Chapter 8.

"Do you have time?"

Aliyaar's gaze flickered from the top of his paperwork towards his mother who stared at him, hopefully. In the dim yellows lights of his bedroom, primrose tones painting his face, his eyes frozen in her direction with a glassy warmth. He stilled, his fingers twitched and the gold pen in between his hands rested in the middle of the manilla paper as he nodded. Craning his neck over the matte top of his laptop he pointed to the space beside himself on his bed, closing the top down as she served him a glass of warm milk.

"Aliyaar?" She spoke in a pointed tone.

Two weeks had passed with a stalemate between him and her. Time was frozen and it made no sense to him as he tried, giving her space but in moments of sheet weakness giving up. As the country neared mid of June and the pressure from his company raised a few notches to present with a budget and a report of profits Aliyaar had begun to loose himself. His limbs were entangled in affairs, each one more different than the previous. On one side his heart twitched and continued to shatter, the longer she took to reply the more he broke. And the other? That part could not help but let out his frustrations on the incompetence of his employees.

Everyone had chosen this year to torture him.
To test him.
To try him — and he had no idea of how long he could on in this manner.

"Aliyaar?" Lyana tried once more, shaking his arm until the glossiness of his eyes dissolved and his attention fell on her.

"Phir sai?" She spoke disappointed.
[Again?]

"Sorry." He grinned sheepishly.

"Kab tak khud ko takleef denay ka irada hai? Kab apnay baray mein socho gai?"
[Till when do you plan to hurt yourself? When will you think about yourself?]

"I—"

"No! None of your philosophy about love will have me sold today. You're in your thirties not sixties! Your grandparents have more of a social life than you Aliyaar. Eik dost hai usko bhi nahi miltay. Shaadi tou waisay hi dur ki baat hai. Kaam, kaam, aur sirf kaam. Kabhi kuch aur bhi kar liya karo!"
[You have one friend and you don't even meet him. Marriage is off the charts. Work, work and only work. Sometimes do something else as well!]

Aliyaar snorted at the cross look on her face. With her hands placed delicately on top of her lap and crossed, the wedding band still as full of mirth as ever. His hands placidly toyed with the band, pushing his lips into a thin line he thought of her words. He mulled over them in silence, understanding his mother's pain and wondering where he could add them in his long list of troubles. Everything about him was a lonesome question mark and he had to wonder with full force — where had he gone wrong? What was he expected to change in his life to make it better?

"What do you want me to do mama? I'm trying. I really am but anytime I think I'm out of the whirlpool I get dragged back in with full force." Running a hand through his overgrown hair he smiled shortly, "I feel like I'll die. Between an one-sided love and an extremely one man effort to ensure we don't get hit by the change in production, I feel like I can't even breathe. It's as if I'm submerged in water and all of a sudden I've forgotten how to swim."

"Kisi cheez par khud ko itna hawi na honay do keh uskay bagheir jeena bhul jao." She whispered, an inkling of how her son felt — her soul shivered.
[Don't let anything possess you so much that you forget how to live without it.]

"Too late." He chuckled dryly.

"It's never too late."

"If you say so!" He beamed, patting her cheeks — an action he had done since he was a kid.

"Aliyaar are you free tomorrow, around dinner?"

"My day is free tomorrow—just that one board meeting."

"Great! You'll take me to the charity meet. God knows you need time away from work." She uttered.

"Charity meet? No! I hate going there and hearing superficial talk mama." He shook his head in defiance.

"Just this once please? I'd have asked your father but he's already promised to take Lilah to an art show."

"But—"

"You don't have to if you don't want to." She sighed a moment later, running her hand through his hair.

"I'll take you only if you promise to make me nihari on Sunday."

"Deal done!" She clapped her hands, hugging her first born who sighed in her embrace, his eyes still on the document in hand, though his glasses lay forgotten on the sheets.

Aliyaar's orca tee that he had purchased at a charity show in Dubai stretched over his toned chest. The veins alongside his arms were thick and his long fingers were free from the usual cover of rings. Under the crème duvet his legs stretched out and his hands stayed around his mother's frame. She was his everything. She had stood by him when he felt all else would abandon him. Even when he almost left their house in a state of rebellion — a shockingly trivial part of his teenage self. His parents had been his rock, and he had tried his best to be theirs. In silence he was ready to hold them even as his brother tore the house apart and there were many a nights he held his mother whilst their father was away. Their sister's meltdowns had ripped his mother's heart out, and he had only seen a speckle of an image, trying to piece her back together. Holding his emotions within his chest. They were already going through it — Aliyaar did not want to burden them anymore.

"What are you thinking Aliyaar?"

"Nothing," he kissed the side of her head with a soft smile, "go to bed mama, it's way past your bedtime."

"Okay tough guy. You and I," she paused, "tomorrow at six, it's a date!"

With a whizz, the door shut with a loud thud behind her. Only dust implicated from it's place and the scent of her perfume remained. Gone within seconds. Sipping on the last of his milk, he found himself fighting to stay awake, his last thoughts of her alone as he eventually gave up to the dark abyss of his dreams.

➖➖➖➖➖

Murmurs filled up the large conference room in the middle of the tall building. It's covered windows that would otherwise overlook the busy streets kept natural light out and locked in the façade of ties — both between blood and those not. Pens clicked against the back of the fine print pages and snapped under the pressure of keeping up with the pace of his words. Harsh and true — they were spoken like a broken lie. The vibrant presentation that his figure partly covered, the jacket of his self imprinted black tuxedo snagging at his shoulders as he paced around the room. A cup of coffee lay in front of his leather chair and surrounding it were men with rumbustious laughter and undignified manners.

The graphs in their sleek polarity rose sharp lines above the base axis. The numbers all green and rising up, the bull heads beside them red and burning coals into their eyes as they talked. Their assistants acted like walls. There — but blind. Present — but deaf. Alive ; yet dead. They had been trained for decades until they learnt to be one with the ghosts during such meetings. Their lips were paid for and their loyalties bought with heavy dues. Stolen tax money that kept the rich board members afloat — a matter of not his indulgence. So long as the companies reputation did not suffer and he did not end up like them, Aliyaar Alamgeer did not so much as pass a second glance.

Yet, the company was suffering this very moment. Arham's scandal had done more damage than good — and a court deliverance meant nothing in a society like theirs. Where apologies meant maimed.

"While I see the attraction of your proposal Aliyaar," Director Sukhera, one of their oldest board members pinched his lips together, as if repulsed with what he had to add on next, "it doesn't make sense for the company to go under privatization, not know."

Aliyaar took in a deep breath, resting his palms over the oakwood table he leaned in, gazing at the men in attendance. One seat remained empty — his brother's as he failed to arrive on time for the meeting. He already knew this would happen, the public outcry if they retracted their shares from the stock market. His honey subdued eyes stared at the faces disgruntled with pain, the hissing sounds from the room chiller sounded much like his own racing heartbeat. Clenching his tongue, holding back he nodded his head, toying with the sleek buttons of his laptop.

"I can understand your reservations against this but—"

"No Aliyaar. You took over this business four years ago. I've been part of it for thirty four years. My father invested in your grandfather. We love this company more than you do, don't we?"

He waved his hand in the direction of the rest of the crew, all of whom nodded their heads in solidarity.

"If I may?" Alamgeer cleared his throat.

"I think," having noticed everyone else pay their attentions to him, "let's hold a vote in two weeks time. We shall vote and if Aliyaar looses we shall elect a new chief of operations. Someone who you can deem worthy."

The white lights on the ceiling that lay flat against the crook of the walls brought his olive toned skin to life. His hazel pools stared dead straight into the eyes of his son, whose eyes he almost saw loose the light in them. Not a single atom of air moved inside the tense room as the rest sipped on their choice of drinks. Had the father just challenged his lesser competent son to an open battle? Was their some dirt in the air that they were blind to? In anticipation they rose and straightened their shoulders, waiting for Aliyaar to loose his temper.

"While I understand everyone thinking I can not run this business, I'd like to remind you that for the past four years we've turned an almost nineteen percent profit." Aliyaar stood by his words, taking his seat with an arrogant gait.

"And this year we're looking to make only three percent." Sukhera pointed, his mustache coated in the coffee.

"That's because you refuse to spend money on research. We're suffering because we still aren't using modern equipment!"

"Excuses!" The man scoffed.

"With all due respect keep your mouth shut because you have no idea of the pains I've gone to keep us afloat Sukhera sahab." Aliyaar slammed his fist against the table, his eyes rimmed red, "you and your children can enjoy the money we feed you but you don't have an ounce of idea. That's what scares you about us going private too. Can't trust your ancestors to make money can you?"

"Aliyaar."

His father's warning tone struck the neck on his hair until it stood upright. He shivered under the disapproving gaze of the man who raised him. Of course, they were to never speak in that tone — to anyone. Sighing he nodded, apologizing for losing his composure, asking his assistant to continue with the slides. Gradually as the white moved to a sudden creme, the green graphs dropped to red. Losses. They had fallen. More than twenty points within a week, Aliyaar explained. It was disastrous. His hands wrapped around the mug of the lukewarm beverage as he spoke between gulps.

"I think we should call it a day, it's five already and we seem to be getting nowhere." He sighed, beginning to feel a headache build up underneath his skull.

"I agree," Alamgeer cleared his throat, his brother's nodding with him, "let's meet in two weeks, with a proposed budget as well."

Waiting until the room was empty, he walked out. His hands moved at a hastened pace, replying to his mother's texts. She was waiting for him inside his office, he could imagine the frown on her face as she filed through the strewn mess of office files. Aliyaar moved towards the elevator deep in thought. His hands held on to the laptop and files, his assistant dismissed for the day. Behind him his father followed and stood by him in silence. Aliyaar bit the tip of his tongue to hold his tears in place, the ache built up in his mind and heart more and more every few seconds.

A warm hand rested on his shoulder, massaging the crippled muscles. The touch was more familiar to him than his own self. He repressed a sigh between his parched throat, his feet tapped away at the marble floors of the elevator. Aliyaar's hands were forced in between the crux of punching a hole into the heavy metal wall or to keep holding on to the proposal he had prepared after weeks of restless nights. He could not forget — ever. Running a hand through his hair he let it fall across his forehead in a surrendering curl. Sweat laced the frontier despite the cold air that blowed directly at him.

"Aliyaar." His father raced to keep up with his pace.

"What?" He sighed, throwing the door of his office open.

"Listen to me."

"I am abu. I am listening. I have always listened but you don't seem to see what I see!" He groaned.

"I see it but—"

"What? They're going to eat us up abu. The company needs to go under privatization if we want to save ourselves. After Arham's court case there isn't much market trust anyways. Our stocks fall everyday." He explained.

"What?" Lyana's alert voice broke their spell of strictness.

"What is he talking about Alamgeer? You didn't tell me about this Aliyaar!" She spoke, her forehead marred with deep lines as she frowned.

"It's nothing serious mama. Just a difference of opinion is all." Aliyaar spoke.

"Lya jaan we've got this under cover." Alamgeer kissed her head.

"No! No! You two can't be divided over money! You're a team." She whispered.

"We are. I'm just trying to explain my side to Aliyaar."

"And that is what?" Aliyaar enquired.

"Don't let the enemy think you're united. My own father taught me that. Divide and conquer — Aliyaar you've sacrificed for me, for us all," he patted his shoulder in assurance, beaming as he spoke, "we will go under privatization, just not at a time they expect us to."

The setting sun diffused through its rays into the hazy clouds of the oncoming monsoon. Dust radiated out of the spill of light and struck the bullet proof glass, the long fibers casting shadows over the flooring and eventually on to their faces. Their features marred by the shadows changed planes of symmetry. The wide eyes and almond shape of them seemed harsher, cruel almost as the dazed look of their orbs struggled to breath in the choking darkness. A preen look about their jawlines was the only prominence of them being family, related by blood. Of maternal warmth there was a softness and the gentleness of her fingers stranded them from themselves as she kissed out each of their pain. A peck on her son's towering figure, her gentle lips brushed the sweat away. Then a kiss landed on her husband's leaning in neck to show the articulate sincerity inside of them.

The father in paternal glory stood in the way of the gold sunlight that dimmed out in his glory. Blanching out like a pale asparagus root, he hugged his son with an arm and brought his soulmate in closer to himself. It was apparent the serenity around them that despite his son's age he did not mind having to console him. A son would need his father. A father would always be there for his son. It was the way it worked. The son, in his naïveté basked in their longed for attention and allowed for his heart to feel calm once more. His nerves tense once — splayed themselves out into a cool layer as the three strode out of the shadowed room, divided in the garage where Aliyaar and Lyana took to his matte black Q7, and Alamgeer walked towards his glossy Mercedes.

Trimmed back into his seat, the belt wrapped around his toned waist, his hands clipped and the nails softened he drove through the heavy traffic. A tune of Dilip Kumar played through the Bang and Olufsen speakers and serenaded the pair through their short lived journey. It was silent — comfortable and apt, his cologne choking the vents of the air conditioner and the pale pink of his mother's dress, blinded the mirrors as the washed out sunlight reflected off of the pearls in her ear. He toyed with the controls on the steering wheels, his eyes focusing at the side mirrors as the motorbikes whizzed by, a few almost hitting the side of his car.

The sandy walls of the curved charity house got his attention without trying much. In the backdrop of broken homes and straw huts, with children bare foot and wearing nothing but thin almost torn oversized attire ; the suave limestone building with a glossy exterior and expensive cars parked into the parking lot, with diamonds and rubies covering skins enough to feed the hungry lot. With stomachs that were like balloons and full of air  and promises their parents made of a warm, full meal that wouldn't have them crying as they smelt of the delights cooked in the building in their vicinity.

Aliyaar felt ashamed. His head lowered and the tiny boulders on the broken floor bought his attention as he followed behind his mother. Leering gazes, intermingled with ones of lust and hunger. Holding his mother's hand in a tight grip he walked behind, the dust crunched beneath his imported shoes whilst the local men sat in their poverty — inhaling the burnt petrol. As they walked through the tall doors, fixated with a glass chandelier that hung from the oval ceilings, the banquet halls doors thrown open. Their frosty glass with hints of muted wood led to a carpeted room with maroon walls and beige details. More than a handful of medium sized chandeliers hung in an assortment of linear arrangements and the chillers on either side of the room kept their bare skins from melting in the summer heat.

"What exactly is this meeting about?"

Pinching his collar in between his index and middle fingers he straightened it out, letting out a deep breath as he took hold of the thin stemmed glass of gazouz. The bubbles that rose to the top reminded him of his own self. He was as important as that tiny bubble which would soon enough expire and dissolve to an early death.

"It's a charity meeting for cancer survivors."

"And how does one donate for this new venture of yours?" He stared at her with a soft fondness.

"It's not my venture I was invited simply because I was born and married into wealth Aliyaar," she snickered, signs of her youth spilling out of the bubbling laughter, "it's a project that was started by Sophia Saleem."

"You—you mean Barekhna's mother?" He gulped.

"Precisely. I thought you might find someone here that you'd like to marry."

"I thought you promised you wouldn't do this!" He groaned.

"I am not. If you find someone that's amazing and if you don't well then, I'll wait a bit." Lyana grinned.

Clenching his teeth together he followed behind her without a word, his hands out of place as they held the miniature glass. And his eyes in search of company of people he knew — though that seemed to be a mission he was failing at. Much like everything else.

➖➖➖➖➖

Barekhna's stilettos pierced through the marble stairs as she ran into the banquet hall with her lips sealed and the hand free of the unclasped clutch tied the deep charcoal locks into a bun at the base of her swanlike neck. With shoulders pushed back, the puffed princess sleeves of her satin baby pink cropped shirt grazed her cheeks. The contour was harsh and her fingers smacked away at the lines across her bright face. For once she had let go of the raven lipstick, instead substituting it with a nude shade, her fingers pushing her hand into the pockets of her high waisted latex trousers. Barekhna was late — extremely. Her heart pumped vigorously inside the bony rib cage almost puncturing her lungs. 

All eyes were on her as she stepped into the banquet hall. Her mother, the centre of attention with a halo of bright light around her head seemed to visibly relax at her arrival. Pulling her tongue between her pearly teeth she ran into her mother's arms and excused her from the handful of guests. Barekhna placed her lips on her mother's high cheek bones to satiate her anger. It was the first event her mother was heading, with their father out of town and Aman busy with a surgery consultation, she was all her mother had. Sophia's hair was covered in the thin chiffon veil and the sequined dress in the muted pink with gold details hugged her waist. Pinching the centers of her mother's palms, her eyes mapping the width of the room Barekhna uttered a heartfelt apology.

"You're so late I almost thought you wouldn't come." Sophia pouted.

"Never mummy. I'd never. I'm sorry, I was caught up reading the files for a new case."

"It's alright Barek jaan. Go enjoy with the crowd and steer clear of Aliyaar." Sophia spoke with a warning tone.

"Aliyaar's here?"

Barekhna felt her feet fuzz up with sensation, the edges of her almond shaped eyes closed in on themselves and her fingers almost seemed to light up with a flare of power and strength. Her muscles tightened and tiny sparks flew just at the thought of his name, her heart skipped a few beats like the stones she and Aman used to throw in to the river Thames as children. Goosebumps lined her skin and bumped up one after the other along her bare skin, the warmth from the longing gazes not having any affect but just his name, had her reeling in pleasure. It was perhaps the perfect time to talk to him. Barekhna almost missed the bouquets of flowers and the cheesy letters with his perfect penmanship. Key word — almost.

"There's been enough drama," Sophia whispered, warning with her eyes, "I won't be able to stand anymore. Please."

"I promise he won't suffer, but there's something about teasing an innocent man." Barekhna giggled.

"Barekhna!"

"Jokes mummy. I won't say a word to him." She zipped her lips, walking away.

Grey smoke hounded her senses as she strutted towards the large crowd of men and women gathered around the table in the centre of the room. Bright alluring scents and dark seductive tones fought over one another to gain stage, to become the centre of attention. Cheeky winks and over the top breathy laughter filed into the room from the centre, muting out the soft sounds of the grand piano. Touches — voluntary were exchanged under the table and over the counter hands washed against the washboard abs of their desires, and others grazed the soft flesh of breasts. Easy on the eye, the upper echelons seduced one another with a soft pepper of words, swirls of lust would have the revenue of the hotels rooms spiraling in a few hours.

In the centre two loud businessmen countered one another, making loud conversation. Stocks — budgets and bills discussed as free as the champagne that the live bar had to offer. Barekhna smirked, finding the man of the hour seated silently in one corner with his legs pulled into himself, his hands tight around the cup of guzur. Like the morning light he was unmarred of the world's disgust. She was the midnight — in her hid all the wrongs of the world. Blinking back the haze from her eyes, she smiled and nodded in the direction of a few people who seemed to have raised a glass in honor of her. With the tips of her sharp nails she dragged them into the soft skin of random men, staring deep into the swirls of gold in Aliyaar's eyes.

Grouped around the men in expensive tuxes and hair gelled back until their aristocratic foreheads were pushed to the forefront, he stood out. Like day does in night. Like a saint does next to a siren. Her lips pursed and her hands ached to feel the riveting muscles that his shirt and suit engulfed. He was power—despite the shyness and innocence that gave him the airs of a sheltered princess, Aliyaar carried with himself an air of exuberance and in the tailored fit attire looked straight out of the latest edition of GQ. The swirls of grey smoke from the cuban cigars that were smoked plenty — irony at it's finest she thought to herself. His figure in the murkiness was marked by the grey smoke and the pristine smile that stretched beyond his upper cheeks, Aliyaar was a sight to see.

Barekhna's muscles ached — from the cool brush of air against her bare stomach or the smile that was painted on, she did not quite get. As she did her rounds, her scent mixed with hers as she neared him, she stilled a bit afar. The tenacious way her heart wanted to keep him away in a room — locked and out of sight. Her lipstick stained the rim of the crystal glasses as she sipped softly, a buzzing inside her throat calmed the nerves as people brushed against her. Taking a deep breath she stalked towards him, smiling in the direction of the model like faces. Winking softly at Aliyaar from behind the curtain of her now loose hair, placing her hands into the outstretched ones and hiding behind her stony smile the disgust she felt as their lips touched her skin.

"Good evening Barekhna, took you quite some time to show up." Ameen Liyan, owner of a software house and former classmate, enquired, his gaze running over her figure, stopping at the curve of her ample breast for a moment longer.

"Duty calls," she shrugged, her back brushing Aliyaar's bicep.

The tobacco from his cologne mixed with the cigar air lit her skin up until she wanted the cognac and heliotrope of it to smother her senses shut. His finely clipped nails, on those ring bound long fingers she imagined would dance against her skin in a soft tango. Barekhna pressed her front against his sides, watching his hands clench into a fist where they lay carelessly on top of his thigh. He inhaled a sharp breath as she pressed her lips to both his cheeks in greeting. She was testing his patience — and the both of them knew he would do nothing to stop her.

"I missed you," she spoke brightly, dropping her tone a few levels as she whispered into his ears, "saint."

"I—" he gulped.

She nodded, motioning for him to continue as her fingers climbed up his firm biceps, curling around it as she pressed her head against his neck. The display of affection was unusual and uncanny. Whispers in large numbers ranged throughout as people walked closer to watch the tension between them build up. Barekhna mewled with a sultry tone, staring at him with hooded lashes. Once more she kissed the tense muscles of his lower jaw, watching the rest stare at them with wonder.

The saint and the siren.
What a pair they made.

"What's going on? You and the wallflower Barekhna?" Ameen spoke on behalf of rest of the circle, chuckling at his words in disbelief.

"Actually—"

Aliyaar's words though died as Barekhna pushed forward her hand, the familiar ring sat softly against her left ring finger as she spoke with glee, "I'm his fiancée!"

"When? None of us were invited!" Her friends spoke in shock.

"He proposed on the weekend," she clicked her tongue, "with the most romantic of dialogues that I can't begin to explain!"

Barekhna stared into his glossy honey glazed eyes that seemed to be filled with heavy shades of confusion. His lips almost flattened into a frown as he tore out of her embrace, excusing himself from the party with a hard grin. Her heartbeat shivered in it's place as she maintained the façade of joy. Sauntering behind him out into the open air where the warmth instantly replaced the cool sensation on her skin. Barekhna shivered at the change and ran in her heels towards the car park where he seemed to be pacing in the dark. His back stretched into the dim lights and the curves of his shoulder blades underneath the cotton shirt called her. With an aura of a king, broken, he rested his head against his car and she could not help but stare at him. Her hand traced the bonnet and slid over his back, her lips pressed against his neck, feeling him shiver under her touch.

It was illegal of them to be so close that their breaths fogged into one spot over the windscreen. His lips frowning pushed the scrapes of his beard into a downside slope of grass. Barekhna stared at his afraid posture with worry, the platinum band with the diamonds thin and delicate glinting under the moonlight. All for his eyes. His back was sweaty and his pulse was unsteady under her palms as she took liberties in his silence.
Aliyaar was a saint in every capacity. No other man would have taken her actions in such manner. Anyone else would have thrown a tantrum.

"Saint." Her voice was like a summer breeze on a winters eve.

"What?" He inhaled sharply, turning around to face her with his eyes bloodshot.

"I—"

"Barekhna I may not have your confidence or an ounce of my brother's power. But I am human."

"I understand!"

"Do you? For you making my love the spectacle wasn't hard, was it? The adoration in my broken heart is not yours to make fun of!" He spat, a tear falling from his eyes on to her sweaty hand.

"Aliyaar," Barekhna softened her gaze, pushing herself into his arms, "I may not love you but I admire your love for me. It's the purest thing — the depth you have for a siren like me. After that note I talked to your mother and she gave me the engagement ring you bought. Aunty told me to wear it only if I was ready to be your wife."

"What?" He spoke with a shocked tone.

"Yes. I had a meeting with her two days ago. I promise Aliyaar, I may not love you right now but with time I will learn to. It's impossible to not." She smiled at him.

"And what weight do I give to a siren's words?"

"All the weight of the world. A siren and a saint have one thing in common — they don't lie."

I love this chapter itna ziada keh mein bata bhi nahi sakti ap sab ko.