Chapter 22.

The nib of her pen shattered. For the tenth time in that hour. Jagged her limbs were in a juxtaposition. A calm mind but a broken hold on her sense of realities as she smudged over the drafted request to bail her husband out. Her fingers shook with a pain that numbed her bones — the lithe fingers that were used to ruffling his hair each morning curved around the spine of her pen in a splitting ache. It struck her every now and then ; the silence, the loneliness that he had covered without knowing. Grazing the edge of a new pen, her name carved into it she tried once more. Feeling the edge crook once more.

Groans of frustration spilled out of her lips, set into a deadly snarl since the clock had struck six in the morning. Her legs shook, vigorously covered underneath the drape of her silken black bell bottoms. The wheels of his chair squealed as she leaned back, resting her back. The ache between her eyes pinched her nerves. It felt suffocating—to breathe inside a space that smelt wholly of him. Of his bourbon and cigar infused cologne ; two things he otherwise despised. Bruises on the back of her knuckles with splinters jagged between them offered some comfort. When nothing else did.

In despair she kicked her feet against the leg of the table.
Disappointed.
Defeated.
Doomed.
The manilla envelope with the green stamp glared at her in alarm even before the sunlight could shine in it's fullest over the still half asleep city. A stamp paper. The name curved weighed down on her lungs as she tried to fill out the form for the nth time. Tears — of frustration and of loss kept her hostage. Tipping her face, her neck fell lethargically over her left shoulder. Every breath was bartered. Culminating into a larger than life event. Amongst the alarms that went on inside her head, seated in the comfort of her husband's study. Barekhna felt weak.

You should have let go off the case when you were warned. There they were, the taunting warnings she had done well to put under-wrap. Wearing the heavy black coat meant she could not give in. To help the enemy was to feed a devil. To honor an ill foreboding. Which was all the reasons why she had chosen law as her career. Which had inherently been the forefront reason of her passion. Though it was almost always, that threats though did not deter they did harm. Harm they did. Breathing sparsely through her burning nostrils she placed her hands before her mouth. Fingers interlaced, eyes closing accordingly as she imagined his presence before her.
The associated warmth.
The comforting hold.
The generous kisses.
A train of compliments.

I wish I had cherished you enough.
Regret piled against her skull, convulsing a headache there. Nothing but an obsidian shade of darkness filled her horizon. Filling her mouth with in ornate taste. The sourness chipped at the sweet flavor of his mouth. She could feel, as her blue blood fingers traced the skin over her lips — his kisses. So ordinary as they had been once to her, she would sell a soul to have it back again. To feel his innocence perch through as he moved his lips against her. The sloppy caress of his fingers against her chin. Even the harsh breath that resulted from it all.
Barekhna missed the touch of Aliyaar.
She was determined to bring him back.

Grunting at last, she threw the pen across the room. Watching, at a loss of breath as it shattered against the dark cherrywood chest of drawers. Weightless it fell, a smudge of ink tracing the beige carpets. Maimed. The room, the papers, the files, his laptop and even herself — they were all maimed with his touch. His absence crushed the wind out of them. Traced the life out. Sucked the air away. Tucked away underneath the obsidian turtleneck she wore was half a heart. That beat with dexterity. The aristocrat in the blood and soul was hell bent on funding a few pockets to buy freedom. The inches of her that belonged to her husband — the chunk of her heart that he had taken along — forbid her.

Aliyaar was innocent and using illegal methods to acquire freedom for him was a sin. A sin she would not commit. It would garner attention and distribute hate — that much she knew. It would sell an image that she did not care enough about her husband. Fighting the legal proceedings and battle would cost her the entirety of her career and job. All the consequences could not outweigh the reason. Barekhna was firm in that much. Her spirit would not relent.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not in her entire life time.
Aliyaar Alamgeer's innocence would be proven with only a legal conduct.

Barekhna's fingers moved the bangs away from her face, pushing them behind her ears where they were out of sight. Solely searching for a pen filled with ink — that was still unbroken, her fingers sifted through the deep drawers attached to the desk. The copper knobs gave way, and the soft close doors moved like smooth butter. With a depth she could not calculate, she moved aside the loose edges of paperwork — contracts and deeds she could go through but she would not. At last her fingers stumbled across a cool body, a grey pen. An 'A' carved with a jagged hand on the body of it. Blowing out air, shaking her hands in the freezing atmosphere she brought the pen out. Feeling it with her eyes closed. The touch of his fingers lingered as she noticed thumb impressions on the glistening frame.

For you I'd go to hell to find witnesses — the vow was made.

Barekhna's deep umber eyes shaded over the lightly green paper. Pressing the sleek nib over the paper, her hands shook. The weight over her shoulders caved in her chest, and sweat laced her brows. A trickle of precipitation over the windows behind her, covered in a lattice work of iron offered her the support she needed. Still a bit too dark — the morning birds yet to sing with their chests. A decision had to be made. An attempt. Sliding the pen against the unmoving particles of air she signed her name over the corner at last. The strength of her fingers outweighed by the platinum build of the pen. Kissing the side of it, smearing it with her lipstick she tucked the pen into the side of her pockets. Grabbing her hand bag and coat she slid out of the study.
It was time for action.

"Barekhna won't you have breakfast?"

The rough — tear laden voice of her mother-in-law forced her to stop in place. Frozen, her feet all but anchored to the ground and the situation tying her hands — she turned, facing the soft spoken woman's whose eyes were the story of heartbreak. Streaked red and tears still flowing like an unstoppable river down her placid cheeks, the almond eyes swollen. Wrapped in a thick shawl she had often seen her father-in-law in, her mother-in-law looked broken. The bags beneath her eye were darker than the midnight sky had been last night, and the painful whimpers were like fire against her skin. One after the other.

"Mama shouldn't you be sleeping?"

Barekhna slid past the question, the burning essence in her stomach could be ignored until she had her husband in her arms. At large, the capital city of the province was still asleep. The clock striking just about eight in the morning, the skies still a deep blue. Streaks of yellow light barely grazed the horizon through the large windows in the foyer where the two stood. The warmth from the fireplace did little to ebb away at the chill that built around them from Aliyaar's absence.

"Answer my question Barekhna," Lyana sniffed, stumbling closer to her, "why are you leaving without eating."

"I need to submit the bail application. As well as arrange a cheque for the bail money." She replied, her tone clipped.

"You can't hide your pain from me behind formalities that could very well  wait a moment more."

Lyana tucked the raven hair behind Barekhna's ear, her warm fingers caressed the ice cold cheeks that had once been full of a lovely fluster. Her heart ached for her son and daughter-in-law both. The two who had just solved their differences were once more pushed away. Kept at a distance of leagues. Had it been her own husband — her Alamgeer, Lyana knew she would have lost all semblance. In no way would she have been able to pretend to be as calm as Barekhna was.

"The longer they hold him the more they get to question him."

"It's not even nine — which is the time most offices start their operations at. You need to eat Barekhna, for Aliyaar's sake if not your own." She stood her ground, sniffing as she did.

Barekhna nodded her head in compliance, wrapping her hand in between the elderly woman's she followed in silence as she was led into the abandoned dinning room. The vast table made of the finest materials was covered in an array of delicately prepared dishes. The plates before their chairs had been wiped down too — the glasses filled to the brim with freshly squeezed orange juice. Warm in it's afterglow the yellow light that spilled from the oblong chandelier above the table gave it a glow of familiarity. There was a buzzing darkness in the surroundings from the tall windows that gave way to the thunderous emptiness to spill in. The harsh winds kissed the glass an struck the limbs of the outgrown trees.

Placing her files and work bag over the chair to her left — the one the right left empty for him out of habit, Barekhna swallowed the guilt that drummed her throat. Questions flooded her mind as her mama filled her plate with an assortment of breakfast food.
Had he had water?
Was he given food?
Did they provide Aliyaar with a mattress?
Or a blanket?
Sinking her teeth into the flesh of her warm tongue Barekhna swallowed her tears. The despair inside her chest that built it's way up to a state of melancholy, she pushed aside. Watching with hazy eyes — blurred in translation her the elder woman sat beside her. A seat that was used to the weight of her husband.

Coughing through the sedating earache, Barekhna took a sip of her juice. There was too much salt — she noticed in an instant as she swallowed it. Of course — it made absolute sense. The woman next to her was hit harder than she was letting on. The sadness that swam in the honey brown eyes, glowed with the ire of a mother's spirit. Her hands shook — cutting through the thick french toast that Aliyaar ate on the daily. Barekhna watched from the corner of her eye, the hunched frame a far cry from the woman she usually was. It was her last straw, the fork sliding from in between her fingers and falling, her hands raising to wipe the tears that washed her face once more.

"Mama are you okay?" Barekhna spoke softly, not trying to scare the already shaken woman.

"Uh— oh yes I am, I don't know what's gotten in me." She patted the back of Barekhna's hand, hiding the shaky fingers.

"I don't think so. You can talk to me mama."

"I am fine," Lyana spoke with vigor, "anyways, I do not wish to burden you more than you already are."

"Mama you are my mother as-well. Anything that's going on in my life is not equal to you, nor will it ever be. Aliyaar is your son — and I've only been married to him for a handful of months. If his arrest shattered me I'm sure it's killing you."

Wrapping her fingers around the wrist of her mother-in-law, feeling the boniness of them dig into her palms, Barekhna traced her thumb over the soft skin. Leaning over the chair she pressed her lips to the side of her head, the caramel locks bunching underneath her touch. Tears burned her eyes alone as she felt the head press against her collarbone, warmth flooding to her skin as the tears seeped through. She stroked the woman's hair. Feeling her own chest cave in, the gallops of her heart fight the definition of raw in the emotion they felt.

Aliyaar's absence had blown them all into pieces of flesh and bone. The soul was lost. The life and joy that they had removed. His hold no longer gathered them into a riveting battle of joy. Peace had since the night before escaped the doors of their mansion. The expanse of estate it covered deprived of the most basic emotions, kindling underneath the visible pain a newfound respect and adoration.

"Can I Barekhna — can I come with you to see Aliyaar?"

"I'd take you but I don't think I should. Not now." Barekhna denied.

"Please jaan, I will die without—"

The words that were to leave her whimpering lips died as the sounds of a glass slipping and colliding with the floor broke them apart. At the entrance, in a starchy suit he stood with his eyes covered in an emotion other than pain. There was a brokenness to them — the snide grin an opulent sign of the painful breaths he took. Marching over to them, his shoes crushing the shards of glass underneath themselves, he sunk to the ground. Holding her palms, he kissed the back of them like a devout to a saint. There was an abyss of emotions that lingered and tore through the siphon of air around them. The chills spread across as he uttered with power.

"You are not mama," the deft voice of her brother-in-law, Arham — chief minister of Mushkpur broke the silence left behind, "you are not going to die because our Aliyaar is innocent. We will fight for him."

"Mama Arham's right," Barekhna spoke, "we'll fight to save Aliyaar. You'll see he will be home soon."

"I don't know. Your father," she whispered to Arham, "he's not come home since they took Aliyaar. Ive been waiting for him all night and he won't respond to my texts. I — Arham find your father please!"

"Don't cry mama," Arham spoke, kissing her hand once more, "abu's been at the headquarters finding loopholes. Shutting down the newsfeeds. His phone died. I just drove him home and he is in the shower. Okay?"

"Okay! Will you eat?" She murmured, afraid of what the future held.

"Aap khud khilaein gi tou zaroor." He added, hiding his pain behind a glass of indifference.
[If you feed me yourself then of course.]

"The two of you enjoy your breakfast, I need to leave now," Barekhna murmured as she stood up from the table, "and mama don't stress okay? I'll bring Aliyaar home. For us."

"Allah tumhein kamiyab kare." Lyana replied.
[May God give you success.]

➖➖➖➖➖

To the left of the rusted doors painted a shade of red and blue — almost blurred through the water of the winter rain, was a building ready to crumble. A health hazard. The wooden doors dingy in their build housed a slightly wet interior, gas bulbs and torn leather seats with wooden benches, unscrewed. Just a bit of the dilapidated state of the station. Cars and jeeps — lost motorcycles alike were tied to the parking spot, even as rain droplets pelted on to their frames in light showers. Not quite one at a time. Yet also not a dozen. Hunched frames under the shelter of a once whole umbrella rushed around, their frames covered largely in charcoal uniforms and badges were the epitome of power.

It seemed inherently out of place as the bright Mercedes crawled into the burned out backdrop of the police station a few miles from the high court. The wheels crunched the gravel, the vipers defeated the imminent destruction from the rain. Each drop wiped. Cleared. It's tail lights found a ray even as the skies above remained laden with a torrential pain. Strong enough to rupture the remains of peace. Sideways pristine in their arrangements of a lush greenery swam with the traces of water, trapped in between puddles that slipped underneath the roots. Exposed the bricks shivered too. Light drifted out. There was bleakness. An empty silence as the roads lay abandoned.

Tapping over the vehicles in an ornate manner the integrity of truth lay in the tiny drops that came straight from heaven. Even as the car was pulled to the front, the bottoms of her shoes sloshing through the muddy puddles at the feet of the broken stairs — the spirits were deterred not. Holding on to the leather briefcase, the strands of her tied into a bun she was the image of a put togetherness that was rare. For what held her calm outside, broke her into pieces a bit too many on the inside. The orange rays from the light against her fair english skin was the contrast of fate. Born into a land not hers — into a family not hers, she was on borrowed time to win. Win back that was not lent. What was hers all along.

Wiping her shoes against the water logged cloth, the maroon of it beaten out with age until a pale pink remained, she walked in. The chilly winds following behind her in howls. A show of nature's raw power. Running a hand through her hair, the edges dusted with droplets of water just lightly, she dried her hands against the front of her trousers. Walking with raging confidence. Her shaky assistant right behind. Narrowing her gaze into slits, Barekhna's eyes ran through the divided front of the station. Each one filled with people lodging complaints. Blowing out a breath of air, chewing still on to the minty gum Aliyaar had just bought for her a day before, her legs led her deeper. The curves of her ears ignoring the cries behind.

Barekhna's shoulders grazed the dingy walls that had perhaps been painted white eons ago. Now simmering into the territory of nudes — the marks of hands and inks remained. The crisp sounds of her heels against the chipped flooring were comfort, something that had been lost on her for the entirety of the morning. Even as the time turned to a muddled noon, she felt not an ounce of herself. Borrowing on the courage left behind by Aliyaar's complacency had she come to meet the session house officer.
Questions plagued her mind.
Answers only he could provide.

The office was maintained better than the rest of the place. Walls — though half heartedly seemed to have only recently been painted. A desk with a brand new leather chair and two broken ones sat in the centre. A large window allowing the wind to blow in. Behind the desk a large portrait of Muhammad Ali Jinnah hung with vigor. In front — a stout man sat with his lips hidden underneath a bushy mustache. Ironic. One had passed of fatigue and not caring enough for himself. To serve the nation his only mission. Whilst the other had taken millions of rupees to invest into a lavish lifestyle.
Symbolic respect — an art she had no time for.

"Madam ji yeh aap keh baap ka daftar nahi hai jo aise hi ghus aai hain." He leered, his brown eyes filled with disgust as they raked over her figure.
[Madam this isn't your father's office that you have just barged in.]

"SHO sahab mujhe aap sai baat karni hai." She stated, ignoring his previous statement.
[SHO sir I want to talk to you.]

Not waiting to hear of his approval or denial, Barekhna walked into the room, motioning for Malika to follow suit. Wrapping with the fraction of a force her furious hands held, she pushed back the chair. Draping her frame across it, the bag discarded on top of the cheaply varnished desk. Crossing her legs she dangled an arm off of the chair's arm rest, licking her teeth as she thought of the perfect words. Fixed over his frame she calculated the number of buttons that had popped off, clenching her hands into fists as he stared with indifference. Munching on the roasted corn, a cup of tea waiting for him to sip.

Slipping forward she rested her derrière on the edge of the chair, feeling her knees tuck into the side of the desk. Her fingers toyed with the pens over his desk. Tipping back and forth her thumb slid over the sides, toying with it — creating ticking sounds to soothe herself. The flurry of nerves that had built a mesh around her stomach squeezed with relentless mercy. All movements inside her jaw and frame had been forced shut. The aftertaste of the mint buzzed around the flesh of her cheeks. Water forced to cover the grainy texture of her amber speckled eyes. Refusing to give in though she had held herself together, the rejections at court to bail had been a stab in the side of her neck.
Do not find an easy way out — the words of her father had comforted her, only somewhat.

"Ji kahiye."
[Yes speak.]

"Last night you arrested Aliyaar Alamgeer."

"Ah! That murderer." He nodded.

"He is no murderer," Barekhna spoke sharply.

"Madam sara saboot unkay khilaaf jata hai. Warna humein sharif gharon ki aulaad ko uthanay ka konsa shoq hai?" He chuckled, spitting the debris of corn between his teeth into the air.
[Madam all evidence goes against him. Otherwise what interest do we have in arresting the children of good families?]

"Mujhe un sai milna hai."
[I want to meet him.]

"For what reason? Bail was denied."

"I want to meet him as his lawyer."

Barekhna's fingers drummed the underside of the desk in anticipation. Time crawled by them in a gait slower than that of a turtle's. The silence remained — an eternity of it she imagined as her lips bunched up in pain. The softness of her facial muscles escaped to a land faraway, replaced with a crookedness. Frowns tampered with her muscles, digging deep wells and ridges on to her smooth skin. Nudging the tip of her shoe against the desk — time and again she searched for an outlet. Seized instantly by the urgent need to smack the grin off of the officer's face she bit her tongue. The metallic taste of blood spread in tiny fractions.

The court had denied Aliyaar's bail. Whilst it had been well within their right — citing reasons that the Sukhera family was at threat if he was left to roam around the streets. There was to be a trial for the murder case, his son had vowed to take it over to the highest power in the judiciary. The media — as Malika had informed her was having a field day over the case. Finally after decades of a clean slate the Alamgeer family had had a scandal attached to their name. One that was to outshine the court case earlier this year. Barekhna had with a very slim window managed to avoid the media personnel. She had already ensured that none of her family spoke to the media.
Their silence would only break in the courtroom now.

Signing the thin sheet of paper, her name bunched up in way ward lines form the agonizing task, she stood up from the dingy chair. Fixing her coat, rubbing her hands against each other she followed the attendant, tightening her hold around the thin frame of his spectacles. The sides of them bit into the centre of her palms, they quivered with need to touch the warm skin they had come to adore. Marching behind in the foggy corridors, thin air brushing the sides of her face. Barekhna could feel the blood inside her limbs freeze up from the cold, even underneath the sherpa and thick coat. Fog curled around her mouth as she breathed out, the single light in the space doing little to make it better.

"You have thirty minutes madam." The attendant spoke, his keys rustling against the locked door as he motioned for her to enter.

Gulping, Barekhna stepped into the tiny cell. Her eyes strained as they watched the space filled with dirt — a lack of warmth buzzed down her bones. In the corner, tucked out of light and hunched into a ball of sorts was the frame she could trace out in sleep even. Burning hot tears over flew. The power to hold them back had slid away, as she sniffed and stumbled closer to him. Dropping the bag over her shoulders she touched his toned back that after a night of sleeping over the bare tile had turned ice cold. A pained cry gurgled inside her throat, even as she wrapped an arm and made him face her, resting her weight over her legs as he saw her.

Sitting up right Aliyaar barely gave her time to make out what was happening. His frame shadowed itself. The bony obsidian in the corner gave him refuge, and his eyes squeezed shut. Barekhna held back the sniffle that had almost eased out of her throat. Reaching into his soft hair she brushed through them, sliding off the coat until it was successfully over him. His biceps hid his face. Although Barekhna could in the dim light and shallow cover still make out the hurt.
The pain.
The agony.
The torture.
Crooning, Barekhna's lips shook as they kissed the back of his hand. Uncurling, she tucked her fingers underneath his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.

"Why are you hiding from me Aliyaar?"

"I am — I am ashamed."

Aliyaar's ears turned a shade of fleshy pink. His cheeks buzzed and there was a spotting of color on them too. Barekhna sniffled, a smile inched on to her lips until the muscles of her cheeks were stretched — at last. Running her hands over his face, she placed a short kiss on the shadowed beard across his cheek, feeling it prickle through her sensitive skin was a renewing feeling. Her heart soared after having been trapped in a web of mortal lies. Breathing the same air as him she felt the confidence that she had lost unfreeze the blood inside her veins. Gently her thumbs traced the edges of his jaw, her gaze sharp as it counted for any bruise that had appeared over night.

"My bail has been denied, hasn't it?"

"We will fight together Aliyaar. We will get you out of here." Barekhna's voice wavered, his hands around hers doing little to soothe.

"It's going to be okay." He whispered.

"You have that much faith in me?"

"Yes, and even if justice is denied," he murmured, "I believe in one true court to give it to me."

"Aliyaar." She spoke with warning behind her words.

"My sweetest siren keep my heart in a glass box. I shall very soon come to you for it." Aliyaar grinned.

"I promise. The world will know that you are innocent."

"It is enough that you know."

These next few chapters are the most tough ones I've ever written. They took such a toll on me — I'm still recovering. That's because Aliyaar is by far the most vulnerable part of me.