SHIDDAT — JUNOON, PASSION.
Fandom: Dhurandhar. Word count: 14,500+ Trigger warnings: Implied St@lking, Grphic Vi0lence, Attempted Sxual Assult, Tortre References, Emotional Abüse & Manipulation. Ship: Hamza Ali Mazari / Reader (F). Rating: Explicit. Status: Complete One-Shot. You are NOT ready for this.
Tags: comment to be tagged or removed.
@rishwatkhor @afortoru @torumii @bittermiseryy @legendmoonstone @bway43 @dhoodhsoda @precioussophia @astrellapyxis @anxiousbeeing @youngloreninja @gulaabjamun08 @noor-archive @heartsforyouworld @harrystyleskiwi9 @angelicyuna @willowsgoldenhour
“HINDUSTANI AGENT HO tum?”
[Are you an Indian agent?]
The gun in my hand is a living thing, quivering with a pulse that isn't mine. I can’t breathe. I can’t believe this. The man I loved, the man whose name I wear like a vow, the man I married is nothing but a hollow mask?
The diary is a lead weight in my other hand, pressed so hard against my ribs I can feel the ink staining my soul. I’ve read the names. Every single one. Names of my people. People he befriended with a smile and extinguished with a steady hand.
“Hamza, jawab do!” [Hamza, answer me!]
The yell tears through me. My body is a furnace of rage, a contrast to the chilled air of our living room. The sound of my voice echoes, bouncing off the dimly lit, wide empty halls of a house that was never a home.
And him? He doesn’t flinch. He stands at the threshold for a heartbeat before closing the distance with lazy strides. Like he’s been waiting for this scene to play out since the day he first lied to me.
“Maine kaha tha na tum mujhse koi sawal nahi puchhogi?” [Didn't I tell you that you wouldn't ask me any questions?]
He speaks with a terrifying calm. No tremor. It’s the voice of a man who has rehearsed this scenario a thousand times in a windowless room during training. He isn't my husband right now.
I stumble back, the sleek marble floor slick beneath my feet, my world tilting on its axis. "Tumne sach chhupaya.” [You hid the truth.]
He’s in front of me in a second, a sudden eclipse of light, looming over me. But then, he does something that shatters the last of my resolve. He reaches out, his large hand guiding the cold barrel of the gun until it’s pressed firmly against the center of his forehead.
He’s daring me. He’s looking at me with those steady, unreadable eyes, inviting me to end the lie with a single click. But my finger is lead. I can't do it. Not him. Never him. Because despite the treason—I love him.
The realization breaks me.
The gun almost slips from my sweating palms before he catches it in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the couch behind him like a discarded toy. He’s keeping the danger away from us, or perhaps, keeping me away from my only escape.
“Kyun kiya aisa? Kya bigada tha maine tumhara?” [Why did you do this? What did I ever do to wrong you?]
The question is a plea. My eyes are burning, welling up with tears that I refuse to let shed: not in front of this stranger. The betrayal is a suffocating weight, heavier even than the years of love I poured into this ghost.
“Koi galti nahi thi tumhari. Lekin jaan, main samjha sakta—” [You did nothing wrong. But darling, I can explain—]
The word ‘jaan’ is the final insult. Before the lie can leave his lips, my hand moves on instinct.
Slap.
The sound is violent, a sharp crack that echoes through the hollow halls. His face turns to the side from the force, but he remains terrifyingly silent. He doesn't even move to touch the red mark blooming against his skin.
I collapse. My legs give way and I drop to my knees, hugging myself on the cold, unforgiving marble floor. Make me understand what? That my marriage was a mission? That every "I love you" was a tactical maneuver?
“Tumhara haq hai.” [It is your right.]
He whispers the words like a benediction, devoid of the anger I expected after the slap. But the mercy feels like a second blow. The damage is done.
After a few moments of deafening silence, he sinks onto the floor beside me, and gently pries the leather diary from my frozen fingers.
He turns the pages before he begins to read the names—“Kandahar Hijack, 1999, HuM. Parliament attack, 2001, JeM. 26/11 Mumbai attack, 2008, LeT.” He splats the diary onto the marble with a sickening thud. “Isme se koi ek naam bata do jo begunah hai.” [Tell me just one name in here that is innocent.]
The realization hits me like a physical force. They aren't just names of my countrymen. They are extremist organizations.
I look up at him, ready to scream, but the words die in my throat. Tears? He’s crying? The man who disarms assassins without blinking is shattering right in front of me.
“Tum meri dushman nahi ho, jaan. Dehshadgard hain.” [You are not my enemy, darling. The terrorists are.]
He clarifies the line he’s been walking, his voice thick with a decade of unspoken trauma. “Magar main tumhe nahi rokunga. Mera mission khatam hone ke baad, tum jaa sakti ho. Ho sake toh… mujhe maaf karna.” [But I won't stop you. After my mission is over, you can go. If possible… forgive me.]
He joins his hands in a plea, his rings glinting under the cold light filtering through our floor-to-ceiling glass, begging for a redemption he knows he doesn't deserve.
And that is what burns the most. Even now, with his hands joined in a plea, he is calculating. He is still prioritizing the mission over the wreckage of our life. It was never about us.
“Humare rishte ko khel samjha hai aapne.” [You’ve treated our relationship like a game.]
The words are acid on my tongue. “Apni marzi se aaoge, apni marzi se jaane ko bologe?” [You’ll come as you please, and tell me to leave as you please?] I grit my teeth, violently wiping the moisture from my cheeks. The betrayal is a living thing between us. “Shuruat se hi saazish thi na?” [It was a plot from the very beginning, wasn't it?]
The first time we met, the adrenaline of that midnight bike ride, the way he looked at me under the streetlights.
He can’t look at me. He collapses inward, his hand slapping over his head in a gesture of absolute defeat. A surrender that comes too late. “Main jhoot nahi bolunga. Haan… lekin—” [I won’t lie to you. Yes… but—]
“Lekin kya?” [But what?] I cut him off with a jagged, sarcastic laugh. “Lekin ab bhi pyaar karte ho? Lekin tumne meri zindagi jaan-bujh ke barbaad nahi kari? Aur maafi bhi maang rahe ho?” [But you still love me? But you didn't ruin my life on purpose? And you’re still asking for forgiveness?]
I stand up, “Mujhe afsos hota hai ki maine tum jaise aadmi se pyaar kiya!” [I regret that I ever loved a man like you!]
I reach for my wedding ring. It’s tight, a testament to the years we’ve spent building a lie. I wince, pulling it with a desperation that scratches the skin until a thin line of blood blooms. It’s a shallow sting compared to the hollow ache in my chest. I rip it off and hurl it; it hits the floor with a sharp sound that echoes through the silence.
“Tumhara toh asli naam bhi Hamza nahi hoga.” [Even your real name probably isn't Hamza.]
Nothing. The silence is his confession. I am married to a ghost with a thousand aliases.
I turn my back on him, walking to my room with the last of my dignity. I slam the door and turn the lock. I wait. I wait for him to knock. I wait for him to yell, to beg, to be the man I thought I knew.
But the hallway remains silent. He is an operative, after all. He knows when a target is lost.
✯
I stare at the ring abandoned on the cold marble, a small, silver circle of shattered promises. I pick it up, and wipe my face with the back of my hand before slipping it into my jacket pocket.
Every instinct I have, every bit of the man who loves her, is screaming at me to knock on that door. To beg. To explain. But the agent in me wins. I will give her space. She has survived enough wreckage for one night.
I retrieve the diary, the weight of a hundred deaths in my palm, and retreat to the study. The air here is thin. I take a deep breath, chugging water from a bottle on my desk to wash away the bitter taste of my own lies. I open the laptop, the blue light hitting my face as I begin the transmission.
I share the day’s intel with the spies assigned to Operation Dhurandhar: Lyari Branch, and another encrypted burst to my handlers.
It’s midnight. In this business, a clear head is a weapon, and sleep is a necessity. I turn off the machine and lie on the small bed in the study. I no longer have the privilege of sharing a room with my wife. Exhaustion, heavy and grey, finally claims me.
I wake around seven to the mocking chirp of birds and a muffled, persistent alarm bleeding through the walls from another room. I groan, my body aching from the stiff posture of a soldier even in sleep. I peel off the jacket, the thick vest, and the heavy layers until the flowy kurta and pyjama finally offer some semblance of comfort.
I walk to our bedroom door and knock, my voice gravelly and low.
“Seherzadi, darwaza kholo.” [Princess, open the door.]
No response. The alarm continues its rhythmic torture. I realize then, the lock isn't engaged. I push it open, my heart thumping a jagged rhythm against my ribs. “Kya socha kal raat ke baare mein?” [What did you think about last night?]
I reach for the clock, silencing it, and yank back the covers—
Pillows. Just empty, propped-up pillows.
My face drops. The silence of the room is a physical blow. I am a man trained not to panic, but at this moment, I am completely undone.
I yell her name, the sound echoing through the house as I sprint up the stairs, checking every corner, every shadow. I dial her phone, only to hear it buzzing on the nightstand. What the hell?
I call her father immediately. His voice is calm, irritatingly domestic. “Arey bachche, itni subah call?” [Hey child, a call this early?]
“Meri biwi kahan hai?” [Where is my wife?] I demand, my professionalism stripping away.
“Woh tujhe pata hoga na.” [You would know that, wouldn't you.]
I let out a ragged sigh, my hand trembling. “Main mazak nahi kar raha. Woh yahan nahi hai. Aapke ghar mein hai?” [I’m not joking. She’s not here. Is she at your house?]
“Nahi toh. Kahin gayi hogi, aajayegi wapis.” [No. She must have gone somewhere, she'll be back.]
I shake my head, clutching my long hair, my breathing shallow. “Use sab pata chal gaya.” [She found out everything.]
The silence on the other end is sudden and heavy. “Mere baare mein bhi?” [About me too?]
“Nahi. Sirf mera sach jaanti hai.” [No. She only knows my truth.]
I stare out the window, the world outside looking far too peaceful for the fire burning in my chest.
“Theek hai, shant reh. Koi galat kadam mat utha. Main karta hoon intezam.” [Okay, stay calm. Don't take any wrong steps. I'll make the arrangements.]
The line goes dead.
I hurl the phone onto the rumpled bedsheets and plop down, the springs groaning under the weight of my failure. Another ring. A notification light bleeds through the dimness. It’s Rizwan: Today weapon delivery at 3 PM to Major Iqbal. I almost roll my eyes. Major Iqbal.
Work is the last thing on my fragmented mind. How can I deliver iron when my own foundation has turned to dust?
I reach for her phone again, my thumbs flying over the screen. I scroll through her search history, her tabs, her location pings, but nothing clicks. There is no trail. No digital breadcrumbs. This isn’t a panicked flight; she’s being deliberate. She’s operating with a cold, analytical precision that I recognize all too well. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
I tear through the wardrobe, checking the alignment of her dresses, the stacks of her sweaters. Everything seems in place. No suitcases missing. No heavy coats gone. But then, my hand brushes the back of the mahogany cabinet.
The weight is wrong.
I pull the hidden drawer open. The thick stashes of emergency cash are gone.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. She doesn't want me to track her. She’s gone off the grid. No credit cards. No GPS. Just paper currency and a head full of my secrets.
And this is bad. This is catastrophically bad.
Because she’s out there alone. In a city where the shadows have teeth. In a place where "Hindustani agents" aren't the only ones hunting.
If the news breaks, the dam bursts. It’s that simple. I don’t want the state police sniffing around this, if they find her before I do, she might burn the whole world down just to see me in the ashes. She has the truth, and the truth is a lethal weapon in the hands of a woman who has lost her sanctuary.
But how long can I maintain this hollow silence? My house is a hive of activity—cleaners, chefs, workers, guards—each one a pair of eyes, each one a potential leak. I can’t fire them; a sudden purge of the staff would be a flare in the dark, signaling that something is rotting in the house of Hamza Ali Mazari.
If I mobilize Rizwan and the cell, I’m igniting a forest fire. Spies asking questions at local dhabas and bus stands is how rumors start, and in Lyari, rumors are more effective than the morning news. It will reach the media within hours.
My jaw ticks, the muscle tight and aching. I can’t find her like this. Not through conventional means. Even my father-in-law is a ghost in a suit, performing the theater of politics, attending rallies and shaking hands while his soul is likely screaming. He’s in a tighter vice than I am; he has a constituency to fool.
And then, the darker thoughts, the ones that bring the bitter taste of iron to my mouth. If she falls into the wrong hands... I know what men in this city do to women who are alone and unprotected. The memories of my sisters claw at the back of my mind.
But she isn't them. She is my wife. My mirror. She is fire.
What would I do if I were her? Think, Hamza. Use the brain they trained, not the heart she broke.
A loud, demanding buzz vibrates through the desk. I flip open the laptop, and my heart sinks. Sanyal and Bansal, the twin pillars of Indian Intelligence. The IB and R&AW chiefs, staring at me through the encrypted feed with the cold eyes. Of course my "lovely" father-in-law dragged them into this. He’s looking for a containment strategy, not a daughter.
I join the meeting, my face a mask of granite.
Bansal speaks first, his voice clipped. “Tumhari wife ke baare mein suna. Kya kya jaanti hai woh?” [I heard about your wife. What all does she know?]
I stop pacing, standing rigid in the center of the study. “Sirf itna ki main Indian agent hoon. Koi proofs nahi hai u paas.” [Only that I am an Indian agent. She has no proof.]
“Are you sure?” Bansal leans in, his shadow stretching across the screen. “Jis tarah se bhaagi hai it seems like she knows a lot. Sab kuch re-check karo aur report bhejo.” [The way she fled, it seems like she knows a lot. Re-check everything and send a report.]
I nod, the movement stiff. “Ji sir.” [Yes, sir.]
Then Sanyal breaks in, and his tone is a serrated blade. “Jaskirat... you've fucked up big time. Humare assets ki dhajjiyan udd jayegi if something happens. Do not, I say do not escalate this. Mission is still your top priority. State surveillance ko involve mat hone dena. Kuch hua toh we'll deport you to Dubai. That's the only help we can do right now.” [Jaskirat... you've fucked up big time. Our assets will be torn to shreds if something happens. Do not, I say do not, escalate this. The mission is still your top priority. Do not let state surveillance get involved. If anything happens, we'll deport you to Dubai. That's the only help we can provide right now.]
The screen goes black.
Guns delivery karun? MMP political rally join karun? Handlers ko report bheju? Ya apni mashuka ko dhundhoon? [Should I deliver the guns? Join the MMP political rally? Send the report to my handlers? Or should I find my beloved?]
I pick up a cigarette from the desk and smoke.
I let it burn down until it stings my fingers, then I drown the feeling in a scalding shower. I dress up a fresh kurta, the weight of the formal vest, the long coat.
Breakfast is served, but it tastes like ash. I call the head worker over. I place a thick, heavy stash of cash into her weathered hands. “Saare mulaazimo mein barabar baat dena. Teen mahine ki tankhwah hai. Eid ke baad wapas aana. Main aur ma'am sahab zaroori kaam se bahar jaa rahe hain.” [Distribute this equally among all the workers. It’s three months’ salary. Come back after Eid. Ma’am and I are going out for some urgent work.]
“Shukriya, sahab,” she beams, her gratitude a needle in my chest. “Kahan jaa rahe hain aap dono?” [Thank you, sir. Where are you both going?]
I stop chewing. The lie is cold. “Kabul.”
She nods, satisfied with the romanticized mystery of it, and goes to share the "blessing." I watch them. I am paying for their silence, for an empty house, for the time I need to bleed in private.
By nine, I am at my father-in-law’s. The air is thick with the scent of marigolds and gunpowder. We drive to the rally, a sea of green flags waving in a victory that feels like a defeat. Him and I, the architects of this city’s destiny, standing on the open-roof car with Rizwan as our shadow. I slide on my black sunglasses, hiding the "Jaskirat" behind the "Mazari."
As the car crawls through the narrow, roaring streets, I reach into the bag of currency. I hurl the notes into the air, a rain of paper that buys loyalty. The roar of the crowd is deafening. “Hamza Ali Mazari, Lyari ka baadshah!” [Hamza Ali Mazari, the King of Lyari!]
I grin. It is a practiced, feral baring of teeth. But the uneasiness in my stomach is a coil of snakes. Every cheer is a reminder of how much I have to lose. Every face in the crowd could be a witness to my downfall.
It's twelve noon. The safehouse is a tomb of iron and grease. The workers move with lethal efficiency, packing the trucks with rifles and shotguns. The convoy is ready. One lead car, the trucks in the center, and my car bringing up the rear.
Major Iqbal... you’re finished today. You were the shadow that haunted Mumbai, and today, I am the one who brings the light.
But as the engine roars to life, my mind drifts back to the silence of our bedroom.
Where are you, Seherzadi?
✯
The park at ten in the morning is a cruel sight. It’s filled with the sound of children laughing, pure, uncomplicated joy that feels like a language I’ve forgotten how to speak. I’ve been sitting here since the world was gray and silent, long before Hamza—or whatever his name is—even opened his eyes to find the pillows where I should have been. I left the phone. I just wanted to clear my mind, but the fog only gets thicker.
I need to go home. Not the house of marble and lies, but the mansion I grew up in. I look at the thick stash of cash in my purse, the only honest thing he ever gave me was the means to escape him. I refuse to use his cars, his drivers, his shadow. I find an auto, and the old driver recognizes me instantly. Everyone in Lyari knows the politician’s daughter.
When we pull up to the iron gates of my father’s mansion, I try to pay him, but he waves me off with a smile. “Arey nahi beti, aap se paise thodi lunga.” [No, daughter, I won't take money from you.]
I shake my head, forcing the notes into his hand. “Nahi chacha, rakh lijiye.” [No, uncle, keep it.] I’m overpaying him for a fifteen-minute ride, but I need to shed his money. I need to be rid of everything that tastes like him.
The mansion is quiet, a hollow shell of its former self. I find a worker, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. “Abbu kahan hai?” [Where is Dad?]
The man straightens up, surprised. “Arey baby, aap? Aane waali thi bataya kyun nahi? Baitho, woh toh thodi der pehle hi Hamza bhai ke saath rally mein nikle.” [Oh, Baby, you? Why didn't you say you were coming? Sit, he just left for the rally with Hamza.]
Of course. He isn't looking for me. He’s out there waving flags, shaking hands, and chasing power. The "King of Lyari" hasn't missed a beat. I only nod and walk up the stairs to my old room. It’s exactly as I left it, the aesthetic, the books, the original photography on the walls.
I pace the hallway, eventually drifting into my father’s study. A massive portrait of him with the leader of the MMP stares back at me. I find myself looking at a smaller frame, a photo of me, my mother, and him. A happy family. But I notice a hairline crack in the glass. As I reach for it, my hands tremble. The frame slips, hitting the floor with a violent crash.
The glass shatters, a jagged mirror of my own life. I wince, kneeling to save the old photograph, but as I flip it over, my breath hitches.
There, on the back, is a date. It’s been aggressively crossed out with whitener, a clumsy attempt to bury the past. I dig my nail into the crusty white layer, scratching it away until the ink underneath is revealed.
31. 03. 1989. IN.
My heart stops. March 31st. That’s my birthday.
IN.
India?
I shake my head, my vision blurring. I’m overthinking. Why hide a date? Why use whitener to choke the life out of a simple sequence of numbers? I tear through his desks, flipping through recent legislative papers and MMP memos, but it’s all noise. I check under the heavy mahogany tables, under the bed, clawing at the wood until my nails ache. Nothing.
I move to my mother’s room. It still smells like her, jasmine and old silk, but today, the scent is suffocating. I find it in the back of her wardrobe: the heavy wooden box with the intricate locks. The one she used to scold me for even glancing at. I’ve never seen the keys. I don't need them.
I pick the box up and hurl it against the marble floor with a primal scream. It shatters, the wood splintering like my own heart.
Inside, there are no jewels. I find tiny, delicate red glass bangles, too small for a woman. And then, bracelets of brown, textured beads. I rub one between my fingers. They aren't blueberries.
My breath hitches as I pull out a scrap of paper from the bottom. It’s a charred fragment of an old newspaper, dated 1989. The headline is barely legible through the soot: The Rise of Kashmir Insurgency.
My hands are shaking so violently I can barely hold the last item. It’s an old, grainy photograph of my parents’ wedding. But this isn't the Nikah I was told about. My mother isn't wearing a green sharara. She is draped in a deep red veil, her eyes downcast, and there is a streak of red vermilion, a sindoor, parted in her hair.
I collapse onto the floor, clutching my head.
Who am I? Was any of it real? Every birthday, every prayer, every memory of my childhood, was it all just a script?
What was I made for? I lie on the cold marble, the tiny red bangles biting into my palm. They are small, innocent things, yet they carry the weight of a heritage I was never allowed to claim. I never planned for this. I never planned to leave Hamza, or to walk away from the only family I’ve ever known.
But you cannot stay in a house of glass when the foundation is built on graves. Not once did they feel the urge to tell me. Not the man who shared my bed, not the woman who birthed me, not the father who raised me to be a pawn in his political theater.
I was never a daughter. I was a cover story.
I shove the bangles and the charred newspaper into my purse, my movements jagged. I wipe the tears from my face with a finality that scares me. I’m not forgiving them. I’m not letting them pull me back into the script.
But as I walk down those grand stairs and step out into the heat of Lyari, the question haunts me: Where do I go? I can't run forever, but for now, away is the only direction that doesn't feel like a cage.
I pull my dupatta over my face, a shroud to hide the girl who no longer exists. After walking for blocks, the silence of my grief is shattered by a roar. "Hamza! Hamza!"
I press myself against a brick wall, becoming just another shadow in the street. The rally is a riot of green flags and ego. I see my father, the man who hid my birthright under layers of whitener, dancing with a joy that feels like a slap. And there, standing like a king atop the open-roof car is Hamza. He is throwing money into the air, his face a mask of practiced charisma.
The car passes inches from where I stand. Neither of them looks at me. They are too busy feeding the monster of their own ambition to see the wreckage they’ve made.
As the notes flutter down like falling leaves, I bend down. My fingers brush the dirt as I collect the cash they’ve flung so carelessly. It’s a bitter irony, but I take it. I’ll need it to disappear. I’m using their lies to fund my truth.
Look at you both, I think, watching the dust settle behind their convoy. You think you’ve won. But you will suffer the way I have. You will look for me in every room, in every shadow, and you will find nothing but the silence you used to keep me.
✯
The evening light is a bruised purple, bleeding over the horizon as I stumble toward the mansion gates. My body is a map of pain, a cramped leg that drags with every step, the heavy, metallic scent of Iqbal’s blood still clinging to my skin. I have a thick bandage wrapped around my forehead and shoulders, the white gauze already spotting red from the fight. It was intense. It was primal. But at least the debt of 26/11 is partially paid. One of the main targets is finally cold.
I should feel the rush of victory. Instead, I feel like I’m walking into a trap.
I find my father-in-law in his study. The room is a wreckage. This house, usually a monument to disciplined power, is falling apart. Things are unorganized; drawers hang open like gasping mouths, and the air feels stagnant, heavy with the scent of a secret that’s finally escaped its cage.
He’s pacing back and forth, his face the color of old parchment. "Kya hua, abhi kyun bulaya?" [What happened, why did you call me now?] I question, forcing my spine to straighten despite the agony in my shoulder.
He stops. He won't look me in the eye. "Woh aayi thi," he says, his voice a ragged whisper. "Use sab pata chal gaya hai." [She came here. She knows everything.] He finally turns to me, and for the first time, I see pure, unadulterated terror in the eyes of the man who runs Lyari. "Aur ab humein nahi pata ki woh kahan hai." [And now, we don't know where she is.]
A shiver, cold and jagged as ice, rips down my spine. The room tilts.
She didn't run. She found the truth that I, her father, and her mother have been sitting on for years.
My mind flashes back to the rally. The uneasy feeling. The dirt. The crowd.
How bad can it get?
The mission is compromised. And the woman I called my Mashuka is now the most dangerous person in Pakistan because she has nothing left to believe in.
I drop onto the sofa with a heavy thud. My bandages feel tight, pulling at my skin as I look at the man who is both my handler and my father-in-law. "Sanyal sahab ko malum hai?" [Does Sanyal know?] I ask, my voice sounding hollow in the debris of the study.
He nods, a long, weary sigh escaping his chest. "Batana pada. Bohot bada lafda hogaya hai. Kaise sambhaloon samajh nahi aa raha hai." [I had to tell him. It’s a massive mess. I don’t know how to handle this anymore.]
"Maine sabko bata diya ki main kaam ke silsile se Kabul jaa raha hoon," [I told everyone I'm going to Kabul for work,] I mutter, looking up at him.
He paces, his eyes scanning the room as if the answer is written in the shadows. "Ek kaam kar, kuch din Lyari mein dhoondh Rizwan aur baaki sab ke saath. Agar na mile, toh bahar jana. Tab tak main media aur Lyari sambhalta hoon." [Do one thing: search Lyari for a few days with Rizwan and the others. If she’s not found, then go outside. Until then, I’ll handle the media and Lyari.] He reaches out, his hand patting my shoulder, a gesture that feels more like a warning than comfort.
I nod mechanically, my brain already discarding impossible locations and filtering through the grid of the city. I know her. I know her better than anyone else in this room of liars. Or at least, I thought I did. "Nahi mili toh...?" [And if she isn't found...?]
"Mil jayegi. Tu use dhundh, zinda ya... Bas dhundh." [She'll be found. You search for her, alive or... just find her.] His hand squeezes my shoulder hard.
Zinda ya...
The words hang in the air like a death sentence. My hand curls into a tight, trembling fist. Alive. I wouldn't let anything happen to her. Even if she hates me, even if she exposes me, I cannot let the blackholes swallow her.
The drive back to the house is a suffocating silence. The few security guards standing at the perimeter look like statues of a life I no longer recognize. I don’t even step into the bedroom; I can’t face the smell of her perfume or the sight of the empty vanity. I call Rizwan and Alam immediately. When they arrive, I lay it out in whispers. No obvious questions, no mention of her name to the public. Be vague. Be ghosts.
I ask Alam if she came by the juice shop, but he just shakes his head, his eyes full of a pity I want to claw out. She knows; she’s mapped out my entire social and tactical circle and drawn a red line around it. She’s avoiding every place and every face that smells of "Hamza."
That means we’re searching the "unknown regions", the blind spots of Lyari.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of living in a cramped, rented apartment on the outskirts where the dust is thicker than the hope. I’m staying low-profile. I’m losing it. IB is breathing down my neck, not about my wife, but about the mission. They want to know if I’m moving on the "Bade Sahab" or Dawood. That old hag is the least of my concerns. How can I hunt a terrorist when I’m being haunted by a girl I married?
We pull up to a mid-tier hotel, the kind of place that smells like cheap phenyl and secrets.
"Khushamdeed, Hamza bhai," the receptionist says, his smile too bright for this gloomy lobby. "Aap ke liye kya kar sakta hoon?" [Welcome, Hamza. What can I do for you?]
I take a long, slow drag from my cigarette, the smoke curling around my face like a mask. "Humein khabar mili hai ki humare saath ek gaddaar reh raha hai. Aur abhi woh yahan ghus ke baitha hai. Bas usi ki jaankari chahiye, CCTV footage ke saath." [We’ve received word that a traitor is living among us. And right now, they’re holed up here. I just need the info, along with the CCTV footage.]
The kid pales. "Maaf kijiyega, lekin... humara hotel logon ki raazdari ki ifazat karta hai." [Pardon me, but... our hotel protects the privacy of our guests.]
Rizwan and I share a look, the kind of look that precedes a storm. Rizwan dials a number and slides the phone across the counter. The receptionist picks it up, listens for three seconds, and his spine turns to jelly. "Sir, theek hai." [Sir, okay.]
I scoff, taking the phone back as his face contorts into a frantic, awkward grin. "Mujhe pata nahi tha aap owner ke dost hain." [I didn't know you were a friend of the owner.]
I pat his shoulder, my hand lingering just long enough to let the threat sink in. "Bohot kuch pata karna baaki hai." [There's a lot left to find out.]
He leads us to the back, his footsteps frantic. He shoves open the door to the surveillance room and barks at the staff, "Everyone, out!"
The room clears. The door clicks shut. Just me, Rizwan, and the glowing blue light of a dozen monitors.
Rizwan drops into the swivel chair, his fingers dancing across the keys with a frantic, mechanical rhythm. I pull up another chair, leaning forward as the blue light of the monitors washes over my face. We begin the grueling process of scrubbing through fourteen days of human static.
"Hamza... Yeh kya hai?" [Hamza... what is this?] Rizwan’s voice is thick with a mixture of shock and revulsion.
I almost choke on a lungful of smoke as the grid of screens reveals the hotel's true business. It’s a mosaic of voyeurism, hidden cameras in the rooms, capturing the most private, vulnerable moments of couples who thought they were alone behind a locked door.
"Mehman ki ifazat," [Guest's protection,] I mutter, the sarcasm tasting like poison.
I feel like I need to wash my eyes with soap after this.
"Yeh illegal hai. Mujhe toh lagta hai yeh log in clips ko bechate hain." [This is illegal. I think they sell these clips.] Rizwan is scrolling through gigabytes of exploitation.
Obviously. In a place this derelict, ethics don't pay the electricity bill. But my moral compass isn't the priority right now. I’m looking for a ghost.
"Ruk." [Stop.]
I see it. A flicker of cream-colored silk at the edge of the reception camera. A woman, her face meticulously draped in a shawl, standing at the counter. Even with the graininess of the footage, I’d recognize that stance anywhere, the way she carries herself like a secret waiting to be told. "Date check karo." [Check the date.]
One week ago.
Rizwan pulls the specific logs. We watch her enter, exchange a few words with the man at the desk, and leave within minutes. She didn't check in. She didn't linger. She walked in like a client and walked out like a shadow.
"Kya karne aayi hogi yahan?" [What could she have come here for?] My frustration boils over. I crush the cigarette into the bin, the dying ember a mirror to my own unraveling patience.
Rizwan shakes his head, "Stay karne toh nahi. Kuch help? Ya emergency? Rooms ke footages mein nahi hai." [Not to stay. Some help? Or an emergency? She’s not in any of the room footages.] He lets out a long, heavy sigh. "Kya karein?" [What should we do?]
I look at the screens, at the hundreds of lives being stored like trophies in this basement, ready to be exploited for a few dirty rupees.
"Delete kardo." [Delete it.]
We share a look. A silent pact between two men who have done terrible things for the state but still know where the line is. Rizwan hits the command, wiping the server clean, erasing the shame, the exploitation.
We tear through the ledgers, physical papers that smell of old grease and ink, and find the ticket services. Buses and trains. One week ago, at the exact timestamp we saw her on the grainy screen, a single ticket was booked for North Karachi.
That’s it. North Karachi. A labyrinth of middle-class bustle and anonymous streets. The perfect place for a ghost to lose herself.
The days start to bleed into a gray blur. Rizwan and I have split up to cover more ground, operating like shadows. He’s out there playing the part of a worried brother searching for a "sister" or a nephew looking for an "uncle", always vague, always moving, never letting the name slip past his teeth.
I’m holed up in a new apartment. It’s okay-ish, the kind of place where the walls are a sickly, institutional green and the basic facilities feel like an afterthought. I’ve shed the Mazari skin. I throw a jacket over a plain t-shirt, hide my frame in loose cargos, and slide on a pair of glasses.
I’ve trimmed the beard down to a rough stubble and pulled my hair back into a messy manbun, letting a few strands fall to obscure my face. I don’t look like the King of Lyari anymore. I look like his distant, slightly disheveled cousin.
I walk out into the humid air to run groceries, a task the real Hamza hasn't done in years. But the city is already ahead of me. Thanks to my erratic sleep and the exhaustion weighing down my bones, I overslept. By the time I reach the stalls, the bazaar is a skeleton of itself. Empty crates, discarded leaves, and the lingering scent of damp earth.
I can’t find mushrooms anywhere.
I stand in the middle of the empty market. She loved them. The mushroom sandwiches with curd—no cream, no cheese. That specific, peculiar preference. I’m searching for the ingredients of a life I’ve already burnt down.
"Ae chacha, tees rupaye se zyada nahi dungi." [Hey Uncle, I won't give a rupee more than thirty.]
The voice hits me like a physical strike. It’s a sound I’ve heard in the quiet of our bedroom, whispered against my neck.
I scan the thinning crowd, my heart hammering against my ribs. There. A figure draped in loose kurti co-ords, her face and head swallowed by a dupatta. She is bargaining over... an egg tray? My breath hitches. The Princess of Lyari, the woman who had designers fighting to dress her, is standing in the dust, haggling over thirty rupees.
I want to sprint to her. I want to grab her, shake her, and ask her why she’s doing this to herself, to us.
But I stay rooted. A man in a hoodie and glasses. As she secures the eggs in a flimsy plastic bag and turns away. I follow her, using my height to keep that specific drape of her dupatta in my sights as she weaves through the lingering shoppers.
She doesn't look back. Not once. She stops at the edge of the road and disappears into an auto-rickshaw.
"Shit."
I lunged for the next auto, but the driver just stares at me with a lazy, half-chewed piece of paan in his mouth. "Pura full hoga tabhi jaunga." [I'll only go when it's full.]
I want to slap the indifference right off his face. I don't argue. I reach into my pocket and shove a fistful of excess cash into his hand. His eyes widen.
"Kahan jana hai?" [Where to?]
"Muh band rakh aur jaha bolun waha chal." [Keep your mouth shut and go where I tell you.]
I practically crawl into the cramped back seat, my head cracking against the low metal ceiling. I groan, the pain a welcome distraction from the roar in my ears.
I direct him with sharp commands, making sure we stay three cars back, close enough to keep the yellow-and-black frame of her auto in sight, but far enough that she doesn't see the man who’s been hunting her.
The ride is a chaotic blur of screeching tires and smelling of burnt rubber. My driver is clearly auditioning for the next Dhoom movie. When her auto finally pulls over, I’m out before my driver can even ask for a rating. I keep my distance, my hoodie pulled low, the plastic bag of useless groceries crinkling in my hand as I trail her through a side street.
Then, she stops at a gate. I look up, and the name on the template hits me harder than a bullet: Apna Ghar Women’s Shelter.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. A shelter. A place for victims of domestic abuse, for women fleeing violence and terror. Is that what I am to her now?
Suddenly, she turns. The wind catches her dupatta, pulling the fabric away to reveal the face I’ve been hunting for weeks.
I dive behind a parked truck, heart hammering against my ribs, clutching my bag of eggs and greens like a shield. When I peer back out, the gate is closing. She’s gone.
HONK.
The truck’s horn blares, a loud wavy blast that vibrates through my skull. I flinch, nearly dropping my groceries.
"Hatt sale!" [Move it, you!] I hiss. I kick the massive tire with enough force to bruise my toe. It feels like the entire universe is mocking me.
I shake my head. I can’t meet her like this. I need a plan. I’ll return late tonight, under the cover of real darkness. I’ll sneak in or find a way to get a message to her.
I reach into my pocket for my wallet, hoping for a cigarette or a distraction. Nothing but a few stray coins.
I look at the long, dusty road ahead of me. I’m the King of Lyari, the Babbar Sher of R&AW, and I’m currently broke, hungry, and facing a four-mile walk home because I overpaid an auto-driver.
✯
"Baji, kitni der ho gayi hai. Light band karke so jao." [Sister, it's been so long. Turn off the light and go to sleep.]
The voice of the girl in the next bed pulls me back from the edge of the abyss. She’s barely eighteen, her eyes still carrying the haunted flicker of someone who survived the unthinkable. She calls me "Sister," clinging to me like a life raft in this shared sea of trauma.
My heart aches for her. How do I tell her that I am not like her?
I click off the lamp, plunging the room into a heavy, suffocating darkness. I lie down, but the mattress feels like a bed of needles. Something is wrong. The air in the room feels displaced, as if a secret is breathing right next to me.
I shift, and my hand brushes something hard beneath my pillow. My blood turns to ice. I sit up, my fingers trembling as I pull out a small, folded piece of paper. There is no message written inside, no threats, no pleas. Just a weight.
I open the fold, and the golden glint of the ring catches the moonlight. My wedding ring. The one I hurled at his chest that night in a fit of rage and realization.
I gasp, my palm flying to my mouth to stifle a scream. He’s here. He didn’t just find me. He didn't just enter the building; he touched the very pillow where I lay my head.
I shove the ring into my purse. I slip out of the room, my bare feet cold on the tiled hallway. The corridors of the shelter are a tomb of shadows. I reach the window overlooking the backyard and stop, my breath hitching in my throat.
There, leaning against a beat-up bike by the rusted gate, is a man. He’s smoking, the orange cherry of his cigarette the only light in the darkness. He’s wearing a hoodie, his face obscured, but as he tilts his head back, the streetlight catches his glasses.
I flinch, pressing myself against the wall. It’s him.
Fear, sharp and jagged, slices through me. It’s not just the betrayal anymore; it’s the horror. The news of Major Iqbal’s "mysterious" death has been whispering through the streets. Though I have no sympathy for him. The public heard about a blast, but I know the truth. I know that Hamza didn't just eliminate him; he dismantled him. Both legs chopped, the kerosene, the screaming fire.
I’ve seen him with guns. But that... that was a monster I never knew, the one who doesn't just kill, but erases.
I ran with his secrets, with the truth of his identity. If he did that to a terrorist, what will he do to a wife who holds the detonator to his entire career?
Should I report him? The thought flashes like a warning light, but I hesitate. If I call the authorities, I’m not just calling the police, the media, and my father.
And despite the horror of what he did to Iqbal, he didn’t hurt me tonight. He had the chance to do anything while I was asleep, but he only left the ring.
But I can’t stay. If he can breach a high-security shelter then nowhere is safe.
I wait. Three in the morning, the hour of ghosts and secrets. I pack my life into a single bag: a few clothes, the egg tray, the burnt newspaper, and that cursed gold ring. I slip out of the room, my bare feet silent on the cold floor, heart in my throat.
I head for the front gate. The guards are slumped in their chairs, lost in the heavy sleep of the pre-dawn hours. I move like a shadow, scaling the iron bars.
I drop down on the other side, the impact jarring my bones, and quickly slide into my sandals.
He’s at the back. He won't notice the front. Right?
The Karachi night is a predator. I reach the station, my breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. It’s a graveyard of rusted iron and flickering fluorescent lights that hum with a dying energy. The ticket counter man is a slumped silhouette behind the glass, lost to the world. I don’t risk waking him; I find a discarded slip, a way in, and move toward the platform.
I sit at the very edge of the station, tucked near the overgrown bushes where the light doesn't quite reach. The insects are screaming in the grass, a frantic, rhythmic chirping that matches the tapping of my foot.
Then, the silence is broken by a sound that makes my skin crawl.
"Neele gagan ke tale..." [Under the blue sky...]
A slurred, gravelly voice. A man stumbles into the light, a bottle dangling from his fingertips, his movements loose and unpredictable. I pull my dupatta tighter, shrinking into the shadows, praying to be invisible. Don't look here. Just keep walking.
"Arey waah. Tu train ka intezar kar rahi hai?" [Oh wow. Are you waiting for the train?] He stops, his body swaying like a pendulum. He’s middle-aged, his eyes glassy and roaming.
I don't breathe. I don't answer. I stand up, intent on putting the entire length of the platform between us, but before I can take a step, his hand shoots out. His fingers, smelling of cheap spirits and filth, wrap around my wrist.
"Arey kahan jaa rahi ho jaaneman?" [Where are you going, sweetheart?]
"Haath chhor, haramzade!" [Let go of my hand, you bastard!] I snap, my voice trembling with a mix of fury and terror. I pull back, but his grip is a vice. He’s stronger than he looks, and in this empty station, at three in the morning, I am utterly alone.
This was the last thing I wanted.
"Arey aise kaise chhor de?" [How can I just let you go?] He sneers, "Raat ko akele ghumti ho, saza toh milegi." [You wander alone at night; you must be punished.]
The word Saza snaps something inside me. I have spent my life being "punished" for things I didn't do.
I twist my wrist with a jagged force, catching him off guard, and bring my heel down on his foot with every ounce of my weight.
He lets out a guttural scream, but as I lunge to run, he reaches out and snares the fabric of my dupatta. He tugs it back with a violent jerk. The silk tightens around my throat like a noose. I choke, my airway closing, my eyes welling up with involuntary tears of pain.
"Saali mard pe haath uthati hai?!" [You bitch, you dare raise a hand on a man?!] He spat, his face contorted in a mask of wounded ego. He tightens the grip on the cloth, pulling me toward him.
My free hand claws through the air, finding the neck of the bottle he’s still clutching. I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I grab it and smash it directly against his temple.
The sound of shattering glass is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
He staggers back, the jagged shards and stinging alcohol piercing his skin and flooding his eyes. He howls, clutching his face as he collapses.
I fall to my knees, the pressure on my throat finally vanishing. I gasp for air, my lungs burning, coughing as I curl into a ball on the cold, dirty platform.
The drunkard is on top of me again, his nails digging into my neck like claws. "Tujhe toh pehle maarunga fir chodunga!" [I'll kill you first, then I'll fuck you!] His voice is a distorted snarl.
I try to kick, to scream, but my legs are pinned, and my air is gone.
Then, the weight is gone.
A violent, blurred motion. The man is dragged backward by his hair with such force I hear his neck crack.
"Kya karega?" [What will you do?]
That voice. It’s not the voice of my husband. It's Hamza. I roll onto my side, gasping, the cold station air burning my raw throat as my vision slowly clears.
"Bol na, haram ke pille!" [Speak, you son of a bitch!] Hamza’s boot connects with the man’s ribs. The sound of snapping bone is sickeningly loud in the empty station. The drunkard is coughing blood, his arrogance replaced by the whimpering terror of a dying animal.
"Jaane do bhaijaan, galti hogayi," [Let me go, brother, it was a mistake,] he pleads, crawling backward on the concrete.
"Galti? Aurton ki aabroo chhin kar maafi maang raha hai?!" [A mistake? You're asking for forgiveness after trying to snatch a woman's honor?!] Hamza is vibrating with a rage so pure it’s hypnotic. He isn't thinking like an agent; he’s acting like a deity of vengeance.
He picks up the half-broken glass bottle I used. "Aaj ke baad tu maafi mang ne ke laayak nahi rahega." [After today, you won't be in a condition to ask for forgiveness.]
My eyes widen. Before I can process the movement, Hamza thrusts the jagged glass into the man’s open mouth and punches the end of it. I hear the crunch of teeth and the wet, horrific sound of glass piercing the throat.
"H-Hamza... Ruko!" [Hamza... Stop!] I scream, my stomach churning.
He doesn't hear me. He doesn't see me.
He hauls the man, now a gurgling, faceless mass of blood, to his feet. In the distance, a low, tectonic rumble starts. The train. The light of the engine rounds the curve, blinding and white.
"Hamza, nahi!" [Hamza, no!]
It’s too late. He kicks the man off the platform.
The sound of the train is deafening. The screech of iron on iron, the heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud as the wheels pass over something that was once human.
I feel it, a warm, metallic spray of blood hitting my cheek, my dupatta, my hands.
Hamza stands at the edge of the platform, his clothes splattered with red, his chest heaving, his glasses reflecting nothing but the dark.
Hamza... What have you done?
✯
My chest heaves, every breath a jagged rasp in my lungs with adrenaline.I turn toward her, my boots crunching over the shards of the shattered bottle, the only remains of the man who dared to touch her.
She flinches as I approach, a sharp, instinctive jerk of her shoulders that cuts deeper than any blade. I freeze.
I kneel beside her, the station lights flickering overhead like a dying pulse. I reach for her hand, my fingers trembling. When she doesn’t pull away, I gather her into my arms, pulling her small, shaking frame against my chest.
She doesn't hug me back. She stays limp, a broken doll in a blood-stained sharara, her sobs racking her body in silent, rhythmic waves.
"Mujhe jaane kyun nahi dete?" she questions. [Why won't you let me go?]
"Mohabbat karta hoon," I whisper into her hair. [I love you.]
She shakes her head, the movement weary and hopeless. I pull back just enough to cup her face. My thumb brushes over her cheek, smearing the drying blood that isn't hers.
"Kyun kar rahi ho yeh sab? Tumhare bhaag jaane se sirf mujhe hi takleef nahi ho rahi, tumhare abbu ko ho rahi hai. Tumhe ho rahi hai," I say, trying to find a logic she will accept. [Why are you doing all this? Your running away isn't just hurting me; it's hurting your father. It's hurting you.]
"Mujhe toh yeh bhi nahi pata ki mera asli ghar kahan hai," she whispers, her eyes vacant. [I don't even know where my real home is anymore.]
The screech of the train’s brakes pierces the silence. It’s slowing down, the heavy iron wheels coming to a halt just meters away from the remains on the tracks. Soon, the guards will climb down. People will gather. They will find the "accident," and they will find us. I don't have time for existential crisis.
I grab her hand and haul her to her feet. She stumbles, her legs weak from terror.
"Kahan leke jaa rahe ho?" she asks as I pull her toward the shadows where the bike is hidden. [Where are you taking me?]
"....Ghar," I answer, my grip tightening. [...Home.]
We didn’t go to a terminal. We didn't wait for permission. From the bike, we hit the green-walled apartment just long enough to grab the essentials, the files, and her meager belongings from the shelter.
By the time the Karachi police were probably cordoning off the station, we were deep in the forest near the city limits, boarding a "ghost" plane, unregistered, unmarked, and invisible to the civil aviation radars.
Now, the morning sun of Afghanistan bleeds through the heavy curtains of our hotel room. The air here is different, thin, sharp. We are locked in. The room is a high-security bubble, guarded by men who don't exist on any official payroll.
I’ve freshened up. She’s sitting beside me, swallowed by my oversized t-shirt and pants, looking small and fragile against the backdrop of international espionage. I’m in a tank top and cargos, my hair tied back tight.
The laptop screen flickers to life, the blue light casting sharp shadows against the wall. The grid appears: Sanyal Sahab, looking grim; Bansal, ever the strategist; and her Abbu, whose face is a map of relief and suppressed fury.
I reach out, my hand finding hers on the table. I squeeze it, a firm, grounding pressure. "Daro matt," I murmur, my voice low and steady. [Don't be afraid.]
The meeting connects.
I keep my hand firmly over hers, feeling the frantic pulse in her palm.
"Sab safe hai?" Bansal’s voice breaks the tension. [Is everything safe?] I give a single, sharp nod.
Sanyal doesn't do pleasantries. He leans in, his eyes piercing through the lens. "I'm going to be straightforward. Aap kitna jaanti ho humare baare mein? Aur kya irada tha aapka sab kuch janne ke baad?" [How much do you know about us? And what was your intention after knowing everything?]
I feel her stiffen. Her fingers white-knuckle the hem of my t-shirt.
"Ghabrao nahi. Bas sab kuch sach sach bata do. Hamza ke ghar se kyun bhaagi thi?" Bansal adds, his tone shifting to that of a gentle uncle: a calculated move I’ve seen him use in a hundred interrogations. [Don't be afraid. Just tell us everything truthfully. Why did you run away from Hamza's house?]
"Mujhe fareb mein rakha gaya," she begins, her voice gaining a fragile strength. "Main bhagna nahi chahti thi, lekin fir mujhe pata chala ki Abbu bhi hindustani agent hai. Mujhse yeh bardasht nahi hua, aur..." [I was kept in a web of lies. I didn't want to run, but then I found out Dad is also an Indian agent. I couldn't bear it, and...]
"Aur aap bhaag aayi." Sanyal cuts in, his voice like sandpaper. "Miss, I really sympathize with your situation, magar yeh aapko bhi maalum hai ki yeh kitna khatarnak saabit ho sakta tha." [And you ran away. Miss... you know how dangerous this could have been.]
She nods, a small, defeated movement. "Haan. Lekin main dar gayi thi. Jis din mujhe Hamza ka asli chehra dikha, mujhe laga woh mujhse nafrat karta hai. Woh kuch bhi kar sakta hai mere saath." [Yes. But I was scared. The day I saw Hamza's true face, I thought he hated me. That he could do anything to me.]
"Kya usne kabhi zor zabardusti ki?" Bansal asks, his eyes flicking to me for a split second. [Did he ever use force or coercion?]
The room feels like it’s losing oxygen. She turns her head, looking at me—really looking at me—past the blood of the platform. She shakes her head slowly. "Kabhi nahi. Woh bohot narm dil insan hai. Lekin... Mujhe nahi pata main iss sach ke saath jee paungi ya nahi." [Never. He is a very soft-hearted person. But... I don't know if I can live with this truth.]
The three of them glare at me through the screen. Their silence is a tactical calculation. Her answer wasn't a relief to them; it was a red flag.
Her father clears his throat, the sound rasping through the speaker. "Beta, aapne kisiko humara sach bataya ya batane ka socha tha?" [Child, did you tell our truth to anyone, or even think of telling it?]
She shakes her head, her voice small but steady. "Nahi. Mujhe bass dukh hota hai ki sab ne mujhse sach chhupaya. Main itni bewafa nahi hoon," she looks at me, and the depth of her gaze feels like a dagger through my ribs, "ki apne shauhar ki bali chadha doon." [No. It just hurts me that everyone hid the truth from me. I am not so unfaithful that I would sacrifice my husband.]
I see them lean back in their expensive chairs, a collective sigh of relief passing through the digital grid.
"Case clear hai, lekin abhi bhi kuch doubts hain. Hum ek hafte tak debriefing karenge, fir sochenge aage kya karna hai," Bansal says, his tone clinical. [The case is clear, but there are still doubts. We will conduct a debriefing for a week, then decide what to do next.]
My temper snaps. "Usne jawab de diya hai. Aur kya chahiye aapko?" [She has given her answer. What more do you want?]
"Hamza, you know how dangerous this is," Bansal counters, his voice hardening. "We are only holding back because she’s your wife and his daughter. Otherwise, she would be under direct Analysis Wing surveillance, isolated, or worse, elimi—"
"Bansal Sir," I cut him off, my voice a low, dangerous rumble. "With all due respect, I understand the gravity of this situation. Look at her, she’s under immense mental stress, and all you’re concerned about are reports and protocols."
"Fine then. You’ll handle it."
“I—” The words die in my throat. The irony is suffocating. I’ve been ordered to interrogate my own wife, the woman I just committed a public execution to save.
Sanyal rubs his face, the fatigue of a decades-long lie finally showing. "Hamza, calm down. We’ve already broken so many protocols. Take care of her and yourself. Prepare the reports, then we’ll decide."
Beside me, I feel the shift in her energy. She looks up at the screen, her eyes flashing. "Aap logon ne pehle se hi sab decide kar liya na?" Her voice is trembling with a mixture of rage and heartbreak. "Mere paida hone se lekar aaj tak, sirf ek mission ka hissa rahi hoon main. Ek beti nahi, ek biwi nahi—sirf ek mohra." [You’ve already decided everything, haven't you? From the moment I was born until today, I’ve only been part of a mission. Not a daughter, not a wife—just a pawn.]
The silence that follows Sanyal’s words is toxic. "Agar aap mohra nahi banna chahti... toh khiladi banna padega." [If you don't want to be a pawn... you'll have to become a player.]
It’s the coldest recruitment pitch I’ve ever heard.
He’s looking at a woman who just survived a physical assault and a psychological collapse, and he's asking her to join R&AW.
"Aap mein haya hai? Is haalaat ko bhi mauke mein badalna chahte ho?" she snaps back, her voice trembling with a righteous fury that makes even Bansal look away. [Do you have any shame? You want to turn even this situation into an opportunity?]
Sanyal doesn't blink. He has no shame; he only has objectives. "Kisi ki side toh leni hogi. Aap wapis kahan jana chahogi? Pakistan ya Hindustan?" [You’ll have to take a side. Where would you want to go back? Pakistan or India?]
"Mujhe nahi pata... mujhe nahi pata mera ghar kahan hai." [I don't know... I don't know where my home is.]
Then, her father speaks. His voice is different now, no longer the powerful politician of Lyari, but a man haunted by the ghosts of a burning province. "Tere paida hone ke kuch mahine baad 1989 mein Kashmir mein dar ka mahol tha... Army mein tha, ghar jala diya gaya tha mera." [A few months after you were born in 1989, there was an atmosphere of fear in Kashmir... I was in the Army, my house was burnt down.]
I feel her hand go cold in mine.
"Sanyal sahab ne zindagi jeene ka ek aur mauka diya... Pakistani siyasat mein ghus ke yahan ki khabre un tak pahunchana. Magar apne pariwar ko alvida keh kar." [Sanyal Sahab gave me another chance to live... to enter Pakistani politics and send news to them. But at the cost of saying goodbye to my family.]
He looks at her through the screen, his eyes glistening. "Main ziddi tha, tujhe aur apni biwi ko saath le aaya. Socha tha ifazat karunga, apne desh ki aur parivaar ki bhi." [I was stubborn; I brought you and your mother along. I thought I would protect both, my country and my family.]
"Ifazat? Mujhe jhoot mein paal ke? Mera naam, mera mazhab, mera desh, sab jhoot tha?" [Protection? By raising me in a lie? My name, my religion, my country, all of it was a lie?]
She doesn't wait for an answer. She doesn't look for comfort. She pulls her hand out of mine.
She turns her head just enough for the camera to catch her eyes. "I'm sorry to say this, sir, but you only care about assets, not the person behind them."
The screen remains frozen for a heartbeat. I can see the frustration on her father's face and the detachment on Sanyal’s.
"Bohot hi baaghi ladki paali hai aapne," Bansal mutters to her father, his voice dripping with the annoyance of a handler whose "asset" has suddenly developed a soul. [You've raised a very rebellious girl.]
Sanyal simply clears his throat. He doesn't take offense; he just adjusts the variables. "Usse pucho aur confirm karo woh kya chahti hai. Jo woh chahegi, uska report banakar bhejo. Fir hum decide karenge." [Ask her and confirm what she wants. Send a report of whatever she chooses. Then we will decide.]
"You won't take extreme actions," I warn.
Sanyal doesn't argue. He doesn't promise. He just smirks, that same cold, knowing smirk he gave me when he pulled me off death row and the call cuts to black.
The laptop lid clicks shut, a finality that leaves us in the heavy, airless silence of Kabul. I walk toward her, my shadow stretching across the floor until it touches the hem of my t-shirt she’s wearing.
She doesn't turn around. "Unhone tumse bhi yehi sawal poocha tha na?" she questions. [They asked you the same question, didn't they?]
I stop a step behind her. The truth isn't just a mission requirement anymore; it's the only thing left between us. I nod, the movement stiff. "Bayees saal ka tha tab. Sirf behen aur maa thi, papa aur didi ko maar diya... bara mardo ki laashein bichha di." [I was twenty-two. Only had my sister and mother left; they killed my father and sister... I laid out twelve bodies.]
I describe the death penalty, the trade with Sanyal, the 30,000 rupees that bought my soul and my family’s safety. I tell her how I thought I’d be back home in months, but the years turned me into a shell. "Bacha toh sirf junoon, apne desh ko ifazat rakhne ka junoon." [All that remained was a passion, a passion to keep my country safe.] I look at her silhouette. "Fir tum mil gayi." [Then I found you.]
She turns then, her eyes searching mine with a terrifying clarity. "Mere milne se sab theek hogaya?" [Everything became okay because you met me?]
A dry, hollow chuckle escapes me. "Bigad gaya. Lekin jo mohabbat maine tumse ki woh sachchi hai." [It got worse. But the love I felt for you is real.]
The air shifts. The ultimate barrier is about to fall. "Mera asli naam janna chahogi...?" [Do you want to know my real name?]
She blinks.
"Jaskirat," I say.
The name hangs in the room. She says nothing. She just looks away, the weight of the lie settling on her shoulders. "Aur mere asli naam ka kya?" [And what about my real name?]
I smile, though it feels like a fracture. "Woh bhi hai mere paas." I walk to the luggage and pull out the birth certificate, the one that had been tucked away with her bangles. I hand it to her.
She reads it, her eyes filling with tears as she sees the name and the origin that were stolen from her in 1989. "Koi fayda nahi. Sab khatam ho chuka hai. Woh log mujhe maar denge." [It's no use. Everything is over. They will kill me.]
"Nahi," I say, my voice turning into a serrated edge. "Main jaanta hoon R&AW ke system ko. Woh extreme decision nahi lete jab tak liability ka proof na ho. Fikr matt karo, main reports mein sab sambhal lunga." [No. I know the R&AW system. They don't take extreme decisions unless they have proof of a liability. Don't worry, I'll handle everything in the reports.]
She looks up at me, her eyes raw and red. "Itna bharosa hai mujh par? Tumhare ghar se bhaagi thi main. Kahin maine kisi ko tumhara sach bata diya toh?" [You trust me that much? I ran from your house. What if I told someone your truth?]
I lean in, my face inches from hers, "You won't dare, jaan. We both know it.”
✯
Two weeks in Kabul.
I’ve spent my days wandering the perimeter of this hotel suite, a ghost in oversized clothes, watching him. He thinks I’m not looking, but I see the blue light of the laptop screen reflecting off his glasses late into the night.
I caught a glimpse of the file once. The official R&AW header, the cold, clinical font. He wasn’t writing about his wife.
FIELD REPORT: ASSET EVALUATION
Subject: [Redacted]
Status: Post-Extraction / Kabul Safehouse
Behavior: Neutral, detached; currently exhibiting high levels of acute mental stress.
Liability Assessment: Low. Exhibits impulsive behavior under emotional duress but shows zero inclination toward disloyalty or state-level betrayal.
Recommendation: Minimal surveillance required. Subject to remain under the direct supervision of [Hamza] to ensure stability.
It’s a strange, suffocating kind of love. He is trying to save my life, but he is doing it by turning me into a case file. He is protecting me from Sanyal, yet he is studying me like a specimen under a microscope.
Tonight, the sky finally breaks. I walk out onto the balcony, the Afghan night air sharp and cold. The thunder is a low, distant rumble, a warning from the mountains. As the first tiny droplets of rain touch my face, I feel a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold.
"Seherzadi, andar aa jao. Thand lag jayegi." [Princess, come inside. You’ll catch a cold.]
His voice drifts from the room, steady and commanding, but I don't move.
I’m tired of being told where I’ll be safe. I haven't let myself breathe, truly breathe, since the night in Lyari when the world turned upside down.
I reach up and pull the tie from my hair, letting it spill over my shoulders. I step further into the rain, letting the downpour soak through my kurti and shorts, the water grounding me to the earth.
I can feel his presence before I see him, the weight of his gaze as he leans against the doorframe, watching me reclaim a piece of myself.
I look over my shoulder, my hair plastered to my neck, the rain stinging my eyes. "Maine mann bana liya hai," I say, my voice cutting through the sound of the storm. "Mujhe Vancouver jana hai." [I’ve made up my mind. I want to go to Vancouver.]
I don’t choose India. I don’t choose Pakistan. I choose the only place that doesn't demand I be a lie.
The rain is turning into a deluge. I see the muscle in his jaw ripple, a violent twitch that I’ve learned to recognize as Hamza's battle with himself.
"Vancouver? Akele? Tumhe lagta hai Sanyal tumhe ek civilian ke tarah jaane dega?" [Vancouver? Alone? Do you think Sanyal will let you go like a civilian?]
I turn to face him fully, the water dripping from my chin, my eyes locked onto his. "Tum hi ne toh kaha tha reports sambhal loge. Toh sambhalo na, Jaskirat. Apni mashuka ko azad karo." [You were the one who said you’d handle the reports. So handle them, Jaskirat. Set your beloved free.]
He steps closer, the rain drenching his tank top, clinging to the heavy muscles of his shoulders. He doesn't care about the cold anymore. "Azad? Kisse? Mujhse azad hona chahati ho tum? Tum samajhti ho ki maine tumhe qaid karke rakha hai?" [Free? From whom? You want to be free from me? You think I’ve kept you imprisoned?]
His voice breaks at the end, a vulnerable sound that I’ve never heard from the King of Lyari. He sounds... hurt. Like a boy who just realized his favorite bird wants to fly away from the golden cage he spent his life building.
I shake my head, my wet hair slapping against my cheeks. "Tumse azadi nahi. Sab se. Jhooth ke mohtaj se behtar akelapan hai." [Not freedom from you. From everyone. Loneliness is better than being dependent on a lie.]
He takes a deep breath, "Fir wapas India ya Pakistan aana mushkil hoga. Ek do saal ki baat nahi hai, tumne settle hona hoga." [Then coming back to India or Pakistan will be difficult. It’s not a matter of a year or two; you’ll have to settle.]
"Ho jaungi." [I will.]
"Mere bagair?" [Without me?] He stops himself, the word hanging in the air between, "Jaan, main khudgarz nahi hoon. Magar apna sab kuch khoya hai, tumhe nahi khona chahta." [Jaan, I’m not selfish. But I’ve lost everything; I don't want to lose you.]
"Mujhe pata hai," I say as a flash of lightning illuminates the skyline, turning his face into a mask of pure, tragic resolve. "Chahe jo ho jaye, tum apna maqsad intikhab karoge." [I know. No matter what happens, you will always choose your mission.]
"Main..." He stops, the word caught in a throat that has barked orders and silent threats for years. "Don't make me choose between my nation and my love."
"You'll have to. I've made my choices too," I reply. My voice is steady, even as my heart hammers against my ribs. I’ve chosen a life that hasn't been written for me by a handler. I’ve chosen the truth, however cold it may be.
He shakes his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "Kamal karti ho, jaan. Mujhe aise waham mein daal diya ki main majboor ho jaun. Mein tumhe dhundhne aaya tha, aur ab bhi tum mujhse dur bhaag rahi ho." [You’re incredible, my life. You've put me in such a dilemma that I feel helpless. I came to find you, and even now, you’re running away from me.]
"Tum mujhe dhoondhne nahi aaye the, Hamza," I say, "Tum yeh dekhne aaye the ki main tumhare bagair kaise jeeti hoon." [You didn't come to find me, Hamza. You came to see how I live without you.]
He stares at me, his eyes wounded. "Galat faimee hai, jaan. Mujhe poora bharosa hai ki tum mere bagair aaram se jee sakti ho, lekin main nahi jee sakta. Ek mahina tumhare bina murjhaye gulaab jaise guzara hai maine." [That’s a misunderstanding. I’m fully confident you can live comfortably without me, but I can't live. I've spent a month without you like a withered rose.]
The imagery of the withered rose, so unlike the "SHER-E-BALOCH," so unlike the "Hamza", stabs at me.
I feel the pull of him, the gravity of a love that has endured blood and betrayal. "Tumne jhooth bola tha, Hamza. Shuru se." [You lied, Hamza. From the beginning.]
"Haan," he gulps, the sound audible over the rhythmic thrum of the rain. "Kya tum mujhse pyaar karti yeh jankar bhi ki main Hindustani agent hoon?" [Yes. Would you have loved me knowing I was an Indian agent?]
"Nahi na..?" [No, right?]
"Nahi!" I yell, the word tearing from my throat. "Lekin ab bhi karti hoon. Kya woh kaafi nahi hai?" [No! But I still do. Isn't that enough?]
He looks at me, his eyes searching mine for a logic he can't find. "Fir yeh sab kyun?" [Then why all this?]
"Kyunki tumne jhooth bola!" My voice breaks, "Humari shaadi ke baad, ek baar bhi khud se mujhe bata diya hota ki tumhari sachchai kya hai, toh main tumhe maaf kar deti. Lekin tumne woh sach chhupaya, jab tak ki mujhe pata nahi chala." [Because you lied! After our marriage, if even once you had told me your truth on your own, I would have forgiven you. But you hid that truth until I found out.]
The tears come then, hot and stinging, mixing instantly with the rain so that neither of us can tell where the storm ends and my grief begins.
Then, the unthinkable happens.
The man who dismantled twelve men without blinking, drops. His knees hit the wet concrete with a heavy, dull thud.
"Main haar gaya hoon tumhare saamne, jaan." [I have lost before you, my love.] His voice is a low, broken rasp. "Mujhe zindagi bhar afsos rahega ki humara rishta kamil nahi ban paya. Sab jhooth tha, lekin mere kasmen nahi. Tumhe tadpaya hai, uski jo saza chaho de do, lekin yeh mat bolna ki mohabbat sirf tumne ki." [I will regret all my life that our relationship couldn't be complete. Everything was a lie, but not my vows. I’ve made you suffer; give me whatever punishment you want, but don't say that you were the only one who loved.]
He reaches out, his hand touching my feet in a gesture of absolute, soul-crushing submission. I flinch, my back hitting the cold iron railing of the balcony. The sight of him, this giant of a man, this lethal weapon, reduced to a beggar at my feet, makes my stomach turn.
"Ab kuch nahi hone wala," I say, my voice shaking so hard it’s barely a whisper. "Shayad main tumhe maaf kar doon, lekin mujhe uss sheher wapas nahi jana." [Nothing is going to happen now. Maybe I’ll forgive you, but I don’t want to go back to that city.]
He looks up at me. The lightning flashes, illuminating the distended vein on his forehead and his eyes, which are bloodshot with a mix of exhaustion and agony. "Tumhare lab se sunna chahta hoon ki mera pyaar jhootha nahi." [I want to hear from your lips that my love wasn't a lie.]
"Tum jaa sakti ho," he says, his voice barely audible over the wind. "Main nahi rokunga. Tumhare pichhe aaya tha kyun ki darr tha, apne sach se parda hatne ka. Lekin ab woh dar bhi nahi raha. Bharosa karta hoon tum par. Shayad main tumhari maafi ka haqdaar nahi. Lekin bas ek baar bol do ki..."
[You can go. I won't stop you. I came after you because I was afraid, afraid of the veil being lifted from my truth. But even that fear is gone now. I trust you. Perhaps I don't deserve your forgiveness. But just once, say that...]
He leaves the sentence hanging, a desperate plea for the only thing that can keep his soul intact. He doesn't want his freedom; he wants his love to be validated before I vanish into the Vancouver fog.
I look down at him, "Tumhara pyaar sach tha..." I say, the words tasting like rain and salt. "Magar poora nahi."
[Your love was true... but it wasn't complete.]
Because a love built on shadows can never be whole. It was real, it was fierce, but it was fractured from the very first day.
He simply nods, a sharp, jerky movement of his head. He accepts the verdict like a man accepting a sentence he knows he earned. He stands up slowly, his height returning, but his spirit staying behind on the floor.
"Kabhi main yaad aaun toh... aa jana."
[If you ever remember me... come back.]
He joins his hands in a final, quiet gesture of respect, a goodbye. Then, he looks away, his gaze fixing on the dark horizon, letting the rain wash over him as he prepares to write the report that will let me go.
✯
Vancouver doesn't have the suffocating heat of Karachi. It is a clean, biting cold that smells of salt and pine. For three years, I have lived a life that is finally, undeniably mine.
Sanyal evidently decided that a silent civilian in Canada was better than a martyr in Lyari. The report Jaskirat wrote must have been a masterpiece of manipulation, because I walked into this country with an Indian passport and the name from my birth certificate.
Then, three weeks ago, the nuke hit the global headlines. The D-Company mastermind, found dead in a secure location. Cause of death: Unknown. I sat in my small apartment, staring at the screen until the pixels blurred. I knew. I knew the "Wrath of God" had finally finished the job he started twenty years ago.
I reach the door to my apartment, my hands trembling as I fumble with my keys, only to find the bolt already turned. My heart hammers against my ribs, that old, familiar panic rising in my throat. I push the door open, my eyes scanning for a threat, but instead, I am hit with a scent that stops my breath.
It’s the earthy, savory aroma of mushrooms. I walk toward the kitchen, my sandals silent on the wooden floor. There, standing over the stove, is a man who looks like he has emerged from a decade of war.
His hair is longer, spilling over his shoulders in dark waves; his beard is thick, hiding the sharp jawline I used to trace in the dark. He’s wearing a simple sweater, his silhouette broader, more rugged.
He’s cooking them with curd. Just the way I liked.
He looks at me, and I see the toll the last three years have taken.
"Teen saal diye the apne aap ko dhoondhne ke liye... Mila kya?" [You gave yourself three years to find yourself... did you find anything?]
The softness in his voice is my undoing.
I step closer, the distance between us shrinking for the first time in years. "Jise dhoondhna chahti thi woh nahi mili, lekin meri asaliyat mil gayi hai. Mujhe achcha lagta hai yahan rehna." [I didn't find the person I was looking for, but I found my reality. I like living here.]
"Kisi ki kami mehsus nahi hoti?" [Do you not feel the absence of anyone?]
I look away, "Hoti hai, thodi bohot. Lekin mera bachpan se sapna tha, apna ghar ho jahan koi pareshani naa ho." [I do, a little bit. But it was my childhood dream to have a home where there’s no trouble.]
He nods, his gaze never leaving my face. "Tumne kaha tha na ki mera pyaar pura nahi hai? Aaj main pura hoon. Kya tum mere saath chalna chahogi?" [You said my love wasn't complete? Today, I am complete. Would you like to come with me?]
"Maine tumhe maaf nahi kiya." [I haven't forgiven you.]
"Koi baat nahi. Main zindagi bhar intezar karunga," he says, stepping into my space, his presence as overwhelming as ever. "Itna intezar kiya hai, ab thoda aur." [It's okay. I will wait a lifetime. I've waited this long, now just a little more.]
I look up at him, and the walls I built finally crumble. For the first time, I am the one who reaches out. I wrap my arms around his waist, burying my face in his chest, feeling the steady, thundering beat of his heart. He pulls me in, his touch firm and possessive, yet incredibly gentle. I have missed this, the safety of his arms, the scent of him, the way the world seems to stop when he’s near.
"Ab bhi jhoot bolte ho?" [Do you still tell lies?]
"Thoda kam bolta hoon." [I lie a little less.]
I pull back just enough to look at him, the reality of his presence finally sinking in. "Yahan kaise aaye?" [How did you get here?]
He gives me that look, the one that reminds me he was trained by the best shadows in the subcontinent. "Hotel staff surveillant hai, duplicate keys maang liye." [The hotel staff is under surveillance; I asked for duplicate keys.] Of course.
"Aur baat rahi Dhurandhar ki, toh mera mission poora ho chuka hai," he continues, his voice grounding me. "Abhi bhi R&AW ke under hoon, lekin informant hoon. Koi mission sign nahi kiye. Karne kaa irada bhi nahi." [And as for the 'Dhurandhar,' my mission is complete. I'm still under R&AW, but as an informant. I haven't signed any missions. And I have no intention to.]
I nod, absorbing the weight of his choice. "Toh kya irada hai?" [So, what is your intention?]
"Tumhe har khushi dena... Agar tum izazat do." [To give you every happiness... if you give me permission.] He holds me gently.
I look him dead in the eye. "Izazat hai... Lekin gustakhi ki, toh main tumhe iss imarat se fek dungi." [Permission granted... but if you commit any insolence, I’ll throw you off the building.]
He chuckles, a warm, genuine sound that vibrates through his chest. "Manzoor hai. Tumhe shaq ki gunjaish nahi hogi." [Accepted. You won't have any room for doubt.]
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a familiar glint of gold. It’s the same ring. I notice, with a sharp pang in my chest, that he’s still wearing his. He doesn't ask; he just waits. I give him my hand, and he slips the ring back onto my finger. It fits perfectly, as if the last three years of distance never happened.
He brings my hand to his mouth, lingering there with a soft, lingering kiss on my knuckles. I scoff, trying to hide the fact that my heart is doing backflips inside my ribs.
When our lips meet, it isn’t the soft, tentative kiss of a reunion; it is an explosion of suppressed longing. I still feel the butterflies, that jagged, electric thrill I thought I had buried, and I feel his pulse quickening against my palms, a rapid-fire staccato that betrays his composure.
My fingers tighten on his shirt, the fabric stretching taut over the hard, familiar planes of his muscles. He is broader now, more solid, a man who has carried the weight of the world and finally found a place to set it down.
"Kitna bechain tha tumhare bina..." he rasps against my skin, his voice a low, primal vibration. [How restless I was without you...]
His teeth sink into the curve of my neck, a sharp, possessive claim that makes a whimper catch in my throat. I don't pull away. Instead, my hand threads through his long hair, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to the only truth I have left.
He pulls back just a fraction, his eyes dark with a hunger that is both terrifying and beautiful. I frown at the loss of contact, my breath hitching in the small space between us.
"Aage badh sakta hoon?" [Can I go further?]
I nod.
He picks me up, my feet leaving the floor as he lifts me onto the cool marble of the counter. The contrast of the cold stone against my skin and the furnace-heat of his body makes me gasp. His hands move with tactical precision, unzipping my dress, unclasping the constraints of my bra until I am as bare before him.
He parts my legs, settling between them with a heavy, grounded presence, and I instinctively lock my heels into his hips, pulling him into the epicenter of my world.
He leans in, his forehead resting against mine, his breath mingling with my own.
[What brought me back to you is the intensity of my love.]
"Tumhare paas jisne mujhe lautaya, woh mere ishq ki SHIDDAT hai."
