#zakirthreads

@ the weiss wedding @boneyardstarters

Zakir thought weddings were beautiful. Whether it was because he had gone to his fair share both at home and here, or because his parents had married for love, he did not know. But he found himself basking in the luxury of the celebration. He’d taken out his notebook far too many times to write down small details and phrases. And he found himself to be exceptionally romantic. He felt the need to confess his undying love to someone. Anyone really. To serenade somebody - he’d seen Alice around but he instead tried to avoid her.

However, the pink cloud he was on quickly dissipated when Romi Weiss finished her speech. Zakir bit his lip and frowned as if he’d just eaten a sour apple.

“It doesn’t matter how fine the words are, if you fail to perform, they cannot save you,” he commented, mostly out of awkwardness for the speaker. “Not everyone is a born speecher,” he added.

Zakir contented himself with music any day or evening he wasn't otherwise engaged: when he wasn't doing shows, recording in his home studio, giving his attention to Anchali, or performing his duties for Dead Hand. The latter taking up the most of his time despite how he had no interest in pursuing a life of crime, it was merely a means to an end: a stepping stone to his eventual career. It was a necessary one, an opportunity he could neither ignore nor take for granted.

He was nursing a mocktail he'd randomly picked off the menu and had clapped his hands together for the last act to have grazed the stage, before the room returned to a more relaxed atmosphere.

Zakir laid down flat on the bed beside her, notebook in his hand, pen between his teeth as he looked up at Anchali. He studied her through his glasses, a friend he never thought he'd have in New York City, someone who was as connected to his youth as the music he'd listened to growing up. Someone who he felt he knew everything about, while in turn she had a connection to him that wasn't as new as the city he'd made his home in the last decade.

He felt lazy, body sleepy from last night's concert, while his brain was popping with fresh ideas, words, sentences, stories, all of it running around in different languages. The stream of consciousness calming somewhat in Anchali's company. "Will you pay attention if I ask loud enough, or ignore me in a whisper?" he asked. He smiled, as he wrote it down. "You seem distracted, Māśūqa, are you okay?"

He was distracted himself, could feel the weight of this crime business, the death of a leader. Things felt tighter, to points where he returned home and realised he finally felt like he could breath. At least doing shows and battles or recording new things helped to push it down. But it was still there, a dark hole trying to pull him in, and it had him, in part, slowing down time enough that it almost felt like he wasn't falling. But in comparison to others, he was protected, walking a fine line, important. If something happened with Sawayama, he could still prove useful to others. After all, he was a polyglot, languages in a multicultural city like New York City held importance. They could be used, more than words with hidden meanings, but bridges.

Zakir took his breaks when the council members went back into their meetings and they didn't need a third secretary to man the phones. It was a small window, but enough for him to run out to the coffee shop accross the street, buy the cheapest black coffee they had, fill it up with four packages of sugar, and still have enough time to sit on the bench in front of the building in the sun and relax. He had his sunglasses on, eyes closed, and both arms leaning on the back of the bench, the coffee steaming beside him. He let out a contented sigh.

"Feel free to sit on this bench too, there is no better place to get a good face-full of vitamin D, bhai," he said as a shadow fell over him. "But I do need you to move out of the way because I'm on a strict time limit and I need it to survive."

the glitter gulch, 30th of may

Zakir had never even seen a bull. Well, not a mechanical that was. He’d seen plenty cows and bulls back home. The idea of riding one had always felt a bit odd and out of the question given his Hindu/Islamic upbringing. No pigs, no cows, was his Mother’s slogan.

But this wasn’t a real bull.

So he’d, with his thrown-together cowboy outfit including boots and a hat, entered the ring and sat atop the bull, knowing full well that he wouldn’t last that long.

They’d barely given him time to secure himself ontop of the thing before it started and he was thrown off... well, basically in the first second it felt.

Then ushered out of the ring for the next person.

His hat had gone flying - so much for looking dashing while riding a mechanical bull - and disorientated after the fall, he simply walked up to the first person hoping to retrieve it. "You wouldn't happen to have see a cowboy hat flying this way, would you?"

Zakir hadn't minded that his uncle's debt had led him to the life of a secretary for the Las Vegas city council. It could've been worse. At least it was a steady job, at least within a few years he could pay it all off and do something he might get more joy out of. But some days, some days were just rough. Some days he really didn't want to pick up the phone, and he'd return home with a giant headache.

And very little could do away with the pain.

Except for company. Good company.

He handed Alice the mug of steaming chai and put his own on the coffee table before collapsing back into the couch. "Alhamdulillah, I'm so glad the day is over," he said, as he massaged his temples, then leaned sideways and stared at Alice. "I'm so glad you didn't so no to my invitation."

Not having heard a mention of the Golden Tears in the UNN news item, Zakir figured it would be safe enough for him to move from his home in the Mawar District to his next show. Safe most certainly, but definitely not easy. He wasn't some award winning rapper with a crew at his disposal, with a car that he could simply hop into that would take him to his destination.

He was reliant on the Mawar Underground. And so far, aside from the usual delays, he hadn't yet experienced any big disruptions.

But now everything was checked continuously by the Overseers, and even a few blocks seemed to be a minefield. He sighed as he hit the next road block, cursing in Hindi as he sought a way through. "As if the thieves wouldn't already be safely hauled up somewhere," he commented, crossing his arms. He was going to be late.

Zakir took a deep breath, his throat felt dry after all the talking, his mind bubbling with words and conversations in three different languages. He could do this all day, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t also drown a whole tub of water. He coughed as the cold air hit his lungs and stopped dead short of following Ryuji away from the dingy abandoned packaging building. “That was a long meeting, ya’ani–” he coughed again. “Ya’ani, I could use some water.” He pulled his jacket tightly against him, the persona he’d crafted slowly fading away through the exhaustion. He never could prepare for these things, that wasn’t how the criminals worked. For a job maybe, for a heist perhaps, but for a meeting as a translator. No, he could be called out of his bed at 4am and be expected to give his full attention to the matter at hand. If he couldn’t discern Hindi from Gujarati, he might as well not show up.