Twenty-Eight.

"I will prefer that you stop beating around the bush." Barekhna spoke through clenched teeth.

Sweeping her carnal gaze with no sense of respect over the blooms of petunia's, their sprinkling pollen a shade of gold that reminded her of an all too familiar rosary pricked her. The tip of her chin, cupped in the well of her palm, wrapped around the swell of her bottom lip she frowned. Feigning innocence as they murmured words. She sighed with a soft disposition, reclining into the chair that had after years of use begun to sink. Tattered leather ends wrapped themselves over her red palm, her nails digging into the slouched fabric. As she searched in their eyes for the lasts of lingering respect.

"Yeh tarbiyat ki hai tumhari ma nai? Martay huway daday ko bad dua do gi?" Her grandmother scoffed.
[Is this the upbringing of your mother? That you will wish ill on your dying grandfather?]

Barekhna pressed her heels into the thick hand knitted carpet. The baroques with their beige and swirling leaves in red almost matched the web of her family tree. Tiny stars that lingered in the inner side of the scratched wood of the chair, was a reminder of her childhood. It was a bittersweet amalgamation of what had been. Or what simply she had been made to believe. Wrapping a finger over the thin bones of the chair's lattice work, she traced the designs and stared without fail into the eyes of her grandmother. Tipping her head to the side with an arrogant grin. Unfeeling as she pushed her mouth open, grinning with no remorse.

"She's raised me well enough to not murder you. However," she whispered, singing her words out in a lazy drawl, "there isn't any relationship between us that you can use to guilt trip me."

"Still it is no way—" her aunt butted in, snapping her fingers. 

"And since when have I cared about the ways?" She narrowed her gaze, tapping her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

Separated from the gaudy tastelessness by leagues in her — his button down tucked into her leather pants and strapped maroon heels, Barekhna knew she was what she wanted them to see. Parted through the centre, slicked back into a low bun, thick gold earrings, that she twirled with her index finger, Barekhna took a sip of her tea. It tasted burnt — above the centre of her velvety tongue, it added flavour of smoke, burning through her throat. Taking a tiny sip, mulling over the lack of flavour, a talent only some would have. To burn a basic chamomile tea.

"Now let's get this over with," she rubbed her palms, pressing her lips together, "why was I invited over for tea? We're not exactly friendly are we?"

Buzzing deeply between the brick lined walls and the opulent carpets, was a crème shaded heater, burning. Deep orange and a lingering red spurred between it's wedged windows, radiating heat, scarring the skins nearby from it's intensity. It painted the neutral tones in the shades of it's blood thirst. Creeping outside with the might of a marching stranger, generous winds pulsated against the tall windows. Barred with the metal fixtures, running in squares of threes, stained with a gentle violet tint to reflect most light out. Setting beneath the orange trees that curled around the window sil's after years of careful maintenance, the sun bled it's lasts. Mocking the complacent skies that were shades of yellows, pinks and deep vermilion. Going out — with a spurring fight.

The weight of the coffee table, shaped in an oblong and stuck into the corner of the settee on one side and the wall on another, it sunk into the carpet. It's tussled ends ran underneath the low rise bed, that was wide enough to house more than three plump figures. Lustrous duvets covered it and hid the plush mattress, the thousand count sheet spread and tucked underneath, the caramel coloured wood of the bed-frame matched in the varying temperatures of the room. Miniature roses had been carved into the ceilings that were painted a shade of mocha, topped with gentle strokes of an ordinary taupe. To clash with the rest of the antiquity, a modern fixture — symmetrical with it's proportions hung above the bed and kept the room illuminated.

In the ever growing silence the ticking clock was all that was heard. It ticked forth, with gentle sounds that could match the strength of water falling over concrete.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It moved along with no signs of remorse. Candid in it's disposition, it rung through the thwarted hearts and tongues. Their splits at the centre slithered with the gait of a poisonous snake. They would sting, as the walls collapsed one after the other. Veining already appeared as water did it's damage. Soaking in the paints. Cracking it through. Ugliness spurred like a vortex in the centre of the bedroom, on sight.

Twig like fingers with the hands covered in boils centred over the blanket. Gripping it in a weak hold, the legs that had lost all force shifted underneath. Barely any rustling sounded as they gave way. Stopping the middle of motions, to gain breath. A sound of sharp coughs tore through the guzzling chilly air, breaking the shrill silence. Emptying itself into the buckets of sympathy. Grabbing the crystal glass, curving into the well of his sodden palms, his lips quivered. Sipping on to it. Droplets curled around his wrinkled skin and fled into the twig like strands of his white beard. Running his gaze through the room, empty of emotions, anguish burned his cheeks. Freckles lined the skin beneath his eyes, the brown irises that had been a window to the soul's arrogance and pried were barren.

Scooping in the last bit's of his strength, he dug his heels into the sheets. Pulling his weight over his forearms. Sweating profusely at the gentle motion. Another wave of coughs passed over him — pushing the little of energy that remained out of his body. Khawar Obaid panted. Hissing, he ran his fingers over the centre of his chest to loosen the tightness. Massaging the skin above his clenched lungs, he squeezed his eyes shut. Bunching his brows over the desperately closed eyes. Weightless he ran his hands in the air that bit into the sides of his flesh.
An ailing man.
A dying grandfather.
Nothing clouded his vision even as tears burned the base of his throat. Attachments to his progeny protected his life, but the defiance in the eldest grandchild's gaze was displeasing.

Barekhna took a sip of her lukewarm tea. She mulled over the flavour once more inside the shell of her mouth. Still burnt, she hummed to herself. Crossing her legs against one another, she draped her arm loosely over her thigh whilst the other held the delicate tea cup in her fingers. The carnelian nails clashed with the porcelain white of the cup, the lacy gold embossings and the painting of a woman running a water mill were pleasant sights to most. Not her. Simmering in their watchful gazes, enjoying the calculated hunches of their backs she placed the cup back into it's tiny plate. Stealing a piece of the crips baklava her brother had brought from his trip to Turkey. Gently, she manoeuvred the side of her fork into the crisp phyllo dough. Barekhna hummed in delight, offering her panicked mother a low thank you as she drizzled honey over the thick triangular slice.

"Now," she pinched her bottom lip between her teeth, stabbing the piece with her fork, "I was not called over to have a tête-à-tête over some tea, so would someone tell me what's going on?"

Murmuring words underneath his breath that washed off as incoherent the sick man waved his arms into the still air. His loose shirt slid over one bony shoulder, the flesh from his deeply tanned skin had disappeared. Shifting to the other side he made space, sliding his fingers over the place he once occupied. The gold wedding band slid around in his fingers for the first time since he wore it. It reminded him of his helpless state. Focused over the faces of his tearing wife and broken daughter, he could not offer more than words of faux comfort. He was dying — a matter of when, and everyone knew.

Pushing her weight over her heels Barekhna slid her plate into a hand and her hand bag over the other. Strutting towards him, the shirt made of fine cotton hid the small bump. From their eyes that watched her like a hawk. The news of a grandchild had been hidden, only her parents and brother knew — the rest were left to wrap themselves in a thick sheet of obsidian. Kept out of the loop. She preferred it that way. Subtly she grazed the back of her hand over her lower belly, pressing her weight over her bent knee as she slouched on the very bed she had once been thrown off of. For being what the called 'ganda khoon'. Humour gripped her eyes that matched the shade of coffee grounds. Time changed. It was no one's.

"What is it that's forcing you to play a doting grandfather?"

Barekhna's words burned him. Nonchalant about the sudden break in his features, she scooped another bite of the Mediterranean dessert. Chewing with a relaxed manner she licked the honey that smeared the corner of her depth full mouth. Dragging her tongue gently over her bottom lip, she retrieved the bottle of water from her bag. Gulping as they watched. Fingering the loose strands of her hair she pushed them behind her ears, wrapping them into a low bun. Putting on display the white gold hoops she wore.

"Barekhn-a," Khawar Obaid began, his voice breaking at the end, "mujhe maaf kardena. Mei-mein nai tumharay aur tumhari m-aa par bohat z-ulm kiye ha—"
[Please forgive me. I have tortured both you and your mother a lot—]

"Bas kar dein Khawar sahab. Ap nai zulm nahi gunnah kiye hain! Jin ki maafi aap ko mujh sai nahi mil sakti!" She spat, fisting her hand over the thick duvet as she tried to calm her breath.
[Just stop it Khawar sir. You have not done tortures but sins! For which I will not forgive you!]

"Please beta," her grandmother's voice came from behind, "forgive him."

"No!" She stood in anger, glaring at the woman who had perfected the role of playing victim. "Never. You have all had your chance in torturing us!"

"Barek jaan," her mother called softly.

"As much as I respect you mummy I can never forget what was done to you."

"But—"

"No!" She hissed, turning to her grandfather whose eyes carried unshed tears, "and I want absolutely no part in your inheritance. Distribute it all to your pure blooded family."

As anger gripped her throat and closed off the way for air to enter her oesophagus she slammed the plate over the glass table. An unusually loud sound ruptured through the room. Dense — the quietude was an illusion that shattered, tiny shards of the cracked plate skittered over the carpet. Taking deep breaths, her fisted hand rested below her breast bone, hoping to still the spurring inside. Adrenaline pumped her veins and goosebumps lodged themselves around her shin bone. Flashes of colour  appeared before her eyes, a splitting headache dusted across her forehead.

"I will ensure that you're buried in a grave full of terrors!" She hissed, wrapping her coat around her lithe frame.

"Have mercy child." Her aunt cried, clasping her hands around hers.

Barekhna stared at the woman, and then into her eyes. Unfeeling, she searched for something. The death of her emotions lingered and ran like a bell through her figure. Gently only, she shook her head, pinching her lips and tongue—forming a sentence. Coherent enough.

"Mercy is not amongst us tonight."

With those as her parting words, she ran out of the bedroom, slamming the door as she did. Running her fingers over the table covered in flowers and streamers outside. New year's eve — the home was prepped to entertain a list of guests she watched amused. Even as the head of the house was succumbing to his death. Even then the show was put on in it's mightiest of finery. Wiping a tear, she marched out of the home, ties with the mansion snapping one after the other.

➖➖➖➖➖

Poignant peaches met the subdued blues and greens in the form of a lustrous raw silk saree and sequins. A dance of immortalisation. A unique appearance against her mocha hair that when blow dried rested above her collar bones — chopped only recently. The organza drape slid over her bare arms and moved with the fluidity of a waterfall. Extravagant in it's very foundation. Like the waves of a sea the neckline crept high and then sank low, forming a pattern of ridges that dangled over her sharp collarbones. Swiped with a gold dust that shimmered underneath the gold lights. Hues of luxury — speckled in her smothering sequins. Shades of opulence — tied to the ends of her drape.

Fisting the material painted with brush strokes of valour, sparking an image of great curiosity, she slid her feet into the sparkling heels. They bit into her feet — that had swollen as a result of her pregnancy. Bunched at her torso the bump was hidden, though she traced her lengthy finger down her figure. Crawling the edge of her crescent shaped nail down, her hands quivered as they rested over her womb. Feeling that firmness, she squealed under her breath. Unnerved. With an arm placed over her vanity she slid into the chair, hunching her back over her knees, searching for the clasp blindsided. A huff escaped her lips as the treacherous lock of hair fell over her wide eyes, her fingers though rushing to keep it in place. Only to find fury run in her veins as the skirts slid out of place and fell over her feet. Hiding them once more.

Fuck this — she cursed mentally. A groan of failure escaped her lips, even as she licked the bare skin of them and ran her hand over her ankle. In search of the suddenly lost clasp. Her heated tips gripped at the side of her bone and then her flesh, the cool metal lost between the lushness of her skirts and the building bulge of her belly. She had swum past her first trimester with ease. Most of it had been lost to freeing Aliyaar from prison and the other to tying up the loose ends. Now, ravaged by hunger and the cold winds of the first day of the new year, she was inanimately full. Flailing her fingers, the jewels on them flashing a kaleidoscope of colours over the wall before her.

"Let me."

Aliyaar's warm voice intercepted her self slaughtering thoughts. He looked refined. Dressed in a deep black trouser, with a beige shirt tucked in he matched her attire at large. A gelled lock of hair curled over his frown free forehead, his full lips puckered into a gentle grin as he sank before her. His knees rested over the carpeted floor, gentle with his touches he lifted up her skirt. Revealing her fair skin that had turned a shade of red from the forcibly tight pair of shoes she wore. A frown kissed his princely features. The merriment within his joyous eyes washed away as he let his fingers move over her feet. Skimming the flesh that was searing against his fingers, he lifted his fingers around the corner.

"The sight of you before me on your knees," Barekhna giggled, "an image from my dreams saint."

"You carrying our child is an image from mine siren." He quipped, easing his lips into a lopsided grin.

"Really?" She stared at him with an affection so raw that it shaded his own.

"Yes," he hummed, "are you sure you want to wear these? They look a bit snug." He swallowed.

"I want to!"

Raising his honeyed eyes, framed with lashes thicker than the snow that covered the moors of Mushkpur, he stared into her eyes. His fingers rubbed the skin behind her left ear, dragging it gently over her soft jaw, watching with satisfaction as her skin felt like cotton against his hand. Reaching out with his weight pressed on to his heels, the suede shoes creasing as he stood half into the air, Aliyaar pressed his lips to cheek. Running a hand through her curled hair, brushing out the coils with his slender fingers feeling the silken tresses he felt a small smile bloom over his face. Pushing his cheeks into a plump sinew.

"Ready to go?"

"I'm starving!" She giggled in response, wrapping her hand around his bicep.

Outside the world was a lingering shade of mossy grey. The swirls of grey fog that matched the pallor of the sky, skimmed over the pellet shaped cone leaves of the firs. Upright and sharp, they were like twigs that slashed the air layered with it's own ice. The icicles propped amongst the unmarred snow and bark fell with thuds and smacked the cobblestone paths. Stroking the harsh glass windows too, the stone house not safe from their continuing raps. Careless intrusion from the low hanging moon with it's vicar like pale light that twirled within the smoky gales — defied curiosity. Perched between the folds of the creasing earth and it's sanguine soil the light was little yet plenty.

Guzzling the moors and stroking with it's after affects the winds of Mushkpur that climbed over the rugged terrains of the mountains — in their glory stony and bare of foliage, straight from the plains of Siberia, tempered with the roots. Shaggy they scarred the tiny vegetation watching with joyous reverie as the river within the tiny provincial capital froze over. Reflecting light every day, straight to the charcoal and ebony skies that twinkled with stars. Each one more twinkling than the previous one. A battle of perusing through. To show the gaudy tastes. Grandeur manifested itself into the roads that curved underneath the venetian styled home, the beige stones brought in from the plains of Punjab with their red veinings matched the floss of the wood from the forests of Mushkpur. Creating a tiny haven. Refuge for all.

Shifting through the streets the ebony vehicle matched the surroundings. The forests shrouded in a depthless dark hid the bright green tree leaves from sight. Pungent aroma of the wet bark and snow that had melted only gently, not enough to move out of sight, heaved in from the vents of the heater. It spurted a warmth that shook of the icy chill on the windshield. Parting ways for the hazy screen with ease, bright light entered soon after, the lights on either side with their clear fluorescence shattered against the dark dashboard. Double stitched strokes on the ends vibrant. Creatures roamed in the silent shadows and only their long cast howls were the awareness of their presence. Between nowhere was a city better than anywhere.

Tinged maroon the pale whites of the snow were marred. Even as the roads slated and  piles of it had been stacked on either sides, carving a road that curved underneath the moor, into the towns square, the aura of fear lingered. Largely abandoned for the evening, the schedule fireworks programme to begin shortly, the city was like a ghost town. There was no one. Neon lights twinkled and buzzed in the still air. Thick crème fog lingered in the lack of man, freezing over the water bursting edges. It hid from sight ; plush pickets matched. White and pale — the houses in their vast pastel shades, with windows topped with ivies and tiny shops that flittered around empty. The city was trustworthy. It buzzed with righteousness.

Parking the car in the remote parking lot, with theirs being the tenth in the space, they walked into the thicket of the fog. Shivers ran down the skin, flittering goosebumps grazed the tops of their skins — tan and pale alike. The cold did not discriminate. It ravaged blindingly. Painting the soft washed cheeks of the both of them a linear carnelian. Apples of their cheeks were painted, smeared — maimed in a shade of deep red, burning the tip of their noses. Curved into a half crescent upwards, the muscles on their wide mouths twitched. Swollen from the buzzing cold that buzzed against them, perforated their hearts. The fast beating grips of which were undefeated. Thrumming through their ears, rushing in their veins until they turned alive. Bleary. Blooded. Hooded.

Barekhna kept an arm over his elbow, wrapping it around the crook of it, his other tucked into the pockets of his trousers. She huddled closer into his chest, feeling the weight of his free arm wrap around her waist as they took the stone steps towards the river front restaurant. Wide eyed she took in the latticed wooden trims, thick with rancour and a central light fixture that matched the opulence of the wooden tables. Made of sharp — sanded wood from the forests local, the colours matched those of the ground and her eyes. They clashed still, the sounds of her shoes and the calmness of her posture. The maître d'hôtel stepped closer in her thick uniform with a sheepskin shirt tucked into the skirts, walked them over to their reserved table.

Aliyaar's wrists tended to the muscles of her lower back as he slid into the booth beside her. The waterproofed wood pickets kept them from falling into the river, latticed shields offered support for the person sitting next to it. A thin straw roof covered in hydrangeas offered them sweet smells of relished comfort. Barekhna sighed in relief as her back pressed into his arm, that rested around her hip. Shielding the flesh of her side from the sharp splinters on the other side. The wince as they dug into his already healing wounds was muffled with the sound of the sweet greetings from his brother and his wife.

Made of wicker and the shade of Aliyaar's eyes when he kissed her, a bread basket was passed over to them. Filled to the brim with warm pieces of garlic bread, a serving of the restaurant's signature dip served with it in a miniature bowl. Embossed serving spoons rested on the thick porcelain plates that wore the sigil of the province. Diffusing into the cold air with the sharp scent of garlic and rosemary, thyme topped over — the aroma made her bellowing tummy rumble. The sides of her quivered as she bit into the first piece. Moaning inaudibly at the flavour. Wrapping her sharp tongue in the effervescent flavour of the garlic and calming it with the dip — infused with a swirl of chives, it was an amalgamation of married flavours and moments.

He stared at her with his eyes in a giddy state. The lingering wells of in-affection found their way to streams and left the cusp of his ear. Instead his eyes were filled with the lightest of kisses of delight, the shades of soil twirling into a light dalgona, pinching his ever widening pupils. His muscles mushed into a unanimous agreement of blissful affection. Finding merriment in the blistering heat of the bread that melted his flesh into it's sides. Speckling his tongue. Turning him into half a man — the valves of his balmy heart ripping at the seams from the adoring fulness.
Blessed.
Beloved.
Benefited.
Aliyaar simply took in the fresh air, watching the yellows paint her foreign skin the colours of his native land.

"Aliyaar?" Barekhna whispered, singing his name in the drawling rasp of her voice.

Wheels of kismet could not have been more generous — he thought to himself. Nodding his head, barely shifting from his sturdy position. His fingers rubbed the side of her stomach, the length of his fingers spread over the side of her womb to feel that alert warmth. Blowing a smile her way, one that blossomed over his entire jawline and had his muscles hurt from lack of oxygen. The smile grew impossibly after her fingers messed with the strict arrangement of his hair, her fingers pinching into the side of his stubby cheeks. His eyes ; ever so devout. Found the trace of her own eyes that rested over the bitten into piece of bread. The last one — a more specific title his inner voice reminded. Her intentions to him were clear as he offered it to her, dusting his fingers against the thick linen cloth.

"How have you been?" His younger brother's voice was laced with unwavering attention — a startling emotion he was only just realising.

They cared about him.
Of him.
They heard him.
Held him.

"Good," he replied, taking a sip of his virgin mojito, "great actually."

"Aliyaar bhai," Filza spoke between chews, eyeing him with platonic affection, "it's wonderful, honestly, you seeking help for yourself. I hope one day Ehaan can learn a thing or two from you."

"No—thank you," he grinned in reply, the shrill voice of his therapist ringing into his ears, "I could have never done it without Barekhna's support. So it's all her, I owe it all to her."

"My husband is a humble man," Barekhna shrugged in reply, licking the dip from the edge of her silver knife.

"Ehaan is lucky he's got an aunt and an uncle like the two of you," Arham spoke.

The words on their tongues dissolved like the sugar of a dyed cotton candy. Instead the silver spoons filled their mouths shut. Their abysmal cavities were filled with a thicket of the slow steeped bone marrow soup — swimming in with chopper carrots and lettuce. Infused with the depth of black pepper and garlic, sharp rigorous flavour of the caramelised shallots blended over their tongues unanimously. Slipping in and out, the pot was emptied out with ladle full, the mouths watering still as the appetisers diminished. Most if not all, washing across the throat of a particular honey-eyed British woman.

"What?"

Barekhna stared from behind her porcelain cup. Her cursive neckline hugged the skin above her chest even as she bent forward to rip out a piece of bread, smothering it in garlic. Enjoying the gusts that blew from above the river and rested against her skin. A shiver washed across her burdened spine, the weight of it nuzzled into the crook of Aliyaar's palm who wordlessly stared at her with fondness. Whilst their company stared with awe. Deftly gathering her napkin she wiped the corners of her made up mouth, licking the soup off of her demure lips, she watched in amazement their glances full of yore.

"Does my brother keep you from food?" Arham chuckled, kicking his brother across the table.

"Actually," she offered him a smouldering grin, "blame it on your nephew."

"Ne-phew?" Arham coughed.

"Trust my instincts minister sahab they have never wronged me." She winked.

Covered in the thick blazer of Aliyaar's watching the star's twinkle as the fireworks rained down on them with the strength of a meteor shower, the sun matched with it's intensity. Placing his hands around hers, he smiled with ease, blowing a gentle kiss to the skin below her ears as she swayed with him. Dinner had subsided twenty minutes ago and the rest of them had left already. Leaving her to dance in the light drizzle of rain, in nothing but her expensive saree and the formal shoes she had borrowed from Aliyaar's feet. Her heels hung between the fingers of his free hand, his lips genially placed over the skin every now and then.

"I love you saint."

"I adore you siren."

"Okay!" She hummed against his throat.

"Okay." He murmured, kissing her wet eyebrows.

✨✨✨
I just wanna sleep & write something