A Marriage of Quiet Things
pairing : rehman dakait x reader synopsis : in Lyari, power is everything. rehman dakait is feared, respected, and untouchable- but when a political marriage binds him to the daughter of a powerful Baloch family, duty collides with desire. a union meant for strategy slowly becomes something far more dangerous… an intimate allegiance that becomes his quiet unravelling. warnings : will have the usual violence expected and seen in dhurandhar. disclaimer: this story is a work of fiction inspired by the character rehman dakait as portrayed by akshaye khanna in Dhurandhar. it is not a depiction of real events or real people, and the author does not condone or support the actions of any actual criminals or criminal organizations. a/n : my first bollywood fic + hindi words included fic?? may not be a 100% accurate but i tried okay. enjoy and review!!
CHAPTER 1 - PROLOGUE.
Lyari did not wake gently.
It stirred with the scrape of shutters, the low cough of engines, the murmur of boys posted at corners too young to remember a time before guns felt ordinary. The air carried salt from the sea and something older beneath it, iron and dust and memory. People moved with practiced awareness, eyes sharp, voices measured. In Lyari, nothing was careless. Not speech. Not loyalty. Not survival.
His name traveled ahead of him.
Sher-e-Baloch was not shouted. It was lowered into conversations, spoken like a fact of geography. Like the sea. Like death. Rehman Dakait did not need to announce himself. The territory already knew where he was.
Inside a concrete compound overlooking the narrow lanes, he stood with his back to the window, hands clasped loosely, posture still. Uzair hovered nearby, watchful, ever on guard for his cousin. Siyahi and Donga waited closer to the door, bodies relaxed but ready, their attention fixed outward rather than on the man they followed. They had learned that Rehman disliked being watched.
Below them, Lyari breathed.
He was not loud like the men who had come before him. He ruled without spectacle. Orders were given once. Mistakes were corrected privately or permanently. Lyari followed him not because he demanded it, but because he understood the weight of the ground they stood on. He did not promise glory. He promised continuity.
That was what frightened people.
The meeting had been scheduled without flourish. No convoy, no photographers, no speeches. When your father arrived, the compound adjusted around him. Not with fear, but recognition. Old Baloch blood carried its own gravity.
The two men faced each other across a low table.
Your father was dignified, composed, his age worn like a well-cut coat. The kind of man who had learned long ago that power did not need volume. He did not rush his words, because he had never been rushed by anyone worth fearing. He did not flatter, because flattery was a currency used by men without land or lineage. He spoke as one who understood both risk and inheritance, and the long memory of blood.
“Aap ek mod par khade hain,” he said at last, his voice steady, unhurried. You stand at a crossroads, he said at last, his voice steady, unhurried. “Kyuki aap kamzor hain, isliye nahi, balki kyuki aap sabki nazron mein hain.” Not because you are weak, but because you are visible.
Rehman inclined his head slightly. An acknowledgment, not agreement. Visibility had always been the price of control.
“Aap poori Lyari ko apne saath le jaate hain,” You carry Lyari, your father continued, fingers resting lightly against the arm of his chair. “Har gali, har naata, har shikwa. Lekin sirf Lyari aapko hamesha surakshit nahi rakh sakti. Sheher sirf takatwar ko tab tak sahn karta hai, jab tak ki woh unhe sabak sikhane ka faisla nahi kar leta. Log aapko apradhi kahenge, jab tak aap unhe kuch aisa purana na dein jise woh mita na saken. Kuch aisa jise kisi file ya press statement se hataya na ja sake.” Every lane, every allegiance, every grievance. But Lyari alone will not shield you forever. The city tolerates strongmen until it decides to make examples of them. They will call you a criminal until you give them something older than accusation. Something they cannot erase with a file or a press statement.
“Aur aap wahi cheez hain,” And you are that something, Rehman said, his tone even, as if naming a fact already accounted for.
Your father’s mouth curved faintly, not in pride but in acceptance. “Main uska ek hissa hoon. Mera naam un kamron mein wazan rakhta hai jahan aap nahi jaate aur un kagazon par jo aapke log kabhi nahi dekhte. Ye ek bhasha bolta hai jise aapke dushman samman dete hain, bhale hi woh iska apmaan karein.” I am one piece of it. My name carries weight in rooms you do not enter and on papers your men never see. It speaks a language your enemies respect, even when they despise it.
The conversation unfolded with care, each sentence placed deliberately, like stones laid to cross a river. They spoke of territory not as maps, but as communities. Of elections that would come and go, governments that would posture and fall. Of narratives shaped not by truth, but by repetition, and how the right alignment of names could turn a liability into legacy.
Rehman’s influence was undeniable. Lyari answered to him. But influence without legitimacy was a fire that eventually consumed its own fuel. It drew attention. It invited correction.
“Aap sirf ek aadmi nahi hain,” You are not just a man, your father said, meeting Rehman’s gaze fully now. “Aap ek prateek hain. Prateek wafadari ko prerit karte hain, lekin ye mitaaye jaane ka bhi khatra laate hain. Inhe thos aadhar dena padta hai. Sandarbh dena padta hai. Nirantarata deni padti hai.” You are a symbol. Symbols inspire loyalty, but they also attract erasure. They must be anchored. Given context. Given continuity.
Silence followed. Not awkward. Considered.
Your father did not break it immediately. He let his eyes drift, briefly, to the window that overlooked Lyari’s crowded sprawl.Â
“Aapne wahi kiya jo kuch hi log kar paate hain,” You have done what few men manage, he said at last. “Aapne un logon ko yaad dilaya jise sheher bhool jana chahta tha. Aapne Baloch khoon ko aise dikhaya ki ise sirf shor mein hi nahi suna gaya. Ye koi chhoti baat nahi hai.” You took a people the city preferred to forget and forced it to remember them. You made Baloch blood visible in a place that only acknowledges noise. That is not a small thing.
Rehman did not respond. He never accepted praise easily, especially when it concerned his own people. But his stillness shifted, just slightly, the way it did when something true was spoken aloud.
“Aap Lyari par raj karte hain,” You rule Lyari, your father continued, voice calm, deliberate, “lekin aapne ise kabze ki tarah nahi sambhala. Aapne apne logon ko andar ki taraf mudne se roka. Aapne unhe sanrachna di, jahan pehle sirf gussa tha. Aapne unhe sanyam sikhaya, jabki arajakta aasan hoti.” But you have not ruled it like an occupier. You kept your men from turning inward. You gave them structure where there was once only anger. You taught them restraint when chaos would have been easier.
Rehman’s gaze remained on the window for a moment longer, following the slow movement of the street below. Then he turned back, eyes settling on your father with quiet precision.
“Jo aap kehna chahte hain, use sidha boliye,” Say what you mean, he said. Not curt. Not confrontational. Direct. “Aadhaar kai tarah ke hote hain.” Anchors take many forms.
Your father inclined his head, acknowledging the question. “Aap sahi hain. Hote hain.”You are right. They do. He paused, deliberate as ever. “Lekin sabse majboot aadhaar aise nahi bante jise badla ja sake, ya wafadariyon ko mol-bhaav ke liye rakha ja sake.” But the strongest ones are not built of agreements that can be revised, or loyalties that can be negotiated away.
He met Rehman’s gaze steadily.
“Ye khoon se bante hain.” They are built of blood.
The word did not echo. It settled.
“Ek saarbhaumik gathbandhan,” A public alliance, your father continued, “jise suvidha ke roop mein kharij nahi kiya ja sakta. Ek aisa bandhan jo Lyari ko sirf takat ke liye nahi, balki vansh ke liye jodta hai. Mera parivaar us jagah khada hai, jahan aapke sabse kareeb dekha jaata hai. Saath mein, woh aapko alag nahi kar sakte.” one that cannot be dismissed as convenience. A union that ties Lyari not just to power, but to lineage. My family stands where yours is watched most closely. Together, they cannot isolate you without consequence.
The implication was clear now. The shape of it undeniable.
“Ek shaadi,”A marriage, he said. “Aap aur meri beti ke beech.” Between you and my daughter.
Rehman did not respond immediately.
His expression did not harden, nor did it soften. He processed the proposal the way he processed all things of consequence, by turning it over silently, examining its weight, its reach, its cost. His eyes shifted, briefly, to Uzair.
Uzair straightened almost imperceptibly. He did not rush to speak. He understood the moment.
“Thik hai, bhai,” It makes sense, bhai, Uzair said finally, voice low, respectful. “Rajneetik roop se. Saarvajanik roop se. Ye Lyari ki suraksha karta hai. Aur aapki bhi.” Politically. Publicly. It protects Lyari. And it protects you.
Rehman held his cousin’s gaze for a second longer than necessary. Uzair did not look away.
Siyahi and Donga remained silent, but their stillness carried agreement. They had seen what isolation did to men like Rehman. Power without alliances was a short road.
Rehman turned back to your father.
“Shartein hongi,” There will be terms, he said. “Suraksha. Sanchalan ke mamle se doori. Sammaan.” Security. Distance from operational matters. Respect. His voice did not waver. “Woh istemal nahi hogi.” She will not be used as leverage.
Your father nodded once. “Aur main bhi use tabhi deta agar iska istemal nahi hoga.” Nor would I offer her if she were.
Another pause. The final one.
“Toh ye tay ho gaya,” Then it will be done, Rehman said.
Not enthusiasm. Not reluctance. Resolution.
Outside, Lyari continued to live, unaware that its fate had just been tied to a woman it had not yet met, and to a marriage that would begin in silence, strategy, and restraint.
A marriage of quiet things.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting sharp rectangles on the polished floor of your father’s study. Books lined the walls, old political treaties, and chronicles of Baloch history. You stood near the window, your hands clasped lightly, watching the city wake below. Even in its chaos, your gaze was steady, curious, and unafraid.
Your father, Sardar Mir Alam Baloch, closed the leather-bound folder he had been reading and looked at you carefully. There was a weight to his gaze, tempered with respect.
“Beta,” he began, voice calm but firm, “hum ek faisla karne wale hain… jo sirf parivar ke liye nahi, balki poore Lyari aur Baloch logon ke liye zaroori hai.” Child, we are about to make a decision… one that is not only for our family but necessary for all of Lyari and the Baloch people.
You turned to him, eyes bright. “Abbu… aapka matlab kya hai? Kya faisla hai?” Father… what do you mean? What decision?
He gestured for you to sit across from him. “Beta, aap jaanti ho ki aap humari shaan aur humari zimmidari dono ho. Lekin ab waqt aa gaya hai ki hum ek aisa bandhan banayein jo humari shakti ko aur majboot kare… aur humari qaum ko aur surakshit.” Child, you know that you are both our pride and our responsibility. But now the time has come to form a bond that will strengthen our power… and protect our people even more.
You tilted your head, intrigued but cautious. “Aise bandhan… kaise, Abbu?” Such a bond… how, Father?
He leaned forward, his hands resting on the table, the weight of generations behind every word. “Beta, aap Rehman Dakait ke saath… shaadi karogi.” Child, you will marry Rehman Dakait.
You blinked. Fire flared in your chest, not confusion, not fear, but the recognition of stakes and challenge. “Abbu jaan… woh… Lyari ka sher? Woh itna khatarnak hai… aur aap chahte ho ki main…?” Father… he’s… the lion of Lyari? He’s so dangerous… and you want me to…
“Main chahta hoon ki aap samjho,” your father said gently, yet firmly, “ke yeh sirf shaadi nahi hai. Yeh ek bandhan hai, ek suraksha, aur ek raah hai humari qaum ke liye. Aur main jaanta hoon, beta, ke tum mein himmat, samajh aur aag hai-jo is faisle ko sirf poora karegi.” I want you to understand that this is not just a marriage. It is a bond, a protection, and a path for our people. And I know, my child, that you have courage, wisdom, and fire-qualities that will not only endure this choice but honor it.
Your lips curved, not in submission, but in acknowledgment. “Abbu ji… agar yeh humare logon ke liye zaroori hai… main apni poori shakti se is faisle ka samarthan karungi. Lekin aapko pata hai… main bas chup nahi rahungi.” Father… if this is necessary for our people… I will support this decision with all my strength. But you know… I will not stay silent.
He smiled faintly, a mixture of pride and relief. “Beta, isi liye maine tumhe pehli baar apne samne bulaya. Tumhari samajh, tumhari tez dimag aur tumhara aag… yeh sabhi cheezein is bandhan ko sirf sakht nahi, balki samajhdaar bhi banayengi.” Child, that is why I called you here for the first time. Your understanding, your sharp mind, and your fire… all of these will make this bond not only strong but wise as well.
You rose then, letting the weight of your father’s words settle into your chest. You were calm, poised, yet alive with energy that could not be tamed. Beauty, wit, grace, and fire- all woven together.
And even as the decision sank in, you knew one thing clearly: you would enter Lyari on your own terms, and no one- not even Rehman Dakait-would underestimate you.
Or your marriage of quiet things.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
a/n : please let me know what you think! my first rehman fic, and my first one in the bolly universe :) bear with me about the hindi guys ahah. and as always, likes, comments, feedback, reviews are always appreciated! im also open to making new friends and the ask box is always open!! lots of love muah muah
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