle ho jaayenge.”

“Switzerland?” Uzair had covered his mouth in mock horror. “Phir beta ka kya hoga? Switzerland mein agar machhar nahi hai toh? Kisko maarega?”

The way your nose had crinkled lived in his memory with painful clarity, your laughter dissolving into quiet giggles as you leaned forward to swat his arm, muttering something about never letting him name your future children. That right was always going to be yours, and he also signed a ‘contract’ — a hastily scribbled note on a tissue — that he wasn’t going to dispute you, whatever name you chose.

And here you were now, probably explaining your baby names, your migraines and the effects of dehydration and hunger to someone who was going to learn all those signs too — and, maybe, even see the new ones that would rise with age. See the irritation. See how your eyes would glaze over. See how you would press your head against the pillow and scream into it. See how you would still play with children, even when the pain threatened to make your vision white. See how you would be as a mother. See how you would be as a wife. 

See a future Uzair thought only he would be privy to.

Woh jo dabi si aanch baaki hai Woh jo dabi si aanch baaki hai Woh jo dabi si aanch baaki hai

The room plunged into darkness. 

Uzair’s body instinctively lurched forward in your direction, but his hand grazing against a marble pillar snapped him back to reality before he could take another step. Around him, laughter and startled murmurs rose immediately, guests pulling out their phones and turning on their flashlights as the sudden absence of music swallowed the hall whole for a second. 

Your husband sucked in a sharp breath, and Uzair just knew it was because your fingers were tightly clasped around his arm, your knuckles turning white while you fought to keep your breath steady. You hated the feeling of being enveloped in darkness, hated how it clung to your skin and entered your body like it was eating you up from the inside out, and it was probably worse since you could hear voices but not see anyone, and the feeling of your heavy anarkali, the jewellery you hated wearing and the hot air of the room made it worse. 

Uzair remembered the first time he saw it — it was in tenth grade, and all the students were ushered into the new auditorium. The only sources of light were a few flickering lightbulbs, but Jamali sahab could inaugurate it only on that date, so every single student was trying to contain their sweating and swearing in the stuffy hall, wondering when Jamali would show up. You were standing next to him, too, cursing the full-sleeved kameez of your uniform, while he tried not to look like a lovesick puppy. Half the school had already started shipping you; there was no reason to add more fuel to the fire, even if he wished that rumour was true. 

Suddenly, the current went out. 

Your hand, which had been adjusting your braid, suddenly clamped around his wrist, and through the commotion of the blackout, Uzair heard how uneven your breathing had become. Your grip was tight enough to leave crescent marks against his skin, but he barely noticed. He had only pulled you closer instinctively, guiding your head against his chest, his palm moving slowly against the back of your head in gentle, steady motions — the same thing his mother used to do whenever nightmares jolted him awake as a child.

“Saans lo,” he had murmured, lowering his voice beneath the noise around you. “Main yahan hoon.”

A few minutes later, the current finally returned, flooding the room with white light and a chorus of relieved laughter, but you had immediately stepped away from his chest like the brightness had reminded you where you were. Your fingers slipped from his wrist slowly, before you lowered your eyes and muttered something quiet about needing to rejoin the girls’ queue before anyone noticed you were gone.

You had explained your fear of the dark later that night in a voice so casual that it unsettled him more than tears would have. Your parents, you had admitted with a shrug too practised for your age, used darkness as punishment whenever you disobeyed them as a child. Uzair had been furious enough to consider telling Rehman bhai immediately, but you had shut the idea down before he could even finish speaking, insisting there was no point risking another fracture in Lyari’s already fragile politics over a fear he would rarely even witness.

And now, for the first time, someone else had.

The current returned abruptly, snapping Uzair out of his daze. Across the room, your husband immediately leaned toward you, brows furrowed with quiet concern as he asked something Uzair couldn’t hear over the returning music.

Uzair slipped behind a nearby pillar before either of you could notice him staring, suddenly wondering when exactly he had stopped being the first person to recognise your fear.

Kismat ko hai ye manzoor, kya kije Milte rahe hum ba-dastoor, kya kije

A relative wandered over to you and your husband with yet another booming congratulations, and Uzair noticed the way your smile strained at the corners almost immediately, your eyes slowly losing their brightness beneath the weight of endless conversation and polite laughter. A chuckle escaped him before he could stop it.

Guess your husband still hadn’t learnt that look yet.

Hadn’t learnt that this was usually the point where you needed to be pulled away somewhere quieter for ten minutes — a balcony, a terrace — anywhere you could breathe properly again. Maybe with chai. Maybe with silence. Maybe with one stolen drag from his cigarette while you complained about people until the light returned.

“Honeymoon ke liye ise kisi beach pe le jaana,” the relative was telling your husband enthusiastically while his wife adjusted the edge of your jewellery. “Bahut pasand hai isse samundar. Jab chhoti thi na, har mauke pe beach bhaagna hota tha is shehzaadi ko,” he said, pulling your cheeks in adoration.

Uzair’s smile faltered. 

He was right, you did love the beach. But that was before he ruined it for you. 

“Is relationship ko sirf beach trips nahi sambhalega, Uzair.”

The waves had been crashing violently against the Clifton shore that evening, the wind carrying salt into the silence stretching between the two of you as he stood there, cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers, while you stared out at the sea instead of him for perhaps the first time in years.

He had taken a long drag of his cigarette before turning to you. 

“Kya bol rahi ho?”

You turned the seashell over in your hands, fingertips moving across it like you were trying to memorise every inch, but he knew you were finding the right words to voice your frustration. He had seen you angry before — furious, even, refusing to pick up his calls for two weeks straight till you forgave him — but he had never seen you look so tired. 

“Matlab agar kisi bhi jhagda ho na, tum mujhe manane ke liye apne jeep mein bithakar mujhe beach nahi leke sakte ho. Teen baar ho gaya. Tum kaam pe kahi jaate ho, mujhse baat nahi karte, aur main sochti hu ki meri aukaat bas tab tak hai jab tak tum Lyari mein ho..”

Uzair had huffed. “Vaisa bilkul nahi hai. Tum mujhe do hafte ke liye bina bataaye baat nahi karti ho, meri taraf dekhti bhi nahi, aur tum yeh expect karti ho ki sab theek hi hoga?”

“Agar tum hamare 9 o’clock call nahi uthaoge toh main kya karun?”

“Uske liye tum do hafte ke liye mujhse baat kyu nahi ki?”

You had blinked away the tears in your eyes, far too exhausted for the banter he kept resorting to whenever conversations became too hard for him to handle.

“Tum samajhte kyun nahi, Uzair?” you had asked, and the desperation in your voice nearly made the cigarette slip from his fingers. “Mujhe teri calls se problem nahi hai. Main bas thak gayi hoon yeh soch soch ke ki hum dono ab hai kya. Tum mujhe apni zindagi mein rakhna chahte ho, lekin jagah banana nahi chaahte.”

He had apologised then. Held your face carefully, kissed your forehead the way he always did whenever he thought love would do more than his words, and for a few joyous months, he genuinely tried. Calls returned on time. Meetings kept. Nights carved out for you despite work clawing at his hours. And then, the cycle repeated. He stopped all of it. Slowly at first, but the pattern was all too familiar to you now.

This time, you hadn’t tried to hold the relationship together. No more frustrated tears. No more desperate attempts to explain yourself so he would finally understand. You had simply begun drifting away from him, exhaustion replacing anger so fully that Uzair hadn’t even realised how far gone you were until you looked at him one evening and told him, very calmly, that you were done.

And perhaps, Uzair thought, that was what killed him in the end — not losing your love, but realising he had slowly turned the person who once fought hardest for him into someone too tired to keep trying anymore.

Kismat ko hai yeh manzoor, kya kije Milte rahe hum ba-dastoor, kya kije 

The breakup didn’t stop your lives from moving, though. 

Your mutual friends from school started graduating. Moving abroad. Dating. Marrying. And while most of them knew about the relationship’s end, some even knew the details, the friend group was too tightly knit to have weddings without you or Uzair. Both of you were invited, and everyone could just hope that nothing went south. 

In fact, that was the first time Uzair saw you after the breakup. 

It was during Farhaan’s wedding — while he wasn’t Uzair’s closest friend, he was still an integral part of the group — and Rehman bhai had urged him to stop moping around and drowning himself in work, that shuffling between the factory and his room was not doing him any good and that a bit of fresh air and meeting his closest friends would add some light to this never-ending darkness. The concern on his face was what pushed him to actually attend it — he couldn't bear to see his elder cousin look so downtrodden. 

So there he was, standing at the wedding, laughing with Omar in a rare moment of joy. None of them had brought up the breakup, and Uzair was so thankful for that, because he had been sure the mere mention of your name would send him into a spiral again. 

But that wasn’t necessary, because you walked in. 

You were wearing the same suit you had worn on your school’s graduation day, the deep green anarkali making the brown in your eyes seem almost golden beneath the lights. For one second, Uzair was nineteen again — waiting in front of the school with flowers awkwardly hidden behind his back as you ran down the steps, grinning at finally being free from uniforms forever.

You clearly hadn’t seen him — or maybe you had, and your body moved before your mind could catch up — because you walked over to Omar to say your greetings so naturally that Uzair barely had time to process your presence beside him after weeks of distance. 

Hell, for that matter, it took him a while to realise there was distance in the first place, because muscle memory took over. 

A waiter was moving a bit too close to you, and Uzair’s hand had drifted close to your waist, not quite touching it but not too far from it either — a habit he had developed once he realised how clumsily you could be on the road — and you had, without looking, brushed off a stray thread off his kurta, flicking it off with the same familiarity that you and him had carried for almost seven years. 

The motion lasted barely a second.

Then both of you froze.

Uzair watched the realisation crash onto your face at the same moment it hit him — the intimacy, the breakup, the fact that your bodies still hadn’t learnt the distance your minds had forced into place. You stepped back first, almost immediately, murmuring something incoherent to Omar before disappearing toward the women gathered near the buffet tables, while Uzair retreated toward the balcony like the room had suddenly grown too small to breathe in.

He stood there alone, the cool air hitting his face, and understood the reality of what you had been trying to tell him all those years. 

That just loving you was not enough to make you stay. 

Dil keh raha, use musalsal kar bhi aao Woh jo adhuri si raah baki hai 

Another uproar from your relatives brought Uzair back into the present, and he watched your husband shift awkwardly in his suit beneath the attention, fingers tugging faintly at his cufflinks, while you sat beside him with a poise Uzair had never seen on you before. Your shoulders remained straight despite the exhaustion and irritation lingering in your eyes, your smile soft and measured as you greeted yet another relative leaning in to bless you both. You accepted the grift with practised grace and kept it in your bag while the photographer began arranging the huge family for photos, murmuring something about an aunt forcing her way to the front. 

The shutter snapped, and your husband left the room. 

The commotion around you settled for a few moments, everyone choosing to let you breathe for a few minutes before showering you and your husband with gifts and wishes. The music softened into the background, conversations dissolving into quieter murmurs as waiters weaved through the hall carrying trays of kebabs and soft drinks beneath the lights hanging from the ceiling. 

Uzair took the lull as an excuse to look at you properly — not the fleeting, stolen glances he had been surviving on all evening, but truly look at you the way he used to, like every small shift in your expression carried meaning only he knew how to read. How your nose crinkled whenever someone wore an elaborate floral arrangement. How the jasmines in your hair were wilting slowly, finding purchase on the embroidery of your anarkali. How you rolled your eyes when your parents gestured for you to act like a traditional woman. How your feet shuffled beneath the skirt, clearly uncomfortable in your heels — Uzair used to carry a pair of comfortable shoes with him whenever you wore heels, knowing you could subject your feet to aesthetic torture for exactly two hours before threatening to walk home barefoot — and how your fingers kept absentmindedly twisting the edge of your dupatta whenever too many people spoke to you at once. 

And this, he realised quietly, was how everyone else saw you too. Beautiful. Graceful. A well-raised girl dressed in pink and gold, smiling politely beside her husband while relatives praised her upbringing and beauty in equal measure.

But Uzair had known the parts of you that no crowded hall ever would.

The way you cried angrily instead of sadly. The way you laughed so hard at your own jokes that you snorted occasionally before threatening violence if he pointed it out. The way you spoke to stray cats as if they understood human words. The way you always stole the crispy corner piece from his samosa and pretended innocence afterwards. The way your voice changed when you were half-asleep. The way you went quiet whenever something truly hurt you.

And now, standing across the room, Uzair understood something even more unbearable:

Your husband was going to learn versions of you that even he would never get the chance to know.

He was going to discover the woman you became at twenty-five, thirty, forty. He would learn what your face looked like first thing in the morning after years together. Which side of the bed you eventually claimed permanently. Whether you still cried in the dark. Whether you still loved the sea after everything.

Because that was supposed to be Uzair standing beside you tonight. Supposed to be Uzair greeting the guests and kissing your forehead and massaging your feet later that night. A future he thought you were assured of. 

A future he had ruined with his own hands. 

Then, as if the memory of him still lived somewhere inside you too, your eyes slowly lifted across the hall until they found his.

Woh jo adhuri si chaah baaki hai Woh jo adhuri si chaah baaki hai 

Uzair held his breath. 

He didn’t even know what he was hoping for. For anger? For regret? For you to kick him out? For you to run to him and tell him you would run away with him? For you to scream at him? For your expression to harden before you looked away, perhaps, so leaving would become easier somehow? 

You didn’t match any of those thoughts. 

Instead, you smiled, softly. 

It was a smile he could’ve missed had he not watched it form in real time. Not the polite one you offered relatives whose names you barely remembered, not the strained grimace you kept swallowing whenever the smell of rich food drifted too close, and not even the tired, resigned smile you had given him six months ago when you ended things.

This one was smaller. Infinitely sadder.

The kind that only existed between two people who had once loved each other enough to build entire futures in the spaces between conversations.

And as it settled onto your face, Uzair realised with a tug in his chest that you were grieving him too. Not in the catastrophic, life-ending way he once imagined heartbreak would feel at thirteen, but quietly, privately — like someone mourning a home they could never return to.

And suddenly, the noise around him disappeared.

The congratulations, the music, the chatter — all of it faded beneath the familiarity of your brown eyes.

No husband beside you. No guests. No wedding lights.

Just Uzair and the girl from two streets away.

Your eyes travelled across his face slowly, carefully, like you were searching for traces of the boy who used to climb your balcony at seventeen, the man who promised you beaches and forever at twenty-one, the idiot who loved you deeply and failed you anyway at twenty-three. 

A thousand things passed between the two of you — hearts scribbled in notebooks, missed calls, chai cups, the first time he called you 'chaand', after seeing you in white for the very first time in twelfth grade, jasmine flowers, Clifton waves, cigarettes shared beneath rooftops, your laughter against his shoulder, nights spent planning futures neither of you reached together.

It lasted barely seconds.

But Uzair heard an entire conversation inside that silence anyway.

Mohobbat karta hu tujhse. 

Main bhi karti thi. 

Tujhe dukh diya.

Maine bhi tujhe utna hi dukh di. 

Maaf karogi?

Your smile became a tad more heartbreaking for an infinitesimally small second. 

Maaf toh tab hi kiya tha, Uzair.  

A tear slipped from his eye, and he wanted to tell you everything then. That he should have stayed longer on the nights you asked him to. That he should have spoken instead of assuming love would translate silence for him. That every version of his future had somehow ended with your voice, your snark and your laughter in it, even after the two of you broke apart.

But your husband returned, saying something that pulled your attention away.

And just like that, the moment ended. 

A moment he knew would never return. 

Uzair smiled to himself, lowering his eyes before turning toward the gates of the haveli. His chest still ached, regret still sat heavy in his ribs, and perhaps some part of him would always mourn the life the two of you never reached together.

But behind him, under golden lights, music, and the chatter from people who would soon turn into family, you looked happy enough to keep living, even if it was a life neither of you had ever imagined in your worst nightmares.

And this time, Uzair let you.

Woh jo adhuri si chaah baaki hai… 

a/n: so this wasn't the fic I was originally planning, but I've had a miserable week; therefore, it just felt right to write this. Also, I feel this takes place in the same universe as Kalank; something about the Baloch brothers losing their first loves is so poetic to me.

A Rehman Dakait x Reader fic Masterlist a/n: part 2 is here! written for @mainyahaankyunhoon <3, event organised by @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange This fic is VERY canon divergent. It is solely based on Akshaye Khanna’s portrayal of Rehman Dakait in the movie Dhurandhar and has nothing to do with the gangster Rehman Dakait in any way, shape or form. I sincerely hope he is being tortured in the worst way possible, wherever he is. Rest of the notes are at the end! PART 1 | PART 3

Monsoon in Lyari was a disaster cloaked as a season. 

The first few showers were welcome — rain washing away the grime on streets that had faced the unforgiving sun for a few months prior, children running outside during the afternoons solely to jump into puddles, adults finally travelling outside without a paper fan in their pockets. 

The town would celebrate it the first week, and then, the skies would show their true form — an unrelenting downpour that would destroy the very foundations of life. The streets would begin disappearing beneath muddy water, drains would clog, electricity would become a fond memory, and every conversation in town would somehow circle back to the weather. The roads would be flooded, and when the water finally retreated, it usually left behind enough potholes to swallow a small adult whole. Shopkeepers complained about flooded storefronts, factory workers complained about transport, mothers complained about children returning home soaked to the bone, and politicians complained about everything except the drainage systems they had promised to fix every election cycle. 

Rehman watched the rain from the haveli, watching the water create a small pool on the verandah. The boys were inside; Uzair had retired to his room to ‘sleep’, even though he was pretty sure that bufoon was writing love letters to a girl from Clifton who wasn’t aware of his existence, Donga and Siyahi were playing a game of chess, screaming at Akhlaaq whenever the latter tried to distract them, and Rehman himself was sipping on whiskey, both grateful to have finished work before the season began and worried for the raw materials that had to reach the factory. But this wasn’t his first monsoon, and, as he relaxed on his armchair, he knew that he would be able to overcome any challenge the rain posed. 

Sometimes, Rehman thought, as his mind drifted to thoughts of the displaced international delivery, being in politics wasn’t such a bad idea. The connections, the power, the wealth… he had them as the head of his gang, if one could even call it that, but he knew his influence would extend all over Karachi if he chose to enter politics. It had been a thought for a while now, creeping into his mind like a little devil in the dark, and while he chose to dismiss it at first, the idea had taken root, and he saw no reason why it would be a horrible choice.

His thoughts were interrupted by Uzair walking into the office with a bunch of flies. 

“Soya nahi?” Rehman asked, rummaging his pocket for a lighter. 

He huffed. “Kaise so sakta? Baarish meri khidki par zor se pat-pat karti hai, aur aap jaante hain mujhe sone ke liye khamoshi chahiye.”

“Burger baccha.” Rehman chuckled. “Pandrah saal pehle tu bina kambal terrace pe sota tha, aur ab tujhe teri room mein khamoshi chahiye. Wah.”

The younger man rolled his eyes, too used to his antics to take any of his words to heart. He dropped a few files onto the desk before turning to leave.

“School band kar diya?” Rehman asked absentmindedly, eyes still fixed on the rain battering the windows.

Uzair paused and turned towards him again. Rehman had never enquired about this before, and it was so surprising that it took him a second to realise Rehman meant the school next to the haveli. “Shayad. Bohot saare schools bachchon ko ghar bhej rahe hain.”

Rehman nodded in response and placed his cigarette between his lips, turning his attention back to the paperwork scattered across the desk. Outside, the rain continued its assault on the town, drumming relentlessly against the factory roof. Now and then, a call would come in about another flooded road or a vehicle stuck somewhere unfortunate enough to have encountered one of Lyari's newly formed lakes. By mid-afternoon, even the workers had stopped pretending the weather would improve.

The school next to the haveli wasn't faring much better, from what he could tell. He'd caught glimpses of teachers moving children between classrooms from the window of his bedroom, and at one point, a section of the outer boundary wall had partially collapsed under the weight of the rain-soaked earth. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to send administrators into a panic. By now, most parents had probably collected their children, even though it had been barely an hour since classes started, and taken them home over almost impassable roads. 

Half an hour passed.

Rehman had just signed the last file on his desk and returned to the verandah of the haveli when movement beyond the gates caught his eye. At first, he paid it no attention. People were still rushing through the rain despite the weather. Then the figure stumbled, nearly disappearing behind a sheet of water before reappearing again. 

It was small. 

Familiarly small. 

Too small to be walking alone in this weather. 

Rehman frowned and dashed down the stairs, ignoring Donga and Siyahi’s stares.

The child pushed through the gates a second later, school uniform plastered to his skin, backpack hanging off one shoulder, shoes squelching with every step. Water dripped from his hair into eyes that were red from either rain or tears. A few leaves were stuck in his hair, and his body was shivering, like even the smallest gust of wind could knock him over. 

“Ayaan?”

Rehman was out before the name had fully slipped from his mouth, not caring about the rain or the fact that his cigarette had fallen somewhere behind him. Water immediately soaked through his clothes as he crossed the courtyard in a few long strides, trying to get to the little boy who had absolutely no business being soaked to the bone in the torrential rain.

Up close, Ayaan looked even worse. The boy was shivering so violently his teeth were chattering, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his tiny fingers were clenched around the straps of his backpack with a desperation that made something unpleasant twist in Rehman's chest.

He didn’t say a thing — years of caring for Uzair had taught him that — just picked the boy up and trudged towards the house, somehow managing to make it within a few seconds. Ayaan was still shivering in his arms, his tiny hands clutching his kurta so hard there was probably a tear in the fabric, but Rehman didn’t care. 

“Akhlaaq, garam doodh!” he barked to his cook. “Donge, towel. Aur Uzair,” he turned to look at his cousin, who was staring at him like he had grown a tail, “tere purane kapde. Zaroorat padegi.”

No one moved. 

“Sunai nahi diya kya?” 

The spell immediately broke.

Akhlaaq nearly collided with a chair in his hurry to reach the kitchen. Donga disappeared inside the haveli at a speed Rehman didn't think the man had, and Uzair finally blinked himself back to reality before shooting off up the stairs like he was possessed by a jinn that was infinitely scarier than SP Aslam himself. 

Rehman looked at Ayaan again and wordlessly led him to the bathroom, pocketing his phone from the table where he had left it. The boy was still trembling, and, as soon as Rehman caught the towel Donga threw to him, he crouched in front of Ayaan. 

“Ammi ki number yaad hai?”

He nodded. 

“Call karega?”

He nodded again and shakily reached for Rehman's phone, small fingers trembling as they pressed against the screen. To his credit, he managed not to cry, even though his eyes were suspiciously red as he carefully typed in a number he had clearly memorised.

Rehman glanced at the digits appearing one by one and frowned.

The sequence felt oddly familiar.

Not familiar enough to place immediately, but familiar enough to nag at the back of his mind as the call connected and the phone began to ring.

~~~~~~

Several flooded roads away, you were currently learning that panic could, in fact, get worse.

Khanani had become unreasonable. His brother was barely in the picture, but you were sure he was a better employer, for which boss would refuse to let a mother go to check on her child in the rain because a plan for the next press conference had not been drafted? It could have been done later. You would’ve finished it by that night anyway. Why did he feel the need to have you in that godforsaken, cramped office with petrichor entering your nostrils while you worried about how your son was going to manage?

You had just requested — desperately pleaded, rather — the rickshaw driver to go a little faster, despite you knowing there was little he could do in this hellhole of a road, where there were more potholes than uninterrupted stretches, when your phone started buzzing. 

You took it out of your handbag and frowned. 

It was an unknown number. 

So it wasn’t Rukhsaar ma’am calling. Or even the principal. Or any of his teachers. Or the health room in the school. Or the nearest hospital. 

And if it wasn’t any of them, the number was not important

You ignored it at first. Being Khanani’s political advisor, you got many of his calls, from others like you asking to arrange something for a rally, a conference or a meeting, and many of them were also spam callers who had no other job but to make your life miserable and your phone bill more expensive. 

But something about this number stopped you in your tracks. You were known for having a great memory — and you had seen this number in Khanani’s phone when it rang during a meeting, so it couldn’t be a contact he was unaware of. But why would he give your number to a random person? All phone number sharing was done with your explicit consent, since he knew you wouldn’t pick up your phone otherwise. 

You stared at the screen, counting five more rings. If someone called beyond the threshold of seven rings, it was usually something important. Most scammers gave up long before that, and colleagues learned quickly that whatever crisis they thought they had could survive half an hour without you. Right now, your only concern was Ayaan, and everyone else could quite frankly wait until you had him safely in your arms again.

It kept ringing. 

Your thumb hovered over the decline button.

Khuda, who was this persistent?

With a sigh, you swiped to answer, already preparing to tell some unfortunate soul that no, Khanani's next political moves were not more important than your child.

“Hello?” you snapped, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice. “Dekhiye, agar yeh—”

“Ammi?”

The world stilled. 

You had expected anything, really. Maybe a scammer who was calling to get their commission. Maybe Khanani’s new intern who had no clue what had to be done. Maybe his accountant was calling from a changed number to remind you that the people of Lyari knew about the money laundering and that you had to find a way to suppress it. 

But you hadn’t expected your baby. 

Was he alright? Where was he? Was he hurt? Had something happened at school? Had someone taken him? You knew some people had probably seen him march into the Baloch haveli two months ago, but surely no one was depraved enough to use that against a five-year-old. Pappu and his men had many faults, but kidnapping children? 

No. 

No no no no no.

“Ayaan?” you replied, a tremor going through your voice. “Kahan ho? Kiska phone—”

“Rehman uncle ka. Main—”

Your heart stopped. 

Why was your son there? Did he not take your warning to heart? Had they taken him? You knew Rehman Dakait and Khanani were business partners of sorts, but he wouldn’t take your son if they had a row, would he? Ayaan was crying too — you could tell from his voice, the sniffles he was trying so hard to suppress — and the flooded roads, the rain, the school, even Khanani himself, faded into irrelevance as pure, primal terror gripped your heart. 

“Ammi?”

The small voice on the other end cracked.

And just like that, all rational thought deserted you.

Nothing mattered.

Not your job.

Not Khanani.

Not the storm.

Not even the fact that your son was somehow calling you from Rehman Dakait's phone.

“Ayaan,” you breathed, your voice shaking so violently you barely recognised it. “Beta, tum theek ho? Kya—Kyun—”

He sniffled on the line and burst into tears. 

“Aap aa rahe hai na?”

Something inside you twisted so violently that it physically hurt. It didn't matter that he was in a stranger’s house. It didn't matter that he had gone against your instructions and left the school premises. Your son was crying. Your son was scared. Your son, who had spent the last year learning that people left and sometimes didn't come back, was asking if you were coming for him — and somewhere beneath the panic and guilt, you hated yourself for having put that uncertainty in his voice in the first place.

“Main aa rahi hu, jaan, main aa rahi hu,” you said immediately, fighting the tears threatening to spill over. “Bas thoda sa aur intezaar kar, okay? Ammi aa jaayegi.”

The sobs reduced slightly. 

“Mera sher hai na tu?”

Ayaan's voice came back shaky, punctuated by little hiccups. “Haan.”

“Brave hai?”

“Haan.”

“Toh ab Rehman Uncle ko phone do, aur unse ek towel maango. Phir dry-dry karke naye kapdon mein aakar baahar baitho. Main aa rahi hu, theek hai? Kahin mat jaana.”

“Pakka promise?”

It took all your willpower not to sob on the phone. 

“Pakka promise.”

A pause.

Then, with all the solemnity a five-year-old could muster, he declared, “Theek hai.”

A moment later, you heard some shuffling, followed by a very indignant:

“Rehman Uncle, Ammi keh rahi hai towel do.”

You chuckled on the line despite the rain soaking through your hair as the rickshaw attempted to rush through the crowded Lyari streets, patiently waiting for your son to hand the phone to Rehman Dakait — you ignored how the thought seemed strangely alright now, considering Ayaan was definitely safe — and guided him through a few more instructions on where to put his soaked uniform once Rehman uncle gave him his towel. 

A minute later, you were on the line with the man himself. 

“Ji main Rehman bol raha hu,” he started, his voice much calmer than you felt. “Ayaan theek hai, bas baarish mein bheeg gaya tha. School ki deewar ka ek hissa gir gaya tha. Bachche ghar chale gaye, aur pata nahi kaise yeh janab yahan aa gaye. Darne ki koi baat nahi hai, woh bilkul theek hai.”

“Main aa rahi hu.” You swallowed, reverting to the habits of a mother whose child had just spent hours in the rain. “Usko kapde badalna aata hai, bas use garam haldi doodh pila dijiye, ek chamach cheeni ke saath. Aur please uska baal sukha dijiyega. Bukhar nahi hai na?”

You could tell Rehman was checking your child’s temperature. 

“Nahi, vaisa lagta nahi hai. Use kuch medicines chahiye kya?”

“Dawaai mere paas hai,” you replied, glad Ayaan hadn’t fallen sick yet. It was inevitable, but he would be at home before his temperature rose.  “Aap bas usko doodh dijiye. Aur agar kitchen mein soup ho toh thoda woh bhi please, shukriya.”

“Haan, fridge mein thoda hai.”

“Theek hai, voh dijiye. Main aa rahi hu. Aur kuch bhi ho jaaye, mujhe call kijiyega.”

There was silence.

Then, with something suspiciously close to amusement in his voice, Rehman replied,

“Ji, doctor sahiba. Aaram se aaiye.”

A pause, and the line clicked dead. 

~~~~~~~

Rehman kept the phone down and turned to face the little vixen, whose face was clearing up at an alarming speed. His eyes were still red from all the crying, but the panic was clearly subsiding, and that was enough for him to know that Ayaan was finally returning to the bubbly boy he was when he first walked through the gates of the haveli. 

Donga knocked on the door and slipped a towel in, wisely deciding that entering without permission was an excellent way to shorten his lifespan. Rehman muttered a distracted thanks before kneeling in front of Ayaan again. 

“Chal,” Rehman sighed, draping the towel over the tiny head and rubbing vigorously despite Ayaan's indignant protests. “Doctor sahiba ki hukum hai. Pehle dry-dry karte hain, phir doodh piyenge.”

Behind the closed door, he could hear hurried footsteps, servants rushing about, and Uzair loudly arguing with Akhlaaq over whether a child who had survived a monsoon deserved one biscuit or five.

Idiots. How were they supposed to have families of their own if they didn’t know the basics of children’s food needs?

He rubbed Ayaan's head until he was reasonably confident that whatever water remained would surrender to the ceiling fan eventually, then stood up with a satisfied grunt. The boy, now wrapped in a towel that made him resemble an irritable burrito, sniffled once more and blinked up at him with watery eyes. 

“Ab tum apne body ko dry-dry karo, main ek bada kapda lekar aata hu. Theek hai?”

Ayaan nodded, and Rehman left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him before barking at Uzair to stop laughing and hand over one of his old kurtas. The younger man, still entirely too amused by the sight of Rehman playing nursemaid, surrendered a plain white one with the solemnity of a man giving a prop to the side character of a roadside skit.

A few minutes later, Rehman knocked lightly and slipped the garment through the door.

“Khud pehen lega?”

“Haan.”

Rehman didn’t believe him at first, fully intending to slip in if he didn’t manage to wear it in five minutes, or, worse, if a crash came from the bathroom. To the boy's credit, however, he apparently could. There was a great deal of shuffling, a muffled ‘uff’, and something made of plastic falling to the floor, but eventually the bathroom door creaked open.

Rehman blinked.

The kurta absolutely drowned him.

The sleeves — short sleeves for Uzair — nearly swallowed the kid’s arm, the collar hung somewhere near one shoulder, and the hem swept the floor, already wet from where Ayaan had stepped onto the tiles with damp feet. His hair was sticking up in strange directions despite Rehman's best efforts, and his tiny face looked comically serious, as though he had just completed an operation of national importance.

For one ridiculous second, Rehman was reminded of a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.

And then Ayaan looked up hopefully.

“Achha lag raha hu?”

Before Rehman could answer, Uzair walked up to him and clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Main Uzair hu, aur aap bilkul acche lag rahe hai. Shezaade jaise.”

Ayaan's eyes widened immediately.

“Shezaade jaise?”

“Haan,” Uzair nodded. “Bilkul.”

The boy looked down at himself, taking in the absurdly oversized kurta, before frowning.

“Lekin shezaadon ke paas crown hota hai.”

Rehman was going to use that moment to give Ayaan his milk, but before he or anyone else could do anything, Siyahi gasped dramatically from the pillar he was leaning against. 

“Maaf kijiye, huzoor! Hum abhi lekar aate hain!” he cried, bowed to Ayaan till his head almost touched the floor, and took off towards the storage room.

Rehman had barely opened his mouth to ask where on earth he was going when Siyahi returned with what looked suspiciously like a piece of cardboard cut into something vaguely crown-shaped. It was crooked, uneven, and had probably been assembled in under forty-five seconds, but the boy handled it with the pride of a master craftsman as he carefully placed it on Ayaan's head.

“Shehenshaahon ka shehenshah, Lyari ka badshah, Ayaan zindabad!” Siyahi declared, punching a fist into the air like a royal herald announcing the arrival of an emperor.

“Zindabad!” Uzair echoed immediately.

Everyone joined in, even Akhlaaq yelling from the kitchen before emerging with a wooden spoon held against his chest like a ceremonial sword. Between them, they escorted the newly crowned king to the comfiest armchair in the sitting room with all the pomp and dignity of a coronation, each man bowing so dramatically that Ayaan dissolved into another fit of giggles. Praises were showered the various feats ‘King’ Ayaan had accomplished, including but not limited to: defeating a rival king while riding a unicorn, flying over the Arabian Sea to defeat a sea monster and using the power of his magical cricket bat to win a game for Pakistan. Ayaan listened with rapt attention, interrupting only to correct minor historical inaccuracies.

“Nahi,” he frowned. “Unicorn white tha.”

“Maaf kijiye huzoor,” Siyahi said gravely. “Unicorn white tha.”

By then, Uzair had disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a steaming mug of milk, which he placed carefully into the little king's hands. “Hamaare badshah ke liye mazboot magic doodh!” he bowed with a flourish, making Rehman raise his eyebrow.

Ayaan obediently took a careful sip, then looked up with a small, satisfied smile. “Achha hai.”

“Bas achha?” Uzair asked, clutching his chest in mock offence.

The boy giggled. “Bohot achha.”

“Ab baat bani.”

“Thank you, Uzair bhaiya,” Ayaan said after he downed the entire glass, and Uzair looked unbearably pleased with himself.

Rehman, who had been observing the ridiculous exchange, immediately straightened. He was completely fine with housing a little kid in his house and letting everyone play with him; indeed, many of them had never had proper childhoods themselves, any semblance of innocence taken away after facing Lyari’s unforgiving streets, ones that taught you that if you had to survive, you had to be ready to sacrifice your childhood, even if you didn’t understand that sacrifice fully. He was one of them, and he had faced many insults in life, but somehow, this one, even though it was said in jest, surprised him the most. “Bhaiya?”

Ayaan looked at him innocently. “Haan.”

“Aur main?”

“Rehman Uncle.”

A look of profound betrayal crossed Rehman's face. “Main uncle aur yeh bhaiya?”

Uzair burst into laughter so suddenly that he had to grab the back of a chair for support. “Sun liya sabne?” he wheezed. “Budha ho gaya.”

Rehman’s cheeks turned pink. “Chup kar.”

“Nahi, Rehman Uncle.”

That was all it took. Donga laughed loud enough to startle himself, Siyahi nearly dropped the cardboard scraps still clutched in his hand, and even Akhlaaq had to retreat into the kitchen before he dropped the potato he was peeling.

Still grumbling under his breath, Rehman watched as Ayaan finished the last of his milk. 

“Soup piyega?” Akhlaaq called from the kitchen, and Rehman knew he was all glees behind the glass wall, comfortable in the knowledge that Rehman wouldn’t murder him for laughing with a child.

The boy nodded enthusiastically.

A few minutes later, he was perched regally on his armchair once more, cardboard crown slightly askew, oversized sleeves rolled almost to his elbows, happily slurping spoonful after spoonful of hot soup while the entire household looked on, like feeding Lyari's proclaimed king was the most important task of the day.

It was in the middle of that peaceful, ridiculous scene that the front door burst open with enough force to make everyone look up.

You stood in the doorway, drenched from head to toe, chest rising and falling so violently that for a brief second, Rehman wondered whether you had run the entire way from wherever you were. Rainwater pooled beneath your sandals, your dupatta clung uselessly to your shoulders, strands of hair plastered across your forehead, and your eyes, wide and frantic from fear, searched the room like you were trying to find an elixir that would push life back into your lungs. 

They found Ayaan.

The bowl of soup hit the table before the boy had even realised you'd arrived.

“AMMI!”

He scrambled off the armchair, cardboard crown tumbling onto the carpet as he sprinted across the room. 

You met him halfway.

Rehman had seen mothers hug their children before. He had seen fathers throw sons into the air after winning cricket matches. He had seen families reunited after prison sentences, hospital stays, and funerals. 

The scene in front of him was none of those. 

You dropped to your knees so abruptly they struck the marble floor with an audible crack, arms wrapping around Ayaan with such force that the child squeaked. “Allah ka shukr...” you whispered into his damp hair, over and over again. Your hands moved constantly — checking his face, his shoulders, his arms, brushing his hair back, searching for injuries that didn't exist.

“Ammi,” Ayaan mumbled, burying his face into your neck, “main theek hu.”

“I know.”

Your voice cracked.

“I know.”

The room had fallen silent. Uzair quietly took the soup away before it spilt. Akhlaaq retreated into the kitchen without a word. Even Siyahi, who usually found something to joke about in every situation, looked away.

Rehman simply watched. He remembered being so jealous when he saw moments like these as a child, seeing that he hadn’t received any care like that, but watching you hug your son like he was the only reason for you living broke something in him he didn’t even know he had. It wasn’t regret, it wasn’t hate, just the fact that he would never experience the same kind of love that was pouring out of you and Ayaan.

Eventually, you looked up. Your gaze landed on him, and before he had a chance to say anything, you stood. 

“Shukriya,” you breathed, finally letting Ayaan go. “Sach mein. Main ghabra gayi thi aur aap… agar aap nahi hote toh kya…”

Rehman saw tears welling in your eyes and instinctively looked away, shifting his weight uncomfortably. Being thanked for settling disputes or delivering favours was one thing. Being looked at like he'd performed a miracle was another entirely.

“Aapko shukriya kehne ki zaroorat nahi,” he muttered. “Maine bas—”

“Nahi.”

Your voice cracked.

“Aapne Ayaan ki jaan bachayi.”

The words landed far heavier than he expected.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

In his mind, he'd done what any decent person would have done after spotting a terrified child standing alone in the middle of a storm. He hadn't wrestled anyone. Hadn't pulled the boy out of a burning building. Hadn't even gotten hurt.

He had simply opened his front door.

Yet judging by the way you were looking at him, that simple act had changed the course of your entire day.

Rehman cleared his throat.

“Bachcha akela tha,” he said quietly, almost as though explaining the obvious. “Usko ghar ke andar lana hi tha.”

You lowered your gaze, blinking away another wave of tears before managing a small nod.

“And... I'm really sorry,” you said, a tired, embarrassed laugh escaping you. “Pata nahi is bacche ne kya kya harkate ki hongi. Hum chalte hain. Aur... thank you. Phir se. Doodh aur soup ke liye bhi. Aur...” You glanced apologetically at the trail of rainwater you had left across the marble floor. “Aapke floors bhi geele kar diye.”

You bent to pick up your handbag from where it had slipped onto the floor and motioned to Ayaan, who had just picked up his crown to show you, but even he seemed to understand that you had to get back to work. Rehman assumed you would leave him with someone at home until you returned, and, judging by the way you were still standing there in your soaked clothes, he doubted you had given yourself a second thought.

Looking at you up close, coupled with the familiarity of both your phone number and the ID card still hanging around your neck, Rehman couldn't even blame you. He had seen you at Khanani's office often over the past year — always moving through the corridors with a stack of files in one hand, phone pressed to your ear, untangling problems that the bastard had either created or refused to deal with himself like the swine he was. You had probably seen him too, standing outside his office after one of their endless meetings, though neither of you had ever exchanged more than a passing glance. Back then, he had simply registered you as another overworked member of Khanani's staff. Now, watching the way your gaze kept drifting back to Ayaan every few seconds, he realised there was far more to your life than the hurried footsteps and neatly organised files he remembered.

“Chalo, beta.”

Your son hesitated. 

Rehman saw how your face broke before hardening again, and he suddenly gained a new level of empathy for single mothers — they were rare in Lyari, but he had viewed them merely as a statistic before, and now, he was watching the sacrifices you had to make in real-time.

He glanced past you towards the courtyard. The rain had shown no signs of relenting; if anything, it was falling harder than before, sheets of water blurring the iron gates into little more than a dark silhouette.

“Baith jaiye.”

You looked up.

“Ji?”

“Is mausam mein kahaan jayenge?” he asked matter-of-factly. “Aap abhi aaye hain, aur baarish rukne nahi wali hai. Aadhe raste toh paani mein doobe hue hain.”

You shouldered your bag and pushed a few strands of hair out of your face. “I have to get back to work.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“In kapdon mein?”

Only then did you seem to notice your own condition. Your kurta clung to your arms, your dupatta was still dripping onto the floor, and your sandals squelched every time you shifted your weight. The cold hit you suddenly, the adrenaline flowing through your veins dropping, and you shivered for a split second before catching yourself again.

“Akhlaaq,” Rehman called without taking his eyes off you. “Kuch garam khana laga do.”

“Ji.”

“Nahi, zaroorat nahi hai,” you protested quickly. “Main waise bhi—”

“Aapne khana khaya?”

The question caught you off guard.

You hesitated.

“…Nahi.”

He nodded once, as though that was exactly the answer he had expected.

“Toh pehle kha lijiye. Baarish ruk jaaye, paani thoda utar jaaye, phir chale jaiyega.” He paused before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Aur Khanani ko main phone kar dunga. Agar usse itni hi jaldi hai toh do minute intezaar kar sakta hai.”

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Khanani aur koshish?”

That earned a short laugh from Rehman.

“Nahi,” he agreed. “Woh aadmi waqai musibat hai.”

The words escaped him so casually that you found yourself laughing too, the tension in your shoulders easing for what felt like the first time all afternoon.

Once you had finally sat down with a fresh plate in front of you and Ayaan had resumed happily occupying himself beside Siyahi, Rehman spoke again, his tone as conversational as if he were discussing the weather, low enough for Ayaan to drown it out in the noises of him playing with a cardboard roll.

“Aap roz itni late hoti hain?”

You shook your head.

“Roz nahi. Lekin... meetings lambi ho jaati hain. Kabhi scandal, kabhi conference, kabhi koi emergency. Aap jaante honge Khanani vakaai businessman hai, lekin unke siyasti connections bhi bahut hai aur in fact, usme bhi kaam karte hai. Aur monsoon mein toh sadkein bhi…” You trailed off with a helpless shrug.

He nodded thoughtfully, his mind running at a million thoughts per second. For the first time in years, he found himself bothered about someone so young, the last person being Uzair, back when he was a little boy who had just been orphaned. Then, Rehman didn’t have even a tenth of the resources he did now, and he was faced with a similar situation: except this time, the stakes weren’t that high, and he didn’t have the inherent responsibility to take care of the kid.

For a few moments, the only sounds were the rain against the windows and the clinking of cutlery.

Then he said, “Ek kaam karte hain.”

You looked up.

“Jab tak yeh baarish chal raha hai, agar aap late ho jaayein... iska matlab nahi hai ki Ayaan school mein hi rehna chahiye.”

You frowned slightly.

“Matlab?”

“Abhi school ki diwar gir gayi. Ayaan us situation mein safe nahi hai.”

You nodded and ate another piece of the roti. 

“School mere ghar ke bagal mein hai,” he continued, gesturing vaguely towards the wall separating the two compounds. “Main use le aaya karunga. Yahan rahega, khaana khayega, homework kar lega.” He shrugged. “Aap araam se kaam khatam karke aa jaiyega. Ayaan mehfooz hoga aur aapko tension lene ki zaroorat nahi hogi.”

You stared at him.

Rehman wondered if he had overstepped, but refused to show it on his face. If this meant Ayaan didn’t have to fear a wall falling on him or have a late lunch, it was worth it.

“Aur agar aap pareshan hai…” he added quietly, “main khud principal se baat kar lunga.”

You ate in silence for a minute before setting your cutlery down, looking at him with the steady, piercing gaze he had only ever seen you wear across Khanani's conference table.

“Rehman ji,” you began carefully, “aap jaante hai aapki zindagi khatarnak hai.”

He almost laughed.

That was certainly one way of putting it.

“Aapne aaj jo kiya...” You glanced at Ayaan, who was enthusiastically explaining to Siyahi why unicorns were faster than horses. “Main uska ehsaan kabhi nahi bhoolungi.”

A pause. 

“Lekin main yeh nahi chahti ki ise 12 tables yaad hone se pehle bandook pakadni aa jaaye. Aur agar aapki zindagi usko Lyari ke…” You waved your hand in the air as you sipped on some water, rainwater still dripping from your hair where it hadn’t dried yet, “main apne aap ko maaf nahi kar paaungi.”

You took another bite of the roti. Rehman waited for a second before speaking. 

“Aapki fikr bilkul sahi jagah hai,” he said quietly. The answer had come to him long before he'd even put it into words. “Magar main Ayaan ko meri duniya mein kabhi nahi aane doonga.”

His gaze drifted to the boy, who was currently trying to convince Uzair, who didn’t even follow cricket, that Pakistan needed a desperate change or they would be in a horrible position the next series. 

“Uske liye main sirf Rehman Uncle rahunga.”

He paused, then added, his voice steady.

“Na usse pata chalega main kya karta hu, na kaun mere paas aata hai, na kis baat ki meetings hoti hain. School se seedha yahan aayega. Homework karega, khaana khayega, sabko pareshan karega...” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Aur aap aake le jaayengi.”

Rehman sat back. 

He had made his offer. Whether you accepted it or not was entirely your decision.

He watched your expression instead. It was the same look you'd worn countless times across Khanani's conference table whenever someone proposed an idea you didn't trust fully. Analytical. Weighing every possible consequence before committing to anything. You never evaluated the person then, just the feasibility of the plan and the risks associated with it, and it occurred to Rehman that you weren’t evaluating him, even in a situation where most people would.

You were evaluating the risk to your son.

Outside, the rain continued to lash against the haveli. Inside, Ayaan had somehow convinced Uzair to wear the crooked cardboard crown, much to everyone else's amusement.

“Ammi!” the boy called, pointing triumphantly at the scene. “Dekho!”

You looked over instinctively.

Your shoulders, tense since you'd burst through the front door, softened a little as you listened to his babbling.

He noticed.

Once Uzair occupied Ayaan again, Rehman turned to you. “Sochiye,” he said, voice even. “Aaj agar woh school mein akela rukta rehta toh? Baarish mein fas jaata toh?”

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment before opening them again. 

“Aap use bahar nahi jaane denge? Akele ya aapke…” you looked around, trying to find the right word. “ladko ke saath?

Rehman shook his head. “Nahi. Agar voh mere ye mere ladkon ke saath kahin hoga, toh voh sirf haveli mein hoga.”

“Aur aap uske saamne aapke komm ya aapke kaam ke baare mein baat nahi karenge?”

“Nahi.”

“Aur agar aapki haveli par hamla ho gaya toh?” you asked quietly. “Woh mehfooz rahega?”

Rehman didn't answer immediately, even though he had considered that. It wasn't because he didn't know what to say, because in his decade-and-a-half years here, nothing had ever happened, so the chances of an attack were low. He knew that, he assumed you knew that, but the possibility remained, and Rehman couldn’t bring himself to assure you that it would never happen. He was many things, but he was never going to lie to a mother about her kid’s safety.

“Hamla hone se pehle khabar mil jaayegi,” he said after a moment. “Aur jis din zara sa bhi shaq hua na… us din Ayaan school se seedha ghar jayega. Haveli nahi.”

You continued watching him.

He understood why.

“Aur agar kabhi aisa waqt aaya,” he continued evenly, “toh meri pehli zimmedaari use yahan se nikaalna hogi.”

He paused, deciding to tell you about many secret passageways he had built in the haveli later. His gaze followed a scrunched up paper as it rolled back to Donga’s hand, who had created a game of cricket using an old slab of cardboard and a paper that was probably torn from that day’s newspaper.

“Use meri duniya se jitna door rakh sakun,” he murmured, almost to himself, “utna hi behtar hai.” 

When he looked back at you, your expression had changed slightly. Of course, the caution was still there, and it would probably always be, but the fear your face held was replaced by careful consideration.

“Theek hai,” you said finally. “Sirf baarish ke waqt.”

Rehman nodded. 

“Sirf baarish ke waqt.”

It wasn't a victory.

It wasn’t a deal. 

It was trust, born out of desperation and the urge to keep a child safe.

But as Rehman watched Ayaan laugh so hard that the cardboard crown slipped over his eyes, he had a feeling it was enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: Ayaan is giving me baby fever man 😭 he's so cute! Please comment or dm if you want to be added/removed from the taglist.

A Rehman Dakait x Reader fic Masterlist a/n: aand this is part 3! written for @mainyahaankyunhoon, event organised by @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange This fic is VERY canon divergent. It is solely based on Akshaye Khanna’s portrayal of Rehman Dakait in the movie Dhurandhar and has nothing to do with the gangster Rehman Dakait in any way, shape or form. I sincerely hope he is being tortured in the worst way possible, wherever he is. Rest of the notes are at the end! PART 1 | PART 2

The only thing more predictable than Lyari’s electricity disappearing exactly when you needed it was your son disappearing into the Baloch haveli the moment school ended at least twice a week.

You had screamed your head off when you returned to Khanani’s office the day after the flood, asking — rather, threatening — him to honour the terms of his contract and let you pick up your son on time, or you would undo every single small thing you had done to ensure his untainted reputation and get rid of his political career before it even took off completely. He had scoffed then, but the implications of your words didn’t leave him; he knew there was no way he could survive the likes of Jameel if he didn’t have someone to mince his words in front of investors and supporters. 

It was days like these you were grateful you had pushed yourself to study Communications after school, even if your parents were initially against the idea since your elder sister had got married the second she was out of 12th grade and effectively disappeared off the face of the earth. The marriage had happened anyway, and everyone knew how badly that went after the first two years, and it was only your degree that saved you. 

That and Ayaan, of course. If he didn’t exist, you wouldn’t have found a reason to live in the first place. 

You had barely rested your bag on the sofa when Ayaan rushed towards you, Uzair hot on his heels and Rehman following a few steps behind. 

“Ammi!” he shouted with a toothy smile, proudly revealing the gap where his milk tooth had fallen out a month ago. “Rehman uncle phir se haar gaye!”

You looked past him at Rehman, who merely lifted a shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching in the unmistakable smile that meant he had, once again, bowled at the speed of continental drift.

“Achcha?”

Ayaan nodded so enthusiastically that you were briefly concerned his head might detach from his neck.

“Unke ball ki pace khargosh jaisi hai. Maine ek over mein six, six, six, six, six, six maara.”

“Mashallah,” you said, kissing his cheek. “Pakistan team ko abhi phone karti hu. Babar Azam ko retire ho jaana chahiye.”

Ayaan beamed.

Rehman rubbed a hand over his face.

“Doctor sahiba,” he sighed, “aap isko aur hawa mat dijiye.”

“Maaf kijiyega,” you replied sweetly. “Main bas national talent ko appreciate kar rahi hu.”

Somehow, your son had managed to bully one of Lyari's most feared men into playing cricket after school every other day.

You had long stopped questioning it.

There were simply some things in life that were beyond human comprehension.

Like why Ayaan insisted on carrying his tennis ball to school every day.

Or why Khanani believed every problem could be solved by scheduling another meeting.

Which was precisely why you continued running late even after the rains had stopped.

It had been three months since the flood. The roads had dried, the potholes had returned to their regularly scheduled duty of trying to murder Lyari’s suspension systems, and there was no longer any practical reason for Ayaan to spend every afternoon at the Baloch haveli.

Except Khanani.

Having apparently decided that philanthropy was the latest stepping stone to political sainthood, he had suddenly become obsessed with launching a charitable foundation. According to him, it was for "the people." According to you, it was for tax deductions, newspaper headlines, and laying the groundwork for an election campaign that was still four years away.

Unfortunately, you were paid to make the first version sound more convincing than the second.

Which meant endless strategy meetings. Press notes. Donor meetings. Logistics. More strategy meetings because the first ones apparently hadn't strategised hard enough. By the time you escaped the office most days, it was closer to five than four.

Not that Ayaan seemed to mind.

If anything, he had become rather fond of your chronic inability to leave work on time.

And any child would be, to be honest. Every morning, sometime around eleven, you would send Rehman a short text asking if he — or, failing that, literally anyone at the Baloch haveli — was around to pick Ayaan up from school. The reply would almost always arrive within half an hour.

Haan. Main kar lunga.

or

Uzair free hai. Tension mat lijiye.

With that worry taken care of, you would bury yourself in files and press releases, only glancing at your phone now and then to find the occasional photo awaiting you.

Ayaan proudly holding up a lopsided drawing.

Ayaan perched on Donga’s shoulders.

Ayaan grinning beside a thoroughly defeated-looking Rehman with a plastic cricket bat raised triumphantly over his head.

By the time you finally escaped the office, it was usually closer to five than four.

The routine hardly changed after that.

An auto to the haveli.

Ayaan yelling, "Ammi aa gayi!"

A cup of chai somehow materialising in your hands before you even sat down.

Five minutes turned into thirty as Akhlaaq insisted you taste whatever he was experimenting with that day, or as Uzair and Siyahi argued over whose fault it had been that Pakistan had lost yet another match, while Rehman occasionally contributed exactly one sentence every ten minutes before returning to whatever file was open in front of him.

By six, you would finally drag a protesting Ayaan home, supervise homework over dinner, lose a board game you were fairly certain he cheated at, tuck him into bed around nine, and spend another hour finishing whatever work Khanani had decided absolutely could not wait until morning.

It was exhausting and repetitive, but it had become your new normal, even as work increasingly became the major cause for strands of your hair turning white at the ripe age of twenty-eight.

It was on a cool December evening that you finally said it. 

“Khanani ab bhi ek number ka…” Rehman looked around to ensure Ayaan was nowhere in the vicinity, “chutiya hai kya? Maine socha tha woh apne business mein hi dooba hoga.”

You laughed, too used to the casual companionship, perhaps even acquaintanceship, to feel weird about Rehman asking about your employer. 

“Charity khol raha hai, toh obviously kaam hai. Pata nahi kya karega aur kaise, lekin Christmas ke din ek bada press conference hoga.”

Rehman hummed. 

“Christmas?”

“Haan. Puri Lyari ko bula raha hai. Media, donors, sab.” You sipped on your chai. “Aapko bhi invitation bheja hoga, shaayad.”

He nodded and took out an envelope from the stack lying on the dining table. “Yeh wala na?” 

You nodded as he opened it and read the letter, lips curling in a grimace as he took in the words. You knew Khanani wanted Rehman to be seated in the front row so he could be roped into the festivities whenever needed, and while you were against that idea, you knew this battle wasn’t worth fighting, and you had more work to do than squabble with a slimy git on seating arrangements. 

“Aur mujhe teen hafte se bas isi ka kaam karwaya jaa raha hai,” you added as an afterthought, not missing the way Rehman’s ears perked up. 

“Teen hafte?”

A dry chuckle escaped you before you could stop it. “Teen hafte optimistic hai. Mujhe lagta hai agle janam tak is opening ki planning chalti rahegi.”

Rehman placed the envelope down and looked at you with a soft yet piercing gaze that seemed like it was slicing through your soul. 

“Toh chhod kyun nahi deti?”

The question was so simple, so matter-of-fact, that it caught you off guard.

There was no accusation in his voice. No implication that you were making poor choices. No suggestion that you owed Khanani your loyalty. It was pure curiosity, asked by someone who had noticed you stumbling into the haveli looking increasingly exhausted over the past few weeks. 

You let out a quiet laugh through your nose and leaned back against the chair, absentmindedly tracing the rim of your teacup with your thumb.

“Phir Ayaan ko zindagi kaun dega?”

The words slipped out before you could dress them up as another joke.

You smiled a little, more at yourself than at him, and shrugged.

“Rent, school fees, uniforms, books, toys, bijli ki bill... usko yeh sab samajh nahi aata na samajh aana chahiye. Bas itna pata hota hai ki Ammi roz kaam par jaati hai, shaam ko ghar aa jaati hai aur agli subah uska tiffin taiyaar hota hai.”

You looked down at the tea in your hands.

“Mere alawa uska hai hi kaun? Jo bhi karna hai, mujhe hi karna hai. Aakhir beta mera hai, zimmedari bhi meri hi hui.”

Rehman looked at you for a long moment, his brows knitting together ever so slightly, almost like he wanted to say something more.

He never got the chance.

“Ammi!” Ayaan whispered loudly, diving under the dining table faster than you would’ve liked him to. “SHHHHH!”

A second later, Uzair strolled into the room, hands on his hips.

“Dakait sahab, Y/N ji,” he said solemnly, bowing to both you and Rehman, “agar kisi ne ek chhota sa bachcha dekha ho toh bata dijiyega. Paanch minute se dhoond raha hu.”

Rehman sighed dramatically and looked anywhere but under the table.

“Yahan koi nahi hai.”

You nodded, pursing your lips to hide your snickers.

Ayaan's muffled giggle echoed through the room.

The conversation dissolved into laughter, but long after you had taken Ayaan home that evening, one sentence refused to leave Rehman's mind.

Mere alawa uska hai hi kaun?

~~~~~~~

If there was one thing Rehman Dakait hated more than paperwork, it was press conferences.

They were just the elite’s way of looking at people and telling them in vague terms that they could not give a shit about the people below them. Journalists asked questions, assumed silence was guilt, words were admissions, and almost every single one of these events ended in either a scandal, a scandal that was hastily covered up, or one that was so inconsequential to the figure themselves that covering it up was just a waste of money.

He had texted you about whether he should bring Ayaan along or leave him at the haveli, considering he had been seeing the boy every day the week leading up to Christmas — but your reply had come an hour later, telling him that he was with your best friend and didn’t need watching that evening. 

Rehman wished that wasn’t the case. He had grown to enjoy Ayaan’s presence; he had even gone as far as to rearrange his meetings with Jamali and other influential people to ensure Ayaan was safe and occupied till you picked him up. Ayaan was a ray of sunshine and managed to light up every room he entered, and Rehman knew his presence was doing good to everyone involved. You were able to leave work early to spend time with your son, Ayaan was safe and occupied, and Rehman and his boys had finally found something to break the monotony of deliveries, murders and fights that had become normal to him long ago. 

He was dressed in his signature all-black shalwar kameez, one ankle resting over the opposite knee as he waited for the programme to begin.

It was already running ten minutes late.

Naturally.

These kind of events never started on time. They merely taught important people how to waste each other’s afternoons while pretending it was networking.

His fingers drummed idly against the armrest as his gaze drifted across the hall. Cabinet ministers. Local businessmen. Party workers. Reporters already rehearsing the next day’s headlines. Half the people seated there despised one another. The other half were pretending not to.

Politics was a strange profession.

Every few months, someone would suggest that he contest an election. Sometimes Jamali, who probably wanted him to ally with his party so he would retain the Lyari seat, but would still have Rehman helping him out. Sometimes, it was one of his men, who knew he was the only person who didn’t brag about his anonymous donations in this godforsaken town. Sometimes, it was people he had never met, convinced that if Rehman Dakait could command the streets, he could command the Assembly too.

Perhaps they weren’t wrong.

Power had never interested him for its own sake.

Control had.

He already controlled enough of Lyari that very little happened there without reaching his ears. But Lyari was only one neighbourhood in one city. Every welfare project he wanted to build, every school he wanted funded, every hospital he wanted repaired, every business licence, every land dispute, every shipment, every police raid, every person who wanted him dead — sooner or later, it all ran through someone sitting in a room like this.

Men who funded campaigns. Men who wanted influence without ever dirtying their own hands. Men who smiled for the cameras and then spent the rest of the week deciding who got access and who did not.

And Rehman had grown tired of asking other people for permission.

Politics would change that.

Not because it would make him richer, because he had stopped caring about money years ago.

Not because it would make him famous, if anything, he would happily trade half his reputation for a quieter life.

But legitimate power reached places fear never could. It opened doors that even Rehman Dakait occasionally found locked. It would give him everything he needed to continue his welfare schemes and his shipments without any interference by a pudgy man who hadn’t stepped out on the streets unless it was to deliver a speech that held more dreams than promises.

There was just one problem.

Politics required press conferences.

He would rather negotiate with three rival gangs than spend an hour smiling for cameras and answering questions whose answers everyone in the room already knew.

His gaze wandered towards the stage again.

If this was the price of power...

He wasn’t convinced it was worth paying.

A pink-faced Khanani finally walked onto the stage wearing a suit that, from the tailoring, looked straight out of a James Bond movie but somehow looked horrible on him, and the hall fell into the kind of silence that only existed when absolutely no one wanted to be there.

Rehman took a slow sip of his juice.

There it was.

The obligatory applause.

The obligatory smile.

The obligatory “Aaj hamare saath shaamil hone ke liye aap sabko shukriya.”

If politicians were manufactured in factories, he was fairly certain they all came with the same script pre-installed.

Khanani adjusted the microphone, cleared his throat, and began reading exactly what had been placed in front of him. He thanked the donors, the businessmen, the construction company, the ‘visionary team’ behind the foundation, and every other person whose name had been arranged to sound important without actually meaning anything. The audience responded exactly as expected — polite applause, blank expressions, and the occasional glance at a watch from those unfortunate enough to be seated where leaving early would be noticed.

Rehman had tuned the speech out entirely when it finally ended.

Relief moved through the room in a collective, audible exhale.

Khanani stepped away from the podium with the stiff smile of a man who had survived something he planned to repeat even if he hated doing so, and the guests were ushered into the tour that followed.

That, Rehman realised within minutes, was where the real performance began.

The building looked expensive from the outside. It had the polished façade, the imported stonework, the tasteful lighting, and the kind of entrance that suggested money had been spent generously and often. 

But the moment he stepped inside, the illusion began to crack.

Not literally, of course. 

Instead, it was hidden beneath layers of expensive cover-up that only a person who grew up on the streets could spot. 

Rehman looked around him. No guest was paying attention, and if they were, they were too engrossed in their lives of lavish luxury that they couldn’t care less about the structure of a building everyone knew was not going to be used ever again. He knew he was the only person who actually noticed how shabbily built the charity house was. 

Fresh paint on uneven walls.

Decorative panelling placed over what was clearly cheap plaster. 

Marble flooring laid in a pattern that drew the eye away from the places where the tiles did not quite sit flush. 

A chandelier large enough to distract from the ceiling above it, which was going to give way anytime soon. 

Rehman’s gaze moved slowly, taking in every detail with the detached patience of a man who had spent years learning how to read what people tried to hide, and the wrath of someone who knew what a disgrace such a hall was to the people it was meant to serve.

The building had been dressed up beautifully.

It had also been built badly.

And the money spent concealing that fact had almost certainly exceeded the money spent fixing it.

He glanced once at you as you moved ahead of the group, speaking quietly to one of the staff members. Even from where he stood, it was obvious you had not known about the damage until you came to inspect it yourself. Your expression had shifted only slightly when you noticed the cracks disguised beneath the paint, the uneven finish beneath the polished surfaces, the corners where the cover-up had been done just well enough to miss anyone who wasn’t looking closely.

You were not fooled.

That, more than anything, seemed to irritate Khanani.

By the time the tour ended and everyone was ushered back into the main area for the press conference, the man looked increasingly uncomfortable. The cameras were already in place. The journalists were already seated. The microphones were already waiting.

Rehman had seen enough press conferences to know that this was the part where things usually went wrong.

He was not disappointed.

Khanani had barely settled behind the table when the questions began.

At first, they were the usual ones — funding, plans, the harmless nonsense politicians and their pudgy stomachs loved because it allowed them to sound generous without being specific. Khanani answered them easily, clearly following a script he had memorised line by line that had been written to answer scripted questions.

What a pretentious fucking asshole. 

No wonder you hated working for him.

Then one journalist leaned forward and asked, “Khanani sa’ab, aapke khilaf kaafi money laundering aur tax fraud ke cases hai. Kya yeh charity jaaiz hai ya aapki naajaiz cheezo ko chupane ke liye tarika hai?”

The room changed instantly.

The air tightened.

The cameras kept rolling.

Khanani’s face darkened so quickly that Rehman almost admired the speed of it. His jaw clenched, his hand curled around the edge of his chair, his eyes reddened from the alcohol he had clearly drunk before the speech, and for one second,  it looked as though he might actually stand up and start shouting.

Rehman leaned back on his chair and watched. 

Khanani's face twisted with such spectacular fury that Rehman was almost certain tomorrow's newspapers would feature it on the front page. It was almost impressive how such a small man possessed the remarkable ability to compress every unpleasant human emotion into his face at once until he resembled an overboiled potato moments away from exploding.

He opened his mouth, and Rehman could almost see how the cameras zoomed in, eager to catch the expletives that were undoubtedly going to be spewed from his lips. 

Before a single word escaped, one of the attendants hurried forward and discreetly slipped a folded piece of paper into his hand.

The interruption lasted barely two seconds.

Khanani glanced down.

Paused.

Read.

Then, remarkably, his entire expression changed.

The veins threatening to burst from his forehead retreated. His shoulders loosened. The hand gripping the edge of the table unclenched one finger at a time.

By the time he looked back up, he was smiling.

Not well.

But it was convincing enough to anyone who hadn't witnessed the transformation.

"Yeh bahut zaroori sawaal hai," he began again, this time in a measured voice that sounded nothing like the one about to unleash a string of obscenities, "Aapki fikr ka shukriya. Transparency hi woh wajah hai jis ke liye hum ne aaj aap sab ko yahan daawat di hai... "

Rehman didn't bother listening to the rest.

Instead, his eyes followed the attendant as the man quietly disappeared behind the stage.

Moments later, you emerged from the same direction, clipboard tucked beneath your arm as though you hadn't just prevented a political suicide in front of all of Pakistan.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Rehman’s fingers brushed his beard, his gaze fixated on you as he tracked every single movement you were making, Khanani and his press conference be damned. Not because you demanded attention — quite the opposite, actually. If he hadn’t known you were there, he would’ve missed you entirely; you had an uncanny ability to disappear into the background the moment a crisis had been averted, moving through the hall like a silent predator with the efficiency of someone who had no interest in recognition so long as the work got done. 

It was only then that he realised that the whole room looked to you before doing anything. 

A journalist wanted an additional interview.

A single nod from you.

The interview was arranged.

One of the sponsors arrived twenty minutes late and insisted on being seated in the front row despite every seat already being occupied.

A brief exchange with one of the volunteers.

A chair appeared.

Someone from the catering staff whispered something to you.

You glanced at your watch, made two quick notes on the clipboard tucked beneath your arm and pointed towards one of the side entrances.

Within minutes, fresh trays began replacing the empty ones, as if they had always been part of the plan.

None of it was dramatic, none of it drew applause, and Rehman knew most of the room wasn’t aware of your existence, much less your role in ensuring the entire program ran smoothly.

And yet, every time something threatened to derail the evening, it somehow corrected itself within moments of reaching you.

More interestingly, nobody seemed to question you. And more than that, no one seemed to want to.

Because they knew you were right.

Every single time.

Rehman tore his eyes away from you, a small light flickering in his forehead as he sipped on the whiskey next to him. He had worked his way up Laloo’s gang before overthrowing the latter. He had built businesses and fronts for said businesses. He had organised and funded more schools, hospitals and shelters than most people would see in their lifetimes. He had sacked, tortured, killed and politely fired people who didn’t work properly. He had enough experience to recognise sharp competence that came from extensive knowledge and exceptional presence of mind. 

Because real competence never announces itself. 

It doesn’t need to. 

It makes everyone’s lives easier, and that is enough testament to its impact. 

His eyes drifted back to Khanani, who was once again smiling for the cameras, answering questions that had almost ended his evening less than ten minutes ago.

The photographers were taking his picture.

The headlines would carry his name.

But the most important person in this room was neither sitting on the stage, nor with the journalists, nor with the guests who were more concerned about what they would eat for breakfast than any word Khanani was saying. 

Rehman had thought that Khanani, thanks to some brain in that empty head of his, had somehow survived an evening that was designed to test his worst instincts, all for a piece on the news and a political career that would never take off. 

Now, he realised Khanani hadn’t survived shit. 

You had survived it for him. 

By the time his car had arrived, Rehman had eaten a very fulfilling dinner, which you had undoubtedly organised, his mind was no longer on the charity or the horrible construction of that abomination of a shelter.

It was on you.

Because for the first time since anyone had suggested he enter politics, Rehman found himself thinking that perhaps press conferences weren't the problem after all.

He had just never met the right person to run them.

~~~~~~~~~~

February arrived carrying fresh flowers, clear skies and the promise that Lyari would, in a matter of weeks, transform into a giant convection oven determined to roast every living creature unfortunate enough to exist within it before you could even celebrate your son's birthday.

“Ayaan, beta, andar aao,” you called from the living room, wondering — not for the first time — how your son possessed enough energy to run around in the afternoon after demolishing a plate and a half of biryani.

At his age, you supposed, children either ran exclusively on carbohydrates or had somehow discovered a source of renewable energy that scientists had yet to identify. Either way, he had spent the last hour tearing around the small courtyard with a plastic cricket bat in one hand and a tennis ball in the other, loudly declaring himself captain of Pakistan, wicketkeeper, umpire and commentator all at once.

“Ayaan!”

“Ek minute!” came the predictably immediate reply, followed by the crack of plastic meeting tennis ball and a triumphant, “SIX!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

There truly was no force on Earth more optimistic than a five-year-old who believed one minute meant anything less than fifteen.

You sighed, dragging your palms over your face as you wandered towards the kitchen, deciding that the increase in your electricity bill from letting the fan run for another ten minutes was nowhere near as catastrophic as you always convinced yourself it would be. You still hadn't grown used to Lyari's summers, even after nearly a year of living there. Quetta had been cooler—more importantly, drier. Karachi's humidity, on the other hand, seemed personally offended by your existence, wrapping itself around you until even breathing felt like a sweaty activity.

You glanced through the kitchen window one more time to make sure Ayaan was still in the courtyard, happily inventing yet another impossible cricket match.

Right.

Time to bring him inside.

You leaned against the counter just loudly enough for your voice to carry through the open window.

“Hmmm...” you mused theatrically to yourself. “Ayaan toh baahar khel raha hai... toh matlab mujhe meri favourite mango ice cream pe chocolate syrup daalke akele hi khaani padegi.”

The change was immediate. 

You heard Ayaan dash into the house, kicking off his slippers, footsteps thudding across the floor as he raced to the kitchen with the urgency of someone trying to stop a national disaster. Biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, you reached behind him and quietly slid the latch into place.

“Are?” you said, widening your eyes in mock surprise. “Tum toh bahar cricket khel rahe the.”

“Ab nahi!” he declared, already rummaging through the freezer.

You smiled to yourself.

Worked every time.

While Ayaan stood on his tiptoes, trying — and failing — to locate the ice cream tub behind a bag of frozen peas, your phone buzzed on the dining table.

“Sabr kar,” you muttered, gently nudging Ayaan away from the freezer before he managed to pull half its contents onto himself as you glanced at the notification.

Rehman: Assalamualaikum. Sab theek?

You picked up your phone, a little surprised.

He wasn't supposed to be back for another two days.

You: Walaikum assalam. Aap waapas aa gaye?

The reply was immediate. 

Rehman: Ji, doctor sahiba. Abhi abhi. Socha Ayaan se mile hue kaafi din ho gaye. Aap aaj aa sakenge? Akhlaaq ne waise bhi zarurat se zyada khaana bana diya hai. 

You looked over at your son again, who had apparently solved the problem of being too short by dragging a dining chair across the kitchen and climbing onto it with the confidence of a seasoned engineer. He was now half inside the freezer, muttering to himself as he rummaged through frozen peas, packets you had hastily sealed, and mystery containers in search of the mango ice cream, but you didn’t mind; he was careful with the other containers and hadn’t hurt himself or spilt anything so far. 

Ayaan had wanted to visit the haveli for the longest time, and it was a Sunday the next day, so you figured, why not?

You: Haan, shaam ko aate hai. Waise bhi kisi ne kisi khaas aadmi ko do hafte mein nahi haraaya hai

Rehman: Do hafte se koi cheating bhi nahi kar raha tha.  

You chuckled. 

You: National talent aur cheating alag alag cheez hai, Rehman ji. Aap bas mere sher ka taakat handle nahi kar pa rahe hai

Rehman: National talent ko sabhi ball no ball ya ‘yeh warm-up tha’ hai kya?

You: Haarne ke liye taiyaar rahiyega :) 

Rehman: Inshallah. Bas is baar umpire imaandar hona chahiye.

“Ayaan,” you started, looking at your son, who had streaks of yellow around his lips. “Hum Rehman uncle ke ghar jaa rahe hai. Aur—”

Before you could finish, his eyes lit up.

“Sach?”

“Haan, lekin—”

“Abhi?”

“Are meri baat—”

“Main Siyahi bhaiya ko batana hai ki maine naya cover drive seekh liya!”

“Andar saans bhi le liya karo kabhi,” you muttered, unable to suppress a smile. “Haan, jaa rahe hain. Lekin pehle muh dholo, kapde badlo, aur jo ice cream tumhare gaal pe lagi hui hai na, woh bhi hatao.”

Ayaan immediately rubbed his face with both hands.

“Saaf ho gaya?”

You took one look at the now much larger yellow smear stretching from one cheek to the other and sighed.

“Bathroom jaake saaf karo. Varna tujhe teri hi chehre dikhayega nahi.”

Ayaan rushed towards the bathroom, giving you what would probably amount to five whole minutes of peace before he returned with a towel draped over his head like a superhero's cape.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, your thoughts drifting back to work.

Khanani had promised you a pay raise and extra allowances in December.

December had come and gone.

Neither the raise arrived, nor did the allowances materialise.

Something about upkeep costs, new hires and budget reallocations had ensured the discussion never resurfaced, despite your workload having nearly doubled since the charity's launch. If anything, your responsibilities had only expanded. Every successful event seemed to convince Khanani that you could manage two more while juggling a five year old, his life and the ungodly frequency of his falling sick.

The irony wasn't lost on you.

The better you became at your job, the more your competence was rewarded with more work.

Money had become tighter, too. Tensions across the city had driven prices upwards over the past few months. Groceries cost more. School supplies cost more. Even the auto ride between home and work punished your wallet more and more..

It wasn’t like you couldn’t manage. You always managed, whether you had barely three thousand rupees to your name or eighty thousand. But managing had never been the life you wanted for Ayaan.

Worse than the money, though, was the time.

Khanani still had an almost supernatural inability to understand that offices were, in fact, supposed to close. Leaving before five felt like negotiating a peace treaty. If you couldn’t make it, you would request Rehman, desperately hoping that he wasn’t secretly tired of you. And when you could, Ayaan would inadvertently have to wait for at least half an hour before you could pick him up, because Khanani refused to let you go early, having barely enough time to feed him lunch before rushing to return to work. By the time you returned home, Ayaan had already spent a majority of his day without you.

He was growing.

You could see it in little ways.

The questions he asked.

The books he wanted to read.

The fact that he no longer relied on you to reach the freezer. 

You had missed enough in one year.

You refused to miss the rest of his childhood too.

With a quiet sigh, you picked up your phone and locked it again.

You really did need a new job.

The only problem was that finding one that paid enough, respected your time, and accommodated the fact that you came as a package deal with a five-year-old felt about as realistic as Khanani voluntarily ending a meeting on time.

But you couldn’t let yourself and your time be disrespected so much, could you?

Ayaan stepped out at exactly that moment, face freshly washed and dusted with traces of talcum powder that made him look like a doughnut that had clumps of icing sugar on it . Before you could ask where he had gotten that idea from, he had already packed a change of clothes, his favourite snack, and his cricket bat into his school bag.

You stared.

That was interesting.

Ayaan knew his tantrums hadn't vanished entirely. He also knew that if he wanted to be treated like a big boy around Rehman and the others, he needed a backup plan for the moments when hunger, heat, or exhaustion threatened to turn him back into a five-year-old disaster.

Oh, your baby had grown so much. 

“Chalein?” he asked. 

You nodded and took his hand.

The journey to the haveli had become so routine that neither of you thought much of it anymore. Ayaan spent that time talking your ear off, alternating between narrating the newest rules he had invented for cricket and asking whether Rehman Uncle would survive this evening's match. You, meanwhile, silently prayed that your son would show enough mercy to let the poor man score at least one run. 

The familiar iron gates came into view barely fifteen minutes later. 

Before you could even knock, Siyahi spotted the two of you from the window and shouted, “Aagaye!” 

The announcement echoed through the haveli as though visiting heads of state had arrived instead of one exhausted single mother and her five-year-old son. Uzair immediately bounced out, gave Ayaan a high-five and took his bag, allowing the child to run into the haveli with the surety of someone entering their second home. Donga was just retrieving the stumps and tennis bag, shouting that Rehman uncle would join in just a few minutes, he was occupied with a call upstairs and would be down before anyone even knew it. 

Uzair led you inside, and Akhlaaq served you a cup of masala chai, too familiar with you to remember your order without you having to remind him. You took a sip and thanked the latter, who warmly smiled at you from the kitchen in response before returning to the pressure cooker that was sure to burst. 

“Aaj khelne nahi gaye?” you asked Uzair, who had just downed a glass of water, and he sheepishly shook his head. 

Akhlaaq stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Ladki haan kar di na,” he announced to absolutely no one in particular. “Date pe jaa raha hai.”

Uzair groaned.

“Akhlaaq bhai!”

“Kya ‘Akhlaaq bhai’?” the older man scoffed, disappearing back into the kitchen. “Poore ghar ko pata hai.”

You turned back to Uzair, eyebrows raised.

He was already pink around the ears. “Bas milne jaa raha hoon.”

You laughed softly, reminiscing about a lifetime ago when you were excitedly getting ready for your first date too. “Accha. Maze karo.”

He chuckled and turned his body towards you, facing you directly. “Ab aap bataiye. Naukri kaisi hai? Kisi ko maarna hai kya?”

You snorted into your tea. “Khanani ko.”

Uzair winced. “Itna bura?”

“Agle hafte ke meeting ko schedule karne ke liye aaj meeting rakha.”

That was enough to make him laugh into his water, but he couldn’t continue, because the sound of a ball landing on concrete and the shout that followed interrupted the conversation.

“SIX!”

“Ayaan!” Rehman's voice called from the courtyard. “Yeh unfair hai!”

“Kyun?”

“Aap mujhe bowling hi nahi karne de rahe.”

You smiled to yourself.

For all his complaints, Rehman had been ‘losing’ to your son for nearly twenty minutes now, but Ayaan definitely never noticed how each ball that could’ve been caught easily was being let slip by the adults, who clearly found joy in your son’s excited shrieks.

When Akhlaaq announced dinner, your first instinct was to decline.

You had always left after tea.

“Akhlaaq bhai, taqlif mat kijiye—”

“Kaisi taqlif?” he interrupted, already setting another plate on the table. “Khaana ban gaya hai.”

You gave in after debating with Akhlaaq for a full five minutes, during which he dismissed every excuse you offered with the confidence of a man who had already decided you were staying. You helped him set the table instead, insisting that this was the least you could do after his offer.

Dinner stretched on lazily, moving from politics to recipes to cricket to stories from Uzair's childhood that became more exaggerated every time Siyahi interrupted to 'correct' them.

Rehman laughed. 

Ayaan looked at Siyahi in pure admiration.

And you, for the first time, weren’t watching the clock, thinking about unfinished files, or wondering when the bastard Khanani was going to call you about something inconsequential that had to be done immediately. 

By the time Akhlaaq insisted everyone eat kulfi, Ayaan had quietly abandoned his chair altogether, climbing into your lap with the certainty that mothers existed to be portable beds. You absentmindedly stroked his hair while listening to the others argue over whether mangoes or oranges were objectively superior.

At some point, the small sounds settled into soft snores.

“Isko toh duniya utha ke le jaaye, phir bhi nahi uthega,” Rehman chuckled, watching Ayaan sleep so soundly that not even the chatter around the table seemed capable of reaching him.

You smiled faintly, gently brushing a lock of hair away from your son's forehead.

“Bas thak gaya hai,” you murmured.

Rehman gave a quiet nod and looked down into his teacup, letting the moment pass without comment.

A pause. 

Then he set his files down. “Y/N ji.”

You looked up at him. “Hm?”

He rested his forearms on the table, studying you with an expression you had come to recognise over the past few months. It was the same one he wore before making an important business decision — calm, measured, certain like he had already thought the matter through.

“Main aapse ek baat poochun?”

You nodded.

“Poochiye.”

He was silent for another heartbeat.

“Kabhi Khanani ki naukri chhodne ka socha hai?”

You raised an eyebrow, and the warmth of the evening disappeared behind the familiar analytical composure that most people mistook for your entire personality. Ayaan was drooling on your kurti, but you paid him no mind — your focus was on Rehman now. “Kyun?”

“Aap meri baat samajhiye,” Rehman started, and you kept your expression blank as a sign for him to continue. “Business achchi chal rahi hai. Lyari par kabza hai. Is se mujhe zindagi guzaarne ke liye kaafi se zyaada paisa hai. Agar main chahu, main in sab ko chodke Canada ya Dubai mein settle ho sakta hu aur kuch nahi hoga.”

A pause. 

You didn’t fill it. 

“Lekin main apni sheher, apni kaum ko chhod nahi sakta. Har din main yai sochta hu ki agar mujhe meri kaum nahi mili, toh main yahan hota hi nahi. Aur main unko vahi izzat dena chaata hu. Aap jaante honge ki yahan ke schools, hospitals, vagera itni buri haalat main hai aur bas tax fraud ke liye banaye hai.”

You hummed. “Lekin aapke paas paisa hai. Siyasati mein aane ke liye kya zaroorat?”

“Vahi toh,” he replied, unnerved by your question. “Mere paas paisa hai. Asar bhi hai. Lekin ikhtiyaar nahi hai.

“Har naya project ke liye kisi na kisi politician ke paas jaana padta hai. School banana ho, hospital expand karna ho, land allotment ho, welfare programme ho, har jagah kisi aur ki marzi chalti hai. Aaj Jameel, kal Khanani, parson koi teesra.”

He shrugged.

“Main unse kaam nikalwa leta hoon. Lekin mujhe yeh pasand nahi ke jis cheez ke liye paisa bhi mera ho, planning bhi meri ho aur niyyat bhi meri ho, uske liye ijaazat kisi aur se leni pade.”

Your fingers absentmindedly traced circles over Ayaan's back.

“Aur?”

His expression softened almost imperceptibly.

“Aur agar main siyasat mein aa gaya,” he said quietly, “toh mujhe har baar kisi aur ke election ka intezaar nahi karna padega. Lyari mein jo kaam kar raha hoon, usse poori Karachi tak le jaa sakta hoon.”

You adjusted a sleeping Ayaan on your shoulder. “Aur main kahan se aati hu? Har saal, Karachi University se approximately 600 students graduate karte hain. Aap ke liye kaam zaroor karenge."

“Maine aapko Khanani Charitable Foundation ke opening mein dekha. Logon ke sawal aapke paas aa rahe the. Sponsors, volunteers, media,  aur kaam aap handle kar rahi thi. Agar aap nahi hote, Khanani yahan pahunch nahi pate.”

The praise was welcome, but you refused to take it as something apart from mere words. 

He let the words hang between you for a moment before continuing.

“Main siyasat ko chhoti cheez nahi samajhta,” he said quietly. “Mujhe pata hai yeh business se alag hai. Log alag hain. Masle alag hain. Aur sach kahun toh, mujhe sab kuch nahi aata.”

He smiled.

“Lekin itna zaroor jaanta hoon ki mujhe mere aas-paas aise log chahiye jo mujhse zyada samajhdaar ho. Jo mujhe mana bhi sakein jab main galat hoon. Jo mujhe samjha sakein jab mujhe kuch samajh na aaye. Aur jo mujhe sirf isliye haan na bolein kyunki main Rehman Dakait hoon.”

His eyes met yours.

“Mujhe aap jaisi insaan chahiye.”

Not employee.

Not advisor.

Insaan.

The distinction didn't escape you.

You looked down at the little boy asleep against your shoulder.

He had drooled all over your favourite kurti.

You looked back up.

“Mujhe sochna padega.”

Rehman nodded immediately.

“Sochiye.”

There was no disappointment, no persuasion, not even a hint of negotiation in his voice.

“Jitna waqt chahiye, lijiye.”

The drive home passed in a blur. Rehman had arranged for a taxi, and the driver kept the radio low as it moved through Lyari’s late-night streets, past shuttered shops with their grills pulled down, tea stalls glowing under weak yellow bulbs, stray dogs curled up beside parked motorcycles, and the occasional sign flickering over an empty road. The city looked different after dark, but you barely noticed any of it. Your mind was still back at the haveli, still turning over Rehman’s offer, still hearing the calm certainty in his voice. Ayaan slept against you in the back seat, warm and heavy and completely unaware that your entire evening had shifted around a single conversation.

By the time the taxi pulled up outside your house, you still hadn’t reached an answer.

You thought about it while changing Ayaan into his nightclothes without waking him.

You thought about it while scrubbing the sauce stain off your sleeve.

You thought about it lying awake in bed long after the ceiling fan had become the only sound in the house.

Working for Rehman was objectively riskier.

He was entering politics — a field you understood infinitely better than he did — and his reputation alone would attract scrutiny from every newspaper, politician and businessman in Karachi. He had the backing of a gang and the possibility of war surrounding him at every possible moment. Signing up for a job with him would only pull you further away from your original thoughts of not getting into the dirtier part of Lyari’s politics.

You looked at Ayaan, who was sleeping soundly. 

He was going to turn six soon. 

A big age for him, undoubtedly. He had already started insisting he was ‘almost a grown-up,’ proudly tying his own shoelaces and refusing your help with the simplest of tasks. Every week seemed to bring a new piece of independence, another tiny reminder that childhood was slipping away faster than you were expecting. 

If you accepted his offer, how were you supposed to hide the bad parts of life from him? Khanani wasn’t that difficult. No child understood money laundering, tax frauds or the intricacies behind financial extortion. They didn’t even know something called financial crimes existed.

A child would understand guns, though. Violence. War. Fear so primal that it never left anyone’s bones. Trauma so deep-rooted people became shells of themselves. You would sooner lose every job in Karachi than knowingly let your son see that, or wose, experience it.

But how long could you protect him?

Sooner or later, he would learn that the world wasn't fair.

That good people died.

That bad people often didn't.

That sometimes the monsters looked exactly like ordinary men.

You just hadn't expected to be the one choosing how close he stood to them.

Yet, for the first time in years, someone had offered you a job without speaking about what they wanted you to sacrifice.

No one had asked you to work longer hours.

No one had asked whether your son would be ‘manageable’.

No one had suggested that motherhood and professionalism existed on opposite ends of a spectrum.

Rehman had not said it outright, but you were positive he had considered Ayaan too. The way he had looked at him — careful, unbothered, a part of the equation from the very beginning — had made that clear. 

You weren't sure what unsettled you more.

The offer.

Or the fact that you were genuinely considering it.

~~~~~

Rehman had expected the call.

He just hadn't expected himself to spend the better part of the morning checking his phone every fifteen minutes.

Uzair noticed.

“Phone ko dekhne se woh jaldi nahi bajega.”

Rehman ignored him and continued pacing around the room, glaring at Uzair, who was still in a suspiciously good mood from the previous date and seemed to think that made him impervious to his elder brother’s taunts or sarcasm. The smugness on his face was almost offensive. 

Thirty-eight minutes later, the phone rang. 

Uzair’s expression only grew more pleased with itself, and Rehman picked up before the second ring. 

“Assalamualaikum.”

Your voice came from the other side, crisp with the weight of a decision that you had probably thought about the entire night. “Wa Alaikum Assalam.”

There was a brief pause.

“Agar offer abhi bhi hai, toh meri kuch shart hain.”

The corner of Rehman's mouth lifted, and suddenly, he understood why even the smallest thing could make Uzair jump up and down in joy. “Mujhe umeed bhi yahi thi.”

Rehman smiled to himself. Of course you had conditions. He would have been disappointed if you hadn’t. People who accepted things too quickly usually hadn’t thought them through. You had. He could hear that in the measured way you spoke, as if you had already arranged your thoughts into neat rows before dialing his number.

He reached for the notebook lying beside him and motioned to Donga to shut up before he smashed his head into the expensive mahogany that had created Rehman’s desk.

“Bataiye,” he said.

“Sabse pehle, salary.”

“Hm?”

“Main Khanani se kam salary par nahi aaungi.”

He had already budgeted for that. In fact, he had budgeted for more. He had known from the moment he made the offer that if you came, you would not come cheaply — not because you were greedy, but because you knew your worth and would not let anyone pretend otherwise. He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the notebook open in front of him.

“Pandrah lakh rupay saalana chalega?”

The silence that followed was long enough for him to glance at the receiver, frowning slightly.

“Y/N ji?”

“Ji?”

“Aap theek hain?”

A quiet laugh slipped through the line, soft enough that he could imagine the smile behind it.

“Main bas  yeh soch rahi thi ke aap negotiate bhi nahi karenge.”

He laughed then, genuinely amused. “Aapne kam toh maanga hi nahi.”

That made you laugh too, though yours was quieter, more restrained. “Theek hai.”

He wrote the figure into the notebook with a neat line beneath it, though he already knew he would not need to revisit it. “Phir?”

“Agar school se phone aaya, ya Ayaan ko lena hoga, toh main kaam ke beech chali jaaungi.”

Rehman shrugged. He had already expected it, and even if you hadn’t mentioned it, he would’ve made it clear that that was always how it was going to work. “Theek hai.”

“Main baad mein kaam poora kar dungi.”

“Aapko justify karne ki zaroorat nahi hai.”

He heard a faint pause on the other end, and for a moment, he wondered if you had expected resistance. Perhaps you had prepared yourself for the usual questions — how often, how long, what if it becomes a habit, what if everyone starts asking for the same thing. Instead, he had agreed before you had even finished speaking. He could almost picture your expression changing, the guardedness easing by degrees.

“Work from home,” you continued after a moment. “Har roz nahi. Lekin agar Ayaan bimar ho, ya mujhe ghar se kaam karna behtar lage, toh mujhe woh option chahiye.”

“Theek.”

He did not even bother writing that one down immediately, for, in his mind, it had already become policy. He knew taking care of a child that young was hard work; checking the temperature every hour, ensuring all medicines were absorbed, staying on the phone with doctors as every symptom was read out… there was a lot. And he was never going to stop you from being a mother, because his work came later than your priority. 

“Aur," you continued.

“Haan?”

“Jab Ayaan haveli mein hai, uske saamne siyasat ya kaam ki baat nahi hogi.”

Rehman blinked.

For a second, his mind flashed back to all the evenings the boy had spent in the courtyard, batting a tennis ball across the tiles while adults around him discussed contracts, constituencies, and the kind of problems children should never have to hear. He had never thought much of it before. Children were often present in his world without truly being part of it. But you had noticed. Of course you had.

“Bilkul nahi hogi,” he said at once.

“Main serious hoon.”

“Main bhi.”

He answered before you had even finished the sentence, because there was no room for ambiguity there. “Ayaan jab haveli aata hai, toh woh mehmaan nahi hota.”

He glanced out through the open window toward the courtyard. The plastic wickets Ayaan had left behind the previous evening still stood near the wall, one slightly tilted. The sight made him smile faintly.

“Woh bachcha hai,” he said. “Uske saamne bachchon wali baatein hongi.”

The line stayed quiet for a heartbeat, and when you spoke again, there was something in your voice that sounded almost like relief, though you kept it tucked neatly beneath your professionalism.

“Ek aur.”

“Ji.”

“Main har business trip pe nahi aaungi.”

That made him pause.

“Kyun?”

“Main aaungi,” you clarified, “agar waqai zaroorat hui toh. Lekin har meeting, har sheher, har safar, uski zaroorat nahi honi chahiye. Ayaan abhi bhi baccha hai. Jitna ho sake, mujhe uske paas rehna hai. School ho ya chutti.”

Rehman frowned slightly, not in disagreement but in genuine confusion. That was not what people usually asked for. In his experience, everyone wanted to travel. Travel meant visibility, visibility meant influence, and influence meant leverage. People fought for it, angled for it, dressed it up as necessity when it was really ambition. You were asking for the opposite. He understood most of it, but one part that left him confused was why you thought taking your child with you was not an option, especially during holidays. He had done that with Uzair. What made you dismiss that idea?

“Theek hai,” he said instead, storing that piece of information for another day.

Another pause followed, quieter this time, both of you taking stock of how little remained unsaid.

“Bas,” you said at last.

Rehman looked down at the notebook in front of him. The page was not crowded with demands. It was crowded with boundaries. Salary. Flexibility. No politics in front of Ayaan. No unnecessary travel. None of it made your life easier in the way people usually meant when they negotiated a job. Every clause protected something else.

Ayaan.

“Aur kuch add karna chahti hain?” he asked.

“Haan.”

He smiled despite himself. “Mujhe pata tha.”

“Yeh sab contract mein likha hoga.”

“Zaroor.”

“Nahi,” you corrected immediately, with the firmness that suggested you had already anticipated his answer. “Sab. Word for word.”

He laughed under his breath. “Aap mujhpe bilkul bharosa nahi karti.”

“Karti hoon.”

The answer came so quickly that it caught him off guard. There was no hesitation in it, no defensive edge, just certainty. Then, after a brief pause, you added, “Lekin contract phir bhi chahiye.”

That, more than anything else you had said, made him respect you all even more. You trusted people, but you trusted paperwork more. You trusted what was written down, what could not be conveniently forgotten later. It was sensible. It was careful. It was exactly the caution someone learned after being disappointed once too often. And Khanani had disappointed you too many times.

“Theek hai,” he said. “Main legal team se draft banwa deta hoon. Aaj shaam tak email kar dunga. Agar hard copy chahiye ho toh woh bhi bhijwa dunga.”

“Email theek hai.”

“Araam se padh lijiye.”

You hummed. “Aur agar mujhe kuch badalna ho?”

“Toh badal denge.”

This time neither of you spoke for several seconds. Rehman could hear the faint rustle of movement on your end, perhaps you shifting the phone from one hand to the other, perhaps Ayaan calling from another room.

Then you cleared your throat softly.

“Shukriya.”

He looked at the living room from his window. Ayaan’s colouring book was still on the sofa, and the crayons he had left were haphazardly strewn across the floor. Had the mess been that of an adult, Rehman would’ve fired them or at least screamed at them on the spot, but knowing it was Ayaan’s made him smile softly. 

“Y/N ji.”

“Hm?”

“Offer letter shaam tak pahunch jaayega.”

He smiled faintly, though you could not see it.

“Uske baad... aap officially meri boss ban jaayengi.”

For the first time since answering the phone, you laughed properly, and he joined, returning to that old dynamic of acquaintances — or colleagues, now — as easily as it was to shift into professionalism. 

When the call ended, he sat for a moment with the phone still in his hand, then closed the notebook and rang his legal department. He dictated every condition exactly as you had said it, without changing a word, without smoothing anything over, without adding the kind of corporate polish that usually made such things sound more generous than they were.

And now that you were on his team… no sky or star was unreachable. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: AAAND Y/N IS WORKING FOR REHMAN! Can't wait to see how that 'purely working' relationship evolves lmao. Also, the next part is unfortunately not going to be published as quickly as parts 2 and 3 were, but I will try to update once a week or once in ten days. College is starting and I will no longer have as much time as I did these past few days. Please comment or dm if you want to be added/removed from the taglist!

A Rehman Dakait x Reader fic Masterlist a/n: Canon divergent. This is solely based on Akshaye Khanna’s portrayal of Rehman Dakait in the movie Dhurandhar and has nothing to do with the gangster Rehman Dakait in any way, shape or form. I sincerely hope he is being tortured in the worst way possible, wherever he is. This is the final part, the rest of the notes about it are at the end :) PART 1 | PART 2 click here for the song

Main tera, main tera Main tera, main tera

Rehman had tasted happiness before. 

It felt like it belonged to another lifetime now; scattered, half-faded memories he could barely hold on to. The vague outline of his mother, softened by time and buried beneath years of resentment, long, dusty evenings spent outside with friends, an old football and nothing else to worry about. And sometimes, it was with Uzair — chasing him across uneven ground, the boy’s laughter ringing out freely, untouched by the weight of the world.

But it was different with you. 

When he was with you, happiness didn’t come in fragments. It didn’t arrive quietly or leave without warning. It wrapped around him completely, settled into his chest, lingered in the smallest moments — in the way you breathed, in the way you leaned into him, in the way his lips found the curve of your jaw as he pressed kisses into it, unhurried.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your breath catching as you tried to steady it enough to speak.

“Aaj tum bade khush ho.” 

He chuckled against your skin, his lips moving towards your neck. “Itni khoobsurat ho na, isliye.”

You rolled your eyes, but Rehman didn’t miss the way your hands came up to his shoulders again, fingers sliding over the firm lines of his chest. The heat outside clung to both of you, but your skin still carried a faint coolness from the supermarket, and when your fingers brushed his abs, he sucked in a sharp breath at the contrast. In retaliation, he leaned in and sank his teeth into your neck, the scent of your Nivea lotion flooding his senses, but you barely gave him a second before pushing him back. 

“Thodi der ruko,” you laughed, adjusting your dupatta. “Kal Geeta ki sagaai bhi hai. Tumhe kya lagta hai, log mehendi dekhenge ya tumhari karigari?”

“Sab log tere jaise andhe nahi hote,” he shot back, slinging your bag over his shoulder. “Kam se kam woh itna toh samjhenge ki is art pe peeche kitni mehnat hai.”

You raised an eyebrow and fell into step with him as he walked toward the bike. “Achcha ji, aapke liye ye art hai?” you said, stopping abruptly before picking up a crumpled sheet lying by the roadside. You thrust it into his hand and stepped closer, crowding into his space as he instinctively lifted it, confused.

“Ispe likho—‘Rehman Baloch ki karigari,’” you continued, completely serious, adjusting the imaginary placement over your head, “aur seedha mere sar pe chipka do. Sagaai kya, puri Lyari bula do, sab aake dekh lenge tumhari yeh bemisaal mehnat.”

Rehman threw his head back in laughter, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes from how ridiculous you looked standing in the middle of the road, with your hands holding the sheet above your head like some sort of signboard while your brow was drenched in sweat, glaring at him like he was the dumbest person on the planet. Huffing, you dropped the sheet back onto the road, seeing that you had reached his bike, and crossed your arms in front of your chest. 

“Tujhe ye sab mazak lagti hai, na?” you muttered, even though there was a hint of a smile behind your words. “Chhod, main khud hi chali jaaungi.”

You barely made it two steps. 

“Are, meri noor—” 

You didn’t even have the time to register what he said before his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, tugging you towards the bike. He was already seated, looking far too pleased with himself as he took in the annoyed expression on your face. 

“Kya bola—” you started, frantically looking around, but he picked you up like you weighed nothing and settled you on his lap, your chest flushed against his. Your cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson — he still had that effect even after two months of you dating him — as he pulled your dupatta over your heads, dimming the world into a warm, shared shadow. 

“Rehman!” you hissed, half-laughing now, trying to push the fabric back, but he caught your wrist again.

“Chup,” he murmured, but there was no teasing in it this time. 

Main tera, main tera Main tera, main tera

His lips pressed to your forehead, lingering, as if he was holding the moment in place. Then he moved slowly — your temple, your cheek — each kiss unhurried, deliberate, like he was tracing something only he could see, spending an extra minute on the birthmark near your lips. There was a quiet reverence in the way he touched you, as if he was memorising you, as if this was something to be worshipped, not rushed.

“Meri noor hai tu,” he whispered against your skin, not like a compliment, but like a truth.

Your breath hitched despite yourself. “Haan, kyunki main sirf dekhne ke liye—”

“Meri jaan hai tu,” he said, softer now, the words settling between you as his lips brushed yours, like you were his salvation and his kisses were prayers he couldn’t say out loud. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours for a second before pressing one last, familiar kiss there.

“Ho gaya satana?” you murmured, raising an eyebrow.

A quiet laugh slipped out of him as he nuzzled into your neck. “Abhi ke liye.”

Main gehra tamas, tu sunehra savera Main tera, ho, main tera 

The October heat burned into Rehman’s skin as he pushed the sleeves of his kurta till his elbows, eyes scanning the crowded market for a glimpse of you. The air was filled with a cacophony of noises and smells — children playing in the merry-go-round, couples holding each other’s hands as they weaved through the crowd with little trinkets and teenagers looking bored out of their minds while their mothers negotiated prices with the vegetable vendors. There was a baaraat too, surprisingly, weaving its way through the crowded streets with dhol beats cutting through the evening noise, strings of lights flickering against the fading sun as strangers paused to watch, smile, and then move along again. 

His attention was brought back to Uzair, who was tugging at his sleeve. “Bhai, Y/N bhabhi kab aayegi?”

Rehman’s face snapped towards him, cheeks burning. He hoped no one caught what Uzair had said. “Tum unko bhabhi kab bulaane lage?”

Uzair shrugged. “Aapne bola aap unse mohobbat karte hain. Uska matlab ye hai na ki—” 

Rehman ran his hands over his face, wondering how he was supposed to tell a six year old that the word bhabhi had a completely different connotation, one that meant the promise of marriage, and that calling someone that just because your older brother was in love with them was the worst idea ever. He was the one who had initiated this meetup between you and Uzair — you were initially sceptical about it, but agreed just because Rehman had talked so cutely about Uzair that you couldn’t resist the urge to meet him. And now, Uzair’s mouth was probably going to scare you off for good. 

“Main unse mohobbat karta hu, lekin hamare beech mein… maan lo dosti jaisa hai. Tum unko didi hi bulao,” he said quickly, hoping the matter would end there. 

It did not.

Uzair’s brows furrowed in confusion, his face scrunching up into an expression that looked like a smaller, exaggerated version of Rehman’s own — equal parts confused and mildly disgusted.

“Aap apne doston se mohobbat karte hain?”

Rehman opened his mouth to respond, but a familiar voice from behind him cut in before he could.

“Haan, Rehman, tum apne doston se mohobbat karte ho?” you asked cheekily, stepping into his line of sight, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you tilted your head, watching him far too knowingly.

Rehman looked between both of you, a sigh of resignation slipping past his lips. “Uzair,” he crouched, twisting his frame so he looked at you directly. “Yeh hai Y/N. Tum unko—”

“Y/N BHABHI!” Uzair shrieked, already running toward you before the words had fully left his mouth.

You blinked, caught off guard for half a second — the words landing somewhere unexpected — but the surprise never quite made it to your face. Years of being the eldest kicked in before anything else could, and you bent instinctively, catching him as he launched himself at you. You lifted him with ease and spun him once in the air, his laughter ringing above the market noise.

“Are, itni tez?” you laughed, placing him on the ground gingerly. “Gir jaate toh?”

“Nahi girta,” he declared confidently, flexing his little arms. “Main strong hu.”

“Accha? Kitna strong?” you challenged, raising an eyebrow.

“Rehman bhai se bhi zyada.”

Behind you, Rehman let out a quiet groan, dragging a hand down his face in a slow, resigned facepalm as he watched the two of you, already ganging up against him without a second thought.

You shot him a quick smirk and nodded, your attention going back to Uzair. “Haan, aapka Rehman bhai toh taakat mein bhi or dimaag mein bhi aapse kam hai,” you said, ignoring the fact that, just last week, he had dug his fingers so deeply into your hips through your salwar that they had left small bruises in their wake. Your mind drifted towards that memory, how he had kissed you, how you had—

“Mujhe kulfi chahiye,” Uzair suddenly piped up, snapping you out of your trance.

Rehman tutted softly. “Uzair, maine bola na, hum pooch—”

“Aapko kulfi chahiye? Main khilati hu,” you cut him off, grinning as you took Uzair’s hand before Rehman could protest further.

Rehman watched the two of you walk ahead, Uzair already chattering excitedly, his small fingers wrapped comfortably around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. You had bent down a little, nodding solemnly as he spoke about school and football and how he thought his cousin needed more colour in his wardrobe. He shook his head under his breath, but the faint smile tugging at his lips refused to fade as he followed behind, watching the colours change in the sky as you took Uzair around the bazaar, showing him the rides and feeding him more kulfi than healthy. 

He hadn’t expected it to go this well. Uzair wasn’t a very social child; it had taken him two weeks to speak his first word after his mother died, a month to warm up to Rehman, and he was still struggling to make friends at school. He still glared at strangers when he passed by them on the road. And here he was, playing with you like he had known you forever. 

Suddenly, an image flashed in his mind — somewhere in the future, both of you sitting on a quiet verandah, cups of chai in your hands as two children ran through the soil in front of you, their laughter drifting into the evening air.  The warmth settled in his chest for a fleeting second before he pushed it away, jaw tightening; dreams like that didn’t belong to someone whose life was tied to cunning, dirty politics and luck — not when he hadn’t even told you the truth yet.

He blinked, snapping back to the present just as Uzair beamed up at the two of you. “Yeh sabse accha din tha,” he declared proudly, kulfi smeared around his lips despite your best efforts to clean it up. 

You blinked, surprised. “Sach?”

“Haan,” he nodded seriously, before looking up at Rehman. “Main bhabhi se phir mil sakta hu na?”

Rehman stilled for a moment, his eyes flickering between Uzair’s hopeful face and yours, something unreadable settling in his expression as Uzair waited for his answer.

“Haan,” he nodded, his voice cracking just slightly. “Zaroor mil sakte ho.”

That was enough for Uzair. He stepped closer without thinking, standing between the two of you as the three of you fell into a quiet stillness, the fading sun casting long shadows across the market while he watched the sky like he didn’t want the day to end.

Musafir main bhatka, tu mera basera Main tera, ho, main tera 

You stared at the slip of paper again, wrapping the blanket around you more firmly as another cold draft entered your room. Your teeth were chattering, but the window was broken, and your father was too busy saving for your younger brother’s college fund to fix it. You had covered the window with a cloth for now — a temporary measure that provided no respite — and your sisters and brother were frantically packing for a wedding, leaving you to ponder over the note in the privacy of your room, considering half of your things had already been stolen by your sisters. 

Rehman’s handwriting was unmistakeable; the letters were written carefully, like he had spent extra time relearning the script just to be able to write a note to you. The content was simple: he had asked you to meet him at the bus stop a week after the new year. This was a break from your usual routine, but he knew your parents weren’t going to be at home, and that your neighbours were too busy drinking to drown away their problems to notice you staying out a bit later than usual. Oh, and he had asked you to wear white. 

Which was why you stood at the bus stand, shivering slightly in the biting wind, dressed in the simple white kurti set you had received for your seventeenth birthday, barely two days into the new year. Your fingers curled into your sleeves in a futile attempt to keep warm, even though the Lyari winter was nothing compared to the rest of Pakistan. 

Rehman pulled up a few minutes later, the low rumble of his bike cutting through the quiet. His gaze flickered over you once — taking in the goosebumps dotting your arms, the way you shifted your weight — before he wordlessly shrugged off the extra jacket slung over his shoulder and held it out to you, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Jaldi nahi aa sakte the kya?” you snapped, grabbing the helmet. “Lag raha tha aur ek ghanta intezaar karna padega.”

He kissed your palm. “Maaf kardo, meri jaan. Traffic bahut thi.”

“Traffic bahut thi,” you mimicked, but you rested your head on his back either way as he sped off, turning sharply onto the highway. 

The scent of clean wind hit your face as the bike picked up speed, the air growing cooler and quieter the farther you moved away from the crowded streets. The sharpness of the morning softened— the faint smell of damp earth, of open fields waking under pale sunlight — while the breeze tugged at your dupatta and slipped through the sleeves of Rehman’s jacket wrapped around you, carrying with it a quiet calm that made you close your eyes and wrap your arms around his torso. 

“Kahan ja rahe hain?” you asked, voice muffled against his back. 

His chuckle sent vibrations along his back. “Thoda intezaar karo, Y/N. So ja.” 

You nodded and pressed your cheek into his back, closing your eyes. You didn’t realise when the road beneath you changed — when the roughness of the city gave way to smoother, quieter stretches, when the honking faded into distant silence. Rehman slowed the bike after a while, turning onto a narrow path lined with low fences and open land that stretched endlessly into the pale winter morning.

“Rehman?” you murmured, straightening slightly.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stopped the bike completely.

You frowned, pulling the helmet off — and then froze.

Rows upon rows of roses stretched before you, blooming in soft shades of red, pink, and white, their petals trembling gently in the cold morning breeze. The early sunlight had just begun to settle over the fields, turning the dew on the petals into scattered flecks of gold. The air was thick with their scent — overwhelming in the quiet.

Your breath caught.

Rehman watched you instead of the field, his expression softening as you stepped off the bike slowly, like you were afraid the scene might disappear if you moved too fast. 

“Tum…” you began, shaking your head slightly, a disbelieving laugh escaping you as you walked forward, fingers brushing lightly against the nearest rose. 

“Pasand aaya?” he asked quietly.

You turned toward him, eyes brighter than the morning light. “Pagal ho kya?” you whispered, like the field demanded softness.

Not waiting for his reply,  you slipped past him and ran into the rows of roses, your fingers grazing every bloom you passed, not caring about your white salwar brushing against damp soil and petals. The morning sun settled gently over your face, your skin turning into warm gold, while your anklets chimed softly with every step. Your hair had come loose somewhere along the way, smaller strands falling around your face like a soft halo, the rest swaying behind you as you moved without restraint. Your laughter rang freely across the quiet field — unfiltered, unguarded — and your dupatta trailed behind you, lifting lightly in the breeze as you spun once, just to take it all in.

The sound of a click broke through your laughter.

You turned, breath still uneven, to find Rehman standing a few feet away, an old camera in his hands as he clicked another photo, then another, not stopping even when you instinctively raised your hands to cover your face.

“Photo lene de, Y/N!” he laughed, walking closer, adjusting the lens. “Unlimited film nahi hai isme, aur ab tum chehra chupa rahi ho?”

“Pagal ho tum!” you called out, trying to turn away.

“Tere liye pagal hu!”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile refused to leave your face as he finally reached you, slipping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. You didn’t resist, settling into his warmth as his other arm wrapped around you, his chest against your back, chin coming to rest gently at the top of your head while the roses swayed quietly around you.

“Main ye pal bhoolna nahi chahti,” you muttered, turning a petal over in your fingers. “Aisa lagta hai ki puri duniya mere ungliyon par hai.” 

Rehman nodded above you, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Haina?” 

You turned around and rose on your toes, kissing him softly. He cradled your head and almost dropped the camera, but you raised your arm with his, pointing the lens at your bodies. 

“Kya kar rahi ho?” he asked between kisses, chasing your lips as his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you closer. You wordlessly kissed him again and clicked the shutter just as your lips met, freezing the moment in film. 

The soft click echoed faintly between the rows of roses, swallowed quickly by the quiet of the morning. You lingered there for a second, both of you smiling against each other like neither of you wanted to be the first to pull away.

Rehman finally leaned back, his thumb brushing absently against your cheek as if memorising the warmth of your skin. The camera dangled loosely from his wrist, forgotten for a moment as he looked at you like the world had narrowed down to just this — the roses, the sunlight, and you in his arms.

“Ye photo,” he murmured quietly, “kabhi purani nahi hogi.”

You smiled faintly, turning around as the breeze shifted around you again, carrying the scent of roses between you. Raising his palm to your lips, you placed small kisses on his knuckles as you watched the roses come alive in the morning sun.

His arm tightened around your waist, and his kissed the top of your head in response, holding it for a second longer, like he wanted to freeze the time the way the photo had.

Tu jugnu chamakta, main jungle ghanera Main tera

The March sun beat down on you as you checked your watch absent-mindedly, foot tapping against the dust as you waited for Rehman to meet you. 

There wasn’t a single day he had been late. Sure, he sometimes didn’t pick you up from your grocery runs, but he would either be at the market or at the big tree on Bazaar road. He had never left you waiting for more than five minutes, and even if he did, he would make it up to you later. He valued punctuality a lot more than the average human — he would get pretty furious if someone turned up more than ten minutes late — so him not turning up even at 4 pm concerned you. 

You had pulled your dupatta away from your head, lost in your thoughts. Was he alright? Did something urgent turn up? It couldn’t have been a normal plan — he would’ve sent a letter then — so it had to be something he didn’t expect. You knew the street where he lived, but not which house, and Rehman had constantly warned you about how dangerous it was, so you checking his house was out of the question. 

“Bhabhi!” 

The unmistakable voice of Uzair brought you back to reality, and you stood up with your bag, meeting him in the middle of the street. He was panting, his small hand wiping the sweat from his brow, but his eyes were far from those of the little boy you had met just a few months ago, they carried horror, almost like he had seen a ghost and had run to you for safety. 

“Rehman bhai…” he muttered between pants, “khoon…”

Your voice cut through his rambling. “Kahan hai?” 

Uzair wordlessly took your hand and took off towards the end of the street, and you ran with him, carrying the bag of groceries on one shoulder while your arm rummaged for your emergency first aid kit in the handbag you now always carried. You didn’t reduce your pace even a little, heart hammering as Uzair’s hand clutched your fingers, leading you through narrow lanes till you reached a small door. 

Uzair pushed it open. 

And when you stepped inside, your heart stopped. 

Rehman’s face was covered in blood — dark and drying at his temples, fresh where it trickled down from his jaw down to the collar of his shirt, staining his neck an angry red. A slash ran from the side of his eyebrow, narrowly missing his eye as it continued till halfway down the cheek. One sleeve was torn, knuckles bruised and bleeding, and his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths as he lay slumped against the wall. 

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, the groceries slipping slightly down your shoulder as your eyes scanned the blood, the bruises, the way his hand pressed weakly against his side. You pushed Uzair into his room, not wanting him to see his brother so broken. 

“Rehman…” you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips as you rushed forward, dropping to your knees in front of him, already pulling out cotton with trembling fingers.

He opened your eyes at the sound of your voice, meeting yours with a strange sadness in them, like he felt he had betrayed you by letting you see him like this. He flinched when you brought the ointment near the wound on his forehead, but you didn’t move back. 

“Yeh sab kya hai?” you asked, voice shaking as you slowly pressed the cotton to his temple, fingers trembling. Up close, his wounds looked worse — there was a bit of swelling, and the dried blood was clinging stubbornly to his skin. 

Rehman hissed softly at the contact, averting his gaze. “Kuch nahi,” he gritted out. “Bas chhota sa jhagda hua tha. Tu fikr mat kar, main theek hu, tum—”

“Jhoot mat bol,”  you whispered, your voice softer,  heavier. “Yeh ‘kuch nahi’ nahi hota.”

The room fell quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of gauze as you pressed it carefully against his skin. He watched you for a moment — the worry etched across your face, the way your fingers shook despite how carefully you moved — and something in his expression shifted, like the weight he had been carrying had finally become too heavy to ignore.

“Y/N…” he exhaled and took a deep breath. 

“Main seedha kaam nahi karta,” he started.

Your fingers slowed, but you didn’t interrupt. 

“Jhagde hote hai. Paisa milta hai. Jitna khatarnak kaam, utna zyada paisa. Kabhi-kabhi daraana hai, kabhi-kabhi giraana hai, kabhi-kabhi…”

His words hung in the air, their meaning settling like a weight on your chest. You moved away from his body, needing to breathe some air in a room that felt like it was closing in on you. He noticed, and his arm instinctively reached out to you, but he didn’t touch you, not when he didn’t even have the courage to even look you in the eye. 

“Main Haji Laloo ke liye kaam karta hu,” he continued, head hung. “Kuch saal se. Aaj mujhe Jabir Hassan ko khatam karna tha, lekin…”

Your fingers stilled completely.

He let out a shaky breath, like he had been holding it in for too long.

“Mujhe pata hai ye sab ganda hai. Aur main nahi chahta tha ki tum yeh sab dekho.” His hand dropped against his thigh, limp, like he was already preparing for you to pull away. “Lekin yeh meri zindagi hai, Y/N. Isi se main apni zindagi badal sakta hu. Isi se main woh sab hasil kar sakta hu jo mujhse pehle cheen liya gaya.”

His eyes flickered up to your face, eyes more uncertain than they were when you first kissed him. Something in him had finally let go, he didn’t need to hide the darker parts of his life from you anymore, but he was scared too, scared that you would see him the way almost everyone else did. He knew his life wasn’t safe — hell, he spent half his time ensuring Uzair did not know about his reality just so he wouldn’t fear for his life every time he walked out — and even if would break him, he wouldn’t force you to stay in a situation that could put you in danger.

“Aur… agar tum jaana chahti ho,” he said quietly, forcing the words out, “toh theek hai. Main rokungaa nahi.”

Your eyes met his, searching his face — for even a sign of hesitation, regret, just anything that suggested he didn’t believe in what he had just said. But you didn’t find anything, and the realization sank into you: you were now seeing him the way everyone else did, the killer, the fighter, someone who looked like he had more blood on his hands than in his heart. 

But, that wasn’t all he was. 

He was also the boy whose laughter brightened everything around him. Who bought you flowers because you mentioned liking them once. Who took care of Uzair like a parent, ensuring he got the childhood he never had. Who held you when you cried, unsure and uncertain about your life, and kissed the top of your forehead like he worshipped you. Who would always slip a coin or a packet of food to a child begging on the street, even if that meant he would go without lunch that day. Whom you couldn’t imagine life without. Whom you loved. 

Your fingers started moving again, slowly at first, then a bit faster, and you moved closer to him.

“Jo bhi ho,” you said, cupping his face with your other hand, tilting his face so he looked at you, “tum mere ho, Rehman.”

You moved closer, pressing your lips to his forehead.

“Mere sher-e-baloch.” 

O piya, main tera, main tera, main tera Main tera, main tera, ho, main tera

The months flew by in a blur, and suddenly, it was May again — Geeta’s wedding.

You hadn’t expected to feel this emotional about it, but the weight of it settled quietly in your chest as you stepped into the reception hall. The space buzzed with warmth and noise — relatives greeting each other, children weaving between tables, waiters moving carefully through the crowd with trays balanced in their hands. Strings of lights flickered above, casting a soft glow over the gathering, while the faint beat of music blended into the low hum of conversations.

You spotted Geeta on the stage almost immediately.

Dressed in bridal red, jewellery catching the light, she looked both radiant and overwhelmed, smiling at every relative who stepped forward to bless her. Your chest tightened with bittersweet joy at the sight, having watched her grow from a girl who scribbled mehendi designs in notebooks to someone sitting under wedding lights, fulfilling a dream she had spoken about for years.

“Y/N! Idhar aa, beta!” 

Your father’s voice called from the other side of the hall, his arm beckoning to you. You handed the wrapped gift in your arms to your sister, and immediately walked towards him, holding the end of the pallu of your saree in your right hand. 

Your father immediately pulled you to the side. “Ye hai Khanna sa’ab. Bank mein mere senior the. Khanna ji, ye hai Y/N, meri beti.” 

“Namaste,” you folded your hands and greeted the man and his wife, offering them a polite smile as they looked you over with quiet interest.

“Namaste, beta,” Mrs. Khanna replied warmly, her eyes soft but observant in a way that made you instinctively straighten your posture. “Bohot pyaari hai aapki beti, Mohan ji,” she looked at your father for a second, before turning her attention towards you again. “Kitni saal ki ho?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but your mother’s voice cut in from behind you. “Ji Y/N satrah saal ki hai, aur hamari dusri beti Rashmi pandrah saal ki hai.”

Mr. and Mrs. Khanna politely greeted Rashmi, who shyly returned the greeting before your father ushered all of you toward a row of chairs slightly away from the crowd. The music hummed faintly in the background as guests moved around you, laughter and chatter blending into a steady buzz.

Your father gestured for everyone to sit before glancing toward the side. “Bhai,” he called, motioning to a waiter standing nearby with a tray of drinks and starters. You couldn’t tell whom he had called, but your mouth was watering at the prospect of eating — plates of tikkas, samosas and cutlets with juice sounded very appetising since you hadn’t eaten lunch. 

However, all thoughts of food left your mind the second his scent hit you. 

Rehman had a very distinct scent, you had realised three months into your friendship. A hint of cigarettes, cologne, wood and sometimes petrichor, and you had memorised it every time you hugged. Sometimes, he would smell like flowers, if he was greeting you with them that day, but that evening, his scent was unmistakable.

You stole a discreet look when he handed cups of orange juice to everyone, biting the inside of your cheek when you saw how the crisp black shirt hugged his biceps as he handed your parents plates of samosas and cups of orange juice. He had put on some muscle ever since he had started earning more, and the effects of it were visible when he wore anything that clung to his body. 

Rehman, on the other hand, was fighting very hard to stop himself from kissing you in front of everyone. 

His jaw had almost dropped in when you first walked in, eyes traversing across your face, which you had left bare except a small bindi, a touch of lipstick and blush, your neck, which you had adorned with a necklace bedecked with green stones and pearls, covering a small patch where he had sunk his teeth into just the week prior. His focus naturally shifted to your saree — “Sage green light green nahi hai, kamine!” you had said, slapping his arm a week ago — that made you look ethereal, like you were a tree nymph who had come to life. The saree was bedecked in sparkles that looked like you had draped a green galaxy on your body, leaving more than enough of your waist uncovered, enough for him to ogle the curve of it. 

His fingers brushing yours just intensified his desire, but he didn’t show any sign of recognition. Instead, he handed you another glass of juice — mausambi, not orange — and simply stepped back. 

“Handwash vahan hai,” he said to the general crowd, pointing at a door that led to the back of the hall. 

It was a veiled invitation. 

You caught it immediately. 

Five minutes later, while everyone else was asking for seconds, you excused yourself and walked towards the handwash. Rehman was nowhere to be seen in the hall, and you prayed to all the gods above that no one in your family finished eating early. 

You had barely wiped your hands when you heard the creak of a door. 

“Badan pe sitaare lapete hue—”

An arm encircled your waist. 

“O jaan-e-tamanna kidhar ja rahi ho?”

Before you could admonish him, he pulled you into a dark room and shut the door. Your hands were on his chest now, but you could tell he was rummaging for the light. 

A click, and the room was bathed in the white light coming from a bulb that was holding on for dear life. 

“Besharam!” you smacked his head as he relaxed his grip on your waist, pushing you a little away so he could take in your form properly. “Maine tujhe dekha, aate samay. Ghoor kyun rahe the?”

“Meri jaan, tum aise saree pehen ke aati ho, phir mujhse ye ummid hai ki mai tujhe na ghooron? Aise ho hi nahi sakta.” He pulled you close again, peppering small kisses onto your jawline, ghosting your ear before he moved to your neck. “Main bas yahi soch raha tha ki agar main thodi der aur ruk gaya toh shayad khud ko qaboo mein nahi reh paunga.”

You gasped, tilting your head to give him more access. “Phir Geeta chhodo, mandap mein hamaari shaadi karvayenge.” 

He laughed and pulled away. “Kam se kam ham dono ki umr lagbhag ek jaisi hai,” he chuckled, a glint of amusement in his eye. “Dulha ko dekha? Kaale se zyaada safed baal hai uske sar pe. Maine socha tha voh Geeta ka baap—”

“Shh!” you placed a finger on his lips, glad you were alone in the cramped room. “Koi sun liya toh? Dulhe ke khaandan siyaasti logon ko jaanti hai. Agar ek bhi lafz—” 

A shadow of gloom passed over his face. “Isliye toh aaya hu.”

Your finger dropped from his lips, your hands finding purchase in the collar of his shirt. The shift in his tone didn’t go unnoticed, but neither of you spoke about it immediately. The faint hum of music outside felt distant, like the world beyond the door had paused.

You studied his face, the fear in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

“Phir bhi,” you murmured softly, trying to lighten the weight settling between you, “tum waiter ki uniform mein bhi itne ghamandi lag rahe the. Tray pakad ke bhi ghoor rahe the. Ismein ghar jaao, Uzair tere saath hotel-hotel khelega.”

Rehman laughed, even though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Uzair Donga ke ghar mein so raha hai, toh voh nahi ho payega. Aur vaise bhi…” he trailed off, eyes deliberately travelling down to your waist as his fingers traced slow circles on its side. “Tu bhi utni hi besharam hai, varna itni paas khadi nahi hoti.” 

You rolled your eyes. 

“Tu mujhe chhed raha hai, aur ab main besharam hu?” you huffed, but there was a smile on your face as you kissed him, his grip on your waist and hip tightening as he pulled you impossibly closer. You were sure there was a small bruise, considering how tightly he was holding you, but you didn’t mind in the slightest, throwing your arms around his neck as you deepened the kiss. 

A small beep broke the moment. 

Rehman pulled back from you, his face suddenly very serious. 

“Meri baat sun,” he said, the words slipping out very quickly. “Tum yahan se jao, aur apne khaandan ke saath ghar jao. Paanch minute hai tumhare paas. Aur peeche mudke mat dekhna.”

You nodded, still reeling with all the information he gave you. Your voice was shaky when you finally spoke. “Tum theek hoge na?”

He kissed your forehead, not gracing you with a reply as he slowly opened the door.

You gathered the pleats of your saree and stepped out, walking quickly but trying to appear inconspicuous, your heartbeat loud in your ears. The reception lights felt harsher now, the chatter sharper, like everything around you had gained an edge when you got to know what would be happening in the next few minutes.

You spotted your family near the stage. Your father was still talking to Khanna ji, while Rashmi adjusted her bangles. You moved toward them, but before that, your eyes found Geeta.

She was still seated under the lights, smiling tiredly as another relative leaned forward to bless her. For a second, your chest tightened. You lifted your hand slightly — a small, subtle gesture. She caught it, her brows knitting faintly in confusion, but she gave you a quick nod anyway, and the sharpness in her gaze told you that she expected an explanation of what made you leave so early later.

You turned immediately.

“Mumma,” you whispered in her ear, your voice deliberately strained. “Lagta hai khana suit nahi kiya. Ulti ho gayi.”

Your mother’s expression changed instantly. “Are? Kab?”

“Abhi,” you replied softly, pressing a hand to your stomach. “Thoda chakkar bhi aa raha hai.”

Your mother nodded and whispered something to your father, whose face changed, concern replacing the ease in his posture. He excused himself from Khanna ji’s presence and whispered to you. “Chalo, phir chalte hai. Ghar jaake aaram karo.”

He motioned to Rashmi, who gathered her purse quickly, your mother muttering about outside food, and within seconds, your family began moving toward the exit, offering hurried goodbyes to whoever stood nearby.

The cool air outside hit your face as you stepped out of the hall, the night more peaceful than it was inside. You tried to look for Rehman near the handwash, but he had disappeared, and your stomach felt sick for a completely different reason. Your father had driven out of the gates when it happened.

A gunshot ripped through the air inside the hall.

You didn’t look back. 

Main tera, main tera, main tera, Main tera, main tera

Rehman had never been so nervous. 

The August sky was overcast, thick grey clouds stretching endlessly overhead, muting the sunlight. The air smelled faintly of rain that hadn’t fallen yet, and the wind moved lazily through the narrow lanes as Rehman stood next to the big tree on Bazaar road, turning a single rose over in his fingers. 

He hadn’t imagined that his life would change so quietly and so completely. First, he had seen you at the Saraswati mandir — just a fleeting moment, nothing more than a girl standing with a fruit in her hands. Then there you were again at the jhumka shop, bargaining with the shopkeeper, like fate had decided one meeting wasn’t enough. Small moments turned into long conversations, into shared silences, into a friendship that slipped so naturally into something deeper that he hadn’t even realized when the liking began. Then came the kiss, and suddenly, a year had passed with you beside him, and Rehman found himself hopelessly, irrevocably in love. You had become the center of his days and the quiet of his nights, the person he reached for in every thought before he even realized it. You were his comfort, his restlessness, his laughter, his patience — the one who made his world softer simply by existing in it. Somewhere along the way, without ceremony or declaration, you had become everything to him. 

Khuda, he was so in love. He had whispered it to Donga that day, his best friend and most understanding teammate, and Donga had clapped him on the back, telling him to make this day special, or as special as it could get, since you had to shop for vegetables before meeting him for just another hour. He had begged you to stay longer, but you had declined, telling him that only you and him knew the significance of that day. He even had a speech ready, and he had finally perfected it after practicing in front of the mirror a thousand times, though he was sure he would stutter when he had to say it to you. Not that you’d mind, of course. 

The sound of your anklets reached him after what felt like an eternity, soft at first, then clearer, each chime making his heart race. Rehman straightened instinctively, putting the rose in his pocket, a smile already forming before he even saw you, his heart quickening with a boyish excitement he never quite managed to hide when it came to you. The familiar rhythm meant you were close — just around the corner — and he found himself leaning forward slightly, as if he could put you into view faster.

But when you finally turned the corner, the smile faltered on his lips.

Your steps were slower than usual, the anklets that had moments ago sounded bright now dull against the silence you carried. Your shoulders seemed weighed down, your face pale and drawn, the light in your eyes replaced by exhaustion. There was no teasing smile, no soft spark of recognition — only a quiet heaviness that dropped his smile before he could even understand why. 

The excitement that had been bubbling inside him stilled abruptly, replaced by a creeping unease as he watched you walk toward him, looking like you were carrying something far too heavy, and it was not the bag of groceries. 

“Kya hua?” he asked, quickly taking the bag of groceries from you. “Sab theek?”

You looked at him finally, taking him in. He had worn his best black shirt — you knew it, because it was the only one without a tear or a stain, the fabric sitting a little stiff on his shoulders as if he had taken extra care with it. His hair was combed back more neatly than usual, still slightly damp, and there was a faint trace of attar around him that you only ever noticed on days that mattered. He stood straighter when he saw you, though his fingers gave him away, fidgeting unconsciously, betraying the excitement he was trying so hard to contain.

Your chest tightened at the sight of him and your heart began to race, uneven and restless. You felt a familiar warmth spread through you — soft, instinctive, painful in its tenderness. He looked at you the way he always did, eyes gentle, open, filled with a quiet affection that made it hard to hold his gaze for too long. And despite the heaviness sitting stubbornly in your chest, you felt your breath catch slightly, because even now, just seeing him like this made everything inside you soften in ways you had never quite learned to control.

He snapped his fingers, pulling you out of your daze. “Y/N?”

And suddenly, you couldn’t say it. You had thought about it all morning, how you were going to tell him, what your reactions were going to be, what you were going to say depending on whatever he replied. Your fingers clutched the sleeves of your maroon kurti a little tighter, and you fiddled with the fabric, trying to keep yourself in control. 

“Kya hua?” he asked again, brushing his finger against your chin.

Everything you had prepared flew out of the window. Every carefully arranged sentence disappeared, every practiced version of this conversation scattered into nothing. You stared at him instead, your mind scrambling desperately, trying to gather words that suddenly felt too heavy to hold.

“Yaad hai, Geeta ki shaadi mein Khanna ji aaye the?”

He nodded slowly, his brow furrowing in confusion, like he was trying to follow a path he couldn’t yet see.

“Haan, toh— matlab…” you trailed off, the words catching in your throat, refusing to come out easily unless they were dragged through a collection of blades. “Unke saath photos liye the, maine socha tha family friends hai, isliye, lekin… lekin—”

Your voice faltered. The air between you felt unbearably heavy, and you could feel your chest tightening, breath coming in shallow bursts. You closed your eyes, unable to look at him anymore, unable to watch the warmth slowly leave his face, unable to witness the moment before everything changed.

“Meri shaadi tay ho gayi hai.”

The words came out too quickly, breathless, like they had been trapped inside you for far too long and had finally forced their way out. The silence that followed felt louder than anything you had ever heard, pressing down heavily on your shoulders, making it hard to breathe. 

Even though the news itself was still new, the rest of the details began to spill out of you, quieter now, like your brain couldn’t fathom the new silence between you.

“Khanna ji ka bhatija hai, Hindustan mein rehta hai…” you continued, your voice unsteady, the words tumbling over each other before you could register what you were saying. “Engineer hai, achhi naukri hai, settled hai, Mumma keh rahi thi sabko bahut pasand aaya. Geeta ki shaadi mein hi— shayad tabhi baat shuru ho gayi thi, mujhe toh pata bhi nahi tha—”

You swallowed, blinking the tears away. You still didn’t open your eyes.

“Aaj subah hi bataya Mumma ne, aise hi bol diya ki shaadi tay ho gayi hai, mat—matlab unhone haan kar di… mujhe pata nahi tha, aur ladke ke ma-baap jaldi karna chahte hai kyunki usko vaapas Hindustan jaana hai aur—aur main shayad unke saath hi jaaungi—”

Your voice cracked. 

“Maine na bolne ki koshish ki, Mumma ko bola mujhe shaadi nahi karni hai, par—par baat nahi maane, baat pakki ho chuki thi… aur Mumma bas keh rahi thi ki itna accha rishta hai, mana kaise karte, toh—” 

“Kab hai?”

His voice firmly cut through your rambling, but there was an edge of desperation to it. You opened your eyes, but you looked down, fingers still fiddling with the sleeves of your kurti. 

“Paanch din.”

The words landed with a weight that seemed to hollow out the air itself. Neither of you moved, and even the sounds of the birds chirping and vehicles honking seemed to blur. The silence that followed was deafening — like there were so many things it was screaming, but they fell on ears that were too in shock to register anything apart from numbness. 

Rehman didn’t react immediately.

He just looked at you.

He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t shocked, he was just numb. Like his brain hadn’t caught up yet, and a part of it was refusing to even fathom the possibility of you getting married. It was such a foreign concept to him — lost in the feeling of being with you and loving you — that he couldn’t even imagine you in the same outfit as Geeta, couldn’t imagine you holding hands with someone seven years older, couldn’t imagine the thought of you calling someone else yours. Weirdly, it wasn’t possessiveness or jealousy, just the thought of it was fundamentally wrong. 

The silence stretched some more, like a lake whose ice finally got cracked. 

“Toh?”

His voice came out softer than usual, careful, like he was testing the reality of it, like there was still something left to clarify, something that could make this less final.

“Kuch karte hai…”

The words sounded small even to your own ears, like they might fall apart if either of you looked at them too closely.  Rehman let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping briefly to the ground before returning to your face, searching, trying to find something that hadn’t slipped away yet.

There was a pause. A long one.

“Bhaagte hain?”

You chuckled at the thought, the idea planting itself in your mind. It would be lovely, of course. Lovely to run, to escape, to be with the love of your life forever. A small smile broke onto your lips, and the words started tumbling out, the delusion of it shining through every word. 

“Haan, bhaagte hai. Gilgit jaate hai, pahaadon ke beech.” Your voice sounded like it was coming from someone else. “Hum Uzair ko ek acche school mein daal denge. Main tailor banungi. Aur tum padhai khatam karke accha naukri dhundhoge. Aur—aur uske baad hum shaadi karenge. Bas hum dono, Uzair, aur hamare doston ke saath. Aur kuch saal baad do bacche honge. Ek ladka aur ek ladki. Ladka ka naam Naieem hoga — tujhe voh naam bahut pasand hai — aur ladki ki Tara. Koi hume tan nahi karega. Koi hume…”

Rehman saw how your voice was shaking, how your resolve was crumbling with every next word, every new idea, every new hope for a future. For a second, he imagined what you said — a peaceful house in the mountains, surrounded by greenery and snow and a love that could overcome any setback — getting to love you and fulfilling every promise made under the wooden roof of a house that looked over landscapes he could only dream of. 

But, he didn’t let the image stay for too long. 

He knew himself far too well for that. He knew you far too well for that. He wouldn’t be able to leave this town, with its dust, its heat and its violence, because these streets shaped him, forged the ambition and the power that had sunk deep into his very bones. He knew he wouldn’t be able to live a domestic lifestyle, even with you by his side, because the fire that had carried him so far still burned in his soul, and any semblance of peace would be destroyed by it.

And you — you deserved someone steady, someone clean, someone safe. He couldn’t ask you to build a life beside someone whose hands were never entirely free of blood, whose nights were always shadowed by violence waiting around the corner, whose safety was always a question of who he trusted, who he surrounded himself with, and the power and luck he had on his side. You didn’t deserve the gunshots ringing through the town, the slashes of knives, and the barbaric deaths that defined life in Lyari, and he would never be able to forgive himself if he chose to keep you in a violent hell that could kill you. 

Slowly, the softness in his eyes settled into something quieter, more resolute. Loving you, he realised, meant wanting you far away from all of it — the violence, the bloodshed , the wars that flared and swallowed people whole. He would rather carry your absence than spend every waking minute fearing a call, a scream, your name tied to something irreversible. You staying with him would mean living inside that fear forever, and he couldn’t bear that thought. If his love meant anything, it was this — letting you go where you would be safe, where your life wouldn’t be measured in risks and funerals, even if it left him standing alone, loving you from a world you no longer had to survive.

You saw how his face changed, and your voice faltered again, sobs threatening to rip through your throat. Your voice was hoarse now — and you just knew he had resigned himself to your fates. You saw how the hope and excitement in his eyes had given way to something you couldn’t name — love, sadness, devotion, despair — but you knew, and he knew, that your story was writing its last chapter. 

“Aise mat dekho mujhe,” you attempted to joke, playfully hitting him on his arm, where your fingers instinctively curled to feel him again, possibly for the last time. “Lyari ka sher-e-baloch biwi ke bina nahi ho sakta.” Your voice cracked. “Ek din teri bhi nikaah hogi.”

His eyes widened, as if he hadn’t even considered that he would get married someday too. But you saw his jaw clenching, and when he raised his eyes to look at you again, there was a resolve in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t like he had decided something that minute, not that he had mulled over his decision, but there was a finality in it, like he was finally telling you a truth that had sat in his heart for a very long time. 

“Agar main nikaah kar bhi lu,” he muttered shakily, like he was suppressing a sob as he said it, “toh voh meri biwi hogi, meri haveli ki malkin hogi, meri bacchon ki ma hogi…” 

He paused, eyes shining with tears as they stayed fixed on you. 

“Par mere dil pe hamesha tumhara haq hi rahega.”

The words settled between you, like something sacred had just been placed in the space between your hearts. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You simply looked at him, almost like you could feel your heart breaking with every second that passed, as his words echoed quietly in your mind, each one leaving behind something that felt deeper than mere grief — something final, something that neither of you could undo.

And then, the sky began to weep. 

Within seconds, the clouds opened, and the rain began to pour, drenching you both where you stood. The air shifted instantly, the scent of wet earth rising around you, the world blurring at the edges as the downpour thickened.

Both of you were rooted to your spots. 

It was the same rain. The same suddenness. The same downpour before everything changed.

Last year, he had stood in front of you just like this, rain soaking through his shirt, his voice shaking as he had finally confessed what he had been carrying for months. You had kissed him for the first time then, heart racing, the rain hiding the tears you hadn’t realised had slipped free.

Now, the rain fell again — not as a beginning, but an ending.

Water clung to his lashes, ran down the sharp line of his jaw, darkening his shirt until it clung to him. Your kurti grew heavy against your skin, the cold seeping in slowly, but neither of you seemed to notice. You just stood there, soaked and silent, like the rain had carved out a small world for the two of you one last time.

You couldn’t tell who moved first, but before you knew it, both of you were standing a hair’s breadth apart again. It was a strange sense of deja vu, the same scene as it was last year, the same red eyes from the tears streaming down your faces, but this time, they were of sadness, of despair, of love, and of mourning the life you could’ve had had circumstances been slightly more different. Had he not been a gangster. Had religious differences not existed. Had you not been too weak to defy your family. Had both of you been older. Had both of you been wiser. 

His hands shakily cupped your cheeks, his thumbs barely brushing your skin as his eyes moved slowly across your face, as if he was trying to memorise every part of you before you slipped away from him. Your hands clutched his wrists — like they would provide some sort of twisted comfort — as you mentally captured the furrow of his brows, the hazel and gold flecks swimming in his reddened eyes, the slightly crooked nose that had interrupted your first kisses, the cheeks you had slapped playfully too many times, the faint scar near his jaw you had once traced absentmindedly while he pretended not to notice.

The rain clung to his lashes, making them heavier, droplets sliding down the familiar lines of his face, and you found yourself staring harder, wishing you could hold onto him just by remembering enough. His breath trembled against your lips, the warmth of him cutting through the cold rain, your own heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else.

Your body betrayed you, leaning forward instinctively, drawn by habit, by love, by the countless times you had closed this distance without thinking.

Then something inside you tightened.

He wasn’t yours anymore. 

You weren’t his anymore.

You were promised to someone else. 

Your fingers curled more firmly around his wrists — and then loosened.

You pulled back.

Rehman noticed, he always did, and his hands slipped slowly from your face, falling uselessly to his sides. The hurt that crossed his face was devastating, his expression crumpling just slightly, like something inside him had finally given way, to a deep, aching understanding that you knew all too well.

The distance between you felt unbearable now, wider than the few inches that separated your bodies. Rain streamed down his face, mingling with the redness in his eyes, and for a moment, he looked so heartbreakingly vulnerable that your knees almost gave way. You wanted to drop in front of him, to hold onto him, to beg for forgiveness for something you hadn’t chosen, for a future you hadn’t agreed to, for a pain you were both being forced to carry.

But you stayed where you were, your fingers curling into your palms instead, as the rain fell harder between you, and the silence grew heavier than anything either of you had said.

Then, as if by instinct, your hand rose to your ear. 

You were wearing your maroon kurti again, a choice you had made to celebrate your anniversary before the news of your marriage was broken to you. In hindsight, that choice was pure poetry; what was present at the beginning was also present at the ending. 

But what made this even worse was the fact that you were wearing those jhumkas. 

The ones you had worn when he first saw you. The ones you had worn when you walked down the steps of the Saraswati mandir, clutching your prasad as Geeta laughed about Lalita’s upcoming wedding. They had been there at the start of everything — him finding excuses to pass by, conversations that stretched longer than intended, friendship softening into something deeper, and finally, the love that neither of you had been able to hold back.

Your fingers trembled.

Slowly, carefully, you slid the fallen one out — the one with the tiny red beads at the bottom, the slightly misshapen hook that had once slipped free, the one he had kept for a month before finally returning it to you, his fingers lingering just a second too long when he had placed it back in your palm.

You didn’t look at him as you took his hand, your movements quiet, reverent. His palm opened instinctively beneath yours, warm despite the rain.

And you pressed the jhumka into his hand.

He looked at it, a single tear falling onto the silver dome. A red blur fell into the water to his right, the force of the rain pushing it between your bodies for a split second before it was carried away, but he didn’t register it, his attention solely focused on the jhumka in his hand, what was soon to be the only tangible reminder he had of your existence before you left him for good. 

He raised his eyes to meet yours once again, water dripping from your hairline, a droplet gliding along your nose which you had recently adorned with a small nosering, passing just shy of the birthmark above your lip which he had kissed so many times. 

“Chhod du ghar?”

His voice was rough, like the words had scraped their way out of his throat, leaving bruises in their wake. 

A faint smile tugged at your lips for just a second, the devastation in them quiet yet obvious to his eyes. You shook your head lightly.

“Nahi, rickshaw le loongi.”

He simply nodded.

You turned before your resolve could crumble, picking up the grocery bag you had discarded. Your steps were slow at first, then steadier as you forced yourself forward. The rain had grown heavier now, soaking through your clothes, tears blurring your vision, your hair clinging to your face, but you barely noticed. Your body felt tightly held together, like if you loosened even slightly, everything inside you would spill out onto the wet road behind you.

You didn’t look back.

And Rehman stayed rooted to his spot, watching you disappear into the rain, only slipping the jhumka into his pocket when you turned the corner—

Far enough that even blind hope had no reason left to linger.

~~~~~

Many years later…

“ABBU!” 

Rehman looked up from where he stood near the doorway, watching Naieem run toward him, his slippers slapping unevenly against the dust on the verandah.

Rehman smiled, reaching into his pocket as he turned, searching for his lighter, his fingers brushing past something cool, curved and slightly sharp before closing around the familiar metal. He pulled it out absentmindedly, lighting his cigarette as he listened to his son’s words, nodding while Ulfat quietly chuckled from the sofa.

“Haan? Uzair chachu ke room mein bhoot hai?”

Naieem nodded urgently, already pulling his father’s hand towards the first floor with the intent only a four year old could muster. 

Rehman followed. 

And the faint jingle in his pocket became silent once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Rehman Dakait x Reader fic Masterlist a/n: Canon divergent. This is solely based on Akshaye Khanna’s portrayal of Rehman Dakait in the movie Dhurandhar and has nothing to do with the gangster Rehman Dakait in any way, shape or form. I sincerely hope he is being tortured in the worst way possible, wherever he is. This is part 1 of a three-part fic, stay tuned for part 2 :) PART 2 | PART 3 click here for the song

Rehman would never forget the first time he saw you.  

He was a boy of seventeen, still fresh into the gangster world of Lyari, still measured, still ruthless. He was taking a walk through familiar lanes, one hand clutching his gun, finger already ready on the trigger, while the other held a lighter as he lit the cigarette sitting between his lips. 

The Saraswati mandir wasn’t a place he frequented often, for many reasons. One, it wasn’t his place to be, obviously. He belonged to another religion, even though he believed religions were nothing but hoaxes, a concept for the poor and the delusional to direct their rage and sorrow, calling it an ‘act of fate’ while absolving themselves of all accountability. To him, all religions were the same, and faith as such was not a gateway to discrimination, unlike what many others in his locality thought. Besides, Lyari, dreadful as it was, was one of the only places he could think of that didn’t have as many conflicts stemming from religion. Two, he had no need for blessings, especially when he was the last kind of person who would actually bother about school, let alone studies and degrees and never-ending exams. 

Rehman took a long drag from the cigarette, feeling the tension in his body loosen as the ash entered his throat. His eyes, cold and hollow, travelled to the entrance of the temple as he walked. He stuck out like a sore thumb — an all black ensemble, messy hair, smudges of dirt and dust on his face in the middle of a place that looked like it was glowing from the inside out. People were dressed in bright colours: red, yellows, oranges, blues, pinks and greens like they had vomited the entire rainbow onto their clothes. 

And that was when you came into view. 

Hawaaon me bahenge, ghataon me rahenge, Tu barkha meri, main tera baadal piya

You couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Wearing an orange kurti, you had covered the top of your head with a white dupatta that matched your salwar. Your hands were turning a fruit over slowly, like you were afraid to bruise it. A few strands of hair had slipped from beneath your dupatta, curling against your cheek in the breeze, but you didn’t seem to notice. There was something unbelievably ethereal about the way you walked down the stairs — as if the world had narrowed to just you and that single piece of fruit. 

Rehman had seen beauty before. He had even appreciated it. But never before had he been so enraptured by it, the way it oozed from your big, brown eyes, the curve of your nose, the braided obsidian hair that ended at your knees, the slender hands that held the fruit reverently, and the little sound your anklets made as you descended the stairs. 

You ushered your two friends into the rickshaw, not noticing that, in the process, one of your silver earrings had fallen on the dust. He caught words about being way past curfew, even if it was only five p.m., laughter when someone pointed out how an aunty at the temple turned her nose at them, and before he could point out the fallen earring, the rickshaw sped away. 

Rehman picked it up after you were out of sight and dusted off the sand from its crevices. It was simple yet elegant — a jhumka adorned with fake pearls at the bottom, moving in the breeze. He pocketed it in his black pants, looked around to ensure no one had noticed and continued walking to no destination in particular, replaying the sight of you and your hair and your eyes as he smoked another drag of his cigarette. 

Jo tere na hue toh, kisi ke na rahenge Deewani tu meri, main tera paagal piya 

A month later, Rehman could still recall every detail of how you’d looked that day — the orange of your kurti, the way your dupatta had slipped from your head, the soft sound of your steps. He hadn’t seen you since, but the memory clung to him like ash that refused to fade. He still carried your lost jhumka in his pocket, nestled beside his lighter, cigarettes, and keys. Sometimes, his fingers brushed against it, and he’d pause for a heartbeat, before pretending it meant nothing. He had given up hope of meeting you again, though he still walked that same route each day, waiting for another glimpse, another chance to return what was yours, knowing each attempt would scatter away like the dust he’d blown off your earring thirty-four days ago.

However, the universe was clearly listening to his wishes, because he saw you again two days later. 

Evenings at the flea market were always a rush, especially around the jewellery stores. Rehman had decided to pay a visit so he could get the hilt of his favourite knife fixed for the third time in the past week, after the recent round of killings and ass-kissing he had had to do to gain some political connections. They were small, yes, but everyone starts small, and the seventeen year old had ensured that the people he chose to ally with had some influence in Lyari’s politics. 

You, on the other hand, had received a sound scolding from your parents when you discovered your jhumka had been lost. After getting grounded for a whole month — as if stopping your education after tenth grade wasn’t enough — you were finally allowed to venture outside again, with the vow that you would never be so careless and would pay for the replacement jhumka on your own. You had finally found the seller, and after spending five whole minutes proving that the pair was sold by him, you were trying to convince him to sell you a similar pair at a discount. 

“Are, aap aise nahi bol sakte hai,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “Aapne mujhe yahi jhumke 10 rupay ke like beche the,” you dangled the jhumka that you still had in front of him, “aur ab aap 15 rupay keh rahe hai? Yeh thoda galat nahi hai?” 

“Madam, jhumka banana aur costly ho gaya hai,” he replied, even though you, him and the customer behind you knew it wasn’t true. “Ek kaam kijiye, do pair kharidiye, discount me de dunga. Sirf aap ke liye.” 

His offer was tempting. One of the pairs, glinting under the yellow shop light, caught your eye — silver domes with delicate blue stones and a fringe of white pearls. They weren’t like your old ones, but they were beautiful enough to make you pause. Still, you knew better. Zorawar sahab rarely gave real discounts, and if he did, they were only for family or friends, not a random girl standing in his shop.

You sighed, shaking your head. “Shukriya ji, lekin hamare paas itne paise nahi hai, rickshaw lekar ghar bhi jaana hai,” you said, ready to move and find another shop. “Agar aap 10 rupay ke like nahi de sakte, toh koi baat nahi, hum jaate hai.”

Before you could turn, though, a calm voice spoke from behind you and a hand slapped fifteen rupees onto the counter. “Voh wala de dijiye, bhai.” 

Hazaaron mein kisi ko, taqdir aisi Mili hai ek raanjha, aur heer jaisi

You turned, startled. The lady with the red lipstick had gone somewhere else, and, in her place, stood a man. He was around your age, you figured, with messy hair and cold eyes that looked like they held a whole world behind them, framed by long lashes. He was tall and looked to be very strong and cunning, despite the lack of remarkable muscle, but he was handsome, the kind of handsome that your parents wouldn’t have approved of but you just knew was safe and real, like the warm embrace of someone you loved. 

“Nice choice,” you muttered, assuming he bought them for his mother, sister or girlfriend. He definitely had a lover, he was too attractive to not have one. You looked away, ready to move, but he pressed the little brown bag into your hands. 

You looked at it, and then at his retreating form. He was walking back now, hands in his pockets, and before you knew it, you called out to him. “Suniye!” 

He turned around and raised an eyebrow as you caught up to him. He glanced at you, gaze travelling from your eyes to your hands as you held the bag out to him. 

“Mujhe aapke ehsaan nahi chaahiye,” you started, fiddling with the hem of your dupatta. This was the closest you had stood to a guy you were not related to, and the proximity made heat rise to your cheeks. He noticed it, of course he did, but he just shrugged. 

“Paise ki koi taqleef nahi hai, mujhe bas pasand aaya,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. The height difference between both of you was more obvious now — but then again, you were used to looking up at people due to your lack of height. 

You shook your head. “Phir bhi, main waapas kar dungi. Aap yahin honge?” 

The stranger paused for a second, tongue turning in his cheek. His right hand was still in his pocket, fiddling with something, and for a second, you thought you had insulted him. A faint, unreadable smile touched his lips and he nodded. 

“Haan. Bazaar street mein voh ped hai na? Bada wala? Main vahaan rahunga.” 

You stepped back, processing that information. You had no idea how you were going to convince your parents to let you out again, but you knew you could always hide the jhumkas in the folds of your dupatta and reveal it to them only tomorrow evening. “Paune chaar chalega?” 

“Aap jab chahein aa jaaiye, mujhe koi dikkat nahi hai,” he replied, already turning to leave. His voice was casual, but there was something in the way he said it — as if he wasn’t just being polite, he genuinely hoped you would. He didn’t look back, yet the faint curve of a smile lingered on his face as he disappeared into the crowd, leaving the scent of smoke and dust hanging in the air, and the small packet, still warm in your hand.

Na jaane ye zamana, kyu chaahe re mitana, Kalank nahi, ishq hai, kaajal piya 

Rehman had reached the tree by 3:15 p.m.

It was too early, he told himself. There was still half an hour until you were supposed to arrive, but the anticipation had already gotten the better of him. He leaned against the rough bark, cigarette in hand, watching the sunlight scatter through the leaves. Every few minutes, he glanced down the lane, way too many times to count, and each time he reminded himself to stop, to breathe, to not look so expectant. He was a future gangster, for fuck’s sake, he could not be so desperate to meet a girl he had only seen twice and whose name he didn’t even know. But it was useless. The thought of seeing you again, hearing your voice — it filled the afternoon with a quiet restlessness that no smoke could steady.

He closed his eyes and took a long of his cigarette, trying to think of anything but you. The recent turmoil in the land. How he was going to afford food the next week. How many people he had to kill to impress that slimy politician whose name he didn’t remember. Your slender fingers. The way you looked at him with those big, brown eyes of yours. The chill of your hand when it brushed against his. 

You were never going to leave his mind, were you?

Groaning, Rehman pushed himself off the tree and started walking, though he had no idea where he was headed. The afternoon sun was merciless, pressing down on him till his skin prickled with heat. His black kurta, which had seemed like a good idea this morning, now clung to his back, the fabric heavy with sweat. He wiped a hand across his temple, mumbling curses under his breath. Somewhere, in a half-torn magazine he’d found buried in the house of the druglord he had just killed, he’d read that girls found men more attractive in black. He didn’t know if that was true — especially with you — but he definitely hoped it was.

He dropped the cigarette and dug the heel of his shoe into it, watching as the orange embers died under his heel. He dug his hand into his pocket again, the two hundredth time that day now, and just felt around for the comforting presence of your silver jhumka. It had become a habit for him to dust it off even when it was pristine, or twirl it between his fingers, or touch it at random points during the day — every single moment reminding him of you and your hair and your eyes, fuck, your eyes. He wanted to feel what it was like to get lost in the universe your hazel eyes held, so warm and so inviting that he couldn’t resist to wish they looked at him like they had looked at those jhumkas, with so much adoration and devotion that the viewer couldn’t help but want to get on their knees. 

Rehman glanced at his watch again. It was 3:43 now, you were going to be there anytime soon, and his foot had started tapping restlessly against the ground, raising little clouds of dust a few centimeters into the air. He looked at both ends of the road again, praying to whoever was out there that you would walk in, with your hair braided and your eyes shining and those little anklets in your feet that made even the dirtiest ground holy with its sound. 

He watched the hands tick, counting the seconds right till the minute hand hit the forty five mark and looked up, as if you were going to appear from thin air, simply because time had said so. For a moment, he actually believed you would — like the world would bend to his wishes — but the emptiness of the road reminded him how foolish he was. Yet, he stood rooted to his spot, waiting. 

And all that waiting was worth it when you walked in. 

Kalank nahi, ishq hai, kaajal piya Piya…

You were wearing a blue kurti that day, the white embroidery around the neckline tracing your collarbones in as you lugged a cloth bag heavy with vegetables toward the tree. Your hair wasn’t as neatly done as before — a few loose strands had escaped and clung to your face, carried by the humid breeze. The sun had deepened your complexion a shade darker, beads of sweat glinting at your temple, and yet, somehow, you looked softer like this — unguarded, real, alive in a way that made Rehman’s chest tighten before he could stop himself.

He stepped forward and took the bag from you, easily hoisting it over his shoulder, small muscles involuntarily flexing in the process. You swallowed and looked away, wondering why your cheeks were red at the mere sight of him. He was wearing black again, and while it would have swallowed up any other boy, he looked so uncharacteristically good in it that you couldn’t help but stare. 

“Aap itna bada bag lekar sirf mujhe ghoorne ke liye itni door tak aaye hain?” Rehman asked, chuckling, but his tone was a bit shy too — and you just knew what he saw in you wasn’t just friendship either. Or rather, you hoped, because this is the first time you found someone attractive and had no idea how someone would act if they found you pretty too. 

You shook your head sheepishly and dug into your wallet — a repurposed jewellery bag whose drawstrings were held by countless stitches  — and handed him exactly fifteen rupees in coins. “Main aapko aur deti, lekin sabziyaan itni mehengi ho gayi hai, toh…” you trailed off, glancing down at the ground, embarrassed by your own honesty. The corners of your dupatta fluttered in the hot wind, and Rehman, still holding the coins, found himself wondering when a few words and a handful of change had begun to feel heavier than the pistol he always carried.

Piya, piya re Piya re…

“Aap ghar kaise jaa rahe hai?” He asked, voice a bit hoarser than what you remembered. He was turning the coins over in his hand and pocketed them one by one. “Maine suna tha ki aaj sabhi bus aur rickshaw drivers strike pe hai.” 

Rehman knew it wasn’t an actual strike. Most of the drivers had been recruited either into Babu Dakait’s gang or Haji Laloo’s, and after the altercation at the outskirts of Lyari this morning, nearly all public transport had stopped, in case any chance encounter led to a fight right in the middle of the road. The story that was told to everyone was that all of them were protesting the low wages compared to the petrol and diesel prices, but most people knew better. He wasn’t sure whether you did, and you had just met him, so he wasn’t planning on telling you anything. 

“Pata nahi,” you huffed and sat on the dirty footpath, too tired to care about the dust on your clothes. Wiping the sweat off your face with the back of your hand, you looked up at him, his figure looming like a shadow above you as he shielded you from the burning sun. “Mujhe chalna hi padega. Abhi niklungi toh ek ghante baad ghar pahunch jaaungi.” 

You stood up and tied your hair in a bun, catching all those flyaways in the tight grip of your clip. His eyes narrowed a little and he towards the side, and you could see how the sun caught in his irises, changing them from a deep brown to a shade of molten amber, flecked with gold where the sunlight caught them. He had turned his gaze away, squinting slightly toward something parked a few feet ahead, then at the road that stretched endlessly in the afternoon heat, weighing a question he never voiced. You, unaware, were still adjusting your clip, humming softly under your breath, while he stood there quietly, wondering if he should offer you a ride — and what you might think if he did.

Fuck it, he thought. He had some sense of chivalry. 

“Meri bike yahi khadi hai,” he started, measuring his words. “Mujhe Saraswati mandir ke paas jana hi hai, dost se mil raha hu, aap bura toh nahi manenge na agar me aapko ghar chod du?”

You paused, fingers still tangled in the loose end of your dupatta as his words settled between you. For a second, you weren’t sure you’d heard him right — his tone was careful, almost too careful, like he’d rehearsed it in his head before speaking. You looked up at him, trying to read his face, but his expression gave nothing away; only his hands’ tremble betrayed a trace of nervousness. You hesitated — not because you didn’t trust him, but because you couldn’t quite understand why he sounded as though he needed your permission to be kind. You knew it was stupid, possibly dangerous because you didn’t know anything about him, but somewhere deep down, you realised you wanted to say yes.

Of course, you didn’t. 

“Nahi, main paidal chalungi, shukriya,” you said, taking the bag from his hands before he could argue. The weight seemed to double the instant it touched your shoulder, but you started walking, more out of stubbornness than anything else. Each step was slower than the last, the sun glaring mercilessly from above. Your fingers kept slipping against the fraying strap, tugging it higher every few seconds as sweat gathered at your temples. By the time you reached the end of the road, your breath was shallow, your kurti sticking to your spine, and you felt like giving up. Stopping near a small brick, you uncapped your bottle, and drank in quick, desperate gulps, wondering how you were supposed to make it all the way home when five minutes had already left you feeling undone.

You closed your eyes, trying to catch a minute of rest, but the roaring of an engine shook you out of any thoughts of slumber you had. You opened one eye, blinking harshly because of the sun, but your vision cleared and there he was, standing right in front of you on his bike, sitting close to the edge of his seat. He didn’t have a helmet on — but one hung from his handlebar, swaying slightly in the strong breeze. 

Piya re, piya re…

“Is haalat mein signal tak pahunchte-pahunchte gir jaayenge, paanch kilometer paidal chalne ki baat bhool jaaiye,” he said with a low chuckle, patting the seat behind him. The teasing in his voice was light but his eyes were soft, no sign of anything dangerous or proud. 

You frowned, half tempted to retort, but your aching shoulders gave you away before your words could. The sun beat down harder now, the road ahead seemed to stretch endlessly, and his offer — simple, practical — suddenly didn’t sound so unreasonable. Still, you hesitated, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag, unsure whether you were more afraid of the ride or of how easily you wanted to say yes.

“Aap hamare beech mein bag rakh sakte hain, agar aap uncomfortable hain toh,” he added, patting the seat behind him. He had never been this desperate for someone to allow him to do something as simple as dropping them off, but you had taken up enough space in his mind and heart that he didn’t feel a shred of embarrassment asking you to spend a few more minutes with him. He knew he wasn’t going to see you again — he hoped otherwise — and had no qualms even with being on his knees, begging you to spend a second more with him. 

Thankfully, it never came to that. 

You sat behind him after a few seconds of thought, immediately wincing when you felt the hot seat touch your skin. It cooled down quickly though, and you placed the bag in front of you, creating a barrier you were sure he couldn’t cross in this heat. You trusted him, you didn’t know why — but you chose not to ponder about that as you wrapped your dupatta around your head and your nose, leaving only your eyes as an indicator of your identity. 

He started the engine before you could think too much about it. The bike rumbled beneath you, a steady vibration that travelled through the seat and into your spine as he pulled away from the side of the road. For a moment, you didn’t know where to put your hands, and you hovered them awkwardly in the air before finally settling them lightly on the edge of the seat. The wind rushed past your face, carrying away the thick afternoon heat, and the streets of Lyari began to blur around you. In front of you, the stranger sat steady and silent, one hand firm on the handlebar, the other occasionally adjusting the throttle. He didn’t turn around, which the rational part of your mind was grateful for, but a small part of you secretly hoped he would look at you again. 

By the time the bike turned into your street, the afternoon had softened a little. The familiar row of houses came into view, their faded walls and narrow balconies casting thin strips of shade across the road. He slowed the bike until it rolled to a quiet stop near the corner. You slid off carefully, adjusting the strap of your bag before stepping back.

“Shukriya,” you said, brushing a few loose strands of hair from your face. The ride had left a faint flush on your cheeks, but there was relief in your voice now that the long walk had been spared. Without waiting for much more, you removed your dupatta, and had taken barely a few steps towards your house before his voice stopped you. 

“Ek minute.”

You turned around to see him rummaging for something in his pocket, finally pulling out something that made your breach catch. The jhumka you had lost over a month ago lay in his palm, pristine and clean, with the same tiny red beads at the bottom and the misshapen hook. You took it from him and turned it over in your hands, not believing he was actually holding that little piece of treasure you had so carelessly dropped near the temple. 

“Mandir ke paas mila tha,” he said, answering your confused expression. “Aap nikal chuke the, lekin yeh reh gaya tha.”

Your face broke into a smile that blinded him for a second, still marvelling at the miracle of it. He couldn’t help but smile too, watching your joy at finding something that was as small as an earring. 

“Thank you. Sach mein. Do baar shukriya bolna padega aaj, ride ke liye bhi aur iske liye bhi.”

He laughed, the sound low and easy, settling into your skin like warm candlelight. Shaking his head, he gave a small shrug. “Haan, kyunki ek accha banda hona itni badi baat hai na? Sirf main hi aisa ho sakta hu,” he said, the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth, amused by his own exaggeration.

You rolled your eyes, though the smile on your face refused to disappear. “Achha ji,” you replied, turning the jhumka between your fingers before slipping it carefully into your purse. “Phir toh naam bhi bata dijiye, itne bade nek insaan ka.”

His face changed for a split second, but he didn’t show any sign of discomfort. “Rehman,” he said simply.

You nodded slowly. “Main Y/N hu.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The late afternoon breeze drifted lazily down the street, rustling the leaves of the neem tree nearby while a few children shouted somewhere further down the lane.

You shifted the bag on your shoulder and looked back at him. “Toh… Rehman,” you said lightly, tasting his name on your tongue, “ab jab itni madad kar hi di hai, dosti toh banti hai, hai na?”

The corner of his mouth lifted again, softer this time.

“Haan,” he said, almost casually. “Dosti toh banti hai.”

You nodded once, almost to yourself, before turning toward your house again. Halfway down the lane, your fingers slipped into your bag and found the jhumka, its tiny red beads chiming softly against the coins inside.

Behind you, the bike engine finally started.

A Rehman Dakait x Reader fic Masterlist a/n: Canon divergent. This is solely based on Akshaye Khanna’s portrayal of Rehman Dakait in the movie Dhurandhar and has nothing to do with the gangster Rehman Dakait in any way, shape or form. I sincerely hope he is being tortured in the worst way possible, wherever he is. This is part 2 of a three-part fic, stay tuned for part 3 :) Rest of the notes about this part are at the end! PART 1 | PART 3 click here for the song

It was surprising how easily Rehman had slotted himself into your life, even though you had known him for less than three months. 

You met him once a week. It was usually after grocery trips, when you were sweating and panting under the weight of your bags, and he would offer to drop you home — even if rickshaws were available for nominal rates. These rides always began the same way: with an awkward wave, some heaving, and a few minutes of silence. But within ten minutes you would start talking; about your day, about what the shopkeeper said when you asked for a replacement for an overripe banana, about the way the sun had shone into your room that morning, about the cat that had claimed your staircase as its sanctuary. And he would listen, nodding occasionally, sometimes laughing under his breath, the bike humming steadily beneath the both of you as the roads passed by.

He would tell you a bit about his life too, although that was rare. About how his aunt had passed away, so his little cousin Uzair, a boy of six, was now going to be in his care. Why he could not stand elaichi in biryani — you had laughed when he said that, promising that you would add extra elaichi if you ever cooked it for him — and, two days ago, how you were the only person who was allowed to touch his prized bike. 

Which was why, today, you were mad at him, because you spotted him giving a tour of his bike to some other girl. 

At least, that’s what you told yourself. He couldn’t tell you that you were the only person he had ever taken on his bike and then give another girl a tour of it the next day, could he? Especially when that girl was more interested in him then she was in the bike, and was pretending to be listening to him when all she was doing was staring at lips? He was looking good that day, he always did, but that didn’t mean she got to ogle him and his stupid bike and his stupid muscles and his stupid smile…

You looked away quickly when he laughed at something she said, fixing your attention very firmly on the packet of coriander in your hands as though it required intense study. It didn’t. But it was better than watching the way he leaned casually against the bike, one hand resting on the handle, the sun catching on the edge of his watch like it always did. 

Of course, it didn’t matter. You knew he had friends whom he would talk to often, and some of them were girls. You were just worried you were going to reach home late and couldn’t care less about who he was talking to and how he laughed with her. 

Still, when he finally noticed you standing there and lifted a hand in that familiar half-wave, something sharp and annoying twisted in your chest — like you had been waiting for him to look up the entire time, and were now mildly offended that it had taken him so long. Whatever. It was getting late, and if this shehzada was not planning to give you a ride, you had to find one yourself. 

Huffing, you walked away towards the main road, planning to catch a rickshaw home. You were going to miss the wind rushing on your face and the talks you and Rehman had, but clearly, his attention was elsewhere. 

The road was louder than usual, or maybe you were just noticing it more now—the honking autos, the rumble of buses, the vendors calling out to passing customers. You tightened your grip on your grocery bag and stood at the edge of the pavement, scanning for an empty rickshaw, since no buses operated to where you lived. 

One passed. Then another, already occupied. Then, another, but he was charging way too much for five kilometers. Yet, you stared ahead, cursing yourself for becoming dependent on someone for your grocery trips. You had managed before him, and you would manage once again. He wasn’t necessary. 

Still, when the familiar rumble of an engine drifted close to you, the tension in your shoulders relaxed. 

“Are ab aapko kya hogaya, y/n ji?” he teased, stopping next to you. You didn’t pay him any heed, though, and continued staring blankly at the road ahead, hoping a rickshaw would appear out of nowhere and take you home rather than the idiot next to you. He could give a ride to the girl if he wanted someone on his stupid bike. 

Duniya ki nazron mein, ye rog hai Ho jinko, voh jaane ye jog hai

Rehman wasn’t used to this version of you. You were usually the one filling the air with little stories, your voice tumbling over itself while he listened and pretended he wasn’t hanging onto every word. Now you stood beside him like a stranger, eyes fixed stubbornly on the road, as if the traffic ahead was far more interesting than he could ever be. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He had faced men twice his size without flinching, had walked through alleys knowing someone might pull a knife on him, but the quiet distance in your posture made something in his chest tighten in a way no danger ever had. For the first time since he had met you, he found himself wondering if he had done something wrong — and the thought sat heavier on him than the pistol tucked at his waist.

He waited, choosing not to disturb you while you looked for a rickshaw. Sweat lined your brow, and just one look at your bag told him that you hadn’t brought a bottle of water that day. It was the middle of April, the afternoon, that too, and there was no way in hell he was going to let you go on your own, let alone with someone random, especially given your tendency to fall asleep when dehydrated. You weren’t half as strong as the men who roamed Lyari, and it would be impossible for you to defend yourself if the rickshaw driver was a slimy git. 

You had begun to feel light-headed, the heat getting to you. Cursing at yourself and the sabziwalas for choosing to set up shop late in the morning, you tried to find a place to sit, finding only Rehman’s bike as a viable option. 

Of course, you chose to stand. 

“Y/n…” he started, maintaining a comfortable distance from you, yet close enough for him to see how your eyes were becoming unfocused, “rickshaw nahi milega tujhe. Main tujhe–” 

You started walking away, not wanting to deal with him and what he was saying. It was better to stay mad at him till he got tired and left, using the weight on your chest as fuel to either walk home or force a rickshaw driver to drop you off, but you barely made it ten steps before the ground seemed to tilt beneath your feet. The heat pressed against your temples, the sounds of the street blurring together into one long, distant hum. You slowed without meaning to, one hand lifting to your forehead as if that would steady the dizziness creeping in.

Behind you, Rehman swore under his breath.

In two quick strides he was beside you again, his hand hovering near your elbow without quite touching you, like he wasn’t sure if you would snap at him for it. “Bas, ho gaya,” he muttered. “Heroine banne ki zaroorat nahi hai.”

You tried to wave him off, but the ground felt like it was going to give out underneath you. You placed the bag on the ground and squatted, eyes closed, praying the dizziness would leave and you would feel good enough to walk home. However, the shift made it worse, and he noticed it. 

With a quiet sigh, he took the grocery bag from your hand before you could protest and hooked it onto the handle of his bike. Then he turned back to you, one eyebrow raised. 

“Ab baith bhi jao,” he said, softer this time. “Gir jaogi toh mujhe hi uthana padega.”

Ek tarfa, shayad ho, dil ka bharam Do tarfa hai toh yeh sanjog hai 

You didn’t remember how it happened. 

One minute you had been on the ground, glaring at him with all the stubbornness you could gather, and the next you were waking up to the dull thrum of his bike beneath you. Your cheek was pressed against his back, drool dampening the fabric of his black kurta, the helmet slightly big for your head while your dupatta sat clumsily wrapped around your face. His hand held your wrist, firm enough that you didn’t slip off, but gentle enough to feel kind, not controlling. 

Mortified, you straightened immediately, though the movement made your head spin. Rehman didn’t turn around. He just tightened his grip slightly and continued driving, as if nothing about this situation was strange at all. The wind rushed past your face, cooling the heat that still clung to your skin, but it did little to calm the irritation in your chest. Of course he would act normal. Of course he would pretend this was just another ride home. The same bike he had been showing off to that girl barely half an hour ago.

You folded your arms tightly around the bag sitting between the two of you and shook off his grip, leaning back as far as you could without falling off. The road blurred past in familiar stretches. but your mind stayed fixed on the image you had seen earlier. That girl standing too close. Smiling too much. Looking at him like he was the only thing in the world worth looking at. 

He was. But she didn’t need to know it. 

“Ghar pahunch gaye,” he muttered, but before he could even stop the bike, you slid off the seat, refusing to look at him even once. Without a word, you adjusted the strap of your bag and walked straight toward your house, the gate creaking softly as you pushed it open. Your anger had returned in full force, and you went inside without turning back, purposely slamming the door a bit harder than usual. 

Rehman watched the gate slam behind you, the sound echoing in the streets. For a few seconds he didn’t move, one foot still planted on the ground to steady the bike. Usually you would linger for at least a moment; continuing your rant, throwing him a quick smile, saying some half-hearted thank you before disappearing inside. Today you hadn’t even looked at him. He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning slightly as he tried to piece together what had gone wrong. Had he said something stupid? Done something without noticing? The afternoon heat clung to the air around him, thick and unmoving, but he stayed there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the closed gate like it might offer him an answer.

He reached home half an hour later than usual, with more questions than answers.

Layi re hame zindagani ki kahaani Kaise mod pe 

Dusk settled late that day, unceasing hot, dusty winds blowing through the windows that the residents of Lyari kept open, opting for air circulation rather than the stuffy heat of a closed home. The electricity had been turned off that night — something about the heat frying the wires — and, therefore, it was quite understandable that you lay awake in bed, fanning yourself with a paper fan as you tried to make sense of the day’s events and the turmoil brewing in your heart.

At first, you tried to stay angry. It was much easier that way. It was much easier to think of him as an idiot with a stupid smile and a stupid bike who clearly enjoyed showing off for girls who stared at him like he had hung the sun in the sky. Easier to think of him as an idiotic human who had absolutely no sense of shame. He could give rides to whoever he wanted, even if he said that you were the only person he would ever give rides to. You clutched your pillow to your chest, huffing in exasperation. It wasn’t your business, and you weren’t going to stress yourself out by treating it as such.

Except the thought didn’t settle the way it should have.

On the other side of town, Rehman had put little Uzair to bed after making a meagre meal of plain dal and rotis, and was now lying on his cot, familiar with the lack of cooling. He chose to sleep outside — dangerous, but it wasn’t like he slept peacefully anyway — and, as the stars twinkled above him, his mind drifted to you.

He still didn’t understand why you were so mad at him, much less why he was so bothered about you being mad at him. He had pissed off many people in the past, both nice people and life-threatening enemies, but none of them had made him feel this strange, hollow sort of guilt. He turned on his side, the ropes of the cot creaking under him, and wondered for the hundredth time what exactly he had done wrong. He had half a mind to go to your house and climb up your balcony so he could beg for forgiveness, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, but the thing about you was that while you got angry easily, it took you a lot of time to calm down again. And even if he liked the idea of dying by your hands, he didn’t want that to happen so early into your friendship.

“Dosti toh banti hai, hai na?”

Your teasing voice suddenly appeared in his head, and he rubbed his hands over his face, wondering what it was about you that had his mind so stubbornly fixated.

Most nights, his thoughts were practical — work, money, the constant calculations of survival — but tonight they wandered somewhere softer, somewhere he had never allowed them to linger before. He found himself thinking of the way your voice filled the quiet roads during those rides home, of the way you spoke about the smallest things as though they were stories worth telling. Somewhere between your endless chatter and those weekly rides through Lyari’s dusty lanes, you had quietly carved a place for yourself in his life without asking permission.

What drove him crazy was the fact that he welcomed it.

Huye re khud se paraaye hum kisi se Naina jod ke

Across town, you shifted restlessly on your bed, the paper fan slowing in your hand as the same afternoon replayed again and again in your mind. An angry tear stained the pillow as you pressed your face into it, asking God for some explanation about why you were feeling the way you did. Or maybe, you were asking him for the courage to face the truth of it.

You pressed the heel of your hand against your forehead, frustrated with yourself. If he were just another boy with a bike, then the sight of him talking to someone else shouldn’t have felt like the ground had shifted beneath your feet. You had seen boys like him before. You had seen girls gather around them too. None of it had ever mattered to you before. But today it had.

Rehman exhaled slowly, the truth arriving so quietly he almost missed it. If you were just a friend, then your anger shouldn’t have unsettled him this much.

Or…

Maybe the problem wasn’t that you were angry. Maybe the problem was that you mattered enough for your anger to hurt. You had become one of the major reasons for him to look forward to every Tuesday, every mundane grocery visit, every afternoon in that hot sun. You had become his solace; he thought of your eyes the second he woke up, the way they would widen when you were about to ramble about something, the clink of metal in the sink reminded him of the sound your anklets made when you ran up to him, and the stars reminded him of the way your smile was always shy, like the moon itself was peeking out of the clouds for a brief second before hiding again. The thought sat strangely in his chest, unfamiliar but impossible to ignore, like a door he had accidentally opened and couldn’t close again.

You, on the other hand, had turned onto your back again, the fan in your hand now still. The anger you had clung to all evening suddenly felt thinner, easier to see through. It looked like God had answered your prayers, because the truth was painfully obvious now, impossible to ignore — the reason that moment had bothered you so much had nothing to do with pride, or embarrassment, or even irritation from the heat.

It had felt personal.

Personal in the way that you felt that only you got to see that side of him. Personal in the way that only you saw his soft side, how his eyes turned a shade lighter in the sun, how his laugh — not the polite one, the real one — echoed across the street, how his lips curved in that smirk when he was going to make a horrible joke. Personal in the way that only you could appreciate his patience when you rambled about nothing for half an hour straight, the way he slowed the bike over every bump without looking back to check if you were holding on, the soft, almost embarrassed smile that appeared whenever you thanked him too seriously for the smallest things. Those moments had always felt strangely yours, little secrets tucked into dusty lanes that no one else was privy to.

Miles apart, under the same night, the realisation settled slowly into both your hearts.

You liked him.

And somewhere beneath the stars of Lyari, Rehman realised he liked you too.

Hazaaron mein kisi ko, taqdir aisi 

Five weeks later, you were standing next to Rehman at the dingy ice cream shop, anger from his meeting with that girl long replaced by a feeling of exhilaration and dread you couldn’t quite shake off. His arm brushed against yours — black kurta replaced by an olive green shirt this time, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing veins you had never noticed till then — as he waited for the cashier to hand the change and the two ice creams you had ordered. 

The day had started normally. You had bought the vegetables, the rice and the atta needed for that night’s rotis. Rehman had parked his bike near the store and was leaning against it when you finished, wordlessly placing two of the bags in the bike’s storage and hanging the lighter one on the handlebar. You got onto the bike, stumbling a little in the heat, and Rehman handed the bag to you as he started the bike. He asked if you forgot anything, you said no, and, in no time, you were off. 

However, today, he took a different route and stopped at the ice-cream shop. 

Luxuries like ice cream were something he never allowed himself to enjoy. Money was tight, and while his aunt had left enough for Uzair’s upbringing, Rehman had calculated that it would only last him till seventh grade, adjusted for inflation, and that was only if he put Uzair into the government school and used that money only for his fees. His books, uniforms and little treats were things he had to pay from his own pocket, apart from the food and the electricity and the rent. He had begun to take up more high profile killings — dangerous ones, but that’s where the money was — and even then, he knew he had to build his own faction if he ever wanted to rule Lyari. 

While power was enough to scare the town, money was what ran it. 

Yet that day, he discovered he had saved up just enough for three small ice creams. One would be split into three, so he could get Uzair chocolates as an incentive to do his homework, he had saved enough money for rainy days as well as both your and Uzair’s birthdays, so he thought that a treat was well deserved. Besides, the excuse of an ice cream would help him spend more time with you. 

So, there you were, sitting on a wooden bench, squished between the wall and Rehman’s body as you tried to enjoy your chocolate ice cream to the maximum, given the fact that it was melting and that there was enough heat in the store from all the bodies that had come to enjoy in this god-forsaken heat. 

Rehman’s arm brushed against yours again, and goosebumps erupted on your skin. You tried to remove it from his gaze, but he noticed, he always did, and looked at you with a teasing smirk. 

“Madam ko is garmi mein bhi rongte khade hote hai, kya?” he chuckled, ducking when you tried to smack his head. “Socha tha ki garmi mein behosh hone vale logon ko iski hi vajah se rongte nahi khade hongi, lekin— ow!” 

You had finally landed a smack on his head, a furious blush spreading across your cheeks as you looked away, suddenly so interested in how your ice cream was melting. You hoped it was enough of a sign for Rehman to stop, but he laughed again — that stupid laugh that made you weak in the knees — and continued. 

“Lekin, Y/N, aap toh har us cheez  ke mutzaad hai jis par maine abhi tak yakin kiya hai.” 

Mili hai ek raanjha, aur heer jaisi

You looked up at him from the corner of your eye, his words replaying over and over in your head as you digested the weight of them. Was this just a part of your normal banter? Had you misread the signs? Did he say those words just for the sake of conversation or did they actually mean more? He had never said things like that to you before, yes, he would tease you, but not once had he ever said something that would’ve been so charged with emotion in any other scenario. 

God, sometimes you wished Lalita hadn’t got married. She would know what to do and what this meant, even though she was just a few months older than you.

Rehman, on the other hand, didn’t know whether he hoped you would get the hint or not. He hadn’t said it for the sake of banter — of course he hadn’t, he had some sense — and that time you managed to smack him on his head was spent in debating whether he was being too forward by saying it. But he did, and now you were gaping at him, and his heart was beating loudly against his chest, and he didn’t know whether you understood the weight his words carried or not. 

“Ab tum mujhe ghoor kyu rahi ho?” he asked, his voice hoarse, and he immediately swallowed some ice cream to cover it up. A bit of it was smeared on his chin, but he didn’t notice it. His eyes were fixed on you, and while his gaze was soft, the intensity of it made a shiver run down your spine. You were unable to open your mouth, so you just gestured at his chin. He wiped the opposite side and frowned, not understanding what you were talking about. 

Then, by instinct, you raised the edge of your dupatta and wiped it off yourself. 

Rehman stilled, following every move of yours with his eyes. He was painfully aware of how his jaw had clenched, something he had only experienced right before his fights. The feather-like touch of your finger through your chiffon dupatta was like fire on his skin, and even though the contact lasted barely a second, he committed every bit to memory — the graze of your knuckle against the underside of his chin, just how close your fingertip was to his lips, the little furrow in your brows as you concentrated on getting the stain out, and, of course, how your finger lingered for a millisecond too long. 

“Ho gaya,” you muttered, more to snap yourself out of your trance than to let him know. You wanted to say something, a snarly comment or two to break the bubble you two were in, but he was still gazing at you, breathing heavily. 

Someone squeezed onto the bench a few people away, and both of you were pushed to the wall again, except this time, his face was mere inches away from yours. You could see the flecks in his eyes clearly, irises a combination of hazel, gold and green — and your eyes inadvertently dropped to his lips, plump and luscious, with a bit of ice cream smeared on them.

God, you wanted to kiss him. 

“Hume nikalna chahiye,” you said instead, snapping yourselves out of that bubble his words had created. He nodded and stood up, wringing his hands together like he was thinking about something. You followed, dusting off your kurti, and both of you walked towards his bike, which he had parked near the parlour. He did everything mechanically — handing you the helmet, starting the engine — but the air was thick with the dust and the words left unsaid.

The ride home was silent, but the turmoil in your minds wasn't. 

Na jaane yeh zamaana, kyu chahe re mitaana Kalank nahi, ishq hai, kajal piya 

Rehman could not pretend anymore. 

Couldn’t pretend that you were just a friend to him. Couldn’t pretend that everything was normal between you two during bike rides that had long since become routine. Couldn’t pretend that his chest didn’t tighten whenever you climbed on behind him, or that he didn’t notice the exact second your hand settled on his shoulder like it had always belonged there. He couldn’t pretend the small things didn’t matter either — the sound of your voice over the roar of the engine, the way your laughter carried down empty roads, the strange quiet that fell whenever you both ran out of things to say.

And he definitely couldn’t pretend he hadn’t thought about that moment again — the one where you had leaned a little too close, the space between you thinning until even breathing felt loud. Nothing had happened. But the possibility of it had lingered there, heavy and unmistakable, and it had followed him ever since.

Because the truth was that if a moment like that came again, he knew he’d never be able to stop himself.

And that was the problem.

Pretending things were the same between you was getting harder with every ride, every careless joke, every brush of your shoulder against his. Sooner or later, he was going to say something he couldn’t take back. Something he couldn’t pass off as friendly banter. Something that would change things between you and him for good. 

And judging by the storm clouds gathering over Lyari that evening, that moment was coming a lot sooner than he expected.

Monsoon in Lyari was a season only enjoyed by businessmen, politicians and gang-leaders. To them, rain was a spectacle — something to be watched lazily from behind thick glass windows while the rest of the city struggled to stay afloat. It meant slow mornings and unhurried afternoons, the rhythmic tapping of raindrops against rooftops and the hiss of oil from the kitchen where cooks fried pakodis and brewed cups after cups of masala chai. Rain was romantic when you did not have to walk through it.

For everyone else, it was chaos.

The rain never arrived quietly. It was sudden, loud, and determined to make itself known. Within minutes the narrow streets turned into muddy streams, the drains choking with plastic wrappers and leaves that floated past like tiny defeated boats. Rickshaws sputtered and disappeared from the roads entirely. Shopkeepers rushed to pull down shutters, metal clanging loudly as they tried to save whatever goods they could from the water that crept steadily across the ground. People ran for shelter wherever they could find it — beneath broken awnings, half-built balconies, crooked tin roofs that rattled violently under the force of the storm.

Which was exactly how you and Rehman ended up standing beneath the narrow tin overhang of a shuttered shop at the corner of an empty lane.

You were glad you had gone against your initial instinct to wear white that day, instead opting for a maroon kurti, and while you had scoffed at your mind’s insistence on being practical rather than the white kurti movies loved so much, you were thanking your lucky stars. A white kurti in this thunderstorm would’ve been a disaster, and the maroon gave you an opportunity to wear those jhumkas again — the one he had found. 

Besides, maroon was his favourite colour, and how could you not want to look your best in front of the man whose mere presence made your cheeks turn red? The man from whom one look was enough to make your week, let alone day, better? The man whom your heat had decided to fixate upon?

The awning barely covered you, and you shrunk towards the wall. Stray droplets of water trickled down from your neck to your shoulders and down the sleeves of your kurti. You brushed at one of them absently while watching the rain rush through the flooded street like a restless current.

A few feet away, beyond the shelter entirely, Rehman stood beside his bike in the open rain.

Water ran steadily through his hair and down the side of his face while one hand rested loosely on the handlebar. The other dragged absently through his soaked hair every few seconds, a distracted gesture he didn’t seem aware he kept repeating. His white shirt — once crisp when you had first seen him that evening — was completely drenched now, the thin cotton clinging stubbornly to his shoulders and chest, highlighting scars, muscles and veins as the rain darkened it to a dull grey. He blinked more than normal, trying to get the water out of his eyes. 

“Idhar aa jao,” you said, gesturing to the small space next to you. 

Rehman looked at the little strip the awning was covering, then at you, then the strip again. He shook his head. 

“Jagah nahi hai.” 

You crossed your arms. “Phir tum bheeg jao. Sardi lag gayi toh mere paas mat aana.” 

He smiled faintly at that, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Something else was sitting there, heavier, quieter. He ran a hand through his hair again and looked down for a moment, breathing out a small huff that disappeared immediately into the rain.

Then he looked up.

For a brief second he closed his eyes, tilting his face slightly upward and letting the rain fall freely over him, like he had given up trying to avoid it at all.

You had never seen him look so angelic.

Not in the weeks you had known him. Not during the long rides through Lyari’s crowded streets, when the wind tugged at his hair and his attention stayed fixed stubbornly on the road ahead. Not during the quiet moments when he laughed at something you said, head tilted slightly back, shoulders shaking just enough for you to feel it through the bike.

But this was different.

Standing there in the rain with his eyes closed, the storm sliding over his face and soaking through his clothes, he looked strangely peaceful — like everything that had worried him had left his mind for a moment, and he could finally breathe properly for the first time in ages.

For a fleeting moment, the words rose to the surface of your mind with startling clarity. You could say it now. Five words. The rain was loud enough to swallow the awkwardness if things went south, the lane empty enough so no one else would hear it. All it would take was a single sentence, a quiet confession carried across the narrow distance between you, and it would be done. The weight would be off your chest. If he didn’t feel the same, no issue, you could just leave and never see him again, and, maybe after a few months or a year, you would feel good enough to look back on this as something you were meant to experience. The thought lingered for a second longer than it should have — warm and terrifying at the same time — before you, selfishly wanting to savour as much of this friendship you could, forced yourself to swallow it again.

“Tum theek ho?” you asked softly. 

He didn’t answer. 

“Rehman?”

He finally opened his eyes and met yours, and,  he simply stood there in the rain, taking you in like he had never allowed himself to before — the way your hair, damp from the stray spray of the storm, curled softly against your cheek and the side of your neck; the way you brushed absentmindedly at droplets on your maroon kurti; the way you were watching him with that same open, unguarded curiosity that had followed him through every one of your once-a-week meetings. 

Something about it felt like a punch to his gut. 

Because suddenly he could see it all at once — the quiet rides through Lyari, your voice filling the spaces he never used to notice, the ridiculous stories that stayed in his head long after you’d said goodbye — and standing there now, soaked to the bone with rain dripping from his lashes, He realised with a slow, sinking certainty that this was the moment he had been avoiding for weeks: the moment he stopped pretending you were just a friend, the moment he knew that he couldn’t go like this anymore, because this wasn’t just denial, it was torture. 

“Tum sach mein nahi jaanti ho?” 

You shook your head, and he cursed under his breath, knowing it was now or never — he could say something and let the moment pass, laugh it off and pretend everything between you was still simple, still normal. But, standing there in the rain with you watching him like that, Rehman realised he was already too far gone for that kind of pretending. The truth had been sitting at the edge of his tongue for weeks now, growing heavier every time he saw you, every time he dropped you home, knowing he would only get an hour with you before another long week without. If he walked away from this moment, he would spend the rest of his life wondering what might have happened if he hadn’t. So, he dragged a hand through his hair and steadied himself. 

If you didn’t feel the same way, so be it. 

If it went south, so be it. 

If saying this meant he would never see you again, so be it. 

“Yeh sab hum dono ke beech chal rahi hai na, yeh normal nahi hai,” he started, voice shaking as he moved towards you. 

You frowned. “Kya chal raha hai?” 

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. 

“Hafte mein bas ek baar milte hain hum,” he said, voice hoarse, like the words were scraping their way out of him. “Ek din. Bas ek din, ek ghanta milta hai mujhe tumhare saath. Hum baat karte hain, tu apne din ke baare mein bolti hai — kabhi kisi dukaandar ke baare mein, kabhi kisi shaadi ke baare mein, kabhi tere jhumke ke baare mein — aur tum us ek ghanta ke baad ghar jaati ho. Tum chali jaati ho, par voh ghanta mere saath rehta hai. Har din. Har jagah.” 

He paused, rain sliding down his face, jaw tightening. 

“Jab main bike par chalta hu, teri hasi hava mein goonjti hai. Jab main mandir ke paas jata hu, teri payal ki chan-chan sunayi deti hai. Jab main sone jata hu, teri surme se ghere huye aankhein dikhayi deti hai. Bazaar se guzarta hoon toh koi ajeeb si cheez dikhti hai aur dimaag mein aata hai tum ispe kya bakwaas comment karti. Aur phir main khud pe hasta hu, kyunki tum vahan hoti hi nahi.” 

The words landed heavy, stripped of any softness. 

“Kyun, y/n? Kyun?” he demanded quietly, the frustration breaking through his voice. “Ek minute ke liye bhi tum mere dimaag se nikalti nahi ho. Aur main yahan tumhare khayalon mein pagal ho raha hoon.”

He swallowed, and for the first time there was a kind of vulnerability in his eyes he never let anyone else see.

“Main thak gaya hoon tumhe bhoolne ki koshish karte karte.” His voice cracked. “Thak gaya hoon dikhava karte karte ke yeh sab sirf dosti hai.”

You felt the ground tilt beneath your feet, but he continued. 

“Kyunki dost us din ice-cream ki dukaan mein ek second ke liye aise khade nahi rehte jaise hum khade the — jaise bas ek saans aur hoti toh shayad hum dono kuch aisa kar dete jo dosti se bahut aage hota.”

He paused and looked deep into your eyes again, memorising every single inch of them before he said his next words. 

“Aur tab mujhe samajh aa gaya ke chahe kitni bhi koshish kar loon, main tumhe sirf dost ki tarah dekh hi nahi sakta. Aur dekhna bhi nahi chahta.” 

For a moment, everything stilled.

You simply stared at him, the confession ringing in your ears louder than the rain crashing down around you. The narrow strip of shelter suddenly felt too small, too suffocating, like the moment itself had outgrown it.

Before you could think yourself out of it, you stepped forward.

The rain hit you instantly.

Cold water soaked into your hair and kurti in seconds, but you barely felt it as you closed the distance between you. You stood in front of him, mere inches separating you both, and the moment felt like a strange echo of the ice-cream shop nearly two months ago, except this time, you knew how he felt. 

He had to bend his head to look at you now; raindrops hanging onto his lashes like diamonds framing a painting. His eyes were glazed over with an emotion that was much deeper than anything you had seen before — it was vulnerable, like he had ripped his heart from his chest and was holding it out to you, bare, with bloody hands, waiting for you to either take it and break it. A single tear slipped from his eye, and, intentionally this time, you raised your hand and wiped it from his face. He blinked at you, waiting, and you slid your hand lower to grab the front of his shirt. 

For a brief second, you hesitated.

“Rehman…” 

You didn’t finish the question, but Rehman understood, he always did, and his breath caught. 

He nodded. 

That was all the permission you needed. 

Your fingers tightened in the soaked fabric of his shirt as you pulled him down, and the distance between you disappeared in a single, breathless moment.

Your noses brushed awkwardly at first, rain slipping down both your faces and between your lips, but the second Rehman realised what was happening, something in him gave way completely. One of his hands came to your waist desperately, pulling you closer until the space between your bodies vanished, while the other shakily rested on your cheek, like he couldn’t believe it was happening, couldn’t believe you were in his arms, couldn’t believe you felt the same way. 

The rain had soaked through both of you now, water sliding down your neck, dripping from his hair, the storm wrapping around the two of you like you were each other’s world, and that anything that existed beyond this little bubble was in another dimension, another universe. 

All that existed was him.

And you.

And for that one suspended moment beneath the monsoon sky, with his hand steady at your waist and his breath warm against your lips—

Neither of you thought about anything beyond it.

To all the authors facing this: I am so sorry you are going through that because some not-so-smart anons cannot understand the basics of fic writing, let alone the unwritten ethical code we follow. They are entitled bitches. You are amazing, and don't you ever forget that. And if this means you take a break from writing, whether temporary or permanent, please do so. You are not required to stay, and we respect whatever decision you make.

To everyone screaming "AI HAI AI", do y'all even know how AI models are trained? AI models digest a huge library of books and articles (yes, they include fanfiction available for public consumption. This means that some ai models are being trained on dhurandhar fics as we speak) and then, over a billion iterations, figure out grammar, tone, what word should come next, etc. There is so much math involved in the back end, based on the billions of samples available, and that is how AI develops a 'writing style'. Writing style is not inherent, even in humans. The writing y'all praise and criticise has been practised and built after consuming so many pieces of media and more trial and error than you can ever understand. Besides, many of us are studying/working/researching. We are very familiar with using complex words to put our points forth, and we are not going to dumb down our ways of expression just because a non-living model that is trained on our writing flags it as something it wrote. There is a reason even Frankenstein is flagged as AI. There is a reason there is such inconsistency between AI detectors. Yes, some fics look like AI. Yes, some fics read like AI. That does not mean said fic is AI. And if you feel it is, please disengage and don't spam it in author's inboxes. It is another thing if most readers think it is AI, but don't be blatantly rude. We, as fic writers, bear most of the brunt of AI usage. We see models being trained on our writing. We see how easy and soulless writing has become. And yet, we write. Not because we get some sort of monetary compensation, not because we want extreme praise, but because we enjoy it. We know we don't use AI. Our followers and friends know we don't use AI. If you are sceptical, block and move the fuck on. No one is serving you here. No one is writing for you here. Do not engage, and especially DO NOT THROW BASELESS ALLEGATIONS AROUND IN WRITERS' INBOXES.

If you cannot understand this simple truth, please either: a) stop being a bitch and spamming authors' asks b) leave the fandom as a whole because we don't need your toxicity c) understand what actually goes on behind AI and how wrong you guys are, and fucking apologise.