Chapter 7.

Morning light kissed the sultry dew that drew itself from the purest of moments. It shadowed over the double edged leaves, spine crackling under their hollow weight. Barreled feet like nothingness danced on the green stems, feeding on the poppy seeds with demure tempers, stuffing the early crying mouths with worms — the flight seeking mother's were already hard at work. The pallor of the divine centre of the universe broke free through the seamless dark, spill of ink. A sprinkling of clouds kept them covered from burning the grass under full force of heat. There was still a mont before summers stroked the nation in it's fingers.

Sparse sunlight washed the creme walls into a bleached white. Thick curtains drawn over the large windows, the room buzzing with the sounds of the ac. Over the cushioned bed frame, wrapped in chocolate sheets and a creme duvet, he slept with his face covered and kissed with frowns. The tips of his eyebrows brushed into one large angled frown. His lips scrunched upwards and the skin wrinkled, the dimples that were hid by his overgrown beard no where to be seen as the apples of Aliyaar's cheeks sunk deeper. Under the sheets he sparred with his pillows, his legs and arms spread out like a starfish's. His alarm buzzed by his ear, and his large palms shoved it further away, under the sleeve of the bed.

Shirtless he felt his skin be kissed with the soft cold. The ripples in his back, ribbed, his shoulder blades cramped as he pulled himself into a smaller ball. His ears pulsed with an ache, the lower ends of his ears rung as blood rushed to his extremities. Aliyaar fisted the sheets, digging his nails into the satin, spreading his legs as far apart as he could — an ache tearing through them. Helpless, he moulded into a sorry figure. His heartbeat raced like a galloping horse. Dreams and visions — hallucinations of her appeared into his line of sight. Blinking his eyes open, he shut the with a grunt. Light bit at them. It was a rookie mistake, crying with lenses still in his eyes. Now, they were swollen, as his fingers felt.

Like a fish out of water he gaped at the air, breathing deep and slow. His warm breath baked the cupids bow of his lips. They were dry and crackled, the water in the jug beside him finished for hours. He had slept feverishly, slipping in and out of consciousness, his thoughts and dreams kept him from losing and gaining. Stuck in between. Aliyaar pressed his palm against his sweaty chest, fire breathed out of each of his pores. He felt like he was sinking. Under water, under it's depths with no oxygen around. His mind was shut down and the sharp, nail like pressure into his ear drums. Aliyaar heard whispers and voices, his vision danced the tango, light split as it does through a labyrinth of roots.

Like a spinning ball his head moved in it's place. Nothing made sense even as he tried with full force. It seemed that his mind worked with it's own plans, with a broken record for a mirage they brought up memories and moments he had of her. Memories were a poison ; they were inflicted on one by their own self. Armistice — it was an impossible wish he fostered in his heart. It would be impossible for him to move on ever, Aliyaar even in his state of a drunken stupor knew. He hoped he never would.
Why ever would a man want to not love a woman like her?

"Aliyaar won't you be going to the office today?" With a knock, his mother's voice rang out from behind the bedroom door.

"She won't leave me alone." He replied with a grunted grin, too out of himself to make sense of what he said.

Aliyaar raised his body that seemed to have gained a hundred pounds over night, the toned abs he worked on still there — he felt by hand. That's weird he thought, how could he have gained weight on an empty stomach. Rubbing his eyes, even as he felt as if there was a fire inside of them, Aliyaar peeped in the direction of his bedroom door. Bright light spilled in and he hissed instantaneously, the back of his arm shielding the sensitive irises. He bit his tongue, watching the blurry silhouette— of his mother, he assumed. The blob of shadows came closer until it was a few steps away and he could make out the hazy features of his mother's face. He slammed his forehead with the centre of his palms, massaging the hardened skin of his forehead.

"Who won't leave you alone Aliyaar?"

Sinking her body weight on to the mattress beside him, Lyana placed his head in her lap. She frowned as the sweat covered back of his head instantly set her skin on fire. Placing her hand on his face she felt around his neck and forehead. Aliyaar had turned into an oven — it seemed.

"You're burning up Aliyaar! Let me call the doctor."

"No — no doctor!" He grumbled, turning over until his face hid in his mother's womb.

"Do you want to stay in pain? Atleast let me get you food Aliyaar, you need to take painkillers." Lyana sighed, her son was exactly like his father — stubborn.

"Will it — will it stop the torment inside my heart?"

"Aliyaar!"

"Mama!" He added in reply.

"Let me call your father, he'll deal with you then."

"Call him," he shrugged, wincing as his cramped shoulders, moved a bit too fast, "love makes you fearless."

Aliyaar chuckled on his own words — he sounded like a young child trying to one up his parents. He coughed out, his lungs gripped with such fierceness he felt they would rupture any minute. Dribbling between his thoughts and the pain inside his fatigued muscles, he felt like he was back in a boring lecture of chemicals and cells — two things that would float over his head. Perhaps he was a one trick pony. Perhaps his only talent was to learn what the words of his teachers were. He had topped every single one of his classes — yet the one exam he wanted to pass, he failed with flying colors.

The door to his bedroom creaked open, his mother's hand that had been stroking the scalp that was completely on fire still for a second before starting once more. Her nails ran small soothing circles into the skin next to his temples, their half moon shape dug illustrations of unfulfilled dreams down his bare neck. He could hear the whispers beside himself, another presence in the room. It was his father, Aliyaar could tell even with his eyes sealed shut. A groan of annoyance spilled out of his parched throat as another warm hand landed on his back. He felt weak, too weak to even fight the grip off — despite the way it burned him more. It was replaced shortly after though, with a cold cloth and his muscles screamed in agony.

Lyana stared at her son with soft eyes and then to her husband with pained ones. Wordlessly the two wiped his skin with the ice cold rags, the doctor already on his way despite the groans and moans of protest. She bit her tongue, holding back the words that made no sense. The emotions that were perhaps a façade to keep at bay her inner turmoil. As Alamgeer wrapped an arm around her thin shoulders she let out a tear or two of anguish, her thirty one year old son writhing in pain beside them. Pressing her lips to the base of his neck, she took a deep breath, feeling the beat of his angered heart under her fingertips — Lyana was reassured.

The resilient sun outside held it's shine at full force as the doctor rushed out of the mansion. The patient had been prescribed medication — and had been injected with an IV, ignoring his cries of protest. The bricks of the house baked wholly and inside the large bedroom on the first floor the ill man slipped and out of his reverie. Words that were uttered made little to no sense, his posh words and thick accent that deepened as a result of his strained vocal chords fell on to the shell of ears around him. Everyone tiptoed around him — walking on eggshells as they cleared the files and office work from beside him. His hands fought to hold on to it, to the tiniest of things where he could ignore everything else — yet his mother's glare won.

Aliyaar breathed in through his mouth, biting into his nails as tiny spasms of pain and bitter memories coursed through the veins of his soul. His sister had massaged his shoulders and he could still — even after an hour feel the pressure of her deft fingers. It seemed that one day was all it had taken for him to loose all strength he built in the gym. Aliyaar's calves shook rigorously, though they seemed to be still in motion in face. Underneath his skin he could feel a hole festering itself, like a silent metamorphosis. As if a plague that would kill him from the inside out.

"Aliyaar why must you do this to yourself?" Lyana questioned, holding his hand in hers.

"I have done nothing."

"You've fallen sick, for someone that might not even know of your state Aliyaar! Kyun khud ko takleef de rahay ho?" She punched his chest, wincing as his face contorted in pain.
[Why are you torturing yourself?]

"It's not torture — it's rapture. Intoxicating. Fulfilling." He replied.

"He looks like he's drunk." Alamgeer chuckled, hiding his pain behind his laughter.

"Don't Alamgeer." She warned.

"I shall soon be without a doubt, as good as I normally am mama. Let me live in the spell of this expected disappointment for a bit. Your son, your Yaar will be fine. He always is."

He kissed her hand, hoping to give her some reassurance as he finally began to feel the headache clear up. Raising his frameless spectacles by the tip of his index finger, Aliyaar massaged the imprint it had left behind on the tip of his sharp nose. His cheeks rising to meet his eyes as he scrunched up his face.

"Aliyaar if it's meant to be she will come back. You can't live like this. Life doesn't go this way," Alamgeer spoke, "and if she isn't for you, then someone better will come."

"That's the thing. I don't want the best, I just wish she could be destined for me." He smiled mournfully.

"Give it a few weeks. If you love her as you claim, show it to her. Even if then — her heart remains stone cold towards you then we'll find someone else okay?" Alamgeer bargained.

"It's not the strength of my love I doubt. It's my fate, it has a way of leaving me shocked," Aliyaar smiled with his eyes full of water, "I promise though. If I can't win Barekhna over by the time our new budget is announced I'll marry the first woman you find for me."

"And?" Lyana smiled.

"And I'll keep her happy and satisfied with life, though love isn't a promise I'll make."

"We shall see." She shook her head.

"We shall. Indeed."

➖➖➖➖➖

The light dusting of powdered sugar over the calzones fell on to the black of her formal trousers as she bit into one. Warm Nutella oozed out, her lips covered in it's sinful thickness that she lapped at with a forceful silence. Humming under her breath like a tiny bluebird, her fingers forced the fork into the folded dough, stabbing without remorse as she fed herself her favorite desert. Though, it was not as good as the ones he made for her as a child. Using the dull side of the matte gold fork and it's sharp stems to lift it to her lips painted a deep red, Barekhna was the image of innocence. Only, she was anything but.

Using her full force she slapped away the sugary dust before inhaling the remnants of the desert her brother had baked for her. It was soft and crisp — an explosion of textures and flavors as she chewed with no remorse. Her ears had long since been trained by professional hands to ignore the chatter of her family. They only had hatred to give. It could have no place in her life. Brushing a grown out curtain bang behind her ear, toying with the gold hoop as she did so, Barekhna thought of all the peculiarities in the world. Trying her best. Doing her best. To not think ; to not speak and to not reply to her extended family, that once more had a list of complaints.

The lined creases of her eyes pushed the thick brows higher on to the lucky forehead — as her mother claimed. With an annoyance, Barekhna's eyes filled up with ire and she almost wished it was her grandmother's hand and not the porcelain plate she was stabbing. Her family of course took dysfunctional to the next level. If someone was interested to do an article on her life, the ugly frown on her aunt's face would be all the warning they needed to walk away. With a leg pushed beneath the curve of her ass, the other dangling off of the herringbone chair, Barekhna's front was pushed over the dinning table as she reveled in her last day off of work. The weekend of course — was by default and she forced everyone to acknowledge it meant she was no longer off of work.

Puckering up her lips, she let out a guttural moan, harsher than intended. The sultriness inside her faux grin was all the more reason for divine rage — she thought. Of course, the rage was about her politely declining a suitable proposal. At her age, her family and society debated, she was lucky to have even gotten such a good one. With the way she was headed — they were sure she was destined for an abandoned life. What about it? Barekhna had asked her uncle's wife at the stupid claims, it's not as if any of you are any better. That — had resulted in a slap on her cheek, which still stung and buzzed. Sore — tender and red from the imprint.

More often than not man invites hellfire itself. Throughout notions of extreme stupidity. Who was she, to stand in the way of nature? Barekhna scoffed inside her mind. They wouldn't know what hit them by the time she was done torturing.

"Can we move over this topic already?" She yawned, biting into her third calzone, "yes I politely declined his offer to marry me. The world isn't ending, and frankly, he isn't the last man on earth."

"Yeh tarbiyat ki hai tumhari maa aur angrez nai mil kar. Meray betay ki bhari jawani maa nai aur beti nai uska bhurhapa zaya. Haye bechari ki photi qismat!" Her grandmother lamented.
[This is what your mother and that English man have taught you. My son's youth was stolen by the mother and his old age by the daughter. Oh his bad luck!]

"I'm sorry amma. She's a kid, I'll explain it to her." Sophia rose to her daughter's defense.

"Sophia she was a kid ten years ago. At her age I had already given birth to Meezan and Saliha." Her phopho tsked.

Hareem Khawar Obaid, the only daughter of her parents had sought a divorce from her already ailing husband when her own daughter, Saliha, was just six months old. She had since then, reigned terror in her parents home bullying the non native bride of her elder brother. Taking full advantage of her meek nature.

"Oh please! Don't act like you guys care for me or my life," Barekhna spoke, pushing her plate aside, "all you want is to control me. I can make a decision for my life without your intervention."

"Really? Then why haven't you found someone?" Dado said.

"That's not my life's entire purpose! I wanted to build a career and now that I'm taking the steps in the right direction, I assure you I'll open up my heart to someone."

"No one wants a hag." The old woman rolled her eyes, Barekhna almost wished they got stuck in the back of her head.

"Even if I can't find a husband, I'll find a married man like yours who is into keeping mistresses on the side."

"Bakwas band karo. Baray chotay kisi ka lihaz nahi hai. Jo dil mein aaye bakti chali jaati hai!" Her grandmother's façade slipped immediately at that. Sore spots once — remain sore spots always.
[Shut up. You have no care for who is older and who is younger. What ever comes in your heart you start speaking!]

"Barek jaan go to your bedroom." Her mother whispered, resting a hand on her shinbone.

Tearing her eyes away from the ghastly ones that haunted her dreams, Barekhna turned to her mother. Biting her lip, she pressed her hands to her mother's warm ones under neath the table. The soft smell of rose that reminded her of his home wafted from under her hair, the pale of her skin turned yellow as she faced her mouthy inlaws. Underneath her buttoned crop top, Barekhna's heart cracked into splinters and each one stabbed right into the centre of her lungs. Out of breath, hopeless, she stared into the bottomless seas that foamed inside her mother's eyes, her warms ones colder than them. It was in the nature of the woman who birthed her to avoid conflict. For an easier life for her husband. Sophia Saleem was a woman devoted— if only the rest could look beyond her dyed blonde hair.

Behind the lined windows inside the dinning room the morning star washed the deep blue from the night before completely. Beyond the creeping branches, that dared to stalk closer to the actual home, the sunlight was bright. Even inside — from the tinted windows it hurt the sensitive eyes. Winds were picking up pace and a thunderstorm was anticipated, as told by the robotic voice of their home assistant. Birds perched in flight and trees, covered in dust bunched over into a large mess. Inside the weather was kept at bay yet still the heat could be felt. Between the bonds — more sensitive than the enzyme. At first sight of questioning they broke.

Using her fingernail she straightened out the fold of her top, bare skin from beneath visible. Barekhna's hair curled under chin as she thought of all that was going on in her life. Taking her mother's advice, she stepped out of the bedroom. Her white sneakers squeaked against the floors, her hand pulling out Sophia too. They ran up the stairs — or she did and dragged along her mother. White light turned her dark room into something different. The sheets had been folded, the bed neatly made. Bouncing on to the bed, keeping her weight on her elbows Barekhna's legs hovered over the carpet as she waited for her mother to make herself comfortable.

Just an average Friday morning at their residence. What more could she do?

"When did Aman leave for work?" Barekhna switched the topic as her mother opened her mouth.

"Half an hour ago." She spoke, her tone taut.

"Why are you mad at me mummy?" She batted her eyelashes, "I'm just your angel child!"

"Barekhna!"

"Mummy!"

"Why Barek jaan? I've told you to not stoop to their level — ever. It hurts us to see you fight over petty issues."

Barekhna frowned as her mother's eyes filled up with tears. Rising off of her place she sunk to the ground, her top rising as she held her mother's hand, kissing the back of it with gentleness that was usually amiss from her actions.

"I don't like it when they hurt you or abu, or Aman."

"We don't like it when you're hurt too Barekhna. All of us can fight our own battles." She smiled.

"Mummy I'm a lawyer. Fighting battles for people is my job." Barekhna winked.

Willows crushed the frame of the fibre glass windows despite having been installed a few weeks ago. They were an investment, but well worth the heavy charge they had cost her bank account. At least, when she slept at night now she was reassured that they would not cave in after being hit by a bullet, or allow a creep to stare into her bedroom in the lowly likely chance of her walking out of the ensuite naked. Through the tinted windows, sunlight fell with an almost burned out tinge and her bare arms were painted an orange. Her nude nails — a rustic change after her mother's insistence dug into the upper arms and left behind crescent shaped marks.

The embroidered medallions of silver on her mother's coal two piece dress reflected the different shades of light. Her veil obstructed the view of her soft chest, the blonde roots were finally in vision after months of having been suppressed under the dark dyes. Lack luster, the ends of her mother's hair curled over the soft curve of her breast and Barekhna's arms rose to ruffle the sleek hair. Years of dyes did that. Decades of cruel —in law's hastened the process of aging. In the hands that her father wrapped in pearls were still the marks of burns, gifts of the early days of her marriage. Barekhna's fingers dragged over each of those with a full heart as she thought of something with her mouth opened. Soft whistles escaped them, her mother's warmth the only thing she felt.

"Barekhna do you have a horse race tomorrow?"

Her mother's sudden question reminded Barekhna of the event she had long marked on her calendar. Between the abuse of her family and the sudden proposals — heartbreak and tears amongst everything, she had forgotten about it. Horse racing — an adrenaline pumping sport she had first dabbled in as a part of her rebellion in England. Soon after though, her talent had built up and when her uncle realized she had a knack for it, he signed her up for professional classes. More than sixteen years later, she still pursued it as a hobby on the side. In fact, she represented her district in the competitions. A game of the elite — Barekhna rose to the top and continued to stay stagnant in the high waters.

"Yeah," she frowned, "almost forgot about."

That had been a given though, after her uncle being ripped away from her — with a solid assurance Barekhna began to loose interest. It was their thing. No longer did it bring her joy enough to last days on end. Just pain. She continued only though for the promises they had signed to each other, on the affidavit, hung up in her bedroom. The other copy inside his pockets still, Barekhna hoped.

"I was thinking of inviting Lyana too, but I guess after what happened I shouldn't." Sophia sighed, stroking her daughter's hair.

"You wanted to invite someone?" Barekhna gasped.

Barekhna felt her chest tingle with a feeling of pride. Her hands wrapped around the soft frame of her mother as she nuzzled her face into her soft stomach. It was rare, for Sophia to think of someone beyond the sphere of an acquaintance. Her years in the country known for its hospitality had not been well, had cornered her to the point where she had no friends. Only, her husband and her children.

"I did. She's such a nice woman."

Barekhna felt guilt on her shoulders and her eyes narrowed. Had she ripped from her mother someone who could have been a friend? A normal decency she deserved?

"Oh."

"It's alright. Your abu and I will be there, as always." Sophia replied.

"And Aman?"

"He's got a conference to attend with a confrère. Something about budding heart surgeons." She shrugged.

"Okay, can't wait to win another trophy." Barekhna added, pointing to the display covered in her medals.

➖➖➖➖➖

Jillani park, better known amongst the wide variety of audience in the city as Race course park, was a trademark for horse racing competitions. It's long tracks and trimmed grass with ample space for seating and lounging around made it the perfect place, not to mention the eye catching location amongst the heart of the city. Ever since its conception in the mid eighties, it had only gained fame and no tour of the city was complete without visiting the eighty eight acre piece of land known for its fake waterfall and floral shows. All of which paled in comparison to the flat racing show, where ten competed at a time.

A gust blew even as the sun shone on the slightly wet grounds. The rain last night, unexpected, had not done much to deter the spirits of the active riders and instead had only renewed their sage like spirits. The show would go on — as the local news channels reported to the viewers, their cameras installed all around the parameters. Blinding light was one thing, it's reflection giving birth to a metamorphosis of rainbows along the trees another spectacular show. Roses grew in abundance, their pollen filled the air a few weeks prior and now finally dimmed enough for everyone to enjoy.

Horses, fixed with their bridle's and spurs grazed the tracks with gentleness. Their sturdy legs mapped out the distance they were expected to run, the blinkers kept them focused as they eyed the long track and the flag at the end. Each jockey fixed their horse with the saddle and attached it to the griddle. Patting their sturdy stomachs, some ran a hand through their glossy mane, whispering words of encouragement. The horses neighed and sought the attention of the women dressed in their gauze finery. The riders dressed in their ironed white uniforms and helmets waved at their supporters, the whips and gloves on their hands risen in silent arrogance.

Barekhna too ran her glove covered hand over her three year old male horse. It's brown coat and the white oblong mark on it's face put it in the middle of the run — had it been a beauty pageant. Fortunately, it was not, and her horse, Champion, as she had named him could outrun just about everyone in their presence. As much as the governor Chohan thought of himself and his horse as the most fine one in Punjab, he would face a bitter loss today. She grinned underneath the helmet, her crimson lips all but snarled in the direction of the foolish man as he flaunted his muscles. The bets had been placed on him. Wrong choice. Bad decisions. Awful luck — Barekhna chuckled to herself.

With the over powering scent of her perfume the only thing in close proximity, the stares from the crowds that burnt holes into her back nothing more than an annoyance, she slid on to her horse's back, whispering in it's ears words of assurance and promising it a sack of apples if it won her this round — just like it had done for the past three years. It neighed, in reply or in distaste? She could not put a finger on it and instead stroked it's chin with gentle fingers, only the tips of them visible beneath the gloves. Cracking the whip in the air, assured that it would not strike the luxurious hair of her prized pet, Barekhna let ir saunter off into the grounds with the gait of a king. Show off's — she calculated from the mouths that moved in her direction.

When one was as good as them, showing off was an unparalleled right.

"Miss Saleem!"

There it was, she clenched her tongue between the rivets of her teeth as the cocky governor rode to face her. She wanted to punch the smirk off of his face, his beady eyes eyeing her like she were a piece of meat. Despite the handsomeness of his rugged face and the unibrow that was borderline endearing, he resembled an uncooked fish. Slimy, gaping and out of touch with his reality.

"Governor Chohan." She exasperated.

"Miss Saleem I think there's no need for you to show us down in every field we dominate." He spoke, steering his horse closer to hers.

"What does that mean?"

"You know — law and then horse racing."

"So the rumors then, they are true?" She smirked.

"What rumors?"

"One's that claim your ego and pride are your most important possessions."

"Excuse me?" He spoke, offended.

"You're excused and I'm bored. See you on the other side!"

Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth she rode with her back straight and hovering in the air. Dust left for the governor to munch on.

Adrenaline pumped in and out of her veins, her eyes remained focused ahead, until her vision clouded into the abyss of light. Her wrists flicked and she stilled her heel into his stomach. Champion neighed softly, blowing out hot air from his nostrils as the gun shot signaled the beginning of the race. Barekhna hovered over his streamline figure until her breast brushed over his spine, her fingers dug into the leather, the heel of her boots stilled into the metal stirrup with proper force. Blood filled through her veins and red found her vision at the bottoms. Sweat dripped down her chin and her muscles clenched in fatigue as she forced herself over the first obstacle.

Barekhna's lungs expanded with the air of the Saturday morning. Still laden heavy with due as she turned a sharp corner, the governor hot on her heels. Muffling her whispers, taking a glance in the crowd where she spotted in one instant warm eyes that haunted her, Barekhna forced her horse to jump over a stray branch. Her legs cramped up from the lack of oxygen and her throat burned with the desire of water — the overpowering urge to win though won. It was a clear win. Champion skid over the finish line mere moments before the governor's fine Arabic horse.

"Miss Saleem?"
A voice called as she walked into the stables, her hand around her horse who seemed giddy at the sight of the honey crisp apple's.

"Yes?" She turned.

"A gift from an admirer. I was asked to deliver it immediately!" The stable boy spoke, offering the bouquet of roses.

"Urm—thanks. Could you lock Champion up?" She smiled, her heart stilling at the note inside the bright flowers.

From Aliyaar.
So it had not been a hallucination. He had, in fact, been present at the race. How though? She would never know. Yet reading the cursive of his writing warmed her heart, a bit more than her liking.
'You're the perfect alloy of your parents and the only ally my heart desires. — Saint.'

"When did you get this?" She stumbled over her words.

"Before the race began."

"What?"

"Yes. The man said I should give it to you after you won. I asked him how he knew you'd win."

"Okay. Thanks."

Barekhna pinched her throat, staring at the deep blood red roses. Her heart pinched and missing a beat.

What are you up to now saint?

I hope you like this!
Just an announcement: Vacations starting soo expect irregular / every other week updates <3