Prologue part I part II part III part IV part V part VI part VII part VIII part IX
𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍
On Thursday evening, the scent of her tiny house was so thick with the humidity of a looming Karachi monsoon that the matchsticks damply refused to strike against the box. When the blue flame finally hissed to life beneath the iron skillet, she stood before the counter, her hair pinned up haphazardly with a plastic claw, her sleeves rolled past her elbows.
On the marble slab sat two kilograms of minced mutton, washed and pressed until it was completely drained of excess moisture. One did not show up at the gates of Abdul Rehman Baloch empty-handed on the day of Eid and so she began the rhythm with her hands. First came the binding: two cups of besan, toasted dry in a separate pan until the raw, earthy scent flipped into something nutty and rich, reminiscent of winter afternoons in the north. She threw it over the meat like a handful of dust. Then came the aromatics: four large onions, grated into white ribbons and squeezed between her palms until the bitter juice ran down her wrists; twelve green chilies, minced so fine their capsaicin oil clung to her cuticles like an invisible fire; two whole heads of garlic, crushed with a heavy stone pestle alongside three inches of fresh ginger.
She poured two ladles of warm, golden ghee directly into the mixture. The fat was the secret since it kept the centres soft while the exterior formed a skin.
Then came the spices, measured not by spoons but by the memory in her palms. Red chili flakes from the plains of Sindh, dark cumin from the valleys of her childhood, and a heavy hand of garam masala that she had ground herself from cardamom pods and cinnamon bark.
Then came the worst part. The kneading. It was a brutal yet rhythmic task. Her fingers sank into the cold mass, pulling, folding, and throwing it back against the marble until the proteins broke and the mixture became a smooth, sticky paste.
She stopped to look out of the window. The sky over Karachi was a flat, unyielding sheet of slate. Two days ago, she thought, I was holding a satellite phone in this exact corner, sending information to Delhi.
A sudden, sharp pang of ethical vertigo hit her, so intense she had to grip the edge of the sink. She looked down at her hands, covered in spices and the blood of an animal. Who am I feeding tomorrow? she asked the empty room. The men who protect the children of Lyari, or the targets who are killing the children of my country?
She forced the thoughts down and dipped her palms in a bowl of cold water, took a fistful of the meat, and began to roll. One by one, the koftas took shape; perfect, smooth spheres.
When the oil in the deep wok began to shimmer, she dropped them in. The kitchen filled with a heavy, intoxicating steam that smelled of fat and scorched cloves. She fried them until they were just golden on the outside, a protective crust that would withstand the long simmer in the curry the next morning.
By midnight, her shoulders ached. Her skin smelled of smoke and garlic. She covered the fried meat balls, stored them in the refrigerator, and lay down on her bed, ready to face her biggest dilemma tomorrow.
𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍
She woke up at four in the morning, before the city’s first call to prayer could cut through the dark.
The curry had to be made fresh. She built the base on a foundation of thick, whisked yogurt and fried onions, letting the oil separate until a brilliant, crimson layer of tari floated to the top like a slick of fresh paint. She dropped the koftas into the bubbling gravy one by one, turned the flame down to a whisper, and let them dum for forty-five minutes. When she lifted the lid, the steam was sweet and spicy, the meat having absorbed the gravy until each ball was twice its original size.
She packed it into three large, airtight plastic containers, wrapping them in a kitchen towel to keep the heat in.
Then came her favourite part. Showering and getting ready.
The suit lay across her bed, the white-lilac lawn she had chosen in the market while Uzair stood behind her like an impatient mountain. He hadn't liked it. When she had touched the fabric, his heavy eyebrows had pulled together, his eyes searching the surrounding racks for something louder, something weighted down with gold zarduzi and heavy tinsel that screamed of the Haveli’s treasury. But she did not care.
She slid the tunic over her head and picked up the lilac-oxidised earrings she had bought from a street vendor. They clicked against her jaw as she shook her head, small bells chiming with every turn. She slid a dozen thin glass bangles onto her left wrist, the sharp clink-clink sounding like small ice cubes shifting in a glass.
She then sat down before the small vanity mirror. For once, she didn't rush. She took a thin silver rod, dipped it into a vial of pure, smoky surma, and drew it across her lower lids. Her eyes became instantly sharper, the white of her corneas brilliant against the dark carbon. She applied a muted mauve-pink shade to her lips, pressing them together until the color looked like a natural stain left behind by a winter berry.
She looked at her cheeks and took a tiny dot of berry-coloured tint, blending it high onto her cheekbones. She knew what lay ahead. By five in the afternoon, the heat of the Haveli, the teasing of Ulfat, and the relentless, heavy stare of Uzair would make her blood rush; she would blush anyway, but she wanted a head start. She didn't want to look like a startled tomato when he inevitably crossed her path.
Finally, she stepped into her footwear: her favourite white khussas, adorned with tiny, hand-stitched mirrors that caught the low morning light. The leather at the heel was hard as flint, and she knew with absolute certainty that by three o'clock they would dig into her Achilles tendon until she bled. But she didn't care. There was a certain kind of armour in looking and feeling beautiful, an intentionality that kept her spine straight when her soul was falling apart.
She picked up the heavy towel-bound bundle of food, slung her leather bag over her shoulder, and went downstairs to catch the only rickshaw that had agreed to work on the day of Eid.
The journey into Lyari on an Eid afternoon was a fascinating sight. The usual grease-stained tire shops and chaotic diesel vendors had vanished beneath long, sweeping banners of green and white. The streets, normally choked with dust and the black exhaust of local buses had been swept clean by the neighbourhood boys. Even the open sewage drains had been covered with fresh wooden planks, sprinkled over with lime powder to kill the scent of the rot below.
As the rickshaw neared the perimeter of the Baloch Haveli, the atmosphere shifted from festive to almost militaristic. The security was heavier today. Rehman’s men, dressed in immaculate, starched white salwar kameez that made their dark skin look like a polished walnut, stood at every intersection. They weren't hiding their weapons today; the short-barrelled Kalashnikovs hung from leather straps over their shoulders, their silver buckles polished until they gleamed in the harsh Karachi glare.
Near the main crossroads, massive cauldrons of degh biryani were being unloaded from flatbed trucks. A long, orderly line of Lyari’s poorest stretched around the block. People from the Haveli were distributing thick plastic bags filled with flour, sugar, and unstitched cloth for the winter.
She watched a fleet of silver SUVs being loaded with large wooden crates. These would probably be sent off to Balochistan.
The rickshaw stopped at the first iron gate. A guard she hadn't seen before stepped forward, his hand instinctively reaching for the strap of his rifle. But before he could speak, a senior guard named Shakoor, a man who had seen her give Faizal extra lessons on the veranda for three months slapped the younger man’s arm down.
"Arey, Faizal baba ki madam hain," Shakoor said, his face breaking into a wide, respectful grin. He stepped back and saluted her with a simple nod. "Eid Mubarak, Bibi. Chaliye, chaliye. Bhabhi subah se aapka pooch rahi hain."
Her large leather bag, which contained her identification papers and her operational notebook, wasn't checked. She walked through the heavy wooden doors of the inner courtyard, her heart sinking a little further with every step. They trust me, she thought, the realisation tasting like ash. They have already made me a member of the house.
The living room of the Haveli was a scene of absolute chaos yet also domestic. The grand Persian rugs had been rolled back, revealing the cool, white marble flooring below. In the center of the room sat three massive wicker baskets overflowing with fresh, wet jasmine flowers and long strings of orange marigolds. The scent was overpowering: sweet, heavy, and metallic at the same time.
The men of the house were failing miserably at interior design. Rehman Baloch sat on a low wooden stool, his enormous hands clumsily trying to knot a string of jasmine around the iron balustrade of the central staircase. Next to him stood Ulfat, her hands firmly on her hips, her face twisted into an expression of profound, long-suffering annoyance.
"Nahi, Rehman! Maine kaha tha upar se neeche leke aao!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the high ceiling. "Aapne toh isko bakri ke gale ka rassa bana diya hai! Uzair, tum zara dekho isko!"
Uzair was sitting on the floor, his long legs stretched out, an unfinished chain of marigolds resting across his lap like a golden snake. He was wearing an ivory-coloured silken kurta, the fabric heavy and expensive, catching the light with every movement. His silver chain was gone, replaced by a dark, embroidered collar that made him look older, more dangerous, and..handsome. He wasn't helping; he was simply staring at the floor, his face dark with a heavy and exhausted expression.
On the other side of the room, Hamza, Donga, and Siyahi were huddled together on a white sheet, surrounded by dozens of cardboard gift boxes that needed to be taped and addressed to their political allies.
She stepped over the threshold, her shoes clicking softly against the marble.
"Assalamualaikum," she said, her voice small, almost timid against the loud energy of the room.
The transformation was instantaneous. Eight pairs of eyes snapped towards the doorway. The chaotic chatter died in a single, collective intake of breath. For two seconds, nobody moved. She stood there under the heavy glare of the midday sun filtering through the archway, her bangles catching the light, her eyes dark with surma, her lips parted slightly in embarrassment.
"Waalaikumassalaaaaammm!" Faizal screamed, abandoning his post at the stairs and charging towards her like a wild extended family member. He didn't look at her face; his eyes went straight to the towel-wrapped bundle in her arms. "Ma'am! Kya layi hain? Mujhe pata tha aap khana laengi! Khushboo yahan tak aa rahi hai! Arey ye toh kofta lag raha hai."
"Lo, bachi aa gayi," Rehman said, his booming voice full of relief as he dropped the jasmine chain onto the stairs. He turned a wide, meaningful grin toward his younger brother, who had gone entirely rigid on the floor. "Ab shayad hamare sahabzaade ka mood theek ho jaye."
Uzair didn't laugh. He slowly stood up from the floor, the marigolds slipping off his lap unnoticed. He stood at his full, terrifying height, his ivory kurta draping perfectly over his chest. He didn't blink. His eyes started at her white shoes, traced the clean, unadorned line of her lilac tunic, lingered on the small glass bangles at her wrist, and finally crashed into her eyes. To him, she looked like an answer to a prayer he hadn't yet finished reciting.
Hamza, who was holding a roll of packing tape, looked from Uzair’s wide-eyed, catatonic stare to her flushed face, and let out a loud, mocking scoff.
"Muh band kar le yaar, Uzair," Hamza said, throwing a small cardboard tab at his friend's shin. "Yeh koi tareeqa hai mehmaan ke saamne pesh aane ka? Lagta hai pehli baar koi ladki dekhi hai."
The room erupted into hoots. Donga and Siyahi hid their faces behind the boxes, their shoulders shaking with laughter, while Rehman chuckled softly, wiping his hands on a rag. Uzair’s jaw tightened until a muscle leapt under his skin; he looked at Hamza with a gaze that clearly suggested a shallow grave in the Lyari graveyard was being prepared for him by nightfall.
Ulfat stepped forward, her eyes warm and crinkling at the corners as she took the heavy bundle from her arms. "Arey iss sabki kya zarurat thi? Acha chalo aao. Inko chhodo, yeh sab badtameez hain. Pehle tumhara khana kitchen mein rakhein."
As Ulfat led her towards the kitchen doorway, Rehman called out, his voice full of that heavy, elder-brother teasing that Uzair hated the most.
"Haan Uzair, yeh koi tareeqa hai? Maana bachi pyaari lag rahi hai... lekin kuch toh sharm kar."
Uzair, desperate to regain his balance, shot back with a casual, defensive arrogance that he thought sounded sweet, but completely missed the mark of subtlety. "Woh suit main laya tha iske liye," he said, shrug of his massive shoulders. "Matlab... pasand uski thi, lekin mein saath tha-
He hadn't even finished the sentence before the entire living room went wild, again.
"Woooooo!" Donga shouted, slapping Siyahi’s back.
"Toh matlab ab saath ghoomte hain yeh dono?" Hamza mocked, leaning back on his hands with a massive, wicked grin. "Tabhi sochoon bhai subah saat baje jaag kaise gaye... woh bhi itwaar ke din! Hum toh samajh rahe the koi naya maal aaya hai Shirani Sahab ka!"
"Aap toh aise has rahe hain bhai," Uzair muttered, his face turning a dark, dangerous shade of crimson under his brother’s relentless gaze. "Jaise bhabhi se milne ke liye aapne unke berande pe bandar ki tarah chhalang na maari ho..."
"Oye!" Rehman roared, his laugh booming through the house as he pointed a thick finger at his brother. "Puraani baatein mat nikal yahan!"
The two women stood at the edge of the kitchen corridor, looking back at whatever was going on in the living room.
"Aur tu toh muh band kar le, saale," Uzair hissed, turning his venom onto Hamza, his eyes narrowing with a sharp edge. "Shaam ko jab Jamali ki beti aayegi, phir dekhunga kaise tareeqe se seedha khada rehta hai tu. Ek ghante se apna kameez tight kar raha hai sheeshe ke saamne."
The cheers that followed were the loudest of the day. Hamza’s grin vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden, deep blush that spread down his neck. He gave Uzair a murderous stank-eye, but couldn't stop the sheepish smile from breaking through his hardened soldier's exterior.
"Bas!" Ulfat’s voice cracked like a pistol shot from the kitchen door. She stepped into the light, her eyes fixed on the half-finished flower chains. "Hasi-mazaak bohat ho gaya. Mujhe woh strings chahiye agle das minute mein. Rehman, agar yeh niche gira toh aaj raat aap yahan sofe pe soyenge."
The smiles on all five men vanished within two seconds.
"Bas do minute, meri jaan," Rehman said, his fingers suddenly moving with a speed that defied physics as he grabbed another string of jasmine.
While Ulfat decided to check the lights outside, the younger girl decided to stay in the kitchen, away from the watchful eyes and endless questions.
Akhlaaq, the old cook who had been with the Baloch family since a long time, was already in the kitchen, stirring a sea of reducing milk for the kheer.
She stood near the central island, carefully lifting the plastic lids off her containers to transfer the mutton kofta into the Haveli’s large ceramic serving bowls. Her mind was racing. Jamali’s daughter is coming tonight, she thought, her fingers slick with the crimson oil of the curry. Hamza likes her.
A heavy shadow fell across the threshold.
She didn't look up, but she knew the stride. It was lighter and more precise than Uzair’s.
Hamza entered the kitchen carrying two cardboard boxes of imported dry fruits, his expression sober, his teasing mask from the living room completely gone. He set the boxes down on the counter with a deliberate, heavy thud, right next to her bowls.
Akhlaaq was on the other side of the room, his back turned, his wooden paddle making a rhythmic clack-clack against the silver as he added chopped pistachios.
"Aane mein koi taqleef toh nahi hui aapko?" Hamza asked, his voice casual, but his eyes were fixed on her fingers.
She took a slow breath, her thumb tracing the rim of the ceramic bowl. "Nahi," she replied softly, her voice dropping into that specific, icy frequency meant only for him. "Lekin... shayad shaam tak mausam kharaab ho jaye. Hawa badal rahi hai."
The alliances are going to shift. The tables might turn.
Hamza’s eyes didn't flicker. He reached into one of the boxes, pulling out a handful of almonds, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that made the kitchen feel smaller than her apartment.
Akhlaaq turned around to grab a bowl of sugar from the shelf near them. Both operatives went entirely still, their faces instantly morphing into the innocent expressions of a guest and a family friend.
The moment the old cook stepped outside the kitchen, Hamza leaned in closer, his voice a mere breath against the steam of the kitchen.
"Rehman aur Uzair... Iqbal se milne gaye the," he whispered.
The silver serving spoon in her hand hit the side of the bowl with a sharp ping. Her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes searching his face for any sign of a joke, any mistake. "Kaun Iqbal?"
"ISI," Hamza said, the three letters falling between them like pieces of lead. "Major Iqbal. Kal raat."
Her heart did a slow, cold twist. If Rehman and Uzair were meeting him in secret, it meant that the independent party wasn't just a local rebellion against city politicians; it was being brokered with the state.
Akhlaaq walked past them again, carrying a tray of dirty glasses towards the sink.
She needed to know the terms. She needed to know if the alliance had been sealed, or if the Baloch had refused the military's terms.
"Akhlaaq Chacha," she called out, her voice sweet and helpful, all the while looking at Hamza. "Kheer mein abhi cheeni mila di... ya alag rakhi hai?"
Hamza caught the hook instantly. He turned towards the cook, a thin, dangerous smile playing on his lips. "Mila di. Haina? Bhaijaan ne kal raat hi sab kuch tayyar rakha tha. Ab toh bas pakna baaki hai."
The deal is done. They met, and they accepted the terms.
"Ji, Bhai," Akhlaaq responded from the sink, completely unaware of the of the treason being discussed behind him. "Bibi ne bhi check kar liya tha. Cheeni bilkul theek hai." He then left the kitchen.
She stood frozen, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter. They accepted, her inner voice roared. Rehman and Uzair have aligned with the military. They aren't just local gang leaders anymore; they are protected assets of the state.
She looked toward the living room door, where the laughter of the Baloch brothers was still audible. A deep, hollow ache opened up in her chest. Kisi ke sage nahi hain yeh log, she thought, the realisation sharper than any knife. Apni qaum ke bhi nahi.
She looked at Uzair’s unfinished flower chain on the floor outside. Who is the man who stood on the beach with me? she asked herself, her eyes burning with a sudden, unwanted moisture. The man who asked my father’s ghost for permission to love me... is he just a cold-blooded chess piece for the state? Is his love as manufactured as his politics?
She knew the rules of the game. In this lifetime, under this sky, there was no space for them. They were both ghosts playing with fire, and the fire was about to consume them both.
Before Hamza could step back, she leaned in, her voice cold as steel. "Rehman apni alag party bana raha hai. Funding Khanani ki hai. Shayad Jamali ke saath hi alliance mein rahe... lekin alag ho raha hai."
"Kya guftagu chal rahi hai yahan?"
The gravelly, deep vibration of Uzair’s voice cut through the kitchen like a razor.
Both of them turned around instantly. Uzair was standing in the doorway, his massive frame filling the light, his eyes narrowed with a sharp, curious intensity as he looked at his best friend, now almost a brother, standing close to his girl. He hadn't heard the words but his possessive instincts were already on high alert.
She didn't blink. The operative inside her took over her features within a millisecond, wiping the terror from her eyes and replacing it with a playful, mischievous smirk.
"Kuch nahi," she said, looking from Uzair to Hamza with a teasing tilt of her head. "Hamza Bhai bas tips maang rahe the ke ladkiyon ko kaise gifts pasand hain. Shaam ki tayyari ho rahi hai shayad."
Hamza’s face turned bright red for the second time that day. He shot her a look that screamed betrayal, but he had no choice but to play along. "Haan... woh... main bas pooch raha tha."
Uzair’s expression cleared instantly, his chest expanding with a sudden, arrogant satisfaction. He walked into the kitchen, his ivory kurta brushing against her sleeve as he leaned against the counter next to her.
"Arey... phir toh jaldi karni padegi," Uzair said, a wicked, low chuckle escaping his throat as he looked at the other man. "Kyunki Jamali khandaan ek-do ghante mein aata hi hoga."
Hamza looked at the two of them and let out a heavy sigh, nodding slowly. "Tum dono na... bahut bure log ho."
"Waise... kya salaah di tumne isse?" Uzair asked her, his voice dropping into that soft, private frequency, completely ignoring Hamza’s presence now. He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against hers, his eyes searching her face with a sudden, desperate curiosity. He wanted to know what girls liked. He wanted to know what she liked, so he could buy her the world tomorrow.
She frantically looked from his heavy, intense gaze to Hamza’s burning face. "Uhh... woh... earrings?" It sounded more like a panicked question than a statement. She nodded at Hamza, her lilac bangles clinking violently. "Earrings. Yes. Gold ones."
"Gold ones," Hamza muttered, seizing the excuse to escape. "Main abhi jaake sone ke earrings dhoondta hoon sundar se... market band hone se pehle." And with that, he fled the kitchen, leaving the other two alone.
She turned towards the sink, her hands shaking slightly as she began to stack the dirty containers, desperate for something to do to stop herself from looking at Uzair’s face. The information she had just received was a lot and she needed time to process it.
Suddenly, two large, warm arms slipped around her waist from behind.
She gasped softly, her breath hitching as Uzair pulled her back against his chest. It was a full, heavy hug, his chin coming to rest comfortably on her right shoulder, his broad chest absorbing the entire line of her spine. He didn't move away; he simply held her, his body swaying left and right in a slow, rhythmic dance that had no music.
Her hands were wet with soap and curry oil. She held them up in the air, terrified of ruining the pristine, white linen of his ivory kurta.
"Uzair... hato," she whispered, her voice lacking any real conviction. "Mere haath gande hain. Tumhara kurta kharab ho jayega."
"Hone do," he murmured against her neck. She leaned her head back, her curls brushing against his cheek, her spine softening until she was resting her entire weight against his heart. Through the heavy linen, she could hear it, steady, fierce, and entirely hers. For a single, stolen second, she let the spy die. She let herself believe that they were just a man and a woman in a kitchen on Eid day.
"Tum achhe lag rahe ho aaj," she whispered into the steam.
"Tum roz hi lagti ho," he replied, his arms tightening around her waist, pulling her so close she could feel the hard line of his leather holster hidden beneath his tunic.
"Eid Mubarak, Uzair," she breathed, her eyes closing.
"Eid Mubarak," he whispered back, his lips brushing the soft skin behind her ear, sending a violent shiver down her arms.
"Kya dua maangi iss baar?" She asked him.
He shifted his head, his dark eyes looking down into hers from above, his pupils blown wide with a desire that he had never felt before.
"Bachon! Chalo bahar aao! Mujhe madad chahiye!"
Ulfat’s voice cracked through the corridor like thunder, her footsteps terrifyingly close to the kitchen door.
She gasped, her training instantly snapping her back to reality. She pushed Uzair back with her elbows, turning toward the tap and letting the cold water roar to life over her hands, while Uzair stepped back with a dark, frustrated curse muttered into his collar.
He didn't finish his sentence. He couldn't tell her that his entire prayer had been her name, repeated multiple times over a velvet mat.
He smoothed down his clothes, shot her a long, loaded look that promised a continuation of this conversation later, and walked out to face his family.
She stood at the sink, her hands submerged in the cold water, and her heart about to leap out of her chest. But this stage was already set and the actors were in position. Her thoughts were broken by kids running into the kitchen to steal cold drinks, reminding her that she had to face these people ultimately, maybe even for the next 2 days.
𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍
The next hour passed in a feverish crescendo of rustling silk, the sharp scent of musk, and the frantic clicking of glass bangles against marble.
The children had been scrubbed clean and forced into their finest starched kurtas. Ulfat emerged from her quarters looking absolutely breathtaking. She wore a heavy royal blue peshwaz that pooled around her feet, the hem thick with silver tinsel that caught the amber light of the chandeliers.
A shadow fell over the eastern veranda as Hamza returned from his brief excursion into the market. He had tied his long, unruly hair back into a strict, low knot at the nape of his neck, his beard trimmed clean. He wore a simple, unadorned white kurta-shalwar that made his massive, broad shoulders look like polished marble. In his right hand, he carried a small, square velvet box with a quiet, protective grip.
As he walked past her near the staircase, she caught his eye. She gave him a slow, almost imperceptible nod of approval. Hamza shifted his gaze, his jaw tightening into a subtle smile before he slipped down the corridor toward the guest wing.
Outside, the heavy iron gates groaned open. The rhythmic thud of several heavy car doors echoed through the courtyard as the Jamali family arrived, flanked by three separate security details carrying oversized gift boxes wrapped in shiny silver foil. Rehman and his family moved towards the main threshold with wide, welcoming arms, the loud, booming sound of Eid greetings filling the high archways.
Before she could follow the others towards the living room, Rehman stepped into her path. His calloused hand, the same hand that had killed his parents, reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick, heavy cream-colored envelope. The paper was crisp, bulging slightly with the distinct thickness of fresh, high-denomination currency notes.
"Eid Mubarak, bache," Rehman said, his deep voice carrying a rare, paternal warmth as he thrust the envelope into her palms.
She went rigid, her hands instinctively moving backward. "Arey nahi, Rehman Bhai. Yeh bohat zyada hai... main nahi le sakti. Main toh bas—"
"Isse rakh lo," Rehman interrupted, his tone shifting into that absolute, unyielding authority that brooked no argument from anyone. He grabbed her hand, forcing her fingers to curl around the paper. "Ghar ke sab bachon ko milti hai. Aur tum kuch alag nahi ho unse. Jab tak humare beech ho, hamara hissa ho."
She managed a tight, small smile, her fingers feeling the unnatural weight of the money. "Agar aisi baat hai... toh phir mujhe Naieem aur Faizal ko unka Eid kharch dena padega. Mera haq banta hai."
Rehman let out a booming laugh, waving his hand as he began to walk toward the front courtyard where Jameel Jamali was already shouting greetings. "Nahi, nahi. Unko mat dena. Bohat jaldi aasmaan par chadh jaate hain woh dono. Thoda intezar karo..." He paused near the threshold, turning his head back slightly, his eyes crinkling with a heavy, double-edged meaning as he murmured, "Apni agli Eid tak…..Inshallah phir hamare saath.”
She stood in the shadow of the corridor, the cream envelope cold against her skin. ‘With us again’. The phrase didn't evoke joy; it felt like a heavy piece of iron sinking into her stomach.
Her heart was currently locked in a brutal, exhausting dichotomy. Every time Uzair’s shadow fell across her, her pulse would jump with a visceral, involuntary rhythm, a biological betrayal she couldn't control. Yet her mind remained a cold, analytical grid, reminding her that this house was a fortress built on sand, and she was the tide sent to wash it away.
A soft, rustling sound from a secluded corner room at the end of the gallery broke her stance. Curious, her boots making no sound on the runner rug, she tiptoed towards the half-open wooden door. She peered through the narrow crack, and the breath caught in her throat.
Inside, Yalina, Jamali’s daughter, was standing before a small wall mirror. She was blushing furiously, her cheeks matching the deep red of her raw silk tunic. In her small hands, she held a pair of beautiful, delicate golden earrings, holding them up against her earlobes with a soft, nervous hesitation.
Standing right behind her, completely eclipsing her small frame, was Hamza. He was looking down at the girl with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration, his eyes soft, his lips turned up in a smile so tender it looked foreign on his scarred face.
She felt a sharp, icy pang in her chest. ‘Is Hamza feeling the same emotions as me?’ she wondered, her eyes widening as she watched them. Is what he’s feeling even real? Or is he, too, just a man pretending to have a home before the war starts?
Sensing the shift in the air, Hamza’s protective instincts flared instantly. Without moving his head, his body shifted, his massive shoulder sliding smoothly in front of Yalina, completely shielding her from the doorway. His sharp, dark eyes snapped directly to the crack in the door, catching her in 4K.
A confused Yalina, who barely reached Hamza’s diaphragm in height, emerged slightly from behind the human wall, her small face visible under his elbow. Recognizing the older girl, she gave a shy, relieved smile and whispered, "Hi..."
She didn't wait to be interrogated. She raised her hands in a mock gesture of surrender, her mauve lips curving into a quick, conspiratorial smirk. "Maine kuch nahi dekha," she whispered through the gap. "Continue."
She turned and walked away quickly, leaving the two of them to their stolen paradise but hadn't even covered five steps down the gallery when a rough hand wrapped around her right wrist.
Before she could form a defensive stance, she was pulled violently but carefully through a side door into a darkened room. The heavy teak door clicked shut behind her, and she looked up into the dark brown eyes of Uzair Baloch. He was looking down at her with that exact same adoration she had just witnessed in the other room. The room was his bedroom. It was meticulously clean, with the white linen sheets pulled tight over the dark wood frame, the silver trays polished, the heavy velvet curtains drawn to block out the Lyari heat. It was as if he had spent the entire morning preparing this square of space, expecting her to see it.
A cold, primitive fear gripped her spine. It wasn't the fear of being caught; it was the terror of having to push back this version of herself. She knew that within a few hours, she would have to transmit his secrets, and strike at the very chest her hands had clutched. But right now, the warm envelope from Rehman was still in her left hand, and Uzair's thumb was softly tracing the line of her jaw.
"Kahan khoi ho?" his voice was a low, gravelly rasp in the dim light.
She managed to form her thoughts straight, her breathing steadying as she masked her face with the shy expression of the schoolteacher. "Tumhare Bhai ne Eidi di mujhe. Itne zyada paison ka kya karungi main? Bas... wahi soch rahi thi."
Uzair smiled, a slow, asymmetric movement that cleared the hardness from his jaw. He stepped closer, his chest nearly touching the lilac fabric of her tunic. "Meri taraf se kya chahiye?"
She tilted her head, her eyes flashing with a sudden, cheeky defiance. "Arey nahi... Eid pe dost bas saath ho, isse zyada khuda se kya maang sakta hai insaan?”
Uzair’s eyebrows shot up, a dangerous, beautiful smirk playing on his lips. "Oh... sirf dost?"
“Uh huh” she nodded, with a serious expression. His hands moved slowly, his large palms crawling up from her waist, his fingers mapping the curve of her spine through the thin cotton until he took her into a slow, deliberate embrace. With every inch he pulled her closer, his face descended, his lips merely away from hers, his breath hot against her skin. "Acha? Dost? Dost aise pesh aate hain ek dusre se?"
A heavy, violent fist rattled the wooden door from the outside, jerking both of them out of the trance like a bucket of ice water.
"Sab samajhta hoon main!" Hamza’s voice roared from the corridor, full of vindictive glee. "Khota mujhe Majnun bulata phirta hai saari raat... aur apni harkatein dekho andar! Bahar aao, mehmaan baith gaye hain!"
Uzair dropped his forehead against her shoulder for a fraction of a second, letting out a dark, murderous groan. He stepped back, giving her a quick, apologetic look before he yanked the heavy door open with an expression that could have stopped a train.
"Dikkat kya hai teri, Hamze?" Uzair whispered hoarsely, his large hand instantly reaching out to grab the collar of Hamza’s pristine white kurta, physically trying to tackle him into the wall.
Hamza didn't flinch. He brought his forearm up, choking Uzair back with equal force, his face twisted into a mock scowl as they wrestled in the narrow corridor. "Mere silsile mein taang ghusata rehta hai na tu? Toh main bhi teri kabhi shuru nahi hone dunga!"
She stepped into the corridor, her voice dropping into her strict, unyielding classroom register. Her face was morphed into an expression of profound disgust, her hands coming between them to push their chests apart. "Seedhe khade ho jao. Aur ek dusre ke kapde phaadna band karo. Kuch toh sharm karo yaar, Eid hai aaj! Niche mehmaan aaye hain. Yeh sab gande kaam mere jaane ke baad karna."
The two grown men who commanded hundreds of armed men, broke apart instantly. They smoothed down their kurtas, giving each other dark, lingering glares like two schoolboys caught fighting over a pencil box, before slowly following her down the main staircase towards the formal dining hall.
Right as they reached the heavy velvet drapes of the dining hall, Uzair reached out and caught her sleeve, urging her to slow down her steps. Before she could ask what he was doing, his large, scarred fingers took her right hand. With a gentleness that always surprised her, he slid a thin, silver band onto her index finger. Not the ring finger, oh, how she could see the unspoken, desperate wish in his eyes, but her index finger.
She looked down at her hand. Resting against her skin was a small, perfect emerald sphere, deep green and entirely flawless, catching the light like a drop of sea water.
"Uzair..." she whispered, her voice genuine for a fraction of a second, her fingers tracing the smooth stone. "Main... main tumhare liye kuch nahi laa payi."
"Main jaanta hoon woh khana mere liye banakar layi ho," Uzair said, his voice so thick with sincerity it felt like a physical weight on her chest. "Bhabhi ne bataya mujhe... ke kofta curry tumhe banana pasand hai kyunki mujhe pasand hai. Aur... tum meri zindagi mein ho, mere ghar mein ho... isse bada mere liye koi taufa nahi ho sakta."
She looked up at him, her throat tight, the berry blush on her cheeks deepening into something painful.
"Bohat sundar hai," she managed to say, her voice dropping into a timid whisper. "Shukriya."
"Aao, baitho sab log!" Rehman’s voice boomed from inside the hall, cutting through her guilt.
The dining hall looked like an exhibition of culture and hospitality. A massive, low-set wooden takht had been covered with white sheets and dozens of small cushions. In the center lay the feast: platters of fragrant chicken biryani with yellow saffron streaks, bowls of her mutton kofta curry glistening with red oil, plates of succulent seekh kebabs, and large clay pitchers of salty pudina lassi.
As the guests began to sit, she tried to slip towards the edge of the room, intending to sit near the younger girl or stand near the service doors, anywhere that would allow her to remain an observer.
Uzair’s hand caught her wrist from behind, his grip firm as he pulled her down onto the white sheet right next to him, his thigh pressing against hers as he anchored her into the inner circle.
She turned her head, seeing Hamza standing near the corner of the room, his eyes fixed on the distant figure of Yalina who was sitting near her mother. "Hamza, aao... baitho," she called out, trying to deflect the attention from herself.
Hamza looked at her, then shifted his gaze toward Jameel Jamali, who was currently laughing loudly at one of Rehman’s jokes. Hamza leaned down slightly, whispering to her with a dark, venomous smirk, "Arey nahi, nahi. Tum jao. Main door se dekh loonga usse... warna uske suar baap ka muh sad jayega agar main uske saamne baitha."
He gave her a quick wink and stepped back into the shadows of the doorway. The dinner began in a roar of clinking cutlery and loud laughter. Jameel, his fingers greasy with kebab fat, leaned across the platter towards Rehman. "Rehman Bhai, woh jo kal raat ki baat thi...toh maine Zarwari Sahab se baat ki thi... Assembly ke naye session shuru hone se pehle—"
"Jamali Sahab," Ulfat’s voice cut through the air like a silver bell, her eyes narrowing as she set a bowl of sweet sheer khurma down with a sharp thud. "Aaj ke din agar is mez par siyasat ki baat hui... toh main poora khana utha kar bahar phenk doongi.”
Rehman let out a short chuckle whereas the cunning politician could only muster up his wicked laughter.
All the while, she sat quietly in her corner, her portions tiny, barely touching the rice on her plate. The proximity of Uzair, the heavy weight of the emerald ring on her finger, and the sheer noise of the family made her retreat into herself. She was too shy to even reach for the water pitcher that sat near Jamali’s side of the sheet.
Uzair noticed instantly. Of course he did. Without a word, his large arm reached across her, his ivory sleeve brushing her shoulder as he picked up the clay pitcher. He poured the cool, pink-tinged water into her glass, placing it right before her hand. Then, using the large silver spoon, he lifted a massive, perfectly formed mutton kofta from her own container and placed it directly onto the center of her plate, covering it with a generous ladle of the crimson gravy.
"Apna khana toh khao," he murmured under his breath, his eyes fixed on her face. "Subah se kuch nahi khaya tumne."
Every ten minutes, he would find a way to drag her into the conversation, turning to her to ask about Faizal’s progress or asking her opinion on a local Lyari sweet, forcing the rest of the table to look at her not as a guest, but as a permanent member of the house.
She noticed near the end of the main course, Hamza’s phone vibrated against his thigh. He pulled it out, looked at the screen, his face instantly losing its relaxed, festive look. He turned and slipped out of the dining hall through the side gallery.
A few moments later he walked back into the room. The transformation was subtle but chilling to an eye trained like hers. The topmost button of his white kurta had been ripped open, his hair slightly loose from the knot. His expression was no longer happy; his features had hardened into that flat, dangerous slate that belonged to a man who had just been handed a death warrant.
She caught his eye across the crowded room, her breath freezing in her lungs.
Hamza looked directly at her through the steam of the food and the laughter of the guests. He didn't make a scene. He simply stood in the shadow of the pillar, looked at her emerald ring, and gave a single, heavy blink, a slow, deliberate nod that signalled that it was okay. Continue with the act.
She turned back to her plate, the small emerald sphere on her finger suddenly feeling like a drop of poison, while the laughter of the Baloch family echoed around her like the ticking of a bomb.
𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍 𑁍
Sorry for the boring chapter 💔 Maybe consider this a filler chapter.
I won’t lie I’m finding it a bit difficult to write for Uzair’s character because currently, I’m not in a head space where I’m loving the film or this character so much as to constantly write or find ideas for it. Even though I love the film obviously, I’m not obsessed with it ki mein bohut saare abhi likh paun. Mera ‘har din dhurandhar posts check crow’ wala era abhi halka sa dim chal raha hai. But idk it could also be because life is being a bit chaotic rn… maybe when I’m in a better state, I’ll be able to think of something and hopefully end what I started 🤡
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