Summary: Porn without plot. Iqbal and y/n being horn dogs.
Warnings: 18+ children do not read this. Explicit F!Reader.
Word count: under 1k (sorry this is another short fic, it’s more of headcanons actually but anyway.)
Iqbal remembers the night the words left your mouth.
"I think I'm ready to have children."
He remembered the way time stood still. He couldn't think of anything else after that for a minute straight. You wanted to have his children? You loved him so much that you were ready to go through all the pain just to have his child? What had he done to deserve you?
You looked up at him shyly and smiled. You looked so innocent and pure, while all he had were the nastiest thoughts in his head, thinking about the different ways he could fill your womb with his seeds.
For a week straight he hadn't let you sleep at night. He would be filling you up, pounding you in all positions. Making sure to go deep, not missing any spots. He knew you loved being so full all day, all night. The way your pussy would just suck him in. Your tight warm cunt felt like heaven, just swallowing him whole. He sometimes tried to stay in all night sheathed deep inside you, until you usually woke up and asked for water.
He loved going slow, taking his time, kissing your body, worshipping you. The mother of his future children, his queen. Secretly he always loved missionary, the way he could look into your eyes, see the faces you would make as he was pounding into you. All the while he would whisper praises into your ear.
Everytime he would see his cum leaking out of you he would push it in back deep with his fingers, making sure not even a drop goes to waste.
When you were tired he would hold you against his chest and rut into you slowly. When you were bored he would make you sit on his lap while he's either on a call or working on his computer, warming his cock. You would try teasing him, trying your best to rock back and forth. Or slowly grind on him, but he would only tut and hold your waist with a firmer grip making you whine in desperation.
"What a perfect slut you are, but patience my love, you'll get what you want only if you wait quietly."
Sometimes you would go pick him up from work and seeing you all dolled up in his car he would take you then and there. He would politely ask the driver to leave the car telling him that he would drive you back home. The poor driver would run for his life. He’s been traumatised with you both before he knows what's coming.
"You look absolutely ravishing meri Jaan."
He wouldn't give you time to even think, you clothes discarded he knew you were aldready wet. You be fucked until your legs are shaking, the windows are all fogged up, until you're parched, your throat is all sore, and you're barely conscious enough to even blink. He wouldn't stop at any cost, unless ofcourse you told him that you had had enough, and you needed to rest or else you wouldn't be able to walk for the next two days. But that rarely happened, you were always the first one to miss him, your body was always craving him. The feeling of emptiness whenever he wasn't inside of you would drive you crazy.
But in a few months he realised soon enough though seeing you with a full belly, carrying his baby made him even more wild.
A/N: once again, I serve you a super small smutty one shot. Arjun Rampal is my Roman Empire. I want to gnaw at the screen anytime he appears in Dhurandhar. I will be writing more such small teeny tiny fics, just to clear my mind and to get back into writing. Let me know if this interests you, and alsoooo please share, comment and reblog, I will kiss your lips if you interact with this post. It keeps me going besties 😔🤙
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For Rehman and Ulfat, their land turns out to be the single most defining moment of their lives.
Chapter 4
A/N : umm strap in cause it's gonna get WILD
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; all characters and events are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Warning: humour, sexual tension, angst, fluff, smut
ENJOYYY !!!!
1991, 3 Days Later, Karachi, Pakistan
The news of the journey spread through both households before either leader could properly contain it. At the Jahan Mansion, Rayan had discovered he was going to Balochistan exactly three minutes after overhearing two guards discuss extra vehicles being prepared. By the time Ulfat returned to her room that evening, he was already waiting on her bed, cross-legged, arms folded, wearing the expression of a prosecutor about to begin cross-examination.
“Hum kitne din ke liye jaa rahe hain?”
“Abhi pata nahi.”
“Wahan registan hoga?”
“Shayad.”
“Bandook le jaa sakta hoon?”
“Nahi.”
“Do le jaa sakta hoon?”
Ulfat paused in the middle of packing and looked at him slowly, “tum safar par jaa rahe ho ya baghawat shuru karne?”
Rayan grinned shamelessly, “dono ka option ho toh?”
She threw a folded kurta at his face, he caught it easily and continued, “Rehman bhi hoga?”
“Haan.”
“Uzair bhi?”
“Haan.”
“Accha…” His grin widened. “Toh main bore nahi hoga.”
Ulfat narrowed her eyes. “Tum dono agar zyada shararat ki toh wapas Karachi paidal bhej dungi.”
“Main akela nahi jaunga,” he said instantly. “Uzair bhi mere saath jayega.”
Even she could not stop the faint smile that escaped her. Across the city, at Baloch Haveli, Rehman’s suffering had taken a different shape. He stood in the courtyard reviewing convoy arrangements while Uzair followed him like an unpaid curse. “Bhai,” Uzair began sweetly, “office waala din yaad hai?”
Rehman stopped walking so suddenly that Uzair nearly collided with him, “ek aur lafz bola na,” Rehman said softly, “toh tumhari zindagi ka safar Balochistan se pehle khatam ho jayega.” Uzair beamed. “Matlab kuch toh hua tha.”
“Kuch nahi hua tha.”
“Haan haan, isi liye aap teen din se bina wajah muskura rahe ho.”
Rehman resumed walking. “Gaadiyan check hui?”
“Ji.”
“Rashan?”
“Ji.”
“Hathiyar?”
“Ji.”
“Phir chup kyun nahi ho jaate?”
“Kyuki aap muhabbat mein hain.” Rehman turned so sharply that two guards immediately looked away to preserve their jobs.
1991, The Next Day, Karachi, Pakistan
The convoy left before dawn. Three vehicles from the Jahan side, three from Rehman’s. Security was tight, routes had been changed twice, and no one outside the inner circle knew the full destination. The road out of Karachi stretched long and grey under the early morning sky, the city slowly fading behind them.
Ulfat sat in the rear of the lead vehicle, dressed in a simple black shalwar kameez with a shawl draped over her shoulders, far less theatrical than the saree she had worn months ago, though no less commanding. Beside her sat Rayan, who had been impossible to contain since the idea of the journey was first mentioned. Across from them, maps and papers rested untouched, because the boy had no intention of allowing silence.
“Appa,” he asked for the fourth time in an hour, “Balochistan waqai itna bada hai?”
“Ji haan,” she replied without looking up from the route map in her hand. “Aur agar tum ne har paanch minute baad sawaal poocha, toh aur bada nhi lagne lagega.
Rayan giggled, “Main sirf ilm hasil kar raha hoon.”
“Ilm hasil karne ke aur tareeqe bhi hote hain.”
Before he could answer, another jeep pulled alongside them for a moment. Uzair leaned half his body out of the passenger window, hair wild from the wind, waving dramatically. “RAYAN!” he shouted. “Aaj striker training hogi! Balochistan ja kar tumhe asli football sikhaunga!”
Rayan immediately rolled down his own window. “Pehle khud seekh lo!” The two boys began yelling insults across moving vehicles until one of the guards forcibly pulled Uzair back inside his jeep. Ulfat closed her eyes briefly. “Ya Allah,” she muttered, “ek safar mein do museebatein.”
From the second vehicle, Rehman heard that through the open window and laughed quietly to himself. He had been watching her since departure, the way travel softened some of her edges. Away from the mansion and its responsibilities, she seemed lighter with Rayan beside her. Her exterior gangster avatar softened with him, she was more his sister, and less a mob boss.
By midday, Karachi had long disappeared behind them. The road stretched endlessly through ochre plains and jagged ridges, the sky vast enough to swallow thought itself. Villages grew fewer and checkpoints became quieter. Men with rifles appeared on ridgelines and vanished just as quickly. They stopped near a roadside dhaba where tea was poured too sweet and too hot, and the younger boys vanished instantly with a football that had somehow been packed among ammunition crates.
Rehman stood beside the hood of his jeep, studying the route ahead when Ulfat approached.
“You travel with children and weapons in the same convoy?” she asked dryly.
He took a sip of tea. “Tum bhi toh ek baccha saath laayi ho.”
“Woh mera bhai hai.”
“Aur Uzair meri saza.”
Before she could stop it, a reluctant smile touched her mouth and Rehman noticed, of course, he noticed. He leaned slightly closer, “muskurati hui achi lagti ho.”
Her expression flattened at once. “Aapko har waqt flirt karna zaroori lagta hai?”
“Nahi,” he replied. “Kabhi kabhi saans bhi leta hoon.” She turned and walked away before he could see the faint color rising in her cheeks.
The rest of the journey passed through changing land and thinning civilization until the mountain pass finally opened before them. Stone watchtowers rose from the cliffs, narrow paths wound through rough terrain and armed sentries observed from heights impossible to reach quickly.
1991, Outskirts of Quetta, Balochistan
As the convoy entered the central courtyard, dozens of eyes followed them. Shirani was waiting, he was older than Rehman, broad-shouldered despite age, his face carved by weather and war. His beard had silvered, but nothing in him suggested frailty. When Rehman stepped forward, the two men embraced.
“Khush aamdeed,” Shirani said. “Der laga di.”
“Raaste ko tameez sikhani padi,” Rehman replied.
That earned a rough laugh and then Shirani’s gaze shifted past him and settled on Ulfat. The older man said nothing for a moment, observing the woman standing beside Rehman, exuding equal, if not greater, power, then he stepped forward and placed a hand over his heart.
“Faiz Jahan ki beti.” Ulfat returned the gesture. “Ji.”
“Maine tumhare walid ke saath roti bhi todi hai aur goliyan bhi chalayi hain,” he said. “Agar tum unki aulaad ho… toh mehmaan nahi, apni ho.”
For the first time since arriving, her posture eased.
“Shukriya.”
Shirani’s eyes then moved to the boy standing beside her, trying his best to look intimidating and failing completely.
“Aur yeh kaun sa sardar hai?” Rayan straightened at once. “Main Rayan hoon.”
“Rayan ho ya toofan?” Shirani asked dryly. “Chehra dekh ke dono lag rahe ho.” Another voice cut through the courtyard before Shirani could utter another word.
“Shirani Chacha!”
Uzair came jogging in, confidently, never respecting entrances. Shirani closed his eyes briefly, like a tired man remembering old headaches. “Tum phir aa gaye.” “Ji,” Uzair said proudly. “Aur iss dafa zinda bhi.”
“Hairat hai.” Shirani looked him over. “Lambay ho gaye ho. Aqal aayi?”
“Thodi.”
“Jhoot.”
Rehman muttered under his breath, “Is mein consistency hai.” Uzair placed a hand over his chest dramatically. “Aap mujhe dekh ke khush nahi hue?” Shirani snorted. “Main tumhe dekh ke hamesha hisaab check karta hoon. Kuch churaya toh nahi.”
“Izzat churayi hai sab ki.”
“Woh toh bachpan se.”
Camp of Baloch United Front, Quetta, Balochistan
They entered the rebel camp just as the afternoon sun softened over the mountains. From afar, the settlement had looked severe and battle-worn, but inside it carried a rough kind of life. A group of boys were playing football in the open yard with a half-torn ball, shouting over one another with roaring intensity. The moment Rayan spotted them, all memory of dignity, family name, or political significance left his body entirely. Without so much as a glance back, he tossed his shawl aside and sprinted toward the game.
“Aray pass do! Main free hoon!”
Within seconds he had folded himself into the match as if he had lived there for years.
The adults continued toward the main courtyard where the rebel leaders were waiting. The elders were seated in a wide semi-circle of charpais and carved wooden chairs, maps spread across a low table between them, rifles resting nearby as casually as walking sticks. Shirani stood at the center, a quiet smile on his weathered face as Rehman approached. But the others, older men wrapped in turbans and certainty, looked at Ulfat with expressions that carried more judgement than respect. It did not go unnoticed by Rehman. Whatever ease had remained in him vanished immediately. His jaw tightened, and without thinking, he stepped a little closer to her side.
Shirani raised a hand for silence, “Yeh Ulfat Jahan hain,” he announced. “Karachi mein hamari shareek-e-maqsad. Jahan Gang ki sarbarah.” A heavy-set elder with a scar cutting through one eyebrow leaned back and laughed dryly, “Shareek-e-maqsad?” he said loudly. “Ya mehfil ki zeenat?” earning a laugh from some equally old and foolish partners. Uzair inhaled sharply, already preparing several colorful Balochi curses that would have dishonored bloodlines, Rehman shot him one glance that said not yet, for he knew better to not interrupt when a lioness sets out to hunt her prey.
Ulfat stepped forward with terrifying calm, her shawl shifting with the motion, eyes fixed on the man who had spoken, “Aap kaun hain?”
The man frowned, “Kya?”
She tilted her head slightly, almost politely, “Maine poocha, aap kaun hain? Kyunki jis aadmi ki pehchaan sirf aurat ki tauheen se ho… uska naam yaad rakhne ka koi faida nahi.”
Silence descended over the courtyard so suddenly it felt like a funeral had been organized for the shrouds of the leaders. The elder’s face darkened, men shifted in their seats and somewhere behind them, Uzair looked close to tears from admiration.
Ya Allah….this woman was going to bury them alive and still look elegant doing it.
The man leaned forward angrily, “Yahan hamare usool chalte hain.”
Ulfat’s mouth curved into the faintest smirk, “phir isi liye tum log ab tak pahadon mein chup kar baithe ho.” Rehman lowered his head for a moment to hide the snort threatening to escape him.
Another commander, his head clearly in the ditch, slapped a palm against his knee, “hum apni jung kisi aurat ke hawale nahi kar sakte. Hamare maidan mein aurat zimmedari nahi, zimma hoti hai.”
Ulfat rolled her eyes, clearly fed up with these age old patriarchal men denying her a decent peaceful day, with complete disinterest, as though correcting children rather than addressing leaders, she spoke, “Achha. Agar main itni hi liability hoon, toh meri taraf se jo raaste khulay, jo asla pohancha, jo aadmi diye gaye, jo khabarain tum tak pohnchi… sab band samjho. Tum log aaram se taaj pehna do apne pyare Rehman ko aur Sher-e-Baloch bana do. Yeh baat hi kaafi hai ke main tum jaise mardon ke liye is cause ke saath khari hoon—jo mujhe barabar ka darja dene se bhi inkaar karte hain. Isi lamhe main apni himayat wapas le sakti hoon. Phir ja kar bheek maangna… kyunki is dafa tumhara yeh pyara Sher-e-Baloch bhi mujhe manane ke qabil nahi hoga.”
That shut them up properly. Shirani leaned slightly toward Rehman, watching Ulfat with open admiration as he muttered under his breath, “Khuda ki qasam, Rehman… iske saath partnership kaise ki tumne? Iske saamne toh kharay rehna bhi mushkil hai.” Rehman’s eyes never left her, a slow, helpless smile tugged at his mouth before he replied, “Khara nahi raha… bas kisi tarah bach gaya.”
Before Rehman could step in and provide an amicable end to the tussle of egos being crumpled to the ground by the fiery Ulfat, it was already too late. She turned to him, her eyes blazing with rage, well shit, without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the courtyard, her shawl trailing behind her like smoke after fire. The anger Rehman had been suppressing all this while rose instantly to the surface. He turned back toward the leaders just as a few of them tried to speak, but his voice cut through the courtyard like a gunshot, “Chup. Bilkul chup.” The room fell silent, his jaw was tight, his eyes colder, radiating fierce protectiveness, “Tum log waqai sharmnaak ho. Woh aurat din raat kaam kar rahi hai taake hum azaadi ka khwab dekh sakein, aur tum uski tauheen karte ho sirf is liye ki your dicks cannot handle a woman taking charge?”
“Agar tum mein zara si bhi sharam baqi hai, toh kal hum dobara baithenge, aur kal guftagu sirf iss baat par hogi ke tum meri shareek-e-amal se maafi kaise maangoge. Woh koi aam aurat nahi, woh Malika-e-Jahan hai, aur usi shaan ke saath uski izzat ki jayegi. Aur agar yeh aap ko manzoor nahi, toh jo laqab ka tamasha aap mere liye saja rahe thay, usse bhool jao. Mujhe Balochistan ka sab se taaqatwar mard qarar doge?” He took a step forward, his voice lowering almost into a growl of a lion. “Main toh pehle se hoon… jab woh mere saath hoti hai.”
With that, Rehman stormed out of the courtyard without another glance behind him. Uzair, unusually meek for once, hurried after him, pausing only to wave frantically at Rayan to follow. The boy abandoned his football match mid-argument and ran ahead, worry written plainly across his face as he caught up with them. “Kya hua? Didi kahan hain? Woh aapke saath kyun nahi?” Rehman did not slow his pace, though pride still slipped through the anger, tightening his jaw. “Beta, tumhari didi ne in buzurgon ki saari akad thande paani mein bhigo di hai… bas mizaj thoda garam hai, is liye aaj zara ehtiyaat se baat karna.”
1991, Quarters of Malika-e-Jahan, BUF Camp, Balochistan
Tired from the long journey and the confrontation that had followed it, Ulfat had fallen asleep almost the moment she lay down. By the time Rayan returned to their room, still dusty from football and flushed with the thrill of new company, she was already fast asleep. He slowed at once, careful not to make noise, then quietly went around to her side of the bed and pulled a soft sheet over her before placing a small kiss on her forehead.
A few hours later, a knock sounded at the door. Ulfat stirred, eyes still heavy with sleep, just in time to see Rayan opening it for Uzair. He entered carrying a large plate piled high with Balochi delicacies, wearing the expression of a man attempting to personally apologize for the sins of several elderly fools. Ulfat pushed herself upright and frowned faintly, “Yeh sab laane ki kya zaroorat thi?” Uzair set the tray down quickly, “Mujhe pata hai jo hua theek nahi tha… lekin aap kam se kam kuch kha lijiye. Bohot mazaydaar hai. Aur…” he cleared his throat, “Rehman Bhai ne bheja hai.” Her gaze sharpened immediately, “Toh tumhare Rehman Bhai khud kyun nahi aaye?” Uzair nearly choked on his own tongue. How exactly was he meant to tell her that Rehman Baloch had spent ten full minutes standing outside her door, cursing the entire male population of Balochistan under his breath before shoving the plate into Uzair’s hands and walking away before his temper overpowered his dignity. Instead, he forced a weak smile, “Woh… masroof thay.”
“Theek hai,” Ulfat replied after a moment, giving a small nod, unwilling to drag the matter any further. Uzair exhaled in visible relief, then immediately turned to Rayan, “Tum bhi saath khao. Main chalta hoon.” He was already backing toward the door before either of them could stop him, “Ek zaroori call hai.” Poor man. All day, he had been caught between escaping the wrath of his furious brother and surviving the equally dangerous silence of his brother’s angry partner. Without waiting for another question, he slipped out of the room with the speed of someone fleeing active gunfire.
1991, Outside the Quarters of Rehman Baloch, BUF Camp, Balochistan
Later that night, Ulfat stepped outside the guest quarters. She needed air, distance, and for fuck’s sake, a cigarette after the disaster of a day she had endured. The mountains were quiet now, the camp reduced to scattered lantern light and distant voices carried by the wind. She stood near the ridge wall, pulled a cigarette from the pack hidden in her shawl, and tried twice to light it against the breeze. Before she could try a third time, another hand reached forward with a flame already lit. The tip caught fire instantly. Ulfat turned and found Rehman standing beside her, his expression carrying an uneasy mix of anger and guilt.
She took a slow drag before speaking, “Main kal Karachi wapas ja rahi hoon.” Her tone was calm, which somehow made it harsher, “Aapki tajposhi ho jaye, phir mujhe khat bhej dijiye ga. Hum baad mein is mohahida ke mustaqbil ka faisla kar lenge.”
Rehman’s eyes widened at once, “Nahi”, stepping closer, “Main maafi chahta hoon jo aaj hua… lekin aap kal nahi jaayengi.”
She arched a brow, smoke curling past her lips, “Wah. Aap abhi Sher-e-Baloch bane bhi nahi aur hukm chalana shuru kar diya?”
“Hukm nahi de raha,” he said, jaw tightening. “Sirf keh raha hoon ke aaj jo hua, woh aakhri baat nahi thi.” Ulfat looked away into the dark valley. “Mujhe unki maafi nahi chahiye.”
“Mujhe chahiye.”
That made her glance back at him, curiosity cutting through the irritation, “Kyun?”
Because it was you.Because hearing them speak to you like that made something violent wake up in me.Because I would burn the whole mountain before letting anyone reduce you.
Instead, he could only manage to sputter out, “Kyuki woh ghalat thay.”
Letting the silence consume them for a few seconds, she exhaled another stream of smoke and let her gaze drift outward again, “Mujhe gussa un par kam hai Rehman… iss duniya par zyada hai.” The wind pushed a loose strand of hair across her face. Rehman’s hand moved before caution could stop him. Gently, almost reverently, he tucking it behind her ear, his fingers lingering for half a second too long.
“Ulfat,” he said quietly, “mujhe pata hai aap khud apne liye khari ho sakti hain. Lekin meri partner se koi is tarah baat karke bach nahi sakta. Kal faisla hoga, unhein azaadi ka khwab dekhna hai… ya apne Sher-e-Baloch ko bhoolna hai.”
A soft smile touched her mouth despite herself, “Toh unhein mujhse maafi is liye maangni hogi… taake main aapko taaj pehnte dekh sakun?” She shook her head faintly, “Tareekh mein bohot bure saude hue hain… magar yeh un sab par bhaari padega.”
Rehman laughed softly, the sound warmer than the night air, “Mujhe laqabon mein koi dilchaspi nahi. Woh sirf rasm hai. Dilchaspi mujhe is baat mein hai ke main tumhare saath kahan khara hoon… kyunki maqsad ko hum chala rahe hain, koi aur nahi.” His hand was still in her hair when the moment shattered completely, “APPA!” Rayan came running toward them with Uzair behind him, both carrying trays of food like victorious hunters. “Hum khana le aaye!” Uzair announced his voice booming through the courtyard.
Cockblockers.
Rehman stepped back at once, his hands glued to his sides, as if they were not in her hair a few seconds ago, and Ulfat composed herself just as quickly, wrapping the shawl around hr once again, which had slipped while conversing with Rehman.. The four of them sat together beneath the cold fountain sky, eating from shared plates while the younger boys argued over football and spice levels. But once, across the shared tray and firelight, their eyes met and in that brief, silent look, he told her everything he had not said aloud.
Main tumhare saath hoon.
1991, Next Morning, BUF Camp, Balochistan
Morning in the mountains arrived without softness, with the cold coming first, sharp, clean, and merciless, slipping through stone walls and under doors as though the night itself had unfinished business. Ulfat had been awake long before dawn, sleep had barely caught onto her, the events of what transpired yesterday and Rehman’s infallible support invading her thoughts and sleep.
By the time Rayan stirred awake in the adjoining room, she was already dressed, seated by the small window with a cup of tea gone cold in her hand. He squinted at her, “Aap soyi hi nahi?”
“Tum uth gaye ho. Yeh zyada shocking baat hai.” He grinned and flopped back dramatically, “Aaj kya hoga?”
“Bakwas hogi,” she replied, “Phir mardon ko samjhaya jayega ke duniya unke baap ki jaagir nahi.”
“Main bhi chalun?” She gave him a suspicious look. “Main chup rahunga.” She gave him another look. “Theek hai,” he sighed. “Thoda bolunga.”
Across the compound, Rehman’s morning had been worse. He had slept for perhaps an hour before Uzair had entered his room without permission, carrying two shawls, some stale bread, and unnecessary energy.
“Bhai.” No response. “Bhai.” Rehman threw a pillow at him without opening his eyes, which Uzair caught easily, “Aaj bohot bara din hai.”
“Tumhare liye har din azaab hai.”
Uzair sat at the foot of the bed, “Kal raat ridge pe kya ho raha tha?” Silence. “Main door se dekh raha tha. Aap dono kaafi filmi ho rahe the”,he giggled.
Rehman sat up slowly, “Ek din,” he said, voice dangerously calm, “main tumhe khud gaadunga.” Uzair brightened, “Par pehle tajposhi dekh loon?”
1991, Same Morning, BUF Camp, Balochistan
The four of them entered the Baloch camp where the leaders were already seated, the atmosphere far quieter than the day before. Rehman took his place beside Ulfat, close enough that his shoulder rested lightly against hers, a small gesture that announced his unflinching support wordlessly. His face was set, dark eyes hardened as they swept across the men before them. Ulfat, on the other hand, appeared only mildly interested. Partly because she already had a fair idea of what was about to unfold—ugh, men were so painfully predictable and partly because she had discovered something far more entertaining. A young woman standing diagonally across the courtyard was staring at Rehman with the sort of hunger that suggested she might devour him where he sat if given half the chance. Hmm. Yeh dilchasp hai. A private smirk tugged at Ulfat’s mouth as she made a mental note to ask him about that later.
Rehman’s voice cut through the room, calm but carrying weight to silence every stray thought within it, “Toh? Kya tum log apne faislay par pohanch gaye ho?” As he spoke, his hand shifted slightly beside him, hovering near Ulfat’s on the floor between them, instinctively trying to ease the tension gathered in the hall.
One of the Baloch elders nodded and rose to his feet, the same man who had mocked her the previous day. He stepped forward with far less arrogance than he had worn yesterday, then bowed his head slightly before speaking, “Malika-e-Jahan, sab se pehle mujhe apne bewakoofana alfaaz par maafi maangne dijiye. Jo kuch maine kaha, woh na-pukhta tha, ghair munasib tha, aur aap jaisi malika ke liye tauheen tha. Rehman ne humein bataya ke aap ne hamare maqsad ke liye kitni madad di—raaste, asla, log, khabarain. Hum us ke liye dil se shukarguzar hain. Aur apni tang nazri par nadim bhi. Aap ki quwwat, aap ki salahiyat, aap ki himmat… be-misaal hai.
Aap waqai wohi hain jo aap nazar aati hain. Aaj mujhe fakhr hai ke is mulk mein agar koi aisi aurat paida hui hai, toh woh Balochistan ki saathi ban kar humare saamne khari hai. Aap ko dekh kar meri azaadi ki tamanna aur mazboot hui hai, kyun ke main sochta rehta hoon ke jab hum azad honge, toh hamari auratein kitni taaqatwar hongi. Is liye aaj main sirf apni sarzameen ke liye nahi, balki us mustaqbil ke liye bhi aap ka shukriya ada karta hoon jo aap ne humein dikhaya hai.”
Silence completely engulfed the room. Ulfat sat still, holding her breath without realizing it. Rehman turned his face slightly toward her, waiting for a reaction only he seemed to care about. Then, slowly, a small smile touched her lips, raising with quiet grace, she spoke, “Mujhe khushi hai ke aap ne apni ghalati samjhi, Sardar. Main sirf is maqsad ka ek hissa hoon. Azaadi ki jung mein hum mard aur aurat mein farq nahi karte. Hum barabar hain… aur wahi hamari asal quwwat hai.” Rehman was smiling like an absolute idiot now, with no intention of hiding it. Uzair looked moments away from bursting with excitement, while beside him, Rayan had to be physically restrained from letting out a triumphant whistle.
Then the Baloch leader lowered himself onto one knee; in his hands rested a ceremonial rifle, its polished frame engraved with the title of Sher-e-Baloch. A stunned hush fell across the room; even Rehman sat there with bated breath, waiting for an explanation. Lifting his gaze to hers, the leader spoke with grave sincerity. “Jab main sadiyon purani riwayat ko torne ka irada kar chuka hoon, toh ijazat dijiye ke ek aur zanjeer bhi tod doon. Aaj main aap ke huzoor darkhwast karta hoon ke yeh laqab Rehman ke saath aap bhi qubool farmaiye.”
For a moment the world seemed to tilt beneath her feet, tears gathered in Ulfat’s eyes before pride could stop them, and almost unconsciously her hand reached for Rehman’s, seeking the steadiness that had suddenly been pulled from under her. She looked at the rifle, then at the kneeling elder, and finally back at the man beside her, “Main yeh kaise le sakti hoon? Yeh unka haq hai.” The elder bowed his head slightly, his voice firm, “Nahi, Malika. Aap is ki utni hi haqdaar hain aur mumkin hai inse bhi zyada. Tum do afrad zaroor ho, magar is maqsad mein ek ho. Aur jo laqab ek ko zeba deta hai, woh dono par sajta hai.” Her breath faltered as emotions tightened in her chest, “Rehman…” she whispered, turning toward him, desperately searching his eyes for answers, affirmation, anything for she was truly lost in the vast desert of confusing jubilation. Rehman met her gaze with tenderness, his eyes screamed of pride, of joy, and yet there was a flicker of soft love momentarily, vanishing before she could notice it again.
Without releasing her hand, he raised it slowly and touched it to his forehead in quiet reverence. “Malika-e-Jahan,” he said, his voice low and unwavering, “mere liye is se bada sharaf tasawwur se bahar hai ke main aap ko apne saath sarbuland dekhoon. Agar aap yeh izzat qubool kar lein, toh yeh laqab mere liye waqai qeemati ho jayega.”
Ulfat swallowed hard, a slow, disbelieving smile spread across her face. With hands that were steadier than she felt, she reached forward and gratefully accepted the ceremonial rifle engraved with the title. The moment her fingers closed around it, the hall erupted into thunderous cheers. Uzair and Rayan were among the loudest, shouting with enough enthusiasm to shame seasoned warriors, while Rehman stood beside her and a cheshire smile graced his beautiful features.
Then the ceremony gave way to celebration as tasheer began, the traditional ceremonial dance unfolding through the courtyard as men stepped forward in sweeping circles, their movements precise, rhythmic, and steeped in generations of pride.
Much to Ulfat’s immediate distress, Rehman joined them without a second’s hesitation, dressed in a dark pathani suit and black shades that caught the morning sun. He moved with effortless confidence, laughing openly as he swayed with the dancers and followed each step with surprising grace. It was the first time she had seen him so completely unguarded, stripped of strategy and restraint, simply alive in the moment. He was celebrating her, he was celebrating them, and looking devastatingly handsome while doing it. A furious blush crept across her cheeks as she watched him, and she had to physically restrain herself from doing something deeply inappropriate in front of an entire rebel council.
A little while later, when the dance drew to a close, Shirani stepped forward carrying two ceremonial turbans. He placed the first upon Ulfat’s head, then the second upon Rehman’s, before presenting Rehman with his own engraved rifle. Together they lifted the weapons and touched each end respectfully to their foreheads, Ulfat stealing quick glances at Rehman’s movements so she could mirror the ritual correctly, which earned from him the smallest, fondest smile.
Shirani stepped forward once more, this time carrying a small baby goat in his arms; a ceremonial offering for the newly honoured Sher-e-Baloch. Ulfat let out an involuntary squeak of surprise as the little creature was placed into her arms, its tiny legs squirming in protest before finally settling against her. The entire hall watched in amusement as the feared Malika-e-Jahan immediately softened, smiling as she stroked the kid’s impossibly soft fur. Before she could say anything, Rehman frowned dramatically, “Mera bakra kahan hai?”
Shirani replied dryly, “Uske saath share kar lo. Do logon ki tajposhi ka intezam nahi tha.” He paused, then added with suspicious innocence, “Aakhir baqi zindagi bhi toh saath bitani hai… mera matlab, peshawarana taur par” smiling mischievously, “toh aadat daal lo”.
As the laughter slowly died down, Ulfat looked at the baby goat in her arms and then, with visible reluctance, turned toward Rehman. Since Shirani had so generously declared that they were to share it, there was apparently no escaping the arrangement. She moved to hand the little creature over, but the goat wriggled at the worst possible moment, forcing both of them to steady it together. Her fingers slid against his hand, warm and certain beneath hers, and for one suspended second, neither of them moved. Their eyes met over the bewildered animal caught between them, the noise of the courtyard fading into distant voices, the kid gave an indignant bleat, but neither seemed to notice.
Uzair, however, noticed everything. With the instincts of a menace blessed by God, he snatched up the camera and captured the moment instantly. From somewhere behind him, Rayan’s delighted voice rang out across the courtyard. “Wah! pre-wedding shoot bhi ho gaya!” bringing them out of their spell, Ulfat withdrew her hand as though burned, while Rehman muttered something deeply unholy under his breath.
1991, Quarters of Sher-e-Baloch, BUF Camp, Balochistan
After the ceremony had successfully concluded, Ulfat and Rehman retreated to their quarters. The night was young and Rehman was in high spirits, Ulfat on the other hand was glad that she had shown those men their place, solidified her standing for the cause and made sure that Rayan had a good time, the title was just an added incentive, she convinced herself, ignoring the onslaught of emotions she felt at the time of actually receiving it and the butterflies she got in her stomach over the intimacy she experienced at receiving it with Rehman. Fuck she had to get laid. Did Balochistan have some fine shyt dudes? Yeah great going Ulfat. She needed to clear her mind from these horny thoughts which had decided to appear outta nowhere, so she stepped out to smoke a drag and collided into Rehman who she realized now was heading towards her room with a bottle of 1000 pipers and two paper cups.
“I have to admit you have good taste”, Ulfat remarked, eyeing the bottle of classic whiskey.
“Sher-e-Baloch jashn manaye?, Rehman asked, with a hopeful smile tugged at his face. The two days were stressful enough for him if not more for her, it was only wise that they toast something to themselves for enduring and coming out unscathed with the rebel leaders.
“Chaliye fir Sher-e-Baloch”, she smirked at the two paper cups from his hand and headed towards her room. It had been a long two days, with tensions rising high, declarations being made and the coronation to top it all, Ulfat honestly had been running on adrenaline until this moment, realizing how wound up she was, she thought why not loosen up just for the night.
Hours passed, the cups kept getting refilled, the conversations getting longer and freeflowing, they talked about everything from gang politics, to younger siblings, Ulfat noticing how Rehman’s face softened when he talked about Uzair, in a tone of a tired elder sibling but with deep love he carried for the khamba, their conversations dwelled into what their futures held for them, the fickle nature of life in their profession, about marriage, kids but the highlight of the conversation were their exes. Ulfat, feeling the buzz of the alcohol running through her veins felt confident enough to ask him his dating history, after all she did not forget the predatory eyes of that one Baloch woman during the ceremony, set on him continuously since they arrived.
“Toh… aap ki koi purani mohabbatein rahi hain? Ya aap ke peshay mein sirf chhote mote chakkar hi zyada munasib samjhe jaate hain?” Ulfat asked with a sly grin, clearly enjoying herself.
Rehman gave her an incredulous look, “Mere peshay mein? Khayal rahe, yahi peshah aap ka bhi hai. Aur nahi, na mere paas flings ka waqt hai, na relationships ka.”
Ulfat’s brows wiggled suspiciously, “Jhoot. Aap jaise mard ko kahin na kahin apni frustrations nikalne ka zariya toh chahiye hota hoga. Aur yeh mat samajhiye ke maine us surkh aur siyah libaas wali aurat ko nahi dekha jo aap ko aankhon se kha ja rahi thi, you had a thing with her didn’t you ?”
Rehman’s eyes widened before narrowing almost instantly. “Aap jaise mard se kya muraad hai?”
She scoffed lightly. “Rehman, main aurat hoon, aur baghair jhijhak ke keh sakti hoon ke aap ek khubsurat mard hain. Yeh baat manna mushkil hai ke aap ka kabhi kisi ke saath kuch nahi raha.” Maybe the alcohol was really unravelling her.
That got him flushed at once, the colour creeping slowly from his neck upward, “Uh… aap ko lagta hai main khubsurat hoon?”
Ulfat rolled her eyes. “Khud ko itni ahmiyat mat dijiye. Main sirf ek objective observation kar rahi hoon, aurat ki nazar se. Aur aap ab bhi mere sawaal se bach rahe hain.”
Rehman conceded, “Yes I did have a fling with her, but it was just a one time thing, I had made it clear to her’
Ulfat smiled triumphantly, ““Haa! Mujhe pata tha. Aur pakka yaqeen hai ke yahan kahin chhote chhote Balochi daud nahi rahe?”
All colour drained from his face, “Kya?! Aap pagal ho gayi hain? Aur haan, mujhe poora yaqeen hai, pausing for a bit, “I was very serious about protection.”
Impressed by his answer but still not convinced, “Farz karein ke hota… toh phir?”
Rehman’s expression softened at once, a smile, rare and unguarded, touched his face. “Phir main usse mohabbat karta, kyun ke woh mera bachcha hota.”
Perhaps the alcohol had loosened something in her, because before she could stop herself, she said softly, “Aap ek din bohat ache baap banenge, Rehman.”
He looked at her as if unsure he had heard correctly, “Aap waqai aisa samajhti hain? I am hardly the role model for a paternal figure.”
Ulfat shook her head, “Haan, aap ke tareeqe aur akhlaqiyat yaqeenan bachon ke liye ideal nahi… magar main dekhti hoon aap Uzair ke saath kaise hain, Rayan ke saath kaise hain. Woh aap ki zimmedari bhi nahi, phir bhi aap ne us ke saath aisa rishta bana liya hai. Main ne kabhi aap ka shukriya ada nahi kiya ke aap ne use us ke gham se bahar nikala. Abbu ke inteqal ke baad woh bohat toot gaya tha… aur ab woh phir se apna purana khud ban gaya hai. Is mein aap ka hissa hai.”
Rehman smiled faintly, lowering his gaze, “Aap ko shukriya ada karne ki zaroorat nahi. Woh bohat acha bachcha hai… aur saari manipulation us ne apni badi behen se seekhi hai. Main bas bach nahi saka.” He let out a soft laugh before continuing, “Kuch andaaz mein woh mujhe Uzair ki yaad dilata hai. Woh bhi bachpan mein bilkul aisa hi tha. Bachche bohat jaldi bade ho jaate hain na? One day I was giving Uzair forehead kisses and cuddles and the next thing I know he has shot up to 6 feet and all I could do was ruffle his hair. I just wish I had more time with him, I was so busy building an empire, to the world I was a gunda but to him I am just Rehman bhai, don’t miss these years with Rayan, you will look back on them very fondly.” His toned turned more melancholic, he met her gaze,“Kabhi kabhi lagta hai us ke saath aur waqt guzarna chahiye tha. Main itna masroof tha apni saltanat khari karne mein. Duniya ke liye main gunda tha… magar us ke liye sirf Rehman Bhai. Rayan ke saath yeh saal zaya mat kijiye. Ek din aap inhi lamhon ko sab se zyada yaad kareingi.”
“Wah… toh aap waqai ek cinnamon roll nikle,” Ulfat said after a long breath, still absorbing the warmth hidden inside everything he had just confessed. God, he was good.
Rehman frowned at once, “Yeh kya hota hai?”
She mumbled softly, leaning closer. “Matlab bahar se thore sakht, thore khurdure… magar andar se bilkul narm dil.” As she spoke, she reached out and gently tugged at his cheek, her eyes glowing with mischief and warmth.
Rehman rolled his eyes, pretending not to blush, “Whatever floats your boat woman.”
He leaned back into the sofa, taking a slow sip of his whiskey before turning the conversation toward her, “Ab aap batayiye. Aap ke peeche toh rishton ki poori line lagi hogi.”
Ulfat let out a dry laugh, “Aam ghalat fehmi hai bas. Logon ko gangs chalati auratein pasand nahi aatein. Bohat ghair riwayati cheez hai na.” She swirled her glass idly before continuing, “Unhein aisi aurat chahiye hoti hai jo dheemi ho, jhuk jaye, un ke hukm maane… aur aakhir mein bachche paida karne ki machine ban kar reh jaye. Main unhein har pehlu se mayoos kar deti hoon.”
Rehman stayed silent, his eyes darkening, “Ulfat… aap sirf chahi jaane ke liye paida nahi hui.” He held her gaze without wavering, “Aap toh ibadat ke qabil hain. Yeh mard kamzor hain. Bewaqoof hain. Jo mard aap ki qeemat samajh le, woh yeh bhi samajh lega ke aap jaisi shareek us ki zindagi ki sab se badi ne’mat hogi. Aur phir woh kabhi jhukne mein dair nahi karega.”
Those were the very words her father had spoken to her on his deathbed, only dressed in another man’s voice.
Fuck.
It had not been enough that the man sitting before her was intelligent, dangerously competent, infuriatingly dependable, and offensively attractive. Now he had also become the only man who seemed to understand the kind of love she had always deserved.
Ya Allah, she thought bitterly, staring into her drink. Aap mujhe aazma kyun rahe hain?
Ulfat, observing his handsome face, muttered quietly, “Aap ache aadmi hain, Rehman… ek din kisi aurat ko bohat khush rakhenge.”
Rehman’s heart lurched, yearned, screamed. Ek din?
Main toh sirf aap ko khush rakhna chahta hoon, meri Sherni Baloch.
Silence occupied the room for a few seconds, they slowly sipped the remnants of their whiskey. She did not have the sass for a comeback, and he did not have the confidence to pursue anything further.
Then Rehman rose abruptly, smoothing the creases of his kurta, “bahar chaliye.”
She looked up at him, puzzled, “ab? itni raat ko? kahan le ja rahe hain mujhe?”
He clicked his tongue impatiently, “khuda ke liye, aap bohot sawaal karti hain, bas chaliye mere saath.”
Ulfat stood, slightly unsteady, and narrowed her eyes at him,“dekhiye, agar koi shararat ki na… toh phir samajh jayenge ke log mujhe shaadi ke qabil kyun nahi samajhte.”
1991, Horse Stables, BUF Camp, Balochistan
Rehman led them to a small stable at the end of their quarters, the cool of the night raising goosebumps on her skin, sending a shiver through her body. Rehman entered the stable and approached a majestic creature, he was pitch black, his coat shining and neighing softly as the fearsome gangster petted him softly his nose, giving him kisses and uttering words of endearment.
Bending close, he whispered, “Sheru, aaj mehmaan aayi hain, zara madad karna, dost. aaj humein izzat rakhni hai.”
Then he turned and offered her his hand, “Ulfat, aaj main aapko asli Balochistan dikhana chahta hoon. Aur uska husn ghore ki sawaari se behtar kahin mehsoos nahi hota. Aaiye.”
She hesitated at once, for all she had learned in life, horse riding had never been one of those things, “Rehman… mujhe ghora chalana nahi aata.”
A calm smile spread across his face,“Toh masla hi kya hai? Aaj mere saath seekh lijiye.”
A furious blush crept through her neck, at the thought to riding with him, but what the hell, it was only one night, they would be back to Lyari tomorrow morning, back to their assigned roles, today they could be just them for once
She placed her hand in his, and he guided her toward Sheru. In a softer voice, he said, “Pehle inse salaam kar lijiye… aur zara pyaar se haath pheriye. Pasand karega aapko.”
Trying not to smile, Ulfat reached forward and stroked the horse’s mane. “Assalamualaikum, Sheru. Aapse mil kar bohot khushi hui.”
A low laugh escaped Rehman, “Aap ghore se bhi itni tehzeeb se milti hain?” He held her hand, supporting her, as she placed her foot in the stirrup, slowly lowering her leg on the other side before settling down. Rehman led them outside the stable and halted.
“Aap aaram se baithi hai?”, he asked.
“Ji”
He then asked her to hold tight, before he mounted himself on Sheru. Fuck. Their bodies were molded against each other, his chest against her back, his arms around her, holding the reins, his soft breaths against her neck….
This was a bad idea.
Rehman on the other hand wasn’t holding up too well, her soft curves settling against his hard planes, as if a puzzle was solved perfectly, his legs bracketing her thighs and his arms around her in a protective stance, guiding her, whispering into her ears, about the basics of horse riding. He tried to leave a respectable distance between the two of them, almost falling off Sheru.
1991, Outskirts of Quetta, Balochistan
He handed the reins to Ulfat, sliding his hands on hers, trying to guide her, he whispered, “mazboot pakriye… lekin narmi se.”
Ulfat’s entire soul was brimming with desire, the second he closed his hands over her, the warmth emitting from his hot body merging into her cold one, sending a fresh wave of aching need, making her breathing heavy. With immense conviction she gave the reins a light tug and Sheru carried on, trotting across the plains of Balochistan.
“Bohot khoob,” Rehman said, “aap bohot jaldi seekh rahi hain”, Rehman spoke proudly, still not removing his gaze from hers. She had the same concentrated expression he had seen a million times and had come to fall for.
As they arrived near a lake, Rehman gestured to Ulfat to stop, his hands guiding her to pull the reins, “Ab halka sa rokiye… haan, bas aise. Aur uski gardan par haath pheriye. ”, prompting Ulfat to pull the reins and pat Sheru steadily as the horse slowly came to halt, “Yeah just like that, good girl.”
The praise got her so wet, she was actively squirming in his arms, her nervous system going into overdrive, her body now overstimulated by the feel of his strong muscles surrounding her, his slow breaths near her neck igniting a slow fire in her belly. Perhaps it was the Dutch courage from the liquor that encouraged her to take riding lessons from a man she wanted to ride.
“Woh dekho Ulfat, yeh hai Balochistan”, he pointed towards the vast greenery surrounded by a beautiful lake with the moon simmering in its reflection giving it a divine touch.
Ulfat was momentarily stilled by the beauty before her. Though the land had always been hers in name, she had never wandered deep enough to witness the hidden corners Rehman had brought her to now. The valley stretched wide beneath them, washed in gold, the wind carrying the scent of wild earth and distance. For the first time in a long while, she felt no weight on her shoulders, only he weight of the sight bestowed in front of her laid gently on her, “Kitna khubsoorat hai, Rehman… pata nahi itne arsay yeh mujh se chhupa kaise raha,” she said softly, her voice touched with quiet awe.
“Wohi toh main kahun,” Rehman replied, though his gaze was nowhere near the view before them, “Itna khubsoorat manzar meri nazar se kaise nikal gaya.”
He was looking at her.
His eyes had softened, worshipping the sight as he watched the woman beside him bask in a rare moment of peace. This was not Malika-e-Jahan, the feared gangster, the ruthless leader who commanded men twice her age, his sharp-tongued partner who challenged him at every turn. This was simply Ulfat, just a woman who had been thrust too early into a world that had stolen softness from her long before its time. Today, however, some of that softness had returned. Her hair moved gently in the breeze, loose strands brushing against his face whenever the wind shifted, carrying with them the faint fragrance of her shampoo and driving him quietly mad with want. He wanted, absurdly and intensely, to bury himself in that scent and remain there.
This was Ulfat, whose soft hands felt too precious to pick up a gun, this was Ulfat, who’s curves he wanted to feel and worship…..this was Ulfat, just an insanely beautiful woman standing beside him shoulder to shoulder, exuding power.
“Mujhe thand lag rahi hai Rehman, hum waapis chale?” After a while, the chilly winds of Balochistan were seeping into her skin like icy shills, the heat emanating from Rehman’s body did little to warm her down. Rehman hummed in agreement and without a word, Rehman removed the shawl from his own shoulders, opened it wide, and wrapped it around her. But instead of stepping back, he drew the fabric further, enclosing them both within the same shelter of warmth, moving closer to her, as he took the reins from her hands and turned around to head for the stable.
1991, Horse Stables, BUF Camp, Balochistan
s Sheru trotted inside the stable in the early hours of morning, Rehman’s hands had slid onto her waist, holding her steady as sleep was threatening to overtake Ulfat, her head leaning back on his shoulder.
“Ulfat hum aagaye”, he whispered softly in her ear, taking her windflown hair behind her ear.
“Hmm”, she murmured, “utarne ka bikul mann nhi hai”.
A low laugh escaped him, muted by the whiskey still humming through his veins. Sobriety would have told him to stay quiet, to keep the careful distance he had maintained for months. But sobriety was nowhere to be found tonight, “Tum bohot thak gayi hogi meri jaan, ab tumhe aaram krna chahiye”, he chuckled
Ulfat may be drunk but the term of endearment did not go unnoticed by her, “Meri jaan?” she repeated, voice touched with sleepy amusement. “Main kab se aapki jaan ban gayi?”
Rehman was frozen, he did not expect her to catch that, it had rolled off almost naturally, but the whiskey had loosened truths he usually kept chained. When he finally spoke, his voice, low, and stripped of all pretense. “Us din se… jab Cheel Chowk mein dupatte ke peeche se aap ne mujhe dekha tha.”
Months of restrained longing, of circling one another through sharp words and dangerous smiles, of conversations layered with meanings neither dared name aloud, of admiration growing quietly into something far more perilous, of protectiveness taking root, everything that had simmered between them burst into life at once. Since yesterday, the distance between them had been crumbling; today, being crowned side by side had shattered what little remained. In this moment she wanted nothing more than to surrender to it. He had become her anchor in a world built on chaos, and yet somehow, in the same breath, he offered to drown her in the sweetest kind of ruin.
She felt his soft breaths against her corded shoulders, his lips placing ghostly kisses on her neck“, Rehman…..”, Ulfat’s voice trembled, her chest rose and fell too quickly, her eyes slipping shut as sensation made the world tilt around her.
“Tell me to stop and I will”, he said huskily. His hands slowly, went up to her shoulder, brushing off her wild hair to the side, he kissed the soft, milky skin of her neck experimentally, her breath hitched, holding back, anticipating, and then she felt a wet kisses being showered down her neck and shoulders, each kiss carrying immense weight. “Mat ruko”, she moaned lowly, and Rehman lost control, he inhaled her jasmine scent, planting hard passionate kisses along the long of her neck, licking along the shoulders, creating a vacuum with his lips and leaving soft angry pink bites along her neck, his tongue softly swirling the skin where he bit, his hands circled her abdomen. Ulfat was paralyzed in pleasure, her breath now coming out in pants, instinctively tilting her neck on the side, giving him more space to shower his kisses, his hands now reaching to the underside of her breast, palms brushing over her breasts every so lightly.
The combined sensation of his kisses, with her journey his hands were making, got her grinding slowly on the saddle, “Rehh—-Rehmannnn”, she breathed, turning, her eyes glistening, lips parted, her hands moved to the nape of his head, fingers brushing his soft hairs, as she pulled his head forward, their lips meeting for a soft kiss. It was unhurried, and slow, tasting the expensive whiskey on each other’s lips, they continued, lips moving in tandem, Rehman angled his head to go deeper, his hands resting on her jaw, as his tongue traced the seam of her lips, Ulfat moaned and opened her mouth, their tongues invading, fighting a fierce duel, deepening the kiss, consuming each other’s souls. The shawl around them had slipped, but they were lost in each other, their mouths eating up the other finally parting as the air around them became too scarce to breathe.
Ulfat’s hands were still tangled in Sheru’s reins when, in the fever of the moment, she tugged far too sharply. The poor horse let out a loud, offended neigh, reared dramatically onto his hind legs, and in the very next instant chaos followed. Rehman lost his balance first, toppling backward straight into a towering stack of hay, and a heartbeat later Ulfat came crashing down after him, directly into his arms. Sheru neighed again with unmistakable judgement, as though thoroughly disapproving of whatever scandalous behavior had been taking place on his back, then turned and trotted off toward his shed with wounded dignity.
Catching their breath, Rehman and Ulfat, looked at each other, trying understand what had just happened and a giggled escaped from Ulfat, her pearly laugh, unrestrained echoed across the stable, as she rose up, now straddling him, trying to muffle her laughter. Rehman pushed up on his palms, admiring her, noticing how her laughter reached her eyes. This was the first time he had seen her be happy authentically, bringing out the biggest lopsided smile of him. His hands went to her hips, steadying her, one hand reaching to her hair, putting it behind. Her laughter softened, eyes crinkling, now bending, her hair fanning around them like a curtain, their breaths intermingling,“Ulfat…..fuck you’re driving me crazy”, he whispered, her name roughened by want and disbelief. His hands bunched into her tresses, rasing his head for a deep kiss, plunging his tongue into her, his hands setting on her waist, she gyrated her hips, evoking a loud groan from Rehman, he lifted his hips, seeking friction, his cock desperate to burst from its clothed prison.
“Ahhh Rehman…”, Ulfat cried, her head thrown back, she was swirling with need, she had never felt her wetness gush through with as much speed as it just did, her hips were moving at their own accord, finding momentum against his hardening cock in his soft pathani salwar.
She paused suddenly, “Ulfattttt”, Rehman whimpered, complaining at the sudden halt of their hips. She looked down, her eyes now spilling with lust, splaying her hands over his chest, making him lie against the hay. “Ulfat what are yo—”, before he could finish he watches, eyes widening in arousal, as her hands reached for the elastic drawstrings of his pathani, untying them, “Ulfat, yeh aap kya kar rahi hai”, he growls, eyes hooded, trying to hold onto his last remnants of sanity, his hands brushing off hers, his gaze desperately searching for answers in hers. Ulfat lowers her hand to his face, her fingers tracing his lips, and huskily whispers, “Down Boy”. If Rehman was not already susceptible to her dominating vibe, the mighty Sher-e-Baloch completely gave into her, sucking her fingers, his gaze not losing hers, his pathani now loose, dragged down to his thighs, observing as she unbuttoned her jeans, his pupils dilating at the sight of the wet patch over her panties touching his clothed erection.
Ulfat clicked her tongue, swiveled her hips, rolling in small circles. She planted her hands on his stomach for leverage as she moved, grinning as she felt his hips press up into hers, his lips parting once more, “Ulfat…..”, Rehman throws his head back, feeling her pantyclad pussy, wet and dripping, grinding against his hard clothed cock.
"Acha lagra hai ?” She cooed, lifting one hand to pull his hand from his eyes. His eyes met hers, and he whimpered softly. She grinned, continuing her ministrations. “Cmon, jaan, move yourself…”
Rehman hesitated, biting his lip as he looked up at her. But the more she moved so agonizingly slow, the more he wanted to go just a little bit faster. Just a little bit rougher. He grabbed her hips, fingers digging slightly into her soft flesh. And with this leverage, he began to thrust on his own, grinding his hips right into hers. He quietly moaned from the warmth, his cock twitching happily as he ground right into her core. She hummed, clearly enjoying this. She ran her hands up and down his torso feeling his abs and sculpted chest through this pathani kurta.
“Good boy…” she praised, and he seemed to get a little more needy with that. A little patch of his boxers began to grow damp with his precum. Ulfat was lost in pleasure, her hips guiding her movements and her eyes rolled back particularly when the tip of Rehman’s cock caught onto her clit with one of the thrusts he made with his hips.
“Ulfat,” Rehman whined, hips shaking a little bit as he bucked against her through their clothes. His hands moved up under her kurti, over her torso, feeling the softness of her tummy as he approached her breasts. When he paused, Ulfat simply grabbed his hands and made him cup her chest, “chuo mujhe”, she said, breathless.
Rehman was so enamored that he barely hesitated when he moved her kurti out of the way, pushing it above her breasts to reveal her lace clad breasts. A stifled groan escaped Rehman at the sight of her brownish-pink nipples threatening to escape her bra. His lips immediately ascended on her nipples, biting them through the lace, placing hard kisses along the valley of her breasts, “ahhhhh Rehh,”, Ulfat gasped, her fingers brushing through his hair, tugging them hard, as continued to his soft assault of kisses along her collarbone, his hands gingerly resting against her back, unhooking her bra, and Rehman was met with the sight that made him rub his cock frantically, again, rising, latching on to her nipples without any clothing constraints, ramming uncontrollably into her, his moans muffled.
Ulfat was dangerously close to her orgasm, she felt the coil in her stomach unwinding, threatening to snap, her movements increased, pacing faster, as she slid her pussy against his cock, her fingers slipping inside, rubbing her clit. Rehman noticed her getting close, grounded harder, thrusting faster, “Rehman mai aur nhi ruk sakti”, Ulfat whispered hoarsely.
Suddenly, Rehman flipped them over. He went lower until his lips faced her pussy, his fingers curled around her panties, eyes gazing into her, silently seeking her permission, “Pleasee”, she begged, her hands tightly clutching the hay. He tugged off her panties, and almost came at the whiff of the sweet nectar emanating from her core, he experimentally inserted his digits in her, her juices covering them instantaneously, Ulfat cried at the sudden intrusion, her back arching into the hay, pussy clamping around his fingers like a vice, grinding against them for relief, “Sabr karo meri jaan”, he murmured, retracting his fingers, moaning as he tasted her on his fingers.
He descended, placing soft kisses around her core, inhaling the scent of her juices, before diving in, his tongue licking the strip of her glistening core, in flat strokes, sucking her clit in alternating motions, his fingers finding their way inside, scissoring through her walls and hitting her gummy spot, his thumb rubbing her clit roughly, she bunched her fingers in his hair to gain some semblance, evoking low growls from him that sent vibrations across Ulfat’s core, making her wetter by the second, pushing her to the edge, “Ya allah, Rehman I’m gonna cum, please I’m gonna—”, a loud scream escaped her, convulsing, her pussy quivering around his digits, as her juices flooded into his mouth, Rehman moaned, his hips thrusting wantonly into the hay, admiring the goddess in front of him come apart, lapping up her juices hungryly.
He raised his head from between her thighs, wiping the cum from his lips with the back of his palm, “Malika-e-Jahan I can die buried between your thighs," he groaned, "and I do have amazing taste’, he let out mischievously, playing back her words from earlier that night, he shifted closer, his own arousal beginning to send him to nirvana, he dipped his head and kissed Ulfat deeply, shoving his tongue into her, his hands multitasking, one on his boxers, trying to placate his poor cock, the other on her breasts palming and squeezing them, not getting enough of her.
Ulfat moaned breathily as she tasted the remnants of her release on his tongue, breaking off their kiss, her eyes now, a dark shade of hazel, looking into his, and then to his boxers, “take them off, yeh Sher-e-Baloch ka hukm hai", leaning closer to his ear, "that you cum”, she growled, Rehman let out a needy whine, his eyes shining with submission, shifting back on his haunches, taking off his boxers, as his cock springed out resting against his abs, angry, red, the tip overflowing with pre cum, and safe to say, he was big enough to make her pussy throb again.
He slowly started fisting it, his hand tugging it evenly, breathing getting shallower, lips parted, and eyes rolled back in pleasure and Ulfat watched, admiring the hunk of a man, lost in orgasmic haze, chasing his release. She crawled forward, kneeling, placing her hand on his, stopping his movements, his eyes flew open, questioning her. “Mujhe krne do”, she whispered, a tinge of playfulness in her voice, as she replaced his hand with hers, rubbing his sensitive tip, drawing a strangled moan from him, her tongue darted out to taste his pre cum, moaning as the salty liquid settled on her tongue. Rehman threaded his fingers through her hair, guiding her movements on his cock, thrusting slowly, her mouth trying to accommodate his girth, “yeahhh fuck baby just like that, you like sucking my cock don’t you?” Ulfat hummed around his cock, hollowing her cheeks to take his thick length, testing her gag reflex, her fingers circling her clit again, her pussy flooding with juices, clenching around her fingers, as it cried for his cock.
Rehman wildly bucked his hips into her, Ulfat choked on her spit, tears streaming from her eyes, fondling his balls, “meri jaan you never told me what a cock hungry slut you are, so wet for my cock huhh? I’m gonna fill up your pussy nice and full, you’ll be dripping of me…”, he rambled off, his orgasm approaching closer, Ulfat bobbing her head, increasing her pace, her hand fisting his remaining length which she couldn’t accommodate, “meri jaan, I’m gonna cum”, Rehman warned, his balls tightening, and Ulfat halted her moments, looking up to him, with parted lips and hooded eyes, “mere upar”, she said, a small smile tugging her lips, as she took off her kurta, her breasts heaving and heavily marked with his ministrations, and Rehman was undone at the implication, he came with a broken moan, he is cock throbbing as he fisted it furiously, spurting out thick hot load on her breasts, decorating them with his release, milking his balls dry.
The sight of him cumming, her breasts painted with cum, his neck arching in bliss, two stubborn strands of his hair resting on his sweaty forehead, was enough for to trigger her second orgasm, as she came with a soft moan, her pussy pulsating desperately, around her fingers.
“You dirty girl, cumming just from sucking my cock huh?, gonna have you on your knees all the time watching you cum shamelessly when I fuck your mouth”, Rehman growled, resting on his elbows, his hands still rubbing the softeneing cock, watching Ulfat let out a moan at his dirty praises, as she pulled out her fingers from her pussy and swiping his cum from her to taste it. ”Hmm what can I do, you taste so good Sher-e-Baloch”, she said sensually, the praise sending a fresh wave of arousal down his spine, his cock twitching again helplessly. “Aap mera jeena haram kardengi Ulfat”, he chuckled, watching her feisty smile, yeah she was an elite ragebaiter, his mind supplied.
He pulled her in for a soft kiss, he wanted so much more but he controlled himself at this moment for it was late at night, in fact well past night and they were drunk, he didn’t want to do anything which they would both end up regretting in the morning. Breaking apart, he pulled up his boxers, taking off his kurta, softly wiped off the remaining cum on her with it, with Ulfat watching him carefully, pulling him again for a deep kiss before she flopped back on the hay, the poor hay which was stacked neatly now lay in a messy pile from their activities.
Sleep threatened to overtake her, her eyes dropping, while Rehman was putting on his salwar, getting ready to head to their respective rooms, “Rehman, idhar aao”, she demanded, her voice laced with drowsiness. He looked up to her, “Ulfat yeh tum kya kar rahi hoon, tum yaha nhi so sakti”, he caught her hand, tugging her to lead her outside to her room, “oh shut up Rehman, humne poori raat guzari hai and you can’t lie beside me, what kind of gentleman are you???” she asked, rising, her brows furrowed in annoyance and that set him straight, he gulped slowly, “Aisa nhi hai Ulfat, I just thought you would like the comfort of your bed”, he managed to spit out, “Not today, and the weather is beautiful today so I don’t want to sleep cooped up in my bedroom, so get your ass up here Rehman Abdul Baloch”, tugging his hand violently as he fell beside her, his body mushed against hers, their gazes softening, “jaisa aapka hukum malika-e-jahan”, he exhaled with a smile.
1991, Next Morning, Horse Stables, BUF Camp, Balochistan
Dawn crept into the stable like a silent predator, pale light slipping through the wooden slats and stirring Ulfat from sleep. She woke with a start, her mind still thick with the haze of the night before, fragments of laughter, breathless whispers, and reckless choices drifting just beyond clear memory. Disoriented, she looked around at the rough beams and scattered hay surrounding her, only to grow more bewildered. Then her gaze dropped to herself and she froze, her kurti was gone and so was her bra. She was covered only by a length of black fabric which, after one horrified second, she recognized as Rehman’s shawl.
Very slowly, with the caution of someone expecting disaster, she turned her head and the sight beside her nearly stopped her heart. There was Rehman, shirtless, deeply asleep, sprawled against her as though he had belonged there all his life. One arm lay heavy and loose across her waist, holding her close even in sleep. His breathing was slow, steady, touched by the faintest snore, his unruly hair had fallen across his forehead, and the first streaks of dawn sharpened the line of his jaw so cruelly that he looked carved like some ancient god dragged into mortal form.
And then, with merciless clarity, the memories of the night before came rushing back, the moans, hands roaming and Rehman seated between her thighs sucking the soul of out of her and flashes of her riding him sent heat flooding to her face at the same moment dread struck her chest.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
…But he was very good.
Still. Fuck.
She could not stay here. She had already scandalized the elders of the BUF enough for one lifetime and if they found their newly crowned Sher-e-Baloch half-undressed in a barn with her, men would drop dead like flieson the spot. And then there was Rayan.
Ya Allah.
Her brother would be searching for her by now, and that little menace would never let this go for the rest of her natural life. She let out a long, suffering sigh. Then, instead of moving, she sank back against Rehman’s chest for one more stolen moment, allowing his warmth to surround her as she mentally prepared for the uphill battles awaiting her beyond the stable doors.
Fuck.
With great difficulty Ulfat finally managed to pry herself free from Rehman, who in sleep had attached himself to her like a koala. She slipped carefully from beneath his arm and began the frantic search for her missing clothes among the hay. Her kurti was discovered hanging off a saddle peg, her bra half-buried beneath a blanket, both of which she snatched up with the speed of a woman determined to erase evidence. Dressing in hurried motions, she straightened her clothes, then tried in vain to tame the wild state of her hair which was an impossible task considering the activities responsible for it.
When she turned back, Rehman was still asleep. His face had softened entirely, the hard lines of command replaced by something younger, almost boyish. A soft smile lingered on his lips as though even in sleep he was pleased with himself. Ulfat paused, an absurd tenderness rising in her chest. Oh mera chikna lichi, her traitorous mind supplied. She nearly laughed at herself. Softening despite every sensible instinct, she stepped closer and called gently, “Rehman…”
No response.
She tried again, a little louder. “Rehman.”
Nothing.
Irritation flared at once. Folding her arms, she snapped, “REHMAN!”
He jolted upright in pure alarm, “Huh?! Kis ne hamla kiya?” he barked, already reaching blindly for the gun that was nowhere near him, Ulfat stood there, fighting down a giggle. He blinked at her, hair in complete disarray, eyes wide with sleep and confusion. Now more awake, she said with pointed calm, “Rehman, mujhe jaana hoga. Is se pehle ke yeh sab kisi azeem scandal mein tabdeel ho.” Recognition dawned across his face and then a slow, lazy smirk appeared, still half asleep, voice rough with morning, he replied, “Haan… jaana toh chahiye, meri jaan.”
“Theek hai.”
“Theek hai.”
And then, awkwardness flared as she stood there uncertainly, suddenly unsure how to end this conversation without recalling every indecent detail of the night before and he seemed equally unwilling to let her go. Then his gaze lifted to hers, “Ulfat… idhar aao.”
His voice, deepened by sleep, sent a shiver clean through her body. Before sense could intervene, she found herself stepping closer. Rehman reached up, cupped her face in both hands, and drew her down into a soft, lingering kiss, pulling back, and looking into her eyes memorizing her precious emeralds.
“Good morning, meri jaan.”
“Good morning… Reh,”, she whispered, blushing like a schoolgirl, the pretense dropping, with nickname slipping out instinctively, making a deeply pleased expression settle on Rehman’s face
And then reality returned with a vengeance, with movements outside the stable and Ulfat sprang back as if burned. “Fuck. Rehman, mujhe jaana hai,” placing a quick kiss on his cheek. He nodded urgently and released her hand as she and vanished from the stable with the speed and precision of a predator escaping a trap.
Before he could say anything further, a voice rang through the stable like a summons.
“REHMAN.”
Goosebumps rose across his skin as he turned around slowly, only to be met with the sight of Shirani standing at the entrance, his gaze silently questioning everything laid out before him; Rehman’s pathani kurta strewn away carelessly, his rumpled salwar, the fallen shawl, and, most importantly, what exactly the newly crowned Sher-e-Baloch was doing shirtless on a stack of hay.
“Uhh… Shirani saab, aap itni subah?” Rehman croaked, his confidence slipping away faster than he had managed to gather it. Shirani remained perfectly calm, “Yahi waqt hota hai jab main uthta hoon, Rehman. Mujhe ghodon ko dana dena hota hai.” He paused, letting his eyes travel over the scene once more, “Jis baat par mujhe hairani hai, woh yeh hai ke tum yahan kaise pohanch gaye.”
Rehman cleared his throat. “Ji… woh… main Sheru ke saath sawari par nikla tha. Phir wapas aaya toh kaafi thak gaya tha, toh yahin so gaya. Raat bohat khoobsurat thi… aur mujhe laga apni sarzameen ke sitaron ke neeche aakhri raat guzarni chahiye” he ended sheepishly, fully aware of how ridiculous he sounded.
“Hmm. Theek hai.” Shirani replied far too calmly, “Tayyar ho jao. Nashta jald lagne wala hai, phir tum sab ne Karachi bhi toh rawana hona hai.” Rehman scrambled off the hay at once, dragging his kurta back on. “Ji, ji… theek hai.” Internally, he thanked every star in the sky that Shirani seemed willing to suspect nothing beyond what was already visible. Just as he turned to make his escape back to his quarters, Shirani placed a hand on his shoulder, making him stop in his tracks.
“Aur Rehman…” he said mildly, holding something out. “Yeh Ulfat ko wapas de dena.”
Rehman’s eyes widened in horror, like a child caught with stolen sweets. In Shirani’s hand was Ulfat’s dupatta, the older man’s eyes gleamed with mischief, a smirk tugging at his lips as he handed it over, clearly enjoying this far too much.
“Ji…” Rehman managed to squeak out, now thoroughly embarrassed by the turn of events.
Shirani’s expression softened as he said quietly, “Rehman mere sher, usse kabhi khona mat, isse behtar aurat tumhein nahi milegi… aur jise tum pooj sako, woh toh hargiz nahi.” Then his eyes swept meaningfully around the stable. “Aur Khuda ke liye… hum ne tum dono ke liye poore kamre diye thay. Tum dono ko tabele mein lotna zaroori tha?”
Rehman’s cheeks flushed crimson, closing his eyes, he rubbed the back of his head in unguarded shame, “Ji Shirani saab… agli dafa se iska khayal rakhenge.” Then he looked at him almost pleadingly. “Lekin meherbani karke kisi ko mat batayiye ga. Itna kaafi hai ke aap ne dekh liya. Agar Uzair aur Rayan ko pata chal gaya toh meri zindagi azaab bana denge.”
That finally made Shirani laugh, “Fikr mat karo, Rehman. Tumhara raaz mehfooz hai. Tumhein kya lagta hai, tum pehle mard ho jo kisi aurat se mohabbat kar baitha?” Rehman’s eyes widened again at the implication. Shirani patted his shoulder once more. “Haan, raaz rahega… bas ek shart par. Apna wada nibhana. Is se nikah karna” his eyes crinkled with amusement.
A small, lovesick smile appeared on Rehman’s face. “Ji, Shirani saab. Karunga… ek din zaroor karunga.”
With that, he took his leave, practically darting toward his quarters before Uzair could wake up and begin another round of interrogation he was wholly unprepared to survive. He tucked Ulfat’s dupatta carefully beneath his clothes, intending to return it to her later, while his mind replayed the events of the previous night in merciless detail. What future lay ahead in Karachi both terrified him and excited him.
Disclaimer : Here's a too long drabble on Uzair's relationship with his brother as asked by one of my pyaari moots @hum-suffer . This turned out to be longer and angstier than I had anticipated, but once I started writing, I just couldn't stop my thoughts from spiralling. I know you wanted something when they were both young, but this turned out a little different. Hope you still like it! Also, did I use a Sanskrit word as a title? Yes, I did, because I love it.
A/N : I'm adding the tags much later, Ik. I just want my readers not to miss this. Guys, if you have already read this, sorry for the inconvenience, hehe
The sun was beating down on the residents of Lyari, mercilessly. The day was sweltering and the dust of the foul smelling streets had covered everyone in a thin layer of scratchy refuse.
But Uzair Baloch seemed unperturbed.
His face, a mask of perfect eery calm, red splattered in a macabre tattoo on his left cheek and smeared across his forehead like a symbol of pride. His clothes were drenched in blood, his fingers stained so deep that it would probably never come out. There were bits of bone stuck in the unruly curls of his soiled hair.
He was a nightmare materialized in a demonic form.
The snivelling man being dragged by his collar at his heels, was still begging pathetically. His face was so brutally beat down that he was almost unrecognizable to most people. But anyone who has lived in Lyari for more than two months could identify him blindfolded.
Arshad Pappu whimpered in pain as Uzair dropped him carelessly when he reached the centre of the square.
"Please....please... leave me.. spa..re me. I didn't do anything!!!!", the disfigured gangster almost wailed in despair and terror.
Uzair's eyes flashed manically. Murder clear in his ice cold gaze. And for the first time his calm inanimate expression twisted in a horrifying parody of the usually jocular smiling handsome man that he was.
"Spare you?", he whispered once, brandished the butcher's blade. Almost caressing it's edge like a lover stroking his beloved's naked waist.
"Spare you!!!", Uzair shouted next, almost startling the assembling crowd jarringly. Basheer, Ismail and the boys were standing guard like sentinels, their blood soaked faces drawn tight and ghostly against the nervously teetering crowd.
He bend down and picked up his victim's collar again, forcing him to look at the ruthless fate waiting for him in Uzair's bloodshot eyes.
"Do you have any idea of what you have done???", he shook Arshad's collar violently.
A sudden hospital corridor. Hamza's tears and two bloods, dried and drying, clinging to every inch of both their skins. The struggle to keep his heart from literally exploding into pieces. The empty air in the senseless grief of the throng of strangers outside. The sirens of the police and the media channels prickling incessantly.
His brother's face messed up almost beyond recognition - they hadn't yet managed to clean the blood. The virulent tapestry of violent starbursts of bruises staring accusingly at Uzair from his limp frame. Whatever was visible of the skin unmarred by blood or any scarring and bruising had turned ashen.
The mortuary. The harsh hospital lights. The superimposed haunting ghost of his older nephew staring at him from the darkened corners of the room. Eyes so much like his father's, staring remorseful and blaming.
Rehman's hand falling limply from the steel slab they had kept him over. His oh so familiar fingers, long and loose, bereft. The ever present magnetic aura of his soul was gone. The heavy pressing weight of his person that had always felt like a protective blanket around Uzair had been rudely snatched away.
And the blizzard that had frozen him after had been merciless.
Suffocating, gagging and then wheezing in anguish, unable to let lose the scream trapped inside his throat. The pain choking him like barbed wires around his throat, his entire chest, squeezing the life out of him. Then staggering and almost falling over his older brother's dead body.
Hamza's arms stabling him somewhat, Basheer trying to lift him up from the ground where he had crumbled, finally managing to hold his weight and make his knees stop trembling under the dead weight of his broken spine.
Uzair had lifted himself up and clutched his brother's ice cold hand, hanging from the edge. He had tried pressing his own warmth into it with his face, his burning eyes, his quivering lips, but to no avail. Try as he might he couldn't will Rehman back to life.
His grief had been useless.
"Arshad Pappu...", Hamza had uttered desolate, his words a churning mantra in Uzair's ears, "they were waiting for us, Uzair. The SP and his dogs. Pappu couldn't even be bothered to show his face, that coward-"
Arshad Pappu - Finally, a direction for the tsunami of Uzair's rage and in turn his pain to follow.
First Arshad, then the SP and every last bit of that fiendish taskforce. Uzair would kill them all. He would tear their limbs off one by one and bleed them dry and then burn their husks on display for their families to see.
It had at least helped him brave through seeing his beloved sister in law, the very strength reflecting in Rehman's visage break down in front of his eyes, as she saw the hollowed out brutalized shell of the man who had once been her husband.
Ulfat hadn't exploded like they had expected, as she once had, on Naieem's death. She had seen Rehman's body, let out a single gasp, a whimper, her beautiful eyes had rolled up and she had simply fainted.
Uzair had caught her at the last moment, his broken chest splitting open a bit further on seeing the rest of whatever flickering of life was left, drain out of his sister in law's once vibrant gaze completely.
The light ever burning in her hazel orbs had gone out with a cruel flick.
For the next few days, as Ulfat lay listless and raging in the claws of a grief stricken fever, Uzair had prayed and prayed and prayed like he had never before. He had been certain at one point, seeing the doctors' helpless faces, that he would have to bury his sister in law with his brother too. He had roamed the silent halls of the house Rehman had made with his wife and his kids, like an unwanted spectre, begging any sort of reprieve from this endless chasm of darkness.
Feeding Faizal, carrying him to bed, shaking with him while they pretended to sleep, as Faizal curled up tight into his chest, trying to stop himself from bawling alongside his young nephew as he muttered tremulous, gentle but ultimately empty consolations in his soft hair.
Faizal smelled like Rehman.
The scent of petrichor and the faint whiff of rosewater - not the iron tang of rusted metal and gunpowder or that comforting fragrance of bitter tobacco and old papers.
Ulfat as usual defied all expectations and rose up, sweating, fever broken on the fifth day, eyes empty but clear. She had done all her raging, begging, bargaining and screaming in her fever driven delirium. She bundled up her crying son to herself and stared at Uzair. There was not a hint of that perennial warmth and love remaining in her eyes.
There was only a yawning darkness. Like a person forcibly returned from the grave. And a hint of newly awakened bloodlust.
"I want his head on a platter."
She had said. Calm. Unconcerned.
And Uzair knew he had lost his sister in law.
Rehman's Ulfat had died with her husband. This was just a phantom of her presence, holding on for her younger son's sake. A mother - not a person anymore.
Just a title.
Arshad's continuous snivelling brought Uzair back to the present. Back to the cloying scent of blood and the tangerine flavour of revenge sitting heavy on his leaden tongue.
"Do you have any idea what you have taken from me?", Uzair yelled again. He had to make this fool understand. He had to make someone understand.
The words had tied into unforgiving knots inside his aching chest. He has been hollowed out like a papaya skin whose insides have been scooped up completely.
"Tumne sirf mere bhai ko nhi maraa. Tumne mujhse mere rehbar ko cheen liya! Mere guroor, mere wajood, mere khuda the woh!"
The proclamation was hysteric and opened up a dam Uzair had kept locked since the past decade.
"You broke my spine! Ripped it out of me while I wasn't even looking", he shook the other man so hard one could hear his broken teeth clacking, "You! You aren't even worth licking the dust off his feet let alone touch a single hair on his head! You spineless worthless weasel! I should have killed you the moment you colluded with that jackass of a SP that day!"
Uzair snarled and threw the man right back on the ground with as much force as he could muster. Arshad didn't even get time to groan before he was being barrelled by punches.
Every punch was punctuated by Uzair's words.
"He was my big brother! My father! I worshipped the ground he walked on! You took that from me! You murdered him and half of me as well! I didnt even get to say goodbye! He died and I wasn't there! And you want me to spare you!"
Every hit was followed by a new spray of blood.
How much blood did a person have in their body anyway?
The same question had lingered in his mind, when he had seen Rehman battered for the first time that horrifying night, all those years ago.
That night which suddenly flashed in Uzair's mind - almost like a mocking taunt. Reminding him of all the ways he has failed the man he loved the most in his life and all the ways the latter has always protected him - seen and unseen.
It almost felt like a different lifetime.
-----------------
Poverty as a concept was still fairly new to Uzair. The death of his parents and Haji Laloo's men clearing off all their assets and money had left him with literally nothing except the clothes on his back and a burning need for revenge.
And an older cousin who for some reason had unilaterally decided that Uzair should come and live with him.
Now Uzair had always been a little starstruck of Rehman, who wouldn't when they saw a teenager with such a magnetic aura that even the elders deferred to him. So he had accepted the proposal easily enough.
It would only be later that Uzair would marvel how Rehman had made it sound that living with him was an option Uzair had chosen himself instead of the only option he had left if he didn't want to die on the streets from starvation and disease.
But the problem was that Rehman Dakait, the illicit bastard son of Babu Dakait was also, not as well off as he would have liked to be. And taking in another mouth to feed seemed rather irresponsible of the seventeen year old. He had also spent two years in prison for killing his own mother. And Uzair was half certain, Rehman worked in a gang.
It wasn't a very healthy proposition to stay with a person like him for a ten year old.
But who even cared about orphaned, invisible, ordinary, malnourished, bones peeking, Fate's least favourite children like Uzair and Rehman.
Anyway, so Uzair was staying with his older cousin for the moment. In his mind, it was but a temporary arrangement and he would move out as soon as he could find another place to stay.
The only caveat to his brilliant plan was that for getting a separate place, he needed money and for getting money, he needed to work and his dear stubborn cousin, for some god forsaken reason, had gotten it inside his supposedly smart head, that Uzair should go to school instead.
"But how will I earn money, if I go to school and don't go to work?", Uzair had whined for the thirtieth time since the morning.
Rehman who was busy tying his shoelaces, raised an eyebrow at the petulance in his younger cousin's tone.
"How will you work without learning how to work that only happens when one does go to school?", he asked calmly.
"You haven't been to school since the past two years, I know. How are you working then?", Uzair countered smartly.
Rehman smirked, a hint of a canine and a dimple on his left cheek.
"Shut up and go to school, you witty brat. I don't need to go to school because I am older than you and you will listen to me-"
"But whyyyy---"
"Because I am older than you. Now go and be a good boy. Here's your tiffin", he stuffed the half rusted steel box inside the worn out second hand school bag and cuffed a grumbling Uzair upside his head.
Suddenly a honking sound broke the familiar sounds of their small one room flat. Rehman pointed Uzair to sit down and went outside, tugging on his patchy ash blue kurta, almost nervously.
Uzair, always ready to disobey his older brother, peeped outside from the window curiously. He saw a big black car at the front of the squalor that was the building that their rented room was in. Rehman opened the door of the car and a big burly man stepped out.
Uzair's eyes widened. He knew this man. He would recognize this man anywhere. The screams of his mother still rang in his ears at night. The way they dragged his father out - the finality of the door shutting behind them. The loud bang following it. The sneering glee on the giant's ugly face.
This was Haji Laloo.
Sudden terror gripped Uzair. What if he dragged off Rehman with him too? He couldn't let that happen. Rehman was the only person left in the world who gave a damn about him.
They were supposed to go to the docks in the evening.
Rehman had promised to finish reading his Urdu lesson with him tonight.
He can't... he can't----
Uzair was about to storm downstairs and forcibly drag his brother upstairs if possible or become a human shield in front of him when he noticed the giant gangster's hand resting on Rehman's bony shoulder.
He didn't seem to threaten him. He was leaning in a way which suggested easy familiarity. Uzair's mind churned. He knew his older cousin worked for a gang. He had seen Rehman come back home with shadows underneath his eyes and unexplained bandaged wounds on many an occasion. There would be voices of strange men at odd hours in the night from outside the building, his brother's comforting cadence being one of them.
It was all a lie then!
It was a carefully crafted plan to hold Uzair hostage!
Rehman was working for Haji Laloo.
Betrayal pierced like stinging tears in Uzair's eyes and he furiously wiped them off. He couldn't afford to be weak now. Everyone around him was a lying cheating selfish bastard. What if Rehman catches him like this and realises that his cover is blown?
Would he give Uzair up to his master to tear into shreds like a stray cad?
They were supposed to read his Urdu lesson together...
Uzair hatched a plan. Rehman had not yet returned. Dusk had broken on the horizon painting the Lyari sky into shades of vibrant purple and orange.
His father had always been fond of the saying, 'Offence is the best defence'.
Uzair would kill Haji Laloo. And then he would run away. Away from this smelly damp one room flat and the half filling meals and the tattered second hand school books and overused clothes falling apart at the seams being stitched by unperfect hands again and again.
The Urdu lesson was boring anyways.
It was much later that Uzair would realised how stupid his plan had actually been. Where would he have gone? How would he have even gotten past the first round of guards to even reach Haji Laloo, let alone kill him? He hasnt killed a fly before this, how would he kill a man?
He was caught even before he could slink in the narrow gates of Laloo's three storied mansion. The men grasping at his lean arms had the hold of a pair of mountain trolls and the figures to match their personality. Their tobacco stained foul laughter and meaty grasps pulled Uzair inside as he flailed uselessly between them.
"And what was the plan, you little Baloch snake?", Laloo leared from his throne.
"I'll kill you!", Uzair screamed.
The men just burst into raucous laughter. Humiliation was burnt into tears fighting to escape him even as the guards holding him between them, tightened their grips impossibly painfully on his impoverished biceps.
"Bring the whip. Let's have some fun!", Laloo smirked and his men cheered as what looked more like a horror story than a bullwhip appeared in one of the men's hands.
The whip was a leather monstrosity, scarred and tough, smelling of an entire tannery, one side lined with what appeared to be small metal spikes. It would tear through skin and muscle faster than any normal whip.
Uzair felt the first stirrings of fear.
They would kill him.
Maybe he would get to see his mother then and the constant hunger burning inside his stomach would finally rest.
They threw him in the middle of the cement floor and forcefully made him kneel. He was slapped mercilessly for his resistance till he finally acquiesced. Better to get it over with. He knew when he was beat. The whip cracked in the air, cutting across the jeering mirth of his demonic spectators and came down with a frightening agonizing vengeance.
It hit flesh with a sharp thud.
But no pain blossomed on his back as Uzair had expected. But the whip had hit something. There was a strange silence in the aftermath and he opened his tightly screwed eyes only to see a wall of light blue and dark hair and long arms around his small body.
Rehman grunted so faintly it was hardly audible.
Uzair tried looking upwards at his cousin's face but he was pressed too tightly against his bony chest to escape. There was a strange unforeseen desperation in Rehman's embrace. It spoke of a mute terror and a fierce edge of helplessness.
"What is the meaning of this? Rehman, get off him this instant!", Haji Laloo roared like a lion denied his prey.
"He is a child. He didn't know any better", Rehman said through gritted teeth.
"I said move. I won't ask again", Laloo growled.
"He will die...", Rehman struggled for a moment and then spoke with the effort of pulling teeth, a word Uzair and everyone present knew he despised with a wild abandon, "please."
Haji Laloo seemed to consider something. The giant stalked in front of the two boys kneeling at his feet and felt the beginning of that pleasurable hit of sadism he enjoyed so greatly.
"You said he will behave if I let you take him in. That was the only reason I didn't let my boys have a taste before I sent him to his parents--", his voice was a whisper. A malevolent hissing of a snake.
Uzair felt his body freeze. He was still enveloped in his older brother's heat, almost violently shielded from the gangster lord's sickening vision. The ten year old might not have been able to grasp the true meaning of Laloo's words but he knew it was something remarkably unpleasant by the tightening of Rehman's arms.
"He didn't know. I will tell him. Let him go. He is just.. a kid", there was a distinct note of pleading in Rehman's otherwise stoic voice now.
Uzair felt sick.
Rehman never pleaded. Never begged. He always commanded.
"I might... considering you have proven yourself to be quite useful to me. But...I had already promised my boys a show, tonight. What to do about that then, kid? Haji Laloo doesn't break his word--"
Rehman sighed deeply and Uzair understood what was about to happen before the words were even out.
"They can have me instead. I will last longer than a starving ten year old anyway‐"
"No!"
"Uzair shut the fuck up! You have done enough already!", Rehman snapped sharply and Uzair couldn't help the shame flooding his body like a tidal wave.
"Good boy, I'll let your cousin watch..", Laloo said, saccharine sweet, almost magnanimously.
"But--"
"No buts boy. I can still change my mind. Now let go and let my men have their promised fun."
Rehman forcefully pushed Uzair away from himself, almost flinging him at the side as far as possible. Uzair skidded off and scrambled back till he hit the wall. There was a brilliant line of fresh dark blood blooming through the torn line on the back of Rehman's blue kurta.
The hit he had taken.
The hit meant for Uzair.
Uzair Baloch would never forget that night as long as he lived.
They had whipped Rehman till he couldn't sit up, till the blood pooling around his body had transformed into a stream, till the silent acceptance of pain had turned into small audible grunts which then had turned into whimpers and tight groans and finally screams, till Uzair's voice was hoarse from crying, till Rehman's back was a messy canvas of ribbons and rivulets of maroon and torn pieces of flesh.
At last the monster had had his fill and had carelessly thrown a stack of money on Rehman's upturned body.
"Get your back checked out. I want you first thing in the morning at the docks, tomorrow. My latest shipment is going to land there"
Then he had stared lasciviously at Uzair's sobbing form and licked his lips. As if he could taste his fear, his guilt, his pain from the very air itself.
"And remember little Baloch. The next time you try something foolish, I will pluck your brother's eyes out and feed it to you before I tear your stomach open and rip them out again."
Uzair had just flinched violently like a coward and sat trembling till Laloo and his men had cleared off. Then he had half run and half scrambled to where Rehman laid half delirious with blood loss and pain.
"Bhai.. bhai.. wake up. Please.. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so sorry..... please I am sorry....please— ", Uzair had cried and cried and cried.
He would've done just about anything to make Rehman open his eyes at that moment. The chill of the night had seeped in through Uzair's knees on the icy stained cemented floor. He kept begging.
He would happily stay in that storeroom for the rest of his life, go to school without complaints, never ask for second helpings of the precious little tasteless rice and vegetables they managed to scourge, even do his homework on time, never grumble about his stained faded clothes, never cry for his parents in his sleep.
If only Rehman would open his eyes, get up and yell at Uzair for all the trouble he has caused him. But his cousin was blacked out from the blood loss and Uzair didn't know what to do.
It had been a kind auto driver who had found them and taken Rehman to the hospital.
Uzair had refused to go home or eat or even clean his brother's blood off his body till Rehman's eyes had finally fluttered open. His gaze was cloudy for a second, head full of cotton wool due to the anaesthesia and his back a mass of layered agony. They had kept him on his stomach on the paltry excuse of a bed in the emergency.
"Bhai..", Uzair had whispered fearfully, his little hands trying to encircle his brother's bigger one but failing.
"Uzair... did they.. do anything to you? After I.. after I.. did he touch you?"
Rehman's words were confusing, his tone fractured from screaming and dehydrated from blood loss. But there was still a hint of fear in his voice.
"No. He.. went away. Said something about the docks and shipment-"
Rehman's eyes cleared off immediately like a light had been switched on, and he struggled to get up.
"Bhai, kya kar rhe ho? Stitches hain.. khul jaengi.. you can't even get up, let alone go to work."
"I have to Uzair. Haji Laloo, as you have seen, is not a very forgiving man. Nor remotely reasonable."
Rehman stood up, knees trembling violently, took a moment and then slowly straightened up. Uzair was in awe of his brother's strength. The man was a machine. A machine of unparalleled strength and reserve.
Then Rehman finally seemed to notice him, sitting crumpled into a ball on the chair, clothes still stained with Rehman's blood.
"Why are you still here?", Rehman frowned, "You have school in an hour. I told you--"
"Why did you take me in?"
This was the first time Uzair had cut Rehman's words in the middle. The ensuing silence pressed into the room like a boulder.
Rehman's dark eyes softened, and he sat on the bed, hiding his wince even if he couldn't hide the greenish tint of nausea on his face. He patted beside him with a gentle hand beckoning Uzair, who climbed up the bed to sit in the space beside.
His brother's large hand ran through his dried crusty curls with a tenderness, which brought tears to his swollen eyes.
"Mujhe maaf karde. Maine baat chupai tujhse. Par mere paas aur koi rastaa nhi tha. Lyari me sabse khatarnak gang abhi do hi hain, Haji Laloo aur Babu Dakait. Mujhe kisi ek mein toh janaa tha zinda rehne keliye. Haji ne Chachajaan ko maar diya aur tujhe bhi maar deta agar----"
"Agar aap ne mujhe nhi liya hota", Uzair completed for him.
Rehman nodded slowly. Uzair settled closer to Rehman and leaned against him carefully. The bandages wrapped around him made his bony lean frame look more fragile than ever.
"I'm sorry. I was reckless and you--"
"Learn from your mistakes Uzair. We need to be smart about this. Diving headfirst into danger impulsively or because of ego will get us all killed in a second."
Rehman tugged at his smaller form closer to himself and leaned his own head against his smaller one, bending down to accommodate the difference in their height, which must have been quite painful with his injuries.
But the seventeen year old didn't even flinch.
"Ab hum kya karein?"
Uzair asked, feeling like a little bird being pushed under the massive wings of a hawk. As if he was being protected by the harsh winds outside.
Rehman breathed above his head, ruffling his hair.
"We lay low and watch. We prepare and wait for the right moment. We strike when the iron is hot and we build our own empire."
There was a strange fatedness to Rehman's quiet declaration. The ever-present exhaustion in his tone was bellied by a wildfire of ambition and the thirst for revenge.
"We stick together. Always."
Uzair felt Rehman's dried cracked lips press feather light on top of his head, more a blessing than a kiss and felt the certainty of those words dig roots inside his bones like the universal truth - Undefeated, eternal and destined.
"Always", he echoed after his brother.
-------------------
You promised me. You said 'always together' brother and you left me adrift in this ocean alone. Like an anchorless boat stuck in a cyclone.
"You will never know what you have taken from me", Uzair sneered into Arshad's face and stood up, dragged the other man up by his collar yet again, the blade now raised above his own head.
The blow was swift. Fluid. Unhurried yet lightening fast.
Just like Rehman had taught him.
Arshad Pappu's last words were lost midway as his head flew off the side. His decapitated body fell on the ground listless. The men didn't cheer. This wasn't triumph. This was retribution.
The fire inside Uzair was quenched. But the drought left behind took root like the desert itself - his heart a barren prarie. A wasteland of his dreams.
The sun was overhead and Lyari was still dusty and blood soaked.
Uzair closed his eyes and tried remembering how his brother sounded talking about building an empire out of blood and bones in these very lanes.
He couldn't recall the exact cadence of Rehman's tone, try as he might. It escaped him like he was trying to catch clouds with a net.
They never did get to finish reading that stupid Urdu lesson after all.
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.
“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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Summary: Rehman Dakait's violent life is changed when he finds someone who matches his fire.
Warnings: guns, smoking, canon typical violence, age gap (10ish years), etc.
A/N: I think there's like 2 parts and an epilogue after this, but depends on the flow. I don't speak Urdu so it's mostly just a mix of that and Hindi. Translations are provided, but conversations are in Hindi/Urdu.
Disclaimer: This is only in respect to the 2025 movie Dhurandhar and its characters, not any real life people.
Masterlist
The past week has been nothing short of hell for you.
Your brother somehow managed to find a man willing to marry you, even after you ran away from the living room the second you understood what those people came for. He brushed it off as shyness and now, Aasif, your brother, is getting ready to fix your engagement.
You've screamed, fought, cried, tried locking yourself in the room, but Aasif is hell bent on this nikah.
You barely know Rehman, but you would prefer him to marry a stranger who'd probably end up hating you. Out of fear that maybe you'd run away, your brother has shortened your pretty wide leash. You barely leave the house, and when you do, either him or your bhabhi accompany you.
You feel suffocated, and there's been no way to communicate with Rehman, which makes you worried about what he must be thinking.
Your bhabhi dragged you along to go browsing for your engagement, which you said will never happen to that man, but alas, your words hold no influence in your house anymore.
You walk behind her in the market as she tries to talk about the stranger in an as flattering manner as possible. Your face has been stuck in a pout for the last few days, eyes red from frustrated tears.
A car zooms past the market lane and screeches to a halt, just a few meters away from you. You recognise the car as soon as you look up. It's one of Rehman's.
You can't signal him to not come closer since your bhabhi is here before he's already standing in front of you.
"Humne aapko call karne ki koshish ki, bahat baar." He says, his voice pained in a certain way. (I tried to call you many times)
"Hum-" your words catch in your throat. How can you tell him?
Your bhabhi turns to see what's happening and her eyes widen. "Assalamualaikum, Rehman Bhai" she says, her fear clear in her tone.
He gives her a passing nod, eyes still looking at you, but you can't bear to look up.
"Y/n, Rehman bhai ko kuch dobara keh diya kya?" She asks, her hand clutching your arm. (did you say something to trouble him again?)
You shake your head "nahi bhabhi, woh bas- unhe kuch sawal the." You try to deflect. (No, he just wanted to ask something)
You dip your head as you walk away, not able to look him in the face. He stands there, stunned. He runs his hands through his hair and down his face, frustrated at the lack of an answer from you.
---
That night, after everyone is gone to bed, you fish out the note Rehman gave to you with the flowers sent to your house, his number noted on the back. You sneak downstairs and dial the number, you couldn't keep avoiding him, and the thought of the pain in his voice today, it couldn't let you sleep.
The ring is long, your heart beat matching as you wait for him to pick up.
"Hello?" comes the familiar voice on the other end.
"Rehman" your voice is full of relief, "Hum y/n bol rahein hain" you add, even though you're sure it's unnecessary. (this is y/n speaking)
"Y/n, aapne toh humara dil haath mein lein rakha tha, hume laga ki aap uss din sirf wajib ho kar humare saath khane pe gayi thi" his words cut deep, especially now that you long for such moments with him again. (You've held my heart in your hands, I thought you went to lunch with us that day just out of obligation.)
"Nahi, nahi aisa kuch nahi hai, uss din jab hum wapis laute toh humare bhai ne rishte ke liye kisi ko bula rakha tha, aur abh bhai unse hi humara nikah karwana chahte hai" you explain, hoping that he'd see your plight. (No, no, it is not like that. The day when I returned, my brother had called someone for a proposal, and now brother wants to get me married to him only.)
"Aur aap kya karna chahti hai?" He asks, and for a second the question hurts, that he is questioning whether you wish for that relationship. And then, it makes you feel happy that at least Rehman is asking for what you want, and not others. (and what do you want to do?)
You take a deep breath "Hum aise unse nikah nahi kar sakte," your answer is simple, but it also leaves space for a lot of unsaid words. (I can't get married to someone this way)
He hums, and you can almost imagine the furrow in his brows as he thinks over what to do. "Kya hum aapke bhai se baat karein?" He asks after a long moment. (should I talk to your brother?)
You almost drop the phone, the implication clear. "Kiss barein mein?" (about what?)
"Agar aapki manzuri ho, toh hum aapse Nikah ke liye unse baat karne ko taiyar hai." He says it, no sugar coating.
A million thoughts run through your head, that you barely know him, he's a don, a politician, his life is always in danger, he murders people, and all the other things, things that should deter you from saying yes.
But you can't help and imagine the life you could build together, and Rehman was better than a stranger. He knew you. He liked you, or at least you hoped he did.
So, the answer does not seem so difficult anymore.
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Warnings: discussion of past trauma, violence, crimes, mental health, grief
Notes: Some of my law stuff is inaccurate. This fanfiction is not meant to glorify the real people, but is only based on the characters and actors featured in Dhurandhar 1 & 2.
Previous chapters are available on my page.
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“I think we need to verify if these documents are the original copies and not fabricated in any way.” Asif said, clutching a document as he stood by the white board in the front of the room. He put the paper back on the table, pulled the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows and began to scribble a note onto the white board.
Around the room, you, Hafsa and Asif had created a stereotypical crime board, connecting different people, businesses and information as it related directly to Uzair Baloch. His tip into the Khanani brothers had proven fruitful. They had been embezzling millions of rupees into offshore accounts in Dubai, Switzerland and other countries, and using their political connections and public sponsorship events as a way to launder all their money that was coming in from shady fronts.
“Waise, yeh sab tou theek hai. But, it doesn’t connect us to anything useful in the case against UB, or provide us with any information on the corruption stemming from Lyari. At best, all we have is speculation.” You said. Hafsa hummed in agreement, as she rummaged through the files that were provided by LTF.
It had been three weeks since Uzair had given you that useful tip. Three weeks after which you, Hafsa and Asif had gotten Husayn sahab’s permission to begin a discreet investigation into the Khanani business in coordination with Karachi Police’s Organized Crime unit. It was kept very secretive and not shared with anyone outside of Karachi’s SP Nayab Adam and his small legion of highly trained officers. Even LTF and SP Aslam were not aware of this ongoing investigation. The fewer people that knew, the better.
“That’s true. But, we still have the video footage of Arshad Pappu’s murder.” Asif said.
“He’s deliberately wasting our time.” Hafsa nodded in agreement.
“He made it very clear that if this information turned out to be right, I should and would be open to a plea agreement with him.” You reminded both of them.
“Well yes, but legally, we aren’t making plea negotiations of any kind.” Hafsa said.
“How far along are we with the witnesses?” Asif asked. “If we get enough witness testimony to strengthen our case, we won’t need to rely on information from him or for him to exploit our desperation to get plea negotiations of any kind.”
“Plus, you can’t have a plea bargain under terrorism charges.” Hafsa added
“That’s true.” You said. “I was able to connect with a couple people who are willing to meet me in person. I can begin collecting signed witness statements and see if they are willing to testify in court.”
“Asif, can you see if there are any other inmates who have any connection with Uzair Baloch who may be willing to testify for a reduced sentence?” Hafsa asked.
“Sure. I started cataloguing evidence, in addition to making extra copies of everything I can. It’s all in the evidence locker here. I had it all removed from LTF Headquarters officially.” He said, sitting down and rubbing his eyes behind his glasses.
“Tumhare uss hero se phir mulaqat hui?” Hafsa asked, smirking.
“Bilkul nahi. Lekin official complaint ke doran, maine uske sab guards be badal diye hain, aur nawabzaade ke tamam privileges bhi revoke ho chuki hain. No TV, no sofa, no fancy cologne or cigarettes.” You smiled, crossing your legs under the table and spinning your pen in between your fingers. “Ab aapne auqat par aya hai. Aur ab usko bhi pata chalega ki asal insaaf kisko kehte hain.”
“Waise, Y/N, maine suna hai ke woh tumhare saath flirting bohot kar raha tha.” Hafsa raised her eyebrows inquisitively. “I’m not judging or anything.”
You sighed. “Haan, tou?”
“Woh toh tumhe uss din courtroom me bhi goor ke dekh raha tha.” Asif added his two cents, smirking at you. His hair flopped to his forehead and he impatiently pushed it back, his watch jingling slightly in the process.
“Tou? Yeh sab kehne ka matlab?” You pressed impatiently.
Hafsa and Asif smirked, sharing a look. Hafsa then leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with a slight sense of mischief, her hair flowing gently with the air from the ceiling fan. “Hum iss ka hoshiyari se istemaal bhi kar sakte hain.” She said, with a low tone.
“What? Kya matlab?” You said, obliviously.
“Honeytrap.” Asif said from the side.
Your mouth dropped open in disbelief. “No. Please no. Mujhe iss silsila me maat jaseeto. Main Judge Haider ki beti hoon, aur hamari kuch khaandani izaat bhi hai. Main aise bilkul nahi karungi.” You said adamantly.
“Dekho yaar, yeh ek bohot bara criminal hai, aur iss choti si chance se tumhe pasand karta hain. We’re not telling you to sleep with him. But thodi si flirting kar ke tum bhi uss se information nikal sakti ho.” Hafsa said.
“Guys. This is beyond unprofessional. There are so many ethical and statutory violations. And besides, how would I even go about that? There are so many eyes watching both him and me at all times. I’m not losing my license and reputation over this.”
“Okay, no honeytrap. How about you give him the illusion of a plea negotiation to get information from him, by being nice and totally not like your typical, bitter and self righteous behavior?” Hafsa pushed.
“So that’s what a honeytrap is.”
“Look. We won’t push you to do this if you don’t want to. But what I think Hafsa is trying to say is that this could be an easy trick to manipulate the odds into our favor. You don’t have to do anything unprofessional or out of bounds. But if all the man is seeking is a little bit of your attention, can’t you act the part? Think of this as an intelligence gathering operation.” Asif said.
“Besides, you just have to give the illusion of interest. He doesn’t know whether there is or isn’t a plea agreement. He will just take your word for it, right? And technically, there won’t be a valid agreement because the Anti Terror Act does not allow any plea bargains for indicted defendants. So, we could take advantage of this.”
You huffed, thinking about the practicality of the ordeal. They were right.
“I’m so tired of your mind games. Hamesha tum dono mujhe hi qurbani ka bakra banate ho.” You mumbled. Hafsa chuckled.
“Dekho yaar. Agar usse mard pasand hote toh mein usse flirt kar leta. Waise bhi, dekhne mein tou acha baala handsome mard hai woh.” Asif joked.
“Tumhe toh Maryam ni pasand? Phir bhi yeh besharmi?” You stared at him in mock anger.
“Tou phir, hum manzoor samjhe?” Hafsa asked you.
“Ab key liye samajh lo. Husayn sahab ka kiya karien?”
“Unko maat batana. Yeh baat hum teeno main hi rahegi.Mujhe pata hai ki tum ek pakeeza aurat ho, aur hum tumhe yah tumhare izzat ko kuch bhi nahi hone dehnge.” She reassured you, a sharp look in her eyes that meant business.
“Chalo. Lekin pehli meeting mein tum dono me se ek ne mere saath jana hoga usse milne kay liye. So he doesn’t get suspicious of my sudden change in behavior.” You said.
“Main chalta hoon. Mera bhi dil hai ke hamara Karachi ke famous footballer se mulaqat ho.”
“Phir kal chalte hain.”
“Kal.” Asif agreed.
Hafsa gave a thumbs up. “Agli baar mein tumhare saath jaoge ghi. Aur yaad se, kaal green kapre pehne na.” She joked, having heard about that liner from your last meeting with Uzair.
“Shut up!” You said. Both Asif and Hafsa started guffawing.
—-------------------------------------
You were sitting at your desk when Asif knocked and poked his head in. He was holding a water bottle.
“Hello madam. Kaisi ja rahi hai aapki subha?”
“Theek. Ready?”
“Pehle lunch kar lein? Mujhe tou bohot bhook lag rahi hain.”
“Hain, yeh bhi theek hai. Chalo.”
You had been reaching out to witnesses and managed to secure three people who were willing to give information on a couple extortion and murder cases against UB. You and Hafsa would be meeting them tomorrow at a local shop to maintain secrecy and still get valuable information and see if they could point you to more people and different leads. Amir would be accompanying you and would handle all leads and investigative points from there on.
You flipped your legal pad closed, organized your desk, grabbed your bag and walked up to a waiting Asif.
“It’s been a productive morning.” You said, locking your office door as you both headed toward the canteen.
“Are you ready for this?” He asked in a serious tone.
You nodded. “I got this. Just need to be lowkey.” You had taken care to look extra nice and presentable today, styling your hair into a long french braid, wearing matching golden earrings and a small golden bracelet, and of course, a simple green shalwar kameez suit with golden embroidery. You even put on slight make up to cover up your eye bags and blemishes. It was time to put on a performance. “Waise, mujhe acting ka itna shauk nahi hai tumhari tarha, lekin case ke liye tou koshish kar loongi.”
“Don’t worry. Main tumhare saath hoon. Agar usse kuch suspicious laga, tou mein distraction be kar sakta hoon.”
As you reached the canteen, you both ordered chicken burgers with one side of fries that you ended up sharing. While munching, Asif caught you up on some of his new cases, including a small-time drug dealer who claimed to have connections with politicians and the ISI and was adamant that they would bail him out. You both laughed at the absurdity of it.
“Usko mental health evaluation zaroor karwana. Yeh sab tou baad mein kahega ki usse Beyonce milne aati hai.” You said in between laughter and bites of french fries.
“Tu bata. Tumhare program kaise ga rahe hain?”
“Acha ja raha hai. Ab extra program funding ka liye apply karne wali hoon.”
“Kis cheez kay liye?” He frowned inquisitively, tilting his head slightly as he popped another french fry in his mouth.
“I want to open up a rehabilitation unit for people with mental health issues. Obviously not a psychiatric facility, but a correctional rehab unit for people with untreated trauma, anxiety, depression and other chronic issues that have been related to their incarceration in some way or another.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” His eyes gleamed. “Lekin uss ke liya legislative reform ke liya be push karna padega.”
“That’s only if we want to make it court mandated. I want to issue a trial run to see if there are any people who volunteer to join. It can be group therapy sessions, one on one counseling, etc.”
“I think it sounds great.” He said.
You two continued chatting for another fifteen minutes, finished your lunch, and after washing up in the bathroom, headed over to KCJ.
“Acha, tou main usse baat karongi lekin kisi muahida ki nahi karongi jab tak usne khud muahida ki baat na shuru ki.”
“Aur main usse signature aur private football lessons le lunga.” Asif said.
“Oh shut up.” You snorted.
—-------------------------
Once at KCJ, when you reached the Tower D compound, you were informed that he was not in his cell, but at the infirmary. So, the two of you made your way there. After ten minutes of haggling with the nurse at the front, she allowed you to visit him for a restricted ten minute period.
The officer and nurse walked the both of you back. Like any typical prison infirmary, sans the maternity ward, inmates were monitored by two officers each, and the more volatile ones were cuffed to a nearby table, wall or bed itself. The nurse walked you towards the back where there were 6 officers all standing around a bed partially shielded by the medical curtain. Unsurprisingly, both of his ankles were cuffed to the bed. The next sight almost took you by surprise. Almost.
Uzair was lying on the bed, with his left arm wrapped and in a sling, bruises littered across his jawline and left cheekbone, his right eye was completely swollen shut and his lip was bleeding profusely, despite him holding a gauze against it to stop the blood. He also had a cut near his forehead that had been bandaged. Despite his injuries, he looked like a dashing young Amitabh Bachchan.
“Looks like someone got the full jail experience.” Asif said, smirking.
He shuffled a bit, and then sat up, looking between you and Asif. After a moment, he huffed something close to a smile.
“How are you doing, Mr. Baloch?” Asif asked with a friendly smile. He held out his hand, and Uzair stared at it for a moment, before shaking it with his uninjured arm and hand.
“First class.” Uzair responded, smirking as he looked at Asif, then looked you up and down. You felt a mixture of anger and unwanted heat flush through you, then reminded yourself that you were here to play a role.
“Mera naam Asif hai. Y/N ki saath kaam karta hoon.” He said. Uzair nodded at him.
“Kya hua aapko?” You asked gently, getting slightly closer to his bed. His eyes widened slightly as he took you in with his one working eye.
“Kuch nahi. Bas cell ke parosi ne welcome kiya showers mein.”
“Sirf ek parosi tha yah multiple?”
“Aapko meri itni fikar ho rahi hai? Wow, agar mujhe pata hota ke yeh khushkismati mujhe milni hai, tou me pehle se hi maar ka aata.” He smiled at you, wincing in pain.
“Sir, hum shukriya ada karne aaye hain aapka. Jo information aapne Y/N ko di thi uss din, uss se humare investigation successful thi.” Asif interjected. Uzair ripped his gaze from you and looked toward Asif, before nodding slightly.
“Tou phir aapne meri dusri offer ka socha?” He asked you directly. You shuffled your weight on your feet, looking deliberately uneasy and glancing at Asif for a moment, before looking back at him.
“Ji, socha.” You responded. He raised his eyebrows at you, remaining silent. “I think ke yeh baat hum thodi si privacy mein karein gaye, Uzair sahab. Jab aapki tabiyat theek ho jati hai. Waise bhi hamare paas aapko milne ke liye kaam time hai.”
There. You had dangled the bone in front of him, and waited to see if he would catch it like a street dog.
“Uzair sahab? Tou meri auqat aapki nazroon me baar gaye hai, kya? Wow. Aaj tou sach mein sitare hile hue hain.” He said, grinning at you. “Theek hai. Kam se kam, mujhe aapko milne ka ek aur bahana milega. ”
Tumhari auqat gaali ke kutte se bhi kaam hai meri nazroon mein, you thought venomously before smiling shyly at him.
“Chalein. Aap ko kisi cheez ki zaroorat tou nahi hai? Aapki hifazat ke liye?” Asif asked, leaning against a desk in a casual gesture.
“Nahi, nahi. Waisi bhi prosecutor sahiba ne meri bohot khatirdari ke hai. Mere guard switch karwa ke, wagera wagera.” He said, motioning towards you.
“Dekhiye na Uzair sahab, aab aapko special treatment tou nahi na mile sakti. Ab qaid tou sab ke liye barabar hai.” You reasoned.
“Kya aap aapne sab qaidiyon se muahida karti hain?” He shot back at you.
“Nahi. Uss mein tou aap mahir hain.” You said, smiling back at him.
“Hm. Waisi aap aaj bhi bohot pyari lag rahi hain. Yeh haara rang aap par bohot jajta hai. Jaise maine uss din kaha tha.”
Asif’s eyes bounced back between you and Uzair like a ball in a tennis match.
“Shukriya aap ka.” You said, looking down shyly.
“Your ten minutes are over.” The nurse stuck her head in the door, knocking against the wall. You and Asif both looked at each other, and he gestured for you to head out.
“Nice to meet you, Uzair sahab. And thanks once again.” Asif put his hand over his heart in a solemn gesture. Uzair nodded at him once, and then looked back at you.
“Jab aap ki tabiyaat theek hoti hain, main aapse milne phir aaongi. Aur bhi hum karenge kaam ki baat. Uski ki bawajood, agar aap ko kisi aur cheez ki zaroorat hai, tou mujhe itila kardena.” You smiled, waving a gentle goodbye.
“Khuda Hafiz, Y/N madam.” He smiled, watching you as you retreated.
Once the two of you left the infirmary and were out of earshot, you and Asif looked at each other and grinned, sharing a small high five.
“Tou lagta hai ke plan ki shuruaat successful thi.” Asif said.
“Bilkul. Un officers ko kitni paise mili hain? To look the other way?”
“Pata nahi. Lekin, Tower D warden ki desperation hamare kaam aaye.” Asif said, slipping his hands into his pockets, whistling.
In the heat of anger three weeks prior, you had enlisted Asif to join you in conspiring to not only revoke all luxuries that Uzair had become accustomed to in detention, but through the right connections, had also toppled a series of events that involved a certain warden in need of desperate side income to order the guards assigned to Uzair to look the other way while he had been using the communal showers and a couple other prisoners had a vendetta to settle against him. Something about the ongoing turf war between the Baloch gang and Pathan gang in which the Baloch had evaded the law due to their connections while a couple Pathans were arrested instead. This incidental manipulation had led to a brief altercation where the officers were intentionally a few minutes late to stop what could’ve been a fatal fight.
“Waise, maine suna hai ke uss mein bohot himmat hai. Paanch logon ko akele maara, aur woh bhi itni bedardi se.” Asif said.
“Lyari ki kachre mein bara hua hai. I would expect him to know how to fight.” You remarked, rolling your eyes at the thought.
Asif laughed. “Yeh bhi sahi baat hai.”
“Abh aagli baar meine aur Hafsa na aana hai. Aur koshish karke kisi private area me milna hoga. I have to figure out the proper procedure to do that.” You said, mentally noting it as the next task on the list.
—--------------------------
Two weeks later, you and Hafsa were checking in again at KCJ and headed to the administrative wing, where you had been able to schedule a thirty minute session in a secure, private room that was typically used either for administrative hearings, your program meetings or meetings for defense attorneys who had come down to clients. By having someone grease the right hands, you had also ensured that it would be only you, Hafsa and Uzair in the room, no prying eyes or ears.
After making it past security, you and Hafsa made your way to the administrative wing, the scorching sun at your back.
“Yaar, iss garmi mein chal chal kar ke mein itni patli hogaye hoon.” Hafsa huffed, wiping the sweat off her brow. You chuckled.
“Aaj tou teri bhi official meeting hogaye ghi hamare hero ke saath.” You said dryly.
“Technically, unofficial. Official meeting tou court mein hochuki hai.” She raised a finger to correct you.
“Haan. Jab tum usse zaleel kar rahi thi khuli adalat mein.”
“Aur woh laaparwahi se tumhe dekh raha tha.”
“Waise, he’s not as stupid as he pretends to be. Kaafi hoshiyar hai woh.”
“That’s true. Isiliye tumhe usse se bhi zyada hoshiyar hona hoga. Aur aapne yeh khoobsurat chehre se aur yeh body se aur thumak se uska fayda uthana hoga.” She responded, pinching your hips. You screeched, slapping her hands away and skipping a few steps ahead of her. She laughed loudly behind you.
“Stop being ridiculous, bewakoof!” You said, but couldn’t hold back your own laughter. “Kya pata woh tumhe dekh kar tumhe bhi pasand karle. Phir tou tu passi.”
“Haye, kaash mujhe be koi aise handsome mard pasand karle. Lekin woh ek gunda shunda ya qaidi na ho. Koi Imran jaisa hi miljaye mujhe. Ya Allah, kabhi hum gareebon ki duaein bhi sun lo.” Hafsa said in between her laughs.
“AMEEN. Waise, yeh Imran kon?” You asked.
“Imran Khan sali, Imran Khan. Hamara kaptan Imran.” She grinned deviously at you.
“Wah! Kitna bara haath raka hai tune bhi.” You snorted, doubling over in laughter.
You both sobered up as you arrived at the administrative wing. After informing the warden, who began the process of bringing Uzair Baloch down to the meeting room from his cell, you and Hafsa sat down in the meeting room. It was a small, dark and smelly room with no proper air flow or insulation, and even one of the lights was dingy and half broken. A typical meeting room for the jail.
About ten minutes later, you heard the rhythmic clanking of cuffs and chains as he was walked over by the unit of officers. The door was already open and he walked in, smiling at you. The bruises and small cuts were long gone, as was the swollen eye. His left arm was still in a sling, and his lower lip was still slightly swollen.
Stop looking at his lips! You mentally scolded yourself, before smiling at him in greeting.
“Haaye, yeh tou paas aakar aur zyada handsome hai.” Hafsa whispered to you. You nudged her with your elbow, before clasping your hands together and interlocking your fingers on top of your legal pad on the table in front of you. You smiled patiently, as the officers took their time in seating him down, and cuffing his chains to a giant lock in the ground and on the table across from you. The entire thing was supposed to be a humiliation ritual designed to systematically dehumanize any inmate or detainee, and while your professional opinions about the man in front of you wouldn’t have cared any less, you felt a bit of remorse as you witnessed the entire scene. Meanwhile, Hafsa had a perfectly practiced look of apathy on her face, one that she wore when she was ready to go into her iconic beast mode in court.
After all the chains were secured and double checked by the guards, they all left, issuing warnings for him to behave himself and that they would be right outside. As they walked out and shut the door, you looked at Hafsa before looking back at Uzair.
“Salam.” You greeted him. He returned your greeting, watching you intensely, eyes flicking back to Hafsa occasionally. “Kaise hai aap? You look much better than last time.”
“Thank you.” He said, smirking as he leaned back in his chair, sitting comfortably. Despite his bravado, you could see the underlying exhaustion that had begun to cling to him. He had heavy bags under his eyes and his skin was paler than the last time you saw him. Without the luxuries you had seen in his cell the last time you visited Tower D, coupled with the recent fight, he had never been more vulnerable than he was now. It was the perfect time to strike.
“Mr. Baloch, aapko shayad mein yaad nahin. Mera naam Hafsa hai, aur mein Y/N ke saath kaam karti hoon.” Hafsa said, mirroring your posture and clasping her hands in front of her.
“Ji, mujhe yaad hai. Uss din adalat mein aap ne bhi meri bohot khatirdaari ki thi.” He smiled politely at her.
“Kaam ki baat karein?” You said a moment later, redirecting the conversation.
“Bilkul.” You saw the casual, relaxed look in his eyes disappear and his eyes sharpened with the same look he had when he gave you the tip about the Khanani brothers.
“Aap ki tip Khanani brothers ke baare mein saach thi. Humein kaafi kuch mila hai ongoing investigation ke duran.” Hafsa said.
“Aur iss liye mein…hum aap se muahida karna chahti hain.” You finished. “Simple si baat hai, aap humein information dein, aur iske badle main hum aap ke khilaaf charges ko kaam kar sakti hain.”
“Kaisi information?” He asked, quirking his eyebrow as he leaned back.
“Jaise ki aapne Khanani brothers ke baare mein di thi. Help us catch bigger fish than you. Rehman Dakait ki maut ka zimmedar tou koi hai, Arshad Pappu ki ilawa. Kaun? Aapne bhai aur Baloch gang ki baare mein humein information do. Aapne tamam ghairqanooni karobar ki information do hamein.”
He blinked, assessing you for a moment before he threw his head back and started laughing. His laughter was a deep, rich baritone that spoke of a lifetime of regality and power. He laughed like a king who had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Had it not been for the slight embarrassment you felt at his reaction, it would’ve made you feel warm and gooey in the deepest part of your stomach. Your cheeks flushed and you looked at Hafsa, whose expression mirrored yours.
“Aap dono ko lagta hai ke mein itna bewakoof hoon? Ki aapni maalkiat ki chabiyaan khud doonga? Aur woh bhi itni asani se?” He continued laughing.
“Phir kya de sakte ho tum humein?” Hafsa pryed, her voice cutting through his laughter.
“Pehle mujhe aapka barosa jitna para tha na?” He looked sharply at you. “Ab aap ko mera baroosa jitna parega.” His eyes gleamed fiercely, and you briefly recognized not the prisoner sitting in front of you, but the man rumored to inherit the Sher-E-Baloch title. You saw the man who could’ve been the King of Lyari sitting in front of you.
“Kya kar sakte hain hum tumhara barosa jeetne ke liye?” You asked, not allowing yourself to shirk away from the intensity in his eyes. You refused to be afraid of him.
“Mujhe SP Aslam si milwao.”
“Kyun?” You asked.
“Usse tum nahi milsakte. Ya adalat ka hukum hai. Aur waise bhi, yeh hamare baas ki baat nahi hai.” Hafsa cut through before he could say anything.
“Phir mujhe writing mein chahiye ki hamara muahida hoga. Uss ke baad mein aap dono ko information doonga.” He replied.
“Kaunsi information hume do gaye tum?” Hafsa asked.
“Lyari mein tamam weapons aur drug smuggling operations ke baare mein main bata sakta hoon.”
“Well, that’s a start.” You said, leaning back and smiling at him.
Twenty minutes later, you and Hafsa walked out of the administrative wing and headed back to the Karachi courthouse.
“Tumne theek kaha tha. Bohot hoshiyar he yeh.” Hafsa remarked.
“Exactly. But that was a good strategy.”
The three of you knew that he wouldn’t give up any vital information on the operations of the Baloch gang, including their infamous fake weapons smuggling operations. But by getting him to loosen up his guard with a fake stunt of naivety, you were able to get him to provide a piece of information that showed where his real motivation lay - retribution against SP Aslam. You would have to inform Husayn sahab to inform the SP to prepare for any future assasination attempts. In the process, Uzair had also willingly agreed to share details on the suppliers of Lyari’s smuggling operations. Once you got your hands on that information, the investigation could dig more into the dealers and buyers of the cross border and national trade. It would also help the LTF and SP Nayab Adam's unit into further investigations into the organized crime syndicates in Lyari Town. You had to follow the money trail. You would immediately inform SP Nayab Adam, your brother Amir, reminding him to keep it under wraps until it was deemed credible enough to inform the LTF officially.
“Aur uske wakeel ka kya karien? Mir Ajmal ka? Fake documents tho create kar sakte hain Uzair ke liye, lekin Mir Ajmal tou bewakoof nahi hain.” You asked Hafsa as both of you continued to walk back to your office.
“Don’t worry about him. Mein usko handle kar longi. I’ve been a prosecutor for almost ten years now. Defense attorneys ka time waste karna aur unko taal na tou mera right hand ka khel hai.” She said.
The trap had been set. Now, it was time to work strategically to tighten the noose around Uzair Baloch’s neck. And you were more than happy to be his executioner.
The office stood in stark contrast to the rest of the haveli,
It wasn't merely a difference in design, it was a difference in presence. The air itself felt altered, as though it carried weight, as though it had settled over time with the burden of every decision ever made within those walls.
It moved slower, heavier, pressing subtly against the skin. The warmth that lived in the outer rooms, sunlight filtering through fabric, the quiet softness of lived-in spaces did not exist here. Even silence behaved differently. It did not drift or expand; it remained contained, disciplined, as though it understood boundaries better than the people who entered the room.
The walls, painted in a muted grey, stood detached from any sense of warmth or coldness, existing in a deliberate neutrality that felt almost impersonal. They rose high, meeting a ceiling that mirrored their restraint, enclosing the room in a quiet authority that required no declaration.
There were no unnecessary adornments, no misplaced details. Everything within the space existed with purpose, as though excess had been stripped away long ago, leaving behind only what was essential and what was controlled.
At the centre of the room stood the dark mahogany desk. It was broad, solid, and immovable, its polished surface catching just enough light to define its edges without softening them. It did not invite conversation; it dictated its terms. It created distance, a silent barrier between those who sat across it and the one who occupied the space behind it.
Conversations here were never casual, they were measured, deliberate, and often carried consequences that extended far beyond the room itself.
The two chairs placed opposite the desk reflected none of its authority, yet they reinforced it in their own way. Their structure was simple, almost rigid, offering no comfort beyond what was necessary. They were not meant to ease the person sitting in them; they were meant to hold them in place. Visitors sat there not as equals, but as participants in a space where roles were already defined.
Behind the desk stood a single chair, larger and subtly elevated. It was not extravagant, yet its presence dominated the room in a way nothing else did. The Sardar's chair. It did not merely occupy space—it defined it. Everything else seemed arranged around it, as though the room itself existed to support the authority it represented. Decisions made there did not require repetition, and orders given from that position did not invite resistance.
A Persian rug stretched beneath it all, its intricate patterns speaking of artistry and time, yet even that beauty felt subdued within the room. Its colours seemed quieter here, restrained under the dominance of the space. It did not soften the environment; it simply existed within it, like everything else- contained, controlled.
To the left, a low coffee table sat with quiet intention, its surface undisturbed, almost untouched. It suggested moments that required patience rather than comfort—conversations where words were chosen carefully, where silence held meaning equal to speech.
Beyond it, the entire left side of the office was consumed by paperwork. Files were stacked with an almost unnatural precision, documents aligned so perfectly it seemed enforced rather than arranged. Nothing leaned, nothing shifted. Every page had its place, every file its order, as though disorder had never been allowed to exist within these walls.
There was no clutter here. No carelessness. Only control.
Abdeel sat across the desk, his posture straight and composed, yet not entirely at ease. At first glance, he appeared still, but the stillness was deliberate, held in place rather than natural.
A faint tension rested beneath it, visible in the slight tightening of his jaw and the way his fingers shifted once against the armrest before settling again. His gaze moved across the room, not with curiosity but with recognition. He had been here before several times, yet the space had never felt familiar in a comforting way. It was not meant to. This was not a room that welcomed. It was a room that observed.
Time passed slowly, stretching just enough to be felt. The silence did not grow uncomfortable, but it did not disappear either. It lingered, pressing subtly, making its presence known.
Then the door opened.
The shift was immediate, though almost imperceptible. The air seemed to still further, as though preparing itself. Rehmaan stepped inside, followed closely by Uzair and Hamza. Their movements were controlled, quiet, disciplined but it was Rehmaan who altered the space. Not through force, not through display, but simply through presence. The authority he carried did not need to assert itself, it settled naturally, as though the room recognized it and adjusted accordingly.
Abdeel rose at once. The movement came instinctively, without hesitation, shaped by respect that required no conscious thought. A smile formed on his lips as he faced him, polite and carefully measured. Yet beneath that composure, there was a trace of something else...a slight hesitation, a quiet nervousness that lingered despite his effort to conceal it.
"Rehmaan sahab," he greeted, his voice steady and respectful, carrying just enough warmth to acknowledge familiarity without overstepping it.
Rehmaan's gaze met his, calm and unreadable, holding him for a brief moment before a faint, controlled smile touched his lips. "Abdeel."
There was no excess in his tone, no unnecessary words. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and the two men embraced. It was brief and measured, balanced carefully between familiarity and restraint. There was recognition in the gesture, an acknowledgment of shared history, yet it remained contained, defined by the boundaries that now existed between them.
When they pulled back, the distance returned naturally, as though it had never left.
Abdeel had known Rehmaan for years, from a time before responsibility had fully shaped him into the man he had become. There had been a difference then—not in strength, but in weight.
Back then, there had been space for ease, for moments that did not carry consequence. Their families had shared that ease as well. Zain and Naieem had grown up together, their childhood tying the two households in a way that once felt natural and unforced and not to mention Ulfat and Rukhsar, they both have been pretty close. Those days, however, now felt distant, like something that belonged to another version of their lives.
Rehmaan moved toward his chair without haste, each step measured, controlled. Reaching the desk, he placed a hand lightly against its surface before taking his seat. The movement was simple, yet it carried a quiet finality, as though he was not just sitting down, but assuming his place within the room.
With a small gesture, he indicated for Abdeel to sit.
Abdeel complied immediately, lowering himself back into his chair with the same careful awareness that had marked all his movements since entering the room. Even then, comfort did not reach him fully.
A brief silence followed, steady and deliberate.
Rehmaan leaned back slightly, his gaze resting on Abdeel with quiet focus.
"Farmaiye, Abdeel sahab... sab khairiyat?" he asked, his tone calm, even, yet carrying an authority that required no emphasis.
Abdeel nodded quickly, his polite smile returning.
"Ji, Rehmaan sahab... bas aapki meherbani hai," he replied, though a faint tightness lingered beneath his words.
"Kahiye... chai lenge ya coffee?" Rehmaan offered, the question routine, yet delivered with the same measured composure.
"Arre nahi, nahi... abhi thodi jaldi hai," Abdeel said, lifting his hand in refusal, a light chuckle escaping him that did little to ease the underlying tension.
"Bas... aapko daawat-naama dene aaya tha."
As he spoke, he reached into his coat and withdrew a neatly kept envelope, presenting it with both hands. The gesture carried quiet respect, a formality that matched the space they occupied.
Rehmaan's eyes dropped briefly to the envelope before returning to Abdeel, a faint crease forming between his brows. "Daawat-naama?" he repeated, his tone softer now, more thoughtful than questioning.
He took the invitation, his movements unhurried, and glanced at it with deliberate attention.
"Ji haan..." Abdeel said, his voice softening slightly. "Zain ka nikaah tay kiya hai."
The words settled into the room with a quiet weight.
For a moment, Rehmaan did not respond. His gaze rested on the card, though it was not the details that held his attention. The meaning reached him first, sinking deeper before any visible reaction followed. Slowly, a faint smile appeared on his lips, controlled and appropriate.
"Kya baat hai... aap sabko mubarak."
The words were expected, yet they did not conclude the moment.
A pause followed—brief, but deliberate.
Rehmaan's eyes lifted back to Abdeel, steady and observant.
"Kaafi jaldi nikaah karva rahe hain aap," he said, his tone subtly shifting. It was no longer just congratulatory; there was an undercurrent of observation now, quiet yet unmistakable.
The statement lingered in the air, carrying more than it expressed.
Because it was early.
Rehmaan knew it without effort. Naieem was nineteen. Zain, perhaps a year older. An age where most were still finding their footing, not stepping into something as permanent as marriage.
His gaze lowered once more to the invitation card, his thumb brushing lightly along its edge in a slow, absent motion. The gesture was subtle, almost idle but it carried the quiet rhythm of a mind turning over something deeper, something that did not settle easily, something that lingered just beneath the surface of thought.
"Haan, Rehmaan bhai... nikaah jaldi toh hai, par kya karein," Abdeel spoke, his voice steady, yet carrying a weight that did not belong to casual explanation.
"Meri tabiyat kuch khaas nahi rehti in dino. Woh nikaah kar lega toh jamaat ke reet-rivaaz aur kanoon samjhega... aur phir kaam bhi sambhal lega ."
Abdeel stated it simply, but the simplicity did not lessen the gravity of what he meant. The words did not feel like a choice laid out rather they felt like a conclusion already reached, something that had been decided long before this moment, now only being presented.
Rehmaan gave a slow nod at that.
Measured.
Controlled.
He could understand Abdeel to some extent. The reasoning was not unfamiliar. A man looking ahead, trying to secure what comes after him, trying to ensure that responsibility does not fall into uncertainty. Wanting Zain to be ready, to step in, to take hold of what would eventually become his.
There was logic in it.
There was intention.
But understanding did not fully translate into agreement.
The thought did not linger there for long before it shifted—quietly, naturally—to Naieem.
The comparison came uninvited, yet it stayed.
Nineteen.
The same age.
And yet, in Rehmaan's mind, the distance between the two did not feel small.
Naieem stood elsewhere entirely, not in position, but in place. There had never been a thought, not even a passing one, of binding him this early, of placing him into something as final as marriage before he had the space to become himself fully.
Rehmaan had been clear in that, even if he had never needed to say it aloud.
He would not rush him.
He would not decide for him.
Naieem wanted to pursue a medical degree. That had come from him.
Baba, main medical ki padhai karna chahta hu.
His own desire, his own direction and Rehmaan had accepted it without resistance, without hesitation. That path required time, patience, and a kind of understanding that could not be imposed from the outside.
Naieem was still at a tender age.
Too early to carry the full weight of society.
Too early to fully understand its expectations, its rules, its bindings, not in a way that was complete, not in a way that came from within rather than being placed upon him.
Rehmaan's fingers remained still against the edge of the invitation card now, the earlier motion gone, replaced by a quiet stillness that reflected the settling of his thoughts. The faint movement of his thumb had ceased entirely, as though whatever had occupied his mind a moment ago had now reached its place—filed, contained, no longer needing motion.
"Samajh sakta hoon," Rehmaan said.
His voice was calm, even, carrying neither resistance nor complete acceptance but just a measured acknowledgment that rested somewhere in between. His gaze remained steady, fixed on Abdeel with quiet composure, revealing nothing beyond what he chose to show.
"Maufi chahunga, Abdeel sahab," he continued, his tone unchanged, controlled to the same degree as everything else about him, "par is tareekh par main thoda masroof hoon... par meri jagah Naieem zaroor apni haajri dega."
The words were delivered without hesitation, without excess explanation. They were not abrupt, yet they carried a finality that did not invite reconsideration. The decision had already been made before it was spoken.
For a brief moment, the air held still again as if it was absorbing the shift, the subtle distance that had been placed between presence and absence.
"Aap aur aapka poora parivaar aata toh achha rehta... khair, koi baat nahi," Abdeel replied, his tone remaining respectful, though something quieter moved beneath it—something that did not quite reach the surface. "Par Naieem ko zaroor bhejiyega."
Rehmaan gave a small nod with polite smile.
"Ab ijaazat chahunga," Abdeel said, the words coming with a natural closure to the conversation. He rose from his seat, his movements careful, composed, carrying the same restraint that had marked his presence since the moment he had entered the room.
Rehmaan did not stop him.
Did not add to the moment.
He simply gave a slight nod in return—permission, acknowledgment, dismissal—all contained within that single motion.
Abdeel inclined his head, a quiet bow of respect, before his gaze shifted briefly toward Uzair and Hamza. It was a small acknowledgment, wordless yet understood, before he turned toward the door.
The door opened.
And then closed behind him.
____________
It was evening—the hour that lingered gently between day and night, when darkness had not yet claimed the sky, but the sun had begun its quiet retreat. A soft dusk-orange spread across the horizon, washing over the rooftops and narrow streets of Lyari, painting everything in a warm, fading glow that carried both calm and movement within it.
The air felt different at this time but lighter than the weight of afternoon, yet alive with a quiet restlessness. It was the hour when the city breathed out after a long day.
The courtyard of the Baloch haveli usually came alive at this hour, carrying a familiar kind of chaos that never truly felt disorderly. It was the time when the stillness of the house gave way to movement, to voices overlapping, to footsteps echoing across the open space. Uzair and Hamza would be there almost without fail, drawn in by the same routine, while Faizal and Naieem turned the courtyard into their own playground.
More than often, it was Faizal who filled the space with noise, his voice rising above the rest, sharp with accusation, quick with complaint. Every game, no matter how simple, seemed to turn into a matter of absolute unfairness in his eyes, and more often than not, someone was cheating. Or so he insisted. His protests came loud and immediate, his energy spilling into every corner of the courtyard.
And it had always been like this.
Naieem, in contrast, carried a quietness that did not need to assert itself. He understood things without needing them to be explained twice, stepping back when needed, settling arguments before they grew too large. There was a steadiness in him, a sense of balance that seemed far beyond his age.
If Faizal was the storm that stirred everything into motion, then Naieem was the calm that followed, the presence that restored order without effort.
They were different in every visible way.
Nothing alike when you looked at them.
Yet, they were so much same.
Both of them had taken after Rehmaan.
It showed in ways that were hard to explain. Not just in their faces, but in the way they were. That same underlying presence—strong, steady, just shaped differently in each of them. One loud and restless, the other quiet and composed. But both carrying something that undeniably came from him.
And Ulfat never missed a chance to point it out. With that familiar half-annoyed, half-affectionate tone of hers. She would declare.
None of her boys had taken after her. Not one.
According to her, the only thing they might have inherited from her was her fair skin—and even that, she would dismiss like it didn't count for much.
She would say it like it bothered her.
Truth- it never really did.
There was something soft in that.
Almost overwhelming.
There was a quiet kind of comfort in seeing him in them. How they were so different from each other yet somehow resembled rehman.
Because even as she complained, her eyes would linger on them a second longer. On the way Faizal moved without thinking, on the way Naieem understood without being told. On the little things—the habits, the instincts, unmistakably coming from rehmaan.
She always found it adoring.
In the courtyard, Faizal was the one who sent the football flying across the courtyard, his kick lacking precision but full of force, as if power alone could decide the outcome. The ball cut through the air unevenly, bouncing once before reaching Naieem.
Naieem didn't rush.
He never did.
He took control of the ball with an ease that didn't draw attention to itself, his movements smooth, almost effortless. There was no unnecessary energy in the way he played, no wasted motion, just quiet precision. Where Faizal charged forward, Naieem moved with timing, with an understanding of the game that felt instinctive rather than learned.
Uzair and Hamza closed in on him quickly, both of them trying to block his path, their steps hurried, their focus fixed entirely on stopping him this time. There was a kind of determination in the way they moved-as though they had already decided he wouldn't get past them again.
But Naieem didn't panic.
He slowed.
Just enough.
The kind of pause that lasted barely a second but it shifted everything.
The ball stayed close to his feet as he adjusted his stance, his gaze lifting briefly, not just seeing them, but reading them. And then, with a small turn—so subtle it almost went unnoticed, he slipped past the space between them before either could react in time.
By the time they turned, he was already ahead.
Naieem didn't even look back. The ball stayed close to his feet, controlled, steady, as if it moved because he allowed it to and not because it had to. The space had already opened for him, and he had taken it without noise, without rush.
"WOAHHHH!"
Faizal's voice burst through the courtyard, loud and triumphant, filled with a victory that didn't even belong to him. He threw his arms up as if he had just scored himself, as if the entire moment had been his from the beginning.
Hamza and Uzair let out a sharp hiss under their breath, slowing to a stop.
"Oh, chote miyan," Hamza called out, his tone edged with mockery, "chilla toh aise rahe ho jaise aapne game jeeti hai."
"Ha toh kya ho gaya..." he shot back instantly, his voice still carrying that same unshaken confidence.
"Naieem bhai jeete ya main, ek hi baat hai." He shrugged, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world, before adding without a hint of doubt.
"Aur waise bhi, main goal karne hi wala tha... par Naieem bhai ne ball le li."
For a moment, there was a brief pause.
Naieem, a few steps ahead, slowed just slightly. His hand dropped loosely to his side as he turned his head just enough to glance back. One eyebrow lifted, looking at faizal with tight lips.
"Achaaaa..." Uzair and Hamza drew out together, their voices laced with mock expression, the word stretching just enough to make its meaning clear.
"Aisi baat hai kya... ab dekhte hain tu pakdam pakdai mein kitna achha hai." Uzair said, a hint of mischief already slipping into his tone.
He glanced at Naieem and Hamza, and that was enough. Three of them shared the same look, an easy, knowing smirk that didn't need explanation. It was quick, almost subtle, but very clear.
Faizal, of course, didn't catch it in time.
The next second, all three clapped their hands together and lunged forward.
"NAHIIII!"
Faizal screamed instantly, but it broke into laughter just as fast as he turned and ran. His feet hit the ground in quick, uneven steps as he rushed across the courtyard, half trying to escape, half already enjoying the chase.
He didn't run straight. One second he darted left, the next he changed direction without warning, almost slipping once before catching himself and continuing without slowing down.
Behind him, three of them followed with full energy, calling out, trying to corner him.
"Pakad liya aaj toh!" Hamza shouted.
Faizal just laughed louder, glancing back for a split second before speeding up again.
Laughter filled the courtyard, unaware of soft eyes watching them.
__________
Rehmaan stood in the balcony, the courtyard stretching clearly beneath him, open and alive in the fading light. From up there, everything was visible, the uneven paths of the boys as they ran, the way their movements crossed and broke apart, the way laughter rose and echoed before settling again. The orange of the evening sky still lingered, softening the edges of everything, laying a quiet warmth over the chaos below.
His arms were crossed against his chest, his frame still, steady against the railing. He wasn't doing anything, he was just standing there, watching. A small smile rested on his lips, the kind that didn't need to grow to be felt.
His boys.
Uzair.
Naieem.
Faizal.
Hamza.
His gaze moved over them without hurry, following one, then the other, then all of them together. Faizal was still running, loud as ever, his laughter carrying even from a distance, breaking through the air without restraint. Uzair and Hamza, naieem were close behind, trying to catch him, their steps quicker, more determined, calling out to him as they chased.
From above, it looked different.
Not just noise.
Not just play.
There was a pattern to it, a familiarity that came from seeing it happen again and again. The same roles, the same energy, the same way everything somehow balanced itself out in the end.
Rehmaan's eyes softened slightly as he watched them.
There was something about moments like this... something that settled quietly inside him. No effort, no thought behind it. Just a stillness that came on its own.
Down there, nothing felt heavy.
No expectations.
No responsibilities pressing in.
He might grow old.
Time would move, as it always did. Things would change, responsibilities would shift, the boys below would no longer run like this, no longer fill the courtyard with the same careless laughter.
But even then...
he would still want this.
This exact moment.
This sight of them running without thought, arguing over nothing, laughing without restraint, existing without the weight of the world pressing down on them.
He would still want to stand somewhere like this, arms crossed, watching from a distance...
and see his boys just like this.
Unchanged.
Together.
His chain of thoughts broke gently-almost reluctantly at the soft chim chim of jhanjhar approaching from behind. The delicate sound carried through the quiet of the balcony, light yet distinct, threading its way into the stillness he had been standing in.
Rehmaan turned his head slightly, just enough to look over his shoulder.
Ulfat was walking toward him.
Unhurried.
Her steps were soft, but the faint rhythm of her anklets announced her presence before she even reached him. There was something familiar in that sound, something that belonged to the haveli just as much as the walls, the courtyard, the evenings like this.
He didn't say anything.
He simply extended his hand.
Natural response.
Ulfat reached him and placed her hand into his palm without hesitation, her fingers settling naturally against his. She stood beside him, close enough that her presence filled the space without needing acknowledgment.
She didn't speak immediately.
Her gaze followed his instead.
Down into the courtyard.
To the boys.
A smile came on her face.
"Kya dekh rahe ho..." she asked, even though she already knew.
Her voice came out soft, softer than usual, It was almost careful, as if the moment around them was something fragile, something that could slip away if touched too roughly. It didn't break the silence; it settled into it, becoming a part of the quiet rather than disturbing it.
Her gaze settled on rehmaan.
There was a knowing in her expression.
A quiet awareness.
Because she had seen this before- not just the scene below, but him like this. Standing still, watching, lost somewhere deeper than what was in front of him.
Rehmaan looked at her, a soft smile curved on his lips, the kind he didn't offer the world so easily. It was quiet, almost unnoticeable to anyone else, but she had always known how to recognize it. That smile... it had always been hers.
"Bachhe jaldi bade ho jaate hai," he said.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him, then let out a small breath of amusement.
"Naieem ki baat kar rahe ho...?" she asked, one brow lifting. "Kyuki hamare ghar ke bachho mein se wahi akela lagta hai ki bada ho gaya hai."
Rehmaan chuckled, easy sound that broke through the heaviness of his own thought. He shook his head, but didn't disagree.
There was peace between them.
Comfortable.
Then,
"Aaj Abdeel aaye the."
His voice was steady, as always, but there was a depth in it that made her look at him immediately. Her brows drew together without thinking. Abdeel was not someone who appeared without reason.
She turned toward him more fully, the softness in her earlier expression shifting into quiet attention
"Zain ka nikaah tay kiya hai," he said.
He watched her as he spoke.
Watched the reaction form before she could hide it.
"Kya?" Her response came quickly, her eyebrows pulling together as she searched his face, as if the words might change if she looked at him long enough.
"Itni jaldi... abhi toh bees ka hoga, shayad se..."
There was disbelief in her voice, and something else too. Something unsettled.
Rehmaan did not interrupt. He held her gaze, steady and patient, before speaking again.
"Haa. Keh rahe the ke unki tabiyat kuch theek nahi rehti... aur unke baad kaam bhi Zain ko sambhalna hai."
It was not immediate. It happened slowly, as the initial reaction softened and something deeper took its place. Her eyes lowered just slightly, not fully leaving him, but no longer holding his gaze with the same sharpness.
"Theek hi hai... shayad se," she said after a pause, her voice quieter now, carrying a faint weight. "Waise bhi... Rukhsar bhabhi ke jaane ke baad unke ghar ke haalat bhi kuch khaas nahi the."
Rehmaan watched her closely.
He saw the shift before it fully showed.
The way her voice slowed, the way her expression changed without her realizing it. The name lingered between them, even after she had finished speaking.
Rukhsar.
Ulfat tried to remember.
He could see it in her eyes. The way her focus drifted, the way she seemed to look past him for a moment, searching for something that was no longer clear. The memory did not come easily to her, and that absence settled heavily.
Her throat tightened.
She swallowed it down.
Rehmaan saw it before she could hide it.
It wasn't something loud or obvious. It never was with her. It showed in the smallest ways—the way her voice slowed, the way her gaze drifted just a little too far, the way her fingers stilled in his hand like her thoughts had gone somewhere else entirely.
And he knew.
He didn't ask her what she was thinking. He didn't interrupt that silence she had slipped into.
Instead, his hand lifted.
Slowly. Naturally. As if it had always known where to go.
His palm came to rest on her head, fingers settling lightly in her hair, steady and warm. There was no hesitation in the gesture, no uncertainty. It was familiar in a way that didn't need to be thought about—something repeated so many times over the years that it had become instinct. It has been always like that.
It wasn't just a touch.
It was reassurance.
A quiet way of telling her to come back. To not get lost too far in whatever had taken hold of her.
He had done this for years.
When she would overthink something small until it felt too big.
When sadness would settle in her without warning.
When memories came back sharper than she expected.
When she grew quiet in a way that meant she wasn't really present anymore.
Every time, it was the same.
No questions.
No explanations.
Just this.
His hand resting on her head, grounding her without pulling her too hard, letting her feel him there without forcing her to speak.
Ulfat felt it the moment his hand touched her.
The familiarity of it.
The steadiness.
It reached her before his words ever could.
Her thoughts didn't disappear all at once, but they slowed. The tightness in her chest eased just slightly, enough for her to breathe a little deeper. Enough for her to not feel so far away from herself.
She looked up at him then.
And he was already looking at her.
Just as steady.
Just as present.
Exactly where she needed him to be.
He drew her closer, his arm coming around her with quiet certainty. One hand rested behind her head, holding her there gently, while the other settled against her back, firm and reassuring.
She leaned into him without hesitation, her arms wrapping around him as if that space had always belonged to her.
"Main theek hoon, Rehmaan," she said softly.
Her voice was steady, but he could hear the strain beneath it.
"Main jaanta hoon, Lado," he replied..
They stayed like that for a while.
Not moving.
Not rushing to step away.
The embrace wasn't tight, wasn't desperate, it was just steady, familiar. The kind that didn't need to prove anything. Ulfat rested against him, her cheek near his chest, her hand still holding onto him as if that quiet closeness was enough to keep everything else at a distance for a little longer.
"Tareekh konsi hai nikaah ki...?" Ulfat asked softly, her voice slightly muffled against him.
Rehmaan didn't answer immediately.
For a brief second, there was a pause-not long, but enough to be felt.
"...agle mahine ki terah," he said.
The moment the words left him, she pulled back just enough to look at him.
"Kya?!" Her reaction came instantly, her brows tightening, her eyes sharpening with sudden concern.
"Phir toh hum nahi jaa payenge..."
It wasn't just disappointment.
It was worry.
Clear, immediate.
"Par Rehmaan... unhe bura lagega agar hum nahi jaayenge," she added, her voice softer now but still carrying that unease, as if she was already weighing the consequences in her mind.
Rehmaan looked at her the entire time.
Calm.
Unmoved on the surface, but attentive in a way that missed nothing.
"Main jaanta hoon, meri jaan," he said quietly. "Isiliye maine socha hai ki Naieem chala jayega... Faizal ko bhi le jayega."
For a second, she just stared at him.
And then the reaction came.
"Kya? Nahi, Rehmaan, bilkul nahi—" her voice rose slightly, not loud, but firm, immediate. She shook her head, pulling back a little more now, her grip on him tightening unconsciously.
Her words came quickly now, almost overlapping, the calm from a few moments ago slipping away under something sharper.
Because she knew what existed beyond these walls.
She knew the kind of enemies Rehmaan had.
The kind that waited.
Watched.
The kind that didn't forget.
Her thoughts moved faster now, connecting things she didn't even say aloud. The recent clash between Rehmaan and Arshad Pappu had not left her at ease. It had stayed at the back of her mind, quiet but constant, turning into something heavier each time she thought about it.
And now this.
Sending Naieem and Faizal out.
Alone.
Her chest tightened at the thought itself.
She shook her head again, more firmly this time.
"Idhar dekh, meri jaan... kuch nahi hoga."
Rehmaan's voice was low, steady, but it carried a firmness that didn't allow her thoughts to keep running the way they were. His hands came up to her face, gently and surely, cupping her cheeks and guiding her to look at him.
Not forcing.
But not letting her look away either.
Ulfat's breath was uneven, her worry still sitting heavy in her chest, her eyes searching his as if trying to find something solid enough to hold onto.
"Rehmaan—"
"Maine kaha, Lado...Kuch nahi hoga hamare bachhon ko." he cut in softly, but there was weight in the way he said it now. Not harsh. Not raised. With her, It was never. It was just certain.
His thumbs rested lightly against her cheeks, stilling the slight tremor in her expression, keeping her focus on him and not on everything else that was building in her mind.
"Koi kuch nahi karega," he continued, his gaze unwavering, holding hers completely. "Aur rahi baat unke akele jaane ki... toh Hamza hai na saath mein."
There was quiet assurance in his tone.
The kind that didn't rush to convince, didn't overwhelm but just stayed steady.
But Ulfat's eyes didn't ease.
Not yet.
"Rehmaan... mujhe theek nahi lag raha," she said, her voice softer now, but heavier, like the worry hadn't loosened its grip at all.
Her hands had come to rest against his wrists, not pushing him away, just holding onto him... as if grounding herself, that maybe holding him will help her to calm down.
He looked at her for a second longer.
Carefully.
Reading everything she wasn't saying.
Then his grip softened just slightly, one hand sliding a little, not leaving her face, just easing the hold as his voice dropped even lower, softer.
"Shaant ho ja, meri jaan." he said.
This time, his voice carried a different kind of calm. Not just reassurance, but something deeper, something that wrapped around her instead of just reaching her.
"Main hoon na yahan pe."
And before the words could settle completely, he pulled her back into his arms.
Closer.
Firmer.
There was no hesitation in it now. One arm came around her shoulders, holding her securely against him, while the other rested at her back, steady and unyielding. It wasn't just an embrace anymore. It felt like a shield. Like he was placing himself between her and everything that didn't need to reach her.
Ulfat didn't resist.
She didn't speak.
She just let herself fall into him, burying her face against his chest, her fingers gripping onto him a little tighter than before. The world outside that hold blurred for a moment—the courtyard, the noise, the fading evening—all of it slipping somewhere far away.
His presence was solid.
Unmoving.
And for a few seconds... it was enough.
Her breathing slowed gradually, the sharp edge of her worry softening under the steadiness of his hold. She felt calmer, held in a way that didn't ask her to explain anything, didn't ask her to fight her thoughts alone.
But it didn't leave completely.
Something remained.
A quiet unease, sitting deep inside her chest, not loud, not clear—but present. The kind that didn't come with reason, didn't explain itself. It just stayed.
She closed her eyes.
Held onto him a more tighter.
As if she could press that feeling away, as if she could push it out of herself just by refusing to let it grow.
She didn't want to think about it.
Didn't want to give it shape.
Still—
it lingered.
A faint, persistent pull at the back of her mind.
Like something waiting.
Like something not yet seen, but already felt.
And even as she stood there in his arms, trying to let his presence quiet everything inside her—
a single thought stayed.
Unshaken.
Something is going to happen.
It didn't come from logic.
It didn't come from reason.
It came from somewhere instinctive... something she couldn't switch off even if she wanted to.
A mother's instinct.
It settled in her chest without asking, without explaining—just there, pulling at her, whispering. Not loudly. Not clearly. But enough.
Something wasn't right.
Her eyes closed slowly.
She tried to push it away.
That feeling.
That thought.
Tried to tell herself it was nothing. Just worry. Just fear. Just her mind going further than it should.
But it lingered.
Uninvited.
Unshaken.
Like a shadow that didn't belong to the light around them.
Something was off.
She could feel it.
She could feel something big is going to happen...
Or is it so?
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Okay, guys! Chapter 3 is done.
Honestly, I’m not completely satisfied with how it turned out—it feels a bit rushed. I originally wanted to write something more playful and spicy in the third part, but somehow it ended up like this instead.
Also, I WILL NEVER BE OVER FATHER REHMAN. The fatherhood was literally leaking out of him throughout the whole movie… ahem. So yeah, I’ve been wanting to write something like that for a long time.
What do you guys think about Ulfat’s intuition? I’m a huge sucker for comments, so please share your thoughts—I’d love to hear them!
