#zayan

My babiezzzzz 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

A Fix-It Dhurandhar Fic

Summary:

'Balidaan Parmo Dharma,' the mantra had long been carved into his heart with blood, sweat and tears. Jaskirat Singh Rangi had lived by that. Hamza Ali Mazari had lived by that. Too bad Yalina didn't agree. (aka what if instead of ending up with no families, Jaskirat had ended up with two families?)

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Pathankot was hot. Terribly so. It was a dry, raspy heat, the kind that got under your skin and prickled, carrying none of the humidity to which she was so accustomed. It reminded her of the one summer she’d spent in Lahore as a child. 

The dhaba was a modest place, with straw cots, peeling wall-paint and no air conditioning. No menus either- instead, the server verbally rattled off all the available items. But the food was good. Though Yalina did not see the appeal of piping hot food in this steaming hot weather, she did not know how other people bore it.  

A sudden laugh broke out from the large group sitting in the corner and Yalina startled, automatically drawing Zayan closer to herself. Suspicious, too suspicious, she chided herself and forced her limbs to loosen up. She tore a piece off the kulcha, scooped some chole onto it and held it up to Zayan’s mouth. Distracted by his new videogame, he absentmindedly accepted the bite. Her fingers broke off another piece and brought it up to her own mouth, chewing mechanically and forcing it down her gullet.  

‘On edge’ didn’t even begin to describe her state right now. Pathankot was an army town, which meant that the only other people in the dhaba, the group in the corner, were dressed in Indian army uniforms. Five men and one woman, all appearing to be in their twenties. Their chatter revolved mainly around complaints on the demanding days and ruthless superiors... It should not scare Yalina, her own husband was a special Indian operative after all. But still... her stomach writhed with nerves. She wanted Hamza here. With him at her side, she’d strode through the army-infested corridors in Delhi with not a falter in her step.  

This is what I chose, Yalina reminded herself. If I’m going to stay in this country, I will just have to get over it.  

Being in India, living in India, wasn’t the sort of thing she had ever imagined in her wildest dreams. But that day had changed everything.

After that phone call where Hamza had revealed his true name to her, she’d almost given up any hope of ever seeing him again. She’d fallen to the floor with the phone clutched to her chest. She’d wept and wept and wept, almost crying herself to sleep, unable to endure the harsh turn of fate, when her phone ringtone had caught her attention. 

The called ID had said ‘Unknown’. With trembling fingers, hoping against hope that it was her Hamza, she’d raised the phone to her ear. ‘Yalina Ali Mazari, confirm that it’s Yalina Ali Mazai’ a masked voice had commanded from the other end. That should’ve raised flags in her head, but well, what did she have left to lose? 

‘C5842F’ Yalina had responded with the safe code Hamza had created for her. ‘Confirmed’, the masked voice had responded, ‘Listen carefully, Madam Mazari, we don’t have much time. Hamza is being extracted. It has come to our attention that you are aware of some sensitive details about him. So here's the thing- if you want to be with him, this is your last chance. You and your son can be extracted alongside him tonight. It won’t be to Canada and you can never return to your country nor can you contact your loved ones again so-’ 

‘Yes!,’ Yalina had gasped out, before they could finish their sentence. ‘Yes, please tell me what to do. Tell me where to come.’ She had stumbled to her feet, glancing around herself like a panicked doe.  

‘Dureji. In three hours. Only you and your son, don’t bring anyone else. And trust me, we’d know if you inform anyone else. This would be your only chance.’ The line had cut. 

Perhaps, if she’d received such a call even a day before, Yalina would have hesitated, reconsidered, pondered upon everything she’d have to sacrifice. But that day had changed it all- those excruciating hours of believing Hamza to be dead or worse,  of thinking him gone forever, it had put everything else into perspective. At the root of it, it was simple: there were things Yalina could live with and things she couldn’t, could never. And the latter? That was never seeing Hamza smile again, never hearing his laugh, feeling his touch, kissing his lips…  

No. Anything but that.  

Decision made, Yalina had raced up the stairs, intent upon finishing the packing she’d started earlier that day. Mindlessly, she’d shoveled clothes into the suitcase-hers and Zayan’s. Then came a few keepsakes- her mother’s heirloom necklace, the watch Abbu had gifted her, the earrings Hamza had given her, Zayan’s favorite rabbit soft toy. And photos ofcourse, any and all that she could find were crammed in. A lifetime of her memories thrown haphazardly together.  

Somehow, Yalina had managed to pack, dress Zayan and catch a cab. As their car peeled away, some of the bodyguards watched her leave with visible confusion. "Call Abbu, he'd know what to do," she commanded Shafiq, the bodyguard closest to her. Then, they sped into the waiting darkness. 

In the car, there were no tasks to distract from the magnitude of her worries – for Hamza’s life, for her family she’s leaving behind, for the future. With trembling fingers, she’d dialed her Abbu and he’d picked up on the second ring.  

“Yalina, bolo bacche?” 

She’d sobbed into the phone, “Abbu..” 

The reply rang with his alarm, “Yalina? Kya hua mere bacche? Kaha ho tum?” 

“Mein jaa rahi hoon. Mein aur Zayan. Hamza ke paas. Aur kuch nahi bol sakti mein, par shayad desh chod ke jaana padega humein.” 

A moment of silence where she’d clutched the phone tighter to her ear. “Abbu?” 

“Haan bacche, hoon yahan,” His voice had been trembling and tears had dripped anew down her cheeks. “Don’t cry, my kiddo, don’t.. Mujhe tumpe bilkul yakeen hai, agar tum ye faisla le rahi ho, to tum sab kuch soch samajh ke hi le rahi hogi. I’m with you, whatever you choose, I’m with you.” 

In her arms, Zayan had shifted, “Nanoo?” Over the phone, she’d caught Abbu’s small sob.  

“Here,” Yalina had pressed the phone against her son’s ear. “Say bye to Nanu.” 

“Kyu? Hum kahi jaa rahe hain, Ammi?” 

Through the haze of water, she’d barely been able to make out his little features, so innocent and trusting, looking to her to make sense in a world like this. 

“Tumhare abbu ke paas jaa rahe hain hum,” Yalina had told him. “Chalo ab Nanu ko bye bolo.” 

Confused, Zayan had managed to convey his goodbye and goodnight wishes to his grandpa.  

“Mere bahudar bacche,” Abbu’s voice had rang strong from the receiver. “Yalina, meri sherni bacchi. Khud pe bharosa rakho Yalina, sab theek ho jayega.” 

Yalina had struggled to see how everything could possibly be alright. She’d either have to lose Hamza or her family, her country, her life. But that hadn’t been right, was it? She’d already made her choice. Just as she’d made her choice to stay that first night at Hamza’s old place. “Khud hafiz, Abbu. I love you.” Before her bravery could dry up, she’d forced herself to cut the call. She hadn’t dared to call her Ammi, afraid that it would push her past the breaking point. Besides, after Hamza had handed her the Canada tickets earlier that day, she'd called her Ammi up, craving the normalcy of a chat with her. They’d chatted about the weather, changing fashions, and the white bataks Ammi had started rearing after Abbu go on and on about Zarwari Uncle’s bataks. Ammi had interpreted Abbu’s rants to mean that he’d secretly wanted them. Yalina hadn’t disagreed, their shared conclusions had been vindicated when they’d caught Abbu circling the new bataks at all times of the day. 

The memories of that last call would have to suffice as a goodbye, because Yalina hadn't the strength to call her again without crumbling. Instead, she clung to the fond memories, and they warmed Yalina all the way up to Dureji Helipad.

Upon reaching there, two masked men had slinked out of the darkness. “Confirmation?” Yalina had asked them boldly, clutching Zayan tightly to herself. 

“C5842F” The muffled voice had responded. They’d then been directed towards a helicopter with the inky blackness cloaking their takeoff. Her ears had popped from the ascent and she'd ordered Zayan to keep swallowing to clear his ears. A few minutes later, once they'd settled into a smooth flight, one of the dark figures held up something.  

“Blindfold. Alright?” The voice had been that of a woman. 

The impression it'd given her had been that it wasn’t really a choice, but Yalina had appreciated the courtesy nonetheless. With a thudding heart, Yalina had agreed, glad that Zayan had fallen back asleep minutes into their ride.  

After what had felt like hours of torture, the helicopter's frame had drifted into a clear descent. Finally, under the heavy sound of the rotating blades, they'd touched down on the ground. When she’d finally been allowed to remove her blindfold, it had been to a sun starting to peek over the horizon of a foreign land.  

“Where are we?” Yalina had asked of the woman across from her, the one with the large kind eyes visible behind the mask.  

“Ahmedabad. Don’t worry, the worst is behind us now. You can get some rest before the next leg of the journey to Delhi,” As if sensing Yalina’s persisting fear, she had continued, “Trust me, you have nothing to fear from us. You are his wife.” A touch of reverence had colored the woman’s tone. It had been strange, Yalina had long become accustomed to the admiration coating people’s words when speaking about her husband, but this had been the first time it had felt so… honorable. Not the respect for a gangster wielding considerable power and authority, but the vicious pride a village would have in its hero. Ours, it had implied, he’s ours.  

As if summoned by her thoughts, a sardar stumbled into the dhaba, looking so unlike her husband that it took her a couple of seconds to recognize him. The long luscious locks were now bound under a turban. In place of his striking black Pathani kurta, he was wrapped in a soft pink suit. Beyond all, the biggest change was in his gait: he no longer stalked in like a panther, all danger and grace, instead his every movement was subdued and spoke of hidden pain.  

"Ha-Jaskirat!" She raised her hand to wave him over. Blank grey eyes drifted to her and he limped over. The turban added to his height, making him look ridiculously tall.  

"Abbu! Aap aagaye?" Zayan greeted happily. Immediately, Yalina glanced around in fear, hoping that no one had overheard him. Only, to her relief, it looked like the army group had left. They were alone in the dhaba now, except for the bored man minding the counter while watching a cricket match on the TV. "Aryan! Papaji bolna hai, samjhaya tha na tumhe!"

Zayan was Aryan, Yalina was Meghna, Hamza was Jaskirat. A perfectly normal Indian family. 

Hamza (Jaskirat) cracked a smile. With gritted teeth, he contorted himself into the empty chair across the table. "Sorry, I made you both wait for so long. I hope you liked the food?"  

"Yes, it was yummy!" Zayan grinned, showing his little teeth. Yalina didn’t reply, the proximity disclosed the pain and heartbreak shining in her husband’s grey eyes. Raw dread writhed like live snakes in her stomach.  

"Aryan, why don’t you go to that corner and play your game? Maybe you would be able to get to the next level," she suggested, pointing at the wall opposite to them. 

"But amm-" 

"Aryan," she rebuked sternly, "Your father and I need to talk, go to the corner please." Zayan pouted but followed her instructions, dispatching himself to the other side of the dhaba where she could continue to keep an eye on him but far enough to give them both privacy. 

"What happened?" Yalina whispered the moment he pattered away. Hamza’s tremulous smile withered and died, revealing the wreckage underneath. It made Yalina’s heart pound with mounting trepidition. "Were they not there? Did you not find them?" 

He peered blankly down into the empty glass of lassi resting on the table. A housefly, one of the many here, landed on the tip of Hamza’s nose, he made no move to dislodge it. Yalina reached out to flick it away. Once done, her fingers captured his chin and raised his head to meet her gaze. "What happened, Jaskirat?" 

"They were there. I saw them," He rasped, unshed tears shining in his eyes. Deep relief washed over Yalina and she released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. They were alive, they were here. Her worst fears had not been realized. 

"That’s amazing," Yalina felt tears spring to her own eyes. "I am so, so glad.. What happened then? What did they say when they saw you? Should we come along to meet them now?" 

"They didn’t." His face was an open wound, raw and blistered.  

"What?" Yalina didn’t understand. 

"I saw them. They didn’t. See me." His long fingers curled around her wrist and dragged her hand up his own face, from his chin to his cheek. He turned his nose into her palm, burying himself.  

"What?.. Wait, you didn’t show yourself to them?" Silently, he shook his head into her palm, almost like he was nuzzling it. Tears speckled upon his lashes wetted her fingers. "Mere jaan.. kyu?" 

"I couldn’t," he breathed. "What face will I show to them?" 

Gently, she took his face in both her hands and turned him towards her, not allowing him to hide. "This beautiful face," Yalina answered him, wanting so badly to kiss that hurt away. 

In their years together, she’d seen Hamza broken more times than she could’ve counted: the night Rehman Bhai had died, the time he’d received news of a massacre of Balochi children, the day Zayan had fallen from a tree and broken his arm. That one time Yalina had fallen grievously ill from jaundice and woken to find his hair splayed across her belly, his arms locked tight around her middle as if afraid she’d float away. Each of those times, she’d carefully pieced him back together with learned patience.  

Now, he appeared more shattered than ever before, irises resembling splintered glass.  

"Jaan- you don’t understand." 

"So help me, my dear, make me understand." 

"I killed my sister’s husband." 

"Not by choice."

"Does that matter? I made my own nephews fatherless." 

"And to make up for that, you will deprive your mother of her living son?" 

"They have moved on." He croaked finally, his whole face bristled with the pain. "Its been 24 years. They have moved on and built a life for themselves. A life without me in it. They are happy and peaceful, what right do I have to barge in on that?" 

It was incredulous, ridiculous, so far from the realm of reason that she didn’t know how to counter his fears. "Jaskirat… they had no choice but to live without you, but in what world does that mean they are happier without you? Do you truly think that if you returned there now, this very moment, and let them see you, they wouldn’t be overjoyed?" 

Jaskirat didn’t answer, silent tears streamed down his face. And therein lay the answer to his fear- his true fear.  

"You cannot truly believe that.. Jaskirat- listen to me-" But it was too late, he was shaking his head and drawing away- he’d already made his decision.  

"I have booked a room in a nearby lodge. Let’s go get some rest, we can catch the evening train."  

"But-" 

"I made a mistake leaving Delhi like that. I just hope Sanyal saab can forgive my disobedience for this one time. We should really get back to Delhi soon. Let’s go," Disengaging himself, he limped over to Zayan. They exchanged some words before he took Zayan’s little hand in his own and pulled him to his feet. Yalina had no choice but to arise and join them at the counter as Hamza cleared the bill. 

There was no getting through to Hamza once he’d made up his mind. 

Saw this one edit on Instagram, shirani told hamza that he would be a great walid.