Chapter 3.

"Time? How much more time will they ask for?"

The whiskers on the side of his face scuffed, his lips pursed. He pinched the skin of his brow, the phone held between his shoulder and ear as he tapped away at the keyboard. His fingers seldom stilled, going over the last bits of details. July was coming in a few weeks, and with the new budget on head he was expected to present the committee with a detailed report ; expenditure and profit — the audits and all. The problem? The company his personal assistant had hired vanished over night with sensitive information and now, this.

Aliyaar scoffed as the assistant director for the corporation that had signed a deal to sell them cheap energy had yet to hold their end of the deal. Everyday, every minute, he — his business, their mills faced losses worth billions — spare change to him but in the long run hundreds would find themselves jobless. Grimacing, he bit his tongue, spasms grasping his brain in a taut hold. With eyes closed shut, he imagined with vividness. The screams and shouts, the glares and taunts over his privilege. Pot bellied seniors with the buttons of their shirts ready to burst open, with screaming red cheeks slamming their hands over the table to slander him. To make fun of his father — of his grandfather for trusting him.

"No don't you understand? I've got hundreds dependent on running that mill! If you can show a bit of sensibility, I want to see your boss in my office tomorrow. Ten thirty sharp!" He roared over the phone, losing the tightly knit hold of his calmness.

"—very well. My assistant will book the slot, or else we'll drag you to court. And I assure you mister Sikander, you don't want to go there!"

Slamming the receiver in place he stared out of the blind windows. The back of his pen tapped away at the obsidian glass table, his legs stretched out under it's wooden frame, a long list of paperwork awaiting his attention. White ceiling lights kept the office from drowning in the darkness of the sunset. Dark blue skies moulded with a singular star and orange streaks of the sun. A cup of coffee discarded — cold and forgotten sat on the corner of his table. He had taken a sip, in rage, spitting it out. Tea was for him. His only semblance. On the opposite end of his office's creme walls, frames of Quaid-e-Azam and Allama Iqbal stared him in the eye. As if keeping check on him. Ensuring, he would not, step out of line. The Persian rug covered most of the cherry wood floors, black leather seats and a sofa set in the farthest corner, in front of the large glass windows sat.

A chiller behind him blasted with cold wind. His shoulders remained roughly taut, an ache on the muscles of his lower abdomen reminded him of the accident that had occurred a year ago. Dancing his long fingers over his trousers, tracing the scar left behind involuntarily. Aliyaar's fingers worked a labyrinth of signatures over the printed pages. The black ink bled in soft cursives, proposal after proposal he read through with wild speed. When all he wanted was to be back home, seated on the low rise seat playing his trusted piano. An armor he wished to slip off with time, to show her his talents. As his eyes closed, Aliyaar could see her face and silhouette dance before his eyes. Her lustrous words and illustrious smiles — reserved for the best. She would give in only, his heart knew, when she found the crème de la crème. It was a race, to vie for her sole affections. He was losing, by miles.

From the yellow lamp that burned tall behind him, his eyes absorbed the bright rays. Warm affection in his borderline gold orbs twitched ever so slowly. A vein in his forehead throbbed, the pale of his skin washed in paints of peach. Sweat covered his forehead despite the bone chilling cold. Blisters on the back of his knuckles — a sweet reminder of him having lost a match against Zayed pinched his nerves. Aliyaar ignored everything. All he wanted, all he did in that moment was let himself bleed over the once blank starchy pages. Too tired to continue working, too empty to face his family. A single rap on the door did barely enough to break his thick reverie. He was a man on a mission. On the span of his shoulders, the weight of hundreds of worlds rested.

"Aliyaar?"

Alamgeer stepped forward into the office, an uneasy silence keeping the bright room in a bubble. Disconnected from the realities of the world outside.

"Aliyaar?" He whispered, snapping his fingers in front of his face.

He blinked, his back falling into his leather seat. Aliyaar wiped his eyes, hoping that the tears that built up were not seen. With an awkward grin he welcomed his father, cleaning up the pile of files, storing them away. Just like he always did. No one needed his burden.

"How come you're here abu? Everything alright at home?"

"You'd know if you ever came home. But yes, it's all okay. I've been sent here by your mother to talk to you." Alamgeer explained.

He softly moaned.
He knew well enough in what direction the conversation was headed. The topic, that everyone revolved around.

"I'm not ready abu."

Aliyaar's voice was barely above a whisper. His eyes lingered on the top of his desk, wiping away at the nonexistent lint.

"No one is ever ready for it Aliyaar." He spoke sternly.

"I can't picture myself with anyone. Please just drop the topic." He shook his head.

"Listen Aliyaar," Alamgeer cleared his throat, "your mother has sent me with full faith that I will be able to convince you. Just meet the girl, you don't have to say yes to the first one you know? Nothing goes forward until you agree to it."

"It's just—" he drawled on.

How could he explain it to his father, Aliyaar wondered. Staring into the hazel eyes of his father, he conjured up the correct words. How does one after all tell a parent? I'm in love — have been for five years now. However, I'm not worth her. She deserves the best. He was stuck. Between his feelings and making his parents feel as if he had been neglected. Aliyaar wanted no one hurt. Not from his cause atleast. Even if that meant at the expense of his own sleep.

"You know Aliyaar, I was eager to get married. I feel in love with your mother at first sight, I'd like to think. But love—"

"Love doesn't happen in first sight abu. Love is something that takes forever. You can never, ever, love something wholly. Not even your love for mama is enough." He shook his head, his feelings fighting to the top of his throat.

"I agree. I fall in love with her everyday. I want you to experience that feeling to." He said.

I know how it feels — every single day. Aliyaar wished to speak, yet he could only shake his head, "it's a noble thought."

"A noble cause too. Your grandmother pulled a few strings and a proposal has been sent for Khawar Obaid's granddaughter." Alamgeer smiled, "they've invited us for tea tomorrow. You will be in attendance as well." His voice held no room for debate.

"Khawar Obaid's granddaughter?" Aliyaar whispered, his heart falling to the pits of his stomach.

"Yes. For Arham's lawyer. I'm sure you know of Barekhna Saleem."

"Of—course. Of course I do!" He nodded.

His heart burst ; in dread or glee — Aliyaar could not pinpoint.

➖➖➖➖➖

It was a sensation that could only be considered eerie. Behind the banana trees, the thick foliage of leaves humid in the heat, crisp beyond need. Eyes, sharp and feline, ghastly as they shone in the dark. Stars twinkled with a mysterious vibe, they took jibes and their neighbors one after the other. They bled through the dark canvas, scoring a place for the game of golf. Wherein, they were the golf ball and the plentiful shooting stars — a golf club. They moved and circled the sky in a stir that left the onlooker out of breath. Many breaths sweaty and reeking of poison collapsed against the starry skies — to be diffused ; to meet an early death.

This was the world of dreamers ; everyone else was fickle.

A central fountain in the stone lined pathway of the driveway washed the cars in light showers as they drove in through the dark gates. Bright sunflowers on both sides, now subdued at the set of the sun. The twinkling sound of water was satisfaction in person as it smacked against the stone seate. Servants in starchy white uniforms lined the doorways, the mahogany doors thrown open wide and inside the foyer, roses — bouquets plenty in number perfumed the dull air. It was a great show, in their fine silks and organzas the women — and the men in their achkans and turbans, presented an image of their worth. Like rubies and gold, them and wealth were partners till death do them part.

A sanguine warmth from the kitchens rose out of it's way to pass into the airy guest lounge. Maroon upholstered sofas with gold details, tassels hanging off of the angled cushions. The carpets had been thrashed three times in one of the three private gardens. A small pool of water covered in lotus under the shade of the papaya tree, grew into a sight straight out of a serene painting. There was a hushed excitement in the air. Despite the despair of her existence, like a permanent black mark, the family had put up a planned show. Crimson painted lips could not hide the marred grins. Clasped hands and kisses on the cheeks could never remove the chokehold of their perfumes. And no amount of money ; would make her forget.

Barekhna pulled a piece of her now collarbone length hair behind her ear. A successful show of power. She was her own person. The stylist hired by her generous grandfather, his blood money spent on her happiness, would not be swallowed in silence. It was her rebellion. Startling to her grandmother and aunts, the grin on her face was all her mother cared for. Thin diamond earrings, long enough to graze her cheek brushed by. A single crooked gold band on her index finger warmed up the cold skin. Nothing or no one could deter the hard look in her eyes — like stone meets stone. Her fingers, slender and full of life held on to the white organza pallu with a long line of silver vines. Thin leaves spread out into the centre, it feel like a sheer curtain off of her shoulders and brushed the ground gently. Sleeves and sequins in gold — the definition of Barekhna Saleem, displayed her skin for a show of power.

She was everything they wished to be.
She would have — she would own everything they had ever desired to own.

"Barekhna what are you wearing?" Her out of breath mother gazed at her choice of attire.

"It's an eccentric style, not everyone's cup of tea." She shrugged, allowing the smile to blossom on her face.

"Barekhna they're a respectable family coming with a proposal! You can't go in front of them dressed like a—"

"A hooker mumani jaan?" Saliha, her phopho's daughter raised a thinly drawn brow. Grinning as she walked over in her own sequined poncho.

Annoyed, she let out a sight under her breath. Angling her body against the wall, the silver Manolo Blahnik heels peaking from under the petticoat. She relaxed her jaw, the curls brushing her skin — shimmering under the chandeliers lights as a result of the gold iridescent body lotion she had used. Barekhna's white freesia's and wood scented perfume was strong enough to squeeze one's entire senses for all that they were. She snarled, the nails — for once painted out of the signature maroon held the weak wrist of her cousin. Tight. Digging the nails into her skin. She ignored the moans of the woman before her. It had been too long. Too long and still they refused to learn their lessons.

"I fucking dare you to speak a word in that tone to my mother again!"

"Let — let go off — off me!" Saliha whimpered, swallowing her words slow.

"Think of this as an overdue kindness. Next time," she smacked her lips together for emphasis, "next time I'll bury you in your grandfather's gardens where he keeps the bones of all the men he's had killed!"

"That's enough Barek jaan. Today is an important day for you, don't sour your mood." Sophia pried her hands off of Saliha.

"You're lucky someone is coming to see you. A few years ago, you'd have died a lonely spinster." Saliha added with distaste.

"I'd still have been a spinster with brains. Not," she let her gaze hover over the short woman's frame. At five feet and eleven inches, three of those added by her heels, she towered over her cousin. "Not a wife who allows her husband to have sex with other women beneath her nose."

"Keep Saqib's name out of your mouth."

"Gladly!" Barekhna winked.

"Good. The last thing we need is for you to increase your list of sins by tainting the name of a pious man. Dressing like a whore is enough sins — for a lifetime."

"My sin may be dressing like a whore, but your holier - than - thou act isn't any better. So I guess you and I, we can share rooms in hell!" Barekhna grinned, air kissing her cheek with an air of added sarcasm.

The conversation would have lived longer, but all three of them were saved by the bell. Unfamiliar horns and roaring engines that came to the porch of their lavish home got their attention, dissolving the senile air surrounding them. Like the wind, she was left alone to her thoughts by the edge of the staircase. Mother and cousin both gone like the wind. In the foyer she could hear the sounds of them all greeting one another, fake laughter and bubbling giggles had Barekhna gagging over her minty breath. She rested her palm over the window, staring out at the crowded street and the flower lined front yard, the white garden chairs more than capable of having her full attention.

The sounds faded a few moments later, soft steps climbed the curving staircase and a shadow covered her face behind the concave walls. A figure taller than her — and only one man she was related to was taller even after she wore heels. Aman kissed her brow gently, offering her his elbow, straightening out her newly cut off hair. Barekhna too grinned with warmth for once flooding her almond shaped eyes, taking a deep breath. Even when she had to stand in front of a large court — with men thrice her age she thrived with confidence. Seldom was she left muddled or confused. It was not like her, to not be on top of her game. Leaning her weight on top of her brother, gliding down the stairs like a ghost with barely any effort, the two turned to enter the lounge.

A thin curtain of jasmines separated her from her potential husband. It had been a surprise, sprung up on her — thanks to her grandfather. Lately, at the age of just before she had spent three full decades on this planet, her family was worried. That being a façade for kicking her out. To single out her mother. Whose tender heart would pierce with a tiny jargon. Barekhna wished her Raphe could have stood by her too, he would have put them all in their place. How she hoped. Yet for once her hope was not enough. It never was. Breathing in softly, feeling Aman's lips on her hair and a soft 'Good luck', the two entered through the floral curtains.

Thick gold curtains lined the corners of the room. In the centre, a round alignment of sofas, the marble floors pale white with a gold and black mandala in the centre. Their arrival was in silence she noticed, the rest too engrossed in conversation. Everyone was dressed to the nines, uncomfortable smiles on the faces of her family, was a bitter truth. Tables with copper accents covered in white lily's kept the room from drowning in the stench of pristine lies. Laughter louder than anything before filled the walls of the place — a home. It was seldom that. A home. Mostly, a graveyard of walking ghosts.

With a swan's gait and posture Barekhna fled into the large room. The wind from the chiller blew her open hair, doing little to dim the fire that was alight inside of them. She knocked the breath out of the spectators, a single cough caught her attention. Kissing the cheeks of the women and nodding in the direction of the men, she slid into place beside her mother. A social butterfly ; her words were enough to filter laughter through the room. Behind the sharp liner was a glitter of gazes. Beyond understanding. Aliyaar sighed in content at the sight of her, his white kurta holding the flush of his skin out of sight. Out of mind. He could drown in her eyes, in those endless pools of amber. And with the sweetness of her tone he would drink poison too, he would kiss her hands as she stabbed him — a death like rose petals. What was not to wish for?

His gaze skittered over her attire, falling over her newly cut hair. It had not been that short in the meeting he attended in Arham's steed a few days ago. The cut showed of the angles of her jaw — how it softly maneuvered into a dimpled chin. Aliyaar wanted to flee from shame as she subtly winked in his direction. That was perhaps why he fell in love with her all those long five years ago. Her confidence to be herself, without fault. Or maybe it was the way she addressed everyone with a single tone. Or how she fed the university's kitten. There could have been many a moments for his feelings. He wasn't sure when it happened.
However, with his life he could vow, it had happened. Watching Barekhna purse her lips every few moments, hiding behind her brother's arms she laughed — he noticed what was not seen by the rest. She was nervous.

A wallflower. He grew up as a wallflower, he had the habit of observing. He would see. He had to see, even when the rest weren't looking. And she was the centre of his universe— how could he not know her like the back of his own hands. Even if the world was rid of it's light, he could find her. He would find her. At times even when, she did not wish to be found.

"Aliyaar you don't speak much?" Her grandmother addressed him, her gaze full of malicious intent.

"Uh-no I don't." He shook his head.

"Well Barekhna speaks enough for the both of them. So that's going to be good." Aman teased his sister.

Aliyaar's cheeks bloomed with a smile, his head nodding in the direction of his prospective wife. His future wife, he prayed. Though, he wanted to argue, he did not want everyone to think he was an obsessed stalker. Barekhna talked enough, but not much. She talked her points through, with clear stiffness — she preferred to add to the narrative and not be it instead. Her lips pinched together anytime she was forced out of her comfort zone, her eyes blinking softly to hide the boredom.

"You already know Barekhna well enough, we're ready to get them engaged today, if you'd like!" Barekhna's phopho beamed.

"It's not a lawyer and client setting. This is about their lives, and I think at-least let the girl talk." Gulaab cleared her throat, drinking the orange juice slowly.

"She didn't mean it like that. Asal mein uski umar ab nikali ja rahi hai na tou—" Saliha spoke softly.
[Actually she's getting older so—]

"Maybe we should let the children talk before we continue." Lyana advised.

"I think that's a splendid idea!" Sophia beamed.

"Han han koi fikr ki tou baat hi nahi hai. Waisay bhi Barekhna ko tou aadat hai in sab ki tou sharmanay ka sawaal hi nahi paida hota." Her grandmother offered her opinion — unwarranted.
[Of course of course there is nothing to worry about. Plus Barekhna is used to all this so there is no reason for shying away.]

Barekhna pinched her lips, hushing herself. Stay calm. Her mantra repeated itself in her head, Raphe's warm tone. She could feel the warmth of his tender flesh, his fingers stroking the curve of her dense cheeks. Smiling as always. Even when his word was crumbling apart, he smiled at her like she was his universe — a part of her believed that she was. Trapping the air in between her mouth, her lips pouty, the tip of her tongue sticking out to lick away the natural seal. Giving a peak at the pearly white teeth — sharp enough to bite a man. Fixing the drape over her wrist, she smiled inwardly as Aman wrapped a hand around it. Her brother was her everything. Younger than her, he was her messiah. His silent support spoke more volumes than the loudness of her family. He loved her without condition, cherished their bond with no greed.

"Aman if you could be their chaperone and lead them to the pool's side?" Their mother spoke.

"Of course." He nodded, then turning to the two in question, a fierce woman and a shying man, he spoke "please." Unable to hide the excitement of his sister's potential wedding.

Just as they had entered, they were gone like the wind. Her arm around her brother's, her lips set in a soft smile as Aliyaar trailed behind them. The two giggled at something he had whispered into her ear, Aliyaar's insecurities threatening to claw to the top of his chest. He coughed lightly, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Despite the suave attire ; his posture sunk into a deep hole. With light steps and eyes that were filled with dreams, he kept up with their pace. Every now and then though, he would catch on to a word that slipped out of their tongues. Their accents thick as they hushed around each other. And he, once more nothing but a shadow in their colors.

Outside the world was frantic. An opulent cloak of tar chiffon covered the skies and embroidered on were tiny sequins for stars. A cool breeze blended in with the hot air, reliving and painful at the same time. Lights, in between the rows of neatly cut grass kept the tiny creatures in view lest one of them feel a bit cheeky. A bench near the man made pool with green jade tiles and gold accents was set, for conversation probably amongst the parents whilst the young ones swam. Like a trickling source of joy, tiny specs of light — firefly's peaked out of their tiny hiding spots, fluttering around their head. It was a charming sight. Him in his religious silence and her in her captivating laughter. A sight unseen. A sight foreseen.

Aman excused himself from the duo, leaving them beside the glittering pool side, taking a seat a few feet away. In sight. She peaked at him from her full lashes, fluttering them softly — repeatedly. Anyone else would have been charmed but not him, not Aliyaar who had spent five years loving her. Not him, when he knew she seduced with those fiery eyes when she wanted to break your heart. His heart stopped for a second, his jaw ticked in place as she patted the spot beside herself on the cool cement edges of the pool. Easy enough. An innocent gesture. Wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, Aliyaar could taste the saltiness of his sweat in the air. It trickled down his back, his mind whizzing by the minute. He glanced at his wrist watch and back at her.

The siren in his dreams.
A mirage.
An answered prayer.

"Soo.. you want to marry me?" Barekhna chuckled.

"Urm— I — well—" he bit his tongue.

Barekhna let go of the laughter inside her chest. It had swirled in the bottom of her lungs for some time, it finally had opportunity to be let out. Her hands held his as she hunched over, the organza drape thick with her scent, brushing his hot cheek. The man was unlike any she had seen. Taking a deep breath she finally found the courage to look into his eyes.

They were full of innocence.
Drenched in emotions.
Lit up by the big dipper.

"I'm not ready for marriage Aliyaar. You seem like a good guy—"

"Spare me this speech Barekhna." He shook his head, biting his teeth, forcing his tears back as he smiled roughly, "if I was good I'd have known that you deserve me. You don't. You should probably be with someone like Mirhan Latif."

"Aliyaar have faith in yourself. I'm too corrupted to be loved by a saint like you." Squeezing his hand, her lips brushed his cheek, "and if there's anyone who knows what man I deserve, it's me."

Watching her slender back move away from him. Aliyaar felt his future slip out of his fingers. It was now, or never. He had to fight. Show her what she means to you! His mind mocked him, reminded him of what she was to him.

"Barekhna!" He stood up, not noticing the victorious grin on her face.

"Yes?" She turned around, feigning innocence.

"A saint's job is to bring the satan back to the door's of heaven." He stepped closer, his hands folded in front of his body, "let me — let me be your — your saint."

Barekhna's cheeks stretched until her lips were like blooming petals. Placing the back of her hand against his face, she brushed the lock that fell above his eyes.

"I love being corrupted. Gives me power over everyone."

Light drained out of his eyes in disappointment. What was he thinking?

"Yet for you Aliyaar I can't help but want to be better."

"Let me court you then. No titles or nothing until you want them." He muttered, staring at his polished shoes, a vivid reflection of them captured.

"Okay."

"Okay? Seriously?"

"Okay! Cross my heart and hope to die!"

"Okay!" Aliyaar nodded.

"Okay!" Barekhna grinned.

"Okay! Time's up!" Aman hollered.