Chapter 5.

The Governor of Punjab knew how to host a diplomatic dinner, without any murders being involved. He was smart, and that was why he had been handed over such a large province at his tender age. He had the wits, and the words to prove it. It came as no surprise then, when he sent out tiny square cards — inviting everyone he knew to a dinner in the honor of diplomatic relations between Pakistan and one of it's longest allies. What had been the shock though, for the upper society of Lahore as well as the media all across, was the invitation extended to Haider Ilyas's family. The blow was huge, and the conversations whispered across the tables were larger.

Amongst the whispers a new tale was spinning itself. On top of the bobble crocheted table cloths that the women, dressed in gauze and Chantilly lace kept for an attachment to their roots and mother's that had suffered at the arms of pagan father's covered in pearls, another story was being weaved. Parting their hairs with the talon like nails, pushing the botox lined lips into a thin line to show distaste — the elite of Lahore were speaking. They were searching. They were desiring first hand information and the 'diplomatic' dinner was just the perfect outlet. Though their husbands had enough to bribe out information, the charm in having seen and then spilling it was in a league of it's own.

Inside a large mansion in the central part of Lahore, where houses, aged far more than the nation itself, another story had taken over. Gossip began in the centre of heaven before it reached the ears of the incorrigible. Lips of even the dead whisper tales when it's something as hot as a woman's dignity. A fan favorite. A disgusting reality. Trampling over what was an over the top sign of affections, one sided though — the aunts and cousins found a glorious point. To push and force a narrative that would favor only them. Dressed in a riverine of reds and jewels, hairs in fancy updo's, their lips and gravely voice spewed utmost venom.

"She's got the man wrapped around her fingers. Like a dog he runs at her first command!" The eldest of the daughter-in-law's spoke.

To whom? No one could pinpoint. With eyes in the direction of her husband but the tone taunting her mother-in-law, it was a valid question that pricked the only sister-in-law.

"Of course a daughter is a reflection of her mother," the sister-in-law grimaced, still mourning her innocent brother who was trapped. "These women know it better how to trap men."

"Rahima! Hareem! Yeh kis tarah baat kar rahi hain ap dono? Aur hai kahan woh jin ki wajah sai humari izzat ka janazah jald hi niklay ga?" Sameen Khawar spoke pointedly to her daughter and daughter-in-law.
[In what kind of a way are the two of you talking? And where is she, the one because of whom we will soon hold the funeral of our respect?]

The elderly woman looked comical. Dressed in a maroon saree, lips painted crimson and eyes lined heavily with kohl. She resembled a starving woman who would do anything for attention. Text book image of wanting to hold on ; to something that never belonged.

"Sophia went to check up on her. We're getting late as is." Naeem replied.

"Where is your father? Your son?" Sameen narrowed her eyes.

"They've left already. We were making them late. You know abba wanted to talk to Governor Chohan about Ghafoor." He said.

"Good. Find him a bride also, it's high time he find someone respectable."

Slanted ceiling lights inside the foyer toyed with the decorations and cast shadows, of all sizes and shades around the room. The tall window next to the door had been covered by gold curtains, falling in waves against the white walls. Airy as it was, the sight of the gifts on the round cherrywood table pricked at each of their eyes. Saliha twisted her fingers into her long peshwas. She wondered how it must be — to be a woman like Barekhna. To have men fall on your feet, left right and centre. Yet to still not care, and win them over with her indifference. Pressure inside the air increased as individually they continued to mourn and slander.

Then the reverberations of heels hitting the staircase seemed to ease up the tense air. They relaxed their postures and held their indifference firm. Sounds of her soft giggles, like waterfall hits the tops of trees, announced her arrival before she stepped in view. Her recently cut off hair — that had been part of the huge speculation amongst their own family, lay in a mess of curls against her bare shoulders. She stood out — despite their attempts to dim her shine. The muted white of her fitted shirt against the silver embroidery, with an almost reflective texture and shine to it was an opposite of her usual taste.
Demure and toned down. It was a shock to everyone, Barekhna Saleem was not one that went along with those words.
Fiery and opulent— those were the synonyms associated with her, by large.

Tucking the organza veil neatly, she held it in her fingers, mindful of it rubbing against the floors. The fitted sleeves with cuffs filled with pastel embroidery brought attention to her pale pink nails and silver ring on her middle finger. The ring finger left bare — in anticipation, in a purposeful attempt to tone down the rumors. Barekhna softened her hard gaze as it fell on top of the large bouquet of white roses, tapped to each of which was a small dark chocolate. From her choice of brand. A crisp manila envelope tucked into the side, his name written with maroon ink, and a tiny heart replacing the dot of the 'i'.

"Resplendent!" She beamed, tearing a piece off of the flower with care, biting into it.

"From what right does he send these to you everyday Barekhna? People will talk!" Sameen chided her granddaughter, throwing a glance at her son and daughter-in-law.

"He's pursuing me dado. It's alright if he has to work for it."

She shrugged, licking the remnants off of the wrapper slow and soft. Her tongue peeling of each layer with tenacious liberty.

"What are nonsense are you uttering? Firangi ho magar uska matlab yeh nahi keh bilkul he tameez bhul jao!" Naeem said.
[You are a foreigner doesn't mean you forget your manners!]

"And what makes you think not being one guarantees manners?"

"This! This is why I asked you Saleem to not send her off to England. To keep her under our noses! To not allow her to work for so long!" He turned to his brother, finding only disappointment swimming in those eyes.

"I suggest these vile remarks about my daughter's character be laid to rest." Saleem said.

"Oh are you even sure she's your daughter?" Naeem scoffed.

"I suggest you take up the matter of my parentage with the hospital where mummy gave birth. Because if anything," she threw a side glance to her grandmother, "it seems to me that abu isn't her son!"

"How dare you?" Samreen roared in anger.

"Oh I very well intend to dare again and again. Until the day you keep pointing fingers at my mother, I'll keep pointing mine at you!"

"Aj sahi mainay mein andaza ho gaya keh kafir ki hi aulad hai yeh larki!" Hareem came to her mother's defense.
[Today in true ways have we realized that you are the daughter of a disbeliever.]

"I'd like to remind you that my mother converted at the time of her wedding and has been a muslim for thirty years, and counting phopho." Barekhna spat, wrapping an arm around her frazzled mother as she continued, "I've got a lot of proof to taint your relationships but my disbelieving mother has raised me better than your believing one."

"Enough Barek jaan. Do not employ an entity as pious as religion to win petty arguments." Saleem silenced the two women, "and Hareem keep your tongue between your teeth before I take some extreme measures and everyone regret them."

➖➖➖➖➖

White lights in the shape of Water-Lilly's sprung around the edges of the gardens. The glass droppings thrown around the shrubby grass acted like frozen dew drops, tiny bulbs hanging inside of them. Large iron frames lit up with the colors of the nation's flags greeted the guests as they entered from the curving garden stairs. Waiters lined the open air celebration as a light mist in the atmosphere settled beneath the heavy branches. Dresses and diamonds. Watchful gazes and whiskey — the corrupt sat in their leather chairs around the room, watched in anticipation as the newer crop of the untainted walked by. In an honorable gathering their eyes gauged out of their sockets in search of a new prey — a toy.

Blemishes of oil splattered over from the live kitchens, maestro chef's chopping away at the spices and meats with butchers knife. It was like watching a mantis prey dance. Erratic, rippling and awe invoking. Fluent tongues — native and non-native lauded the attempts, chewing on the fried prawns. As the upper echelons exchanged kissed with poisons lining their lips and hugged each other with their nails digging into spines, the lower ones worked their way to keep things in order. Their life depended on it. They, did not, have thousands to spare and silence the mouths of the wronged. A live orchestra played tunes of the patriotic rhythms written once by pens that had spirits stronger than most. Sweet in nature — strong in temper they moved the crowd to tears. That is when they were listening.

Bourgeoisies — every single one of them held more power in their nails than the middle class did. Their breezy conversations were monitored by the need to create — to divulge into an agnostic attitude. Chewing with loftiness on the one bite foods, the women of the upper class found themselves an elaborate corner lit up with dusky rose gold lights for conversation. Theirs bubbled up like the champagne flutes in hands, laughter engaged the attention and the elaborate flick of hands and winks thrown in careless redundancy were shows put on to trap the next rich man that walked in. More than a political dinner it was an opportunity to get hands on a diplomatic passport. It was their chance to escape their euphoric life of luxury, into the world of yachts and casinos.

With a sharp red rose bouquet in her hands Barekhna followed behind her parents. Her eyes crinkled with anticipated joy as the diplomats and bureaucrats greeted her parents and brother. The men, young and middle aged looked up to her father — who had once been a part of the foreign ministry, retiring at an early age to help save his father's sinking ship of a business. Everyone looked up to him and his wife — the British woman who stood by his side as media maligned his character and tried their fullest to destroy him. Aman, though younger than her had the advantage of being a son in the patriarchal society— so of course he got the respect that was his birth right. Whilst she had to work her way and earn it.

These traditions of the daughter's scrounging for equal footing would soon die, she knew. They had lived on for hundreds of years and ; like all good and fine things, evils must too come to an end.

"Ah Barekhna, right?" One of the diplomats, the ambassador of England to Pakistan turned to her with something of a deep pride in his eyes.

"Yes that would be me." She nodded.

"Congratulations on that marvelous win. Your grit will get you far."

Patting her shoulder with fatherly affection he slipped out of the group. A victorious smile appeared on her face. That, she knew, was just the beginning of the congratulations that were to pour in all evening. She had won a case against two men that had ruled the opposition circles for three and a half decades. Barekhna had not only done that but also, managed to defeat a lawyer with a criminally larger work experience than hers. The court's judgment had been read publicly and the outcry of support had been nothing short of grand. All of them were sentenced to a public hanging, and Barekhna? She was gifted with the promotion she had sought with open hands.

Taking a moment to breathe as the affirmations of her success began to cloud past her head, she slipped out from behind her parents. The bouquet of roses lay on the table of gifts for the governor, amongst the elaborate display's hers looked a bit out of place. All the more warning for the man to understand she was not into his hot pursuit of her.

Dabbling her finger around the stem of her flute, she licked the remnants off of her lips. The warm lights from either side of the gardens flushed her face, blinding her vision with full attempts. That was the moment she regretted having chopped off her hair, at-least when it was long she could have used it to keep light of her eyes. Her shoulders brushed the forest green leaves, the fables her father whispered to her at night of ghosts long forgotten.
Why be scared of apparitions when solid appearances do the most harm?

"Barekhna there you are, I've been looking for you everywhere!" The familiar voice called from afar.

Enthusiastically she waved in the man's direction, his jeans hanging low and the khaki shirt messily left untucked. Mirhan's coiled hair covered his sea foam eyes — a characteristic he had inherited from his pathan mother. Pushing the glass of coke against his lips, the edges of his squeaking sneakers bringing him half the distance to her. Barekhna felt relaxed at having found someone she knew. Or else her plan had been to drink herself out of her boredom. The horrified look on her grandparents faces would have been a well added bonus, of course.

"What have you been up to? You just vanished as soon as we got back from Dubai!" Mirhan spoke.

Barekhna sighed, biting her tongue as she sought for an answer that would settle well with him ; with anyone that called themselves her friend.

"You know just—work stuff."

"Oh yeah that case with the Alamgeer's."

"The very one." She nodded.

Pushing back the gelled lock of hair that had slipped out of place Barekhna lost herself to the colors behind him. She knew his intentions well enough. There was chemistry there — she knew. He could hold a conversation for longer than ten minutes and her parents were fully onboard if she wanted to marry him. It was picture perfect, their pairing. Her, a young lawyer with a bright future and him, a scientist making name for Pakistan on the international forums. Yet this was not what she wanted. The tight box of perfection that held them into a cage together, she wanted to escape it. Barekhna searched for a roughness, for something a bit more spiritual and not so much powerful. She didn't, at the age of forty want their dinners to be about how much work they had done to change the world. Instead, the softest parts of her armored heart wanted conversations of love to flow — without holding back.

"You won that, right?"

"Yeah. Death penalties, although if I could, I would have pressed for a harsher sentence." Barekhna sighed.

"Why didn't you?" He sounded confused.

Barkehna was a woman to never utter 'would'. She was the kind that always 'did'.

"My client's brother he — he insisted that this was already a harsh blow and so I shouldn't do anything to cause more misery." She shrugged.

Barekhna herself was confused as to why she had agreed to Aliyaar's opinions. Her mind wanted to push for another form of death, more painful. Something that would remind generations to come what lying or breaking the law could lead to. Though, he had driven a hard bargain when he whispered to her in a room full of lawyers.
'What difference does it make? Death is the ultimatum anyway.'

"That's a first." Mirhan chuckled, "what's his name anyways? Ali? Aleem? Something like that right?"

"Aliyaar. His name is Aliyaar." Barekhna added hastily, her harsh tone catching both of them off guard.

"Woah okay man! No need to get so defensive!"

"Sorry about that I don't know what came over me—" she sighed, taking a sip of her drink.

"Its okay," rolling on the balls of his feet, Mirhan pushed his hair out of his eye, "what's up with rumors going on about you and him?"

"Me and who?"

"You and Aliyaar."

"Rumors are just intoxicated truth." She winked, downing the remnants of her champagne.

Winsome curls that lapped at her skin for heat and affection strayed from their place beneath her ears. The square neckline left some parts of her bony shoulders exposed as well as her delicate collarbones. Occasionally as the wind from the water fans blew in their direction her veil would slip out of place, her hands instantly placing it back in position. Barekhna under the starlight, by the pool's side in the close proximity of a man who wanted to marry her felt like the most vulnerable person. The white — it's paleness a symbol of weak spirits had been forced on to her by her mother. She was smart of course, white put her somewhere in the middle of the crowd. A far cry from the gaudy maroon her grandmother's stylist offered.

A long line of guests followed them into the dinning quarters. A small attached garden had been prepared with seating arrangements and a queue of trenches. Each one filled to the brim in silverware, gravies and food of both local cuisines present. With a faux waterfall for the backdrop, the exposed stony wall turned smooth by years of water pressure, it was something out of a movie. The tables were lined with white linen and red napkins. Gold cutlery with porcelain plates, carved with the national flowers of both countries handed over by the waiters.

Mirhan rested his hand on Barekhna's elbow softly. His touch barely there as it seeped through the cloth of her shirt. It irked her — the freeness to hold her when she had not given him the liberty to do so. Still, she reprimanded herself, this was not the first time he held her hand. Dropping her honeycomb eyes, frozen like the top of a river towards the dishes she stopped thinking. Diving into the worlds of luxurious cuisines, she filled her plate to the top.

Curious glances. Pointed fingers. Alerted minds did little to deter her. If they wanted to talk about something, she'd give them a reason to.

"Barekhna I heard you were engaged to Aliyaar, you know Lyana's son? But you're here with Mirhan — how?"

A woman in her mid-forties, the only one that had the guts to stand up to her walked over. With the beady eyes, colorless in nature, she looked Barekhna up and down with distaste.

"Is there a ring on my finger?"

Pushing her hand into the woman's face, she rolled her eyes. That she hoped — would stop the rumors for some time atleast.

"Oh! Then what is the case? I've heard there's a line of restless men dying to tie the knot with you. How about I introduce you to my son?" The woman grinned.

Barekhna clenched her teeth, if the man with a sleazy look inside his eyes was her son then he was an absolute no go. Not that she was interested in the first place. Her hands were full already, with Aliyaar's pursuit and Mirhan trying to win her over, Barekhna felt confused.

"Aunty, with all due respect I don't even know your name, let alone know who your son is," she sighed, "plus I'm not looking for a marriage. Maybe have your son ruffle the feather's of someone else."

Her feet lead her to the corner farthest from the centre of the crowd. Placing her dish on top of the table with a loud thud, she failed to notice her surroundings. Only, she slid in and saw from the periphery of her vision, Mirhan did too. Barekhna clenched her fists in tight balls as she relived the conversation, sipping on the glass of ice cold water to her right. The people of Lahore had lost it if they thought she'd marry their sons. Not after the way her mother had been subjected to their taunts. Not after how they were part of the reason why she was shipped to England at a young age.

Barkehna closed her eyes, loosing herself to the realm of her dreams. Her heart sighed with great fatigue. Eyes squeezed shut she saw the face of the man whose affections for her seemed to be bottomless. He was proving to her everyday that he was worth it. That he would be worth breaking the law for. Stirring her food around with mindlessness, Barekhna observed her surroundings. Haunted by the gay brown eyes and heart shaped lips. All of a sudden she — more than ever preferred the world of realities.

"Urm Barekhna?"

"What?" She snapped at the man to her right, "Aliyaar? I'm so sorry! How are you?" She rapped.

"It's okay. I'm well. If I could have my water back, please." Aliyaar scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

Her eyes raked over him. Dressed in a black suit and dress shirt with the top buttons left undone, his chest visible underneath Aliyaar looked like an angel — faking to be a devil. To fit in. She tuned out the words he spoke, his hands catching her attention as he moved them in the air. Aliyaar's beard had been trimmed she noted, a white rose stuck to the lapel of his suit — redemption perhaps? Just the sight of him brought to life the sparks she kept wrapped under thick folds. Her heart was not anyone's to have. It had been bruised and even with the force of her parents she was not up for fixing it.

Something's are better left untouched.

"Sorry, I didn't realize."

"That's alright." He smiled, his eyes the sign of joy.

"Why are you here?" Mirhan butted in.

"I'm attending in the absence of my family. Also, I've decided to fund a research into saving local ecology and preparing medicines that are cheaper but more affective." Aliyaar explained, his cheeks tinged pink as he felt eyes on himself.

"Ah! I've been asked to head that project." Mirhan spoke.

"Congratulations!"

"Yeah," Mirhan rolled his eyes, "some of us worth more than the legacy of our father's." He added the latter half in a whisper.

Mirhan's words fogged Barekhna's vision with anger. The emptiness in their corner would have allowed Aliyaar to hear his words. If anything, the instant drop of his grin was key indicator that he had. Wiping the corners of his mouth, creasing the napkin in a straight line he stood up, nodding in their direction with a phased look inside his eyes.

"I think I've overstayed anyways. Have good evening the two of you!"

"But—" For once, words fell short.

Barekhna felt her heart twist in misery for Aliyaar. Watching his silhouette walk further away from them she pinched her thighs. For reasons unknown, her heart burned — and she wanted to do nothing but defend him.
Not just in that moment ; but forever. What was perplexing, was that she was okay with those thoughts that would have haunted her once upon a time. Yet, once upon those times she hadn't known that a man could love like Aliyaar — and only like Aliyaar.

She feels for our boy Aliyaar. That melts my heart!
One of my favourite chapters but doesn't top the list! I think in a few more chappies we'll get to my favourite-est sceneeee
Uffff
*screams into an abyss*
Khairrrrrr liddol ones
I just wanted to say motivate me to write and pray I make ut through the next 3 weeks
It's finals seazon
But as I would say
ITS SHOWBIZ BABEH