Chapter 2.

Coffee was meant to be steeped in water ; hers though, swam in heaps of cream. Sweet and sugary — everything Barekhna Saleem was not made out to be. Then again, she was, a woman renowned for her eccentric tastes and love for contrasts — thick lines separated her personal and professional life. Although, she oft taunted herself for having fought more in the court of her home than that of the country. It was deplorable ; the curve of her mouth as she saw her grandfather curse her — yet again. The supple skin had hardened from years of curse words, belittling meant nothing to her.

Slender, like the curve of her wrists, the eye liner winged out of her Bambi like eyes captured the watery essence. Mocha and deep, like unstained coffee grounds, her orbs settled on the man. A bulky grey haired man, his legs crossed at the ankles as he sat on the low rise seat. Spewing in her direction, relentlessly cursing her mother's lineage as he did so — Khawar Obaid was not the picture of affection.

"Have you seen her Saleem? The way she rolls her eyes at her grandfather? Firangi khoon hai na! Ganda tou hona tha!"
[It is foreign blood! It had to be dirty!]

"Oh please dada jaan," the words bit at her tongue, "your grandson is from the same firangi's blood. Yet all you have are praises for him."

"Tumhari aankhein noch lun ga mein! Tameeza sai baat karo!" He roared.
[I will gauge your eyes out! Talk to me with respect!]

"With all due respect, you have no right to ask for it. From me — of all people." Barekhna said.

"Yeh jo shaan hai aap ki sab mujh sai! Aaj hi aap ko jaidad sai alag kar diya tou faqay parh jain gai!"
[All this grandness that you have is from me! Today if I take your inheritance you will have to fast!]

"Go ahead. I'd love to not be assigned some money made off of an innocent's blood. This isn't the seventies or eighties dada. I'm independent. The last time I took a single penny of yours was — never."

Each word of hers was like coals pelting his wrinkly old skin. Distaste inside his eyes made itself known to her, not a single ounce of regret though filed through her body as she sipped on the thick coffee. With the edge of her nail she pushed her hair behind her ear, the white diamonds and platinum piercings covered her elfin ears. Barekhna's British accent like sharp sea waves drowned him, the bright twinkle in his eyes as she sat with open resilience was all the taunt he needed.

"Of course. You lived off of an old man in England as a child. Who knows what your relationship was with him." He chuckled.

"Enough mr.Khawar Obaid. Har koi ap ki tarah har rishton ka ghatiya istemal nahi karta!" She added in a clipped tone.
[Not everyone is like you who uses relationships for a negative reason!]

With an open mouthed sigh, she drank the last of her coffee. Slamming the cup on the table she stormed out of the living room, her brunette hair flying behind her. Maroon heels kept her ankles under arrest, her back curving straight with her spine — one in all their capacity. She brushed the windowsill with her hands, the thin diamond bracelet — a sweet reminder of her uncle in England, danced around. Her mood had soured a great deal, keeping it under wraps still she stormed inside her bedroom. Grasping a fistful of her organza veil she threw it on top of the round bed. Taking a jump on the mattress, she sunk her face in between her hands, massaging her scalp with the sharp nails painted a shade of claret red.

Outside the sanguine walls, thin bushes of roses grew, trapping her window frame in their might. The sun was setting over the horizon and the heart of Lahore was just beginning to brim up with the spirits of life. A gentle breeze, the oncoming appraisal of the spring weather, danced through the tree branches. In perfect unison, like a bond — a riveting union, the air and the beings buzzed along. Birds chirped their last and the flossy skies dwelled into a pallor of azure shades, the burning orange and muddy yellows just beginning to taint the sky. A stray star or two, eager to reach the show before the curtains had even been pulled back danced in front of the thin chiffon curtains. The window had been left open, only slightly.

Thin zephyr streaks brushed against the room, the red walls of the room warmly lit up to life under the yellow lights. A curving vanity, white in color and with added touches of gold contrasted the walls. Beyond measure. Behold the gratification. The bedroom, larger than most, with a private attached lounge was a cluttered mess of all her favorites. Books on law and the history of it's origins. Pictures— portraits and paintings covered the walls, in their gold frames. It dripped of opulence as she sank on to her knees beside the window, letting the gold lights warm her pinkish skin.

Her return from Dubai had been maimed. At the doors of the estate — a palace that was her home — yet failed to feel like one, instead of roses, buckets of abuses had waited. Ripped apart, mercilessly, Barekhna had been almost reduced to tears. Though time had taught her well, and although it had been a lifetime of their taunts on her lineage and heritage, words still hurt. Could still break down her spirts. On top ; being a criminal lawyer in a conservative household — it was a pain. Disappointing pain. Deceptively so. Biting her lip softly, she searched for her laptop under the mess of clothes strewn on top of her bed.

Bingo!
There it was. The sleek metallic grey MacBook, coming to life with a single tap of her fingers. She hummed the tune of her favorite musical, typing in the password. Her long fingers danced along the key board. Work — it kept her sane. It was her sanity. Being on top, in control — the only emotions she allowed herself. As the files loaded, Barekhna unsnapped the clasp, placing the heels into their place inside her closet. They were her pride — well them and her Mercedes that attracted the eye with it's claret red.

"Barekhna dinner is ready come downstairs." Her father's rough voice from behind the door snapped her attention.

Outside, the sun had long set. A pale blue glow on the skies with millions of tiny stars, growing in number now and then remained. How she wished to be one of them. How she wished she could reach the loud skies and be bright, unrelenting. Proud of her tiny might amongst the spheres of the big men. An underdog. Barekhna hoped she would live out her dreams one day. Glittering amongst the stars was a pale moon and then her eyes searched a bit more. The kids in their streets had long vanished and instead were replaced by the expensive cars of their fathers. Her hands tapped away at the sill, a mumble of words blended into a mess. Behind the frameless spectacles, reflecting the screen of her laptop, files one after the other opened. She wondered, cautiously. At last picking a few words that would not satiate him.

"I'm not hungry."

"Can I come in?" His friendly voice hardened.

"Yes."

"Oh Barekhna," he whispered, sinking to his knees in front of her, his hands brushed away the hair from her forehead, "why must you let their words hurt you? I raised a strong soldier. Didn't I?"

"Dad you know —" she gulped, "I just want to make you and mummy proud of me. However, I end up — end up making more problems for you guys."

Barekhna swept her arms around her father's neck, pressing a kiss to the top of his cheeks. He hugged her tighter, stroking the silken hair strands, rubbing her back above the silk fitted shirt. Boisterous at her arrival, he sulked internally at having dampened the mood by his father. Draping a finger over his beady eyes, brushing his thin brows with her nails she smiled with difficulty.

"I won't show up for dinner dad. You enjoy though." She whispered.

"Nonsense Barekhna. Get dressed, in that favorite red dress of yours. When all else fails, material attachments—"

"Material attachments can give us something to hold on to. I know. I just am tired and don't think I could stomach even a grain of rice." She shook her head, trapping him by her words.

"Your mother had your favorite dishes prepared barrister Barekhna Saleem. You may be an accomplished lawyer elsewhere, but to us you're out Barek jaan, our first born. The light of our lives."

Barekhna's brown eyes deforested at that. Momentarily, she let go of the carefully place façade, holding on to her dad's arms for a bit of support. All his life, he had been her rock. Despite the repercussions. Selflessly, he stood by her and had made her an honest woman. Dressed in a white shalwaar kameez, his red cheeks and bald head, they reminded her of her childhood. Under the bright summer sun. Under his gaze. Brooding, her lips sunk, the cons outweighed the pros. Behind him the room cast a light on to his face, on their faces and melded them into one. The clock was striking eight fifteen. Dinner as usual — would be served at eight thirty on the dot. Her grandfather's cruel gaze would be waiting on the lack of her presence. Another taunt for her simpleton of a mother to fight against.

"Would it be a scandal I wonder, if I showed up wearing a red dress with a slit." She thought out loud, winking at her father — who looked scandalized at the prospect.

"Barekhna!" He sighed, "it will be a scandal indeed."

"Great then. I'll see you at dinner then."

"Don't do anything that will hurt your mother."

"Don't worry about mummy. I promise I won't wear a dress with a slit — just yet. Nonetheless, it will be a dress."

"I can't stop you. So I'll say 'can't wait to see what you've got up your sleeve Barekhna.'"

And with a parting kiss, he whizzed out of the bedroom, leaving behind a smirking Barekhna whose mind was working a mile a minute.

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The clock in the corridors, polished wood and a brass bell struck eight forty five. On the dot. Barekhna tossed the loose waves in her hair over her bare shoulders, the spaghetti strap, sweetheart neckline held her bosom in a tight grip. The beginning of her cleavage on display, a thin gold chain with a tiny diamond sat in between her collarbones. Shimmer of the trailing skirts, the gauze elaborate around her waist, gave a peak at her gold heels. Tall — razor sharp. Red lips, the oncoming call of a siren indeed, she chuckled, a singular ruby on her middle finger. Body hugging, the evening gown emphasized her hourglass body, a thin wristwatch on her wrist.
An epitome of grandeur.
A true definition of beaut.
Stemming from her ankle, the thin glass anklet dangled with the threads of the heels's strap.

He would be pissed, her soft eyes hardened despite the utter glee inside her body. Walking through the abandoned hallways, the servants locked in their prim quarters and the richly owners in the dinning room. She could imagine already ; the remarks and the gazes. Barekhna's body already ignited with anticipation, a smirk her best accessory for the evening. The satisfying sounds of her heels making contact with the marble floors kept her from losing herself to her thoughts. Tall ceilings with chandeliers hanging, covered the tiny hallway from the private housing to the dinning chambers.

Chatter.
Ceaseless chatter.
Most of it, directed towards her mother was the first sound she heard as she arrived at the room. Inside, through the frosted glass doors Barekhna saw the family sitting around the table. A single empty chair — in her honor, rightly so. Grasping, opening and sliding in within mere seconds, she announced her presence with a loud thud. Gasps. Loud sighs of disappointment and a single chuckle — that would be her younger brother Aman, she thought.

On the white marble table covered in a red table cloth and gold tassels caught the eyes first and foremost. The portraits of historic leaders, and their influential family members came next. Candlesticks with candles — long since rendered incapable of burning acted as background noise to the granite walls. White and yellow lights, in a generous mix shone over the glass dishes. Trenches — one after the other, aromas of her favorite foods, caught her off guard, despite her father's heads-up. Ghastly pale faces, with their mouths dropped open stared at her. Scandalized by her bare shoulders — no doubt. A few hands raised and a few voices gained a few decibels. Strained, maintaining decorum in front of the men that stood like ghosts next to the walls to serve the family.

"So sorry for being late. A client called." She smiled.

Barekhna coughed at her grandmother's glare, placing her arms around her twenty-five year old brother's shoulders. The two hugged, squeezing each other until they were breathless.

"I missed you api." He spoke, his eyes burning with tears.

"You stupid lad! I was just gone for three days!"

"Seventy two hours too long!" He sighed, his blonde hair curled over his high forehead, pristine blue eyes drowning her sight in them.

"Ahem!" Her mother cleared her throat.

Barekhna leaped in joy into his arms. Pecking her forehead, smothering the plump figure of her mother. She felt whole. Wholly full of joy. The best feeling was being in between her arms, drowned by the scent of her rose water itar. Sophia Saleem had changed herself completely after her marriage to the Pakistani mill owner. Gone was the woman who roamed the city of London wearing silk Yves Saint Laurent. She was replaced, by a woman in solid silk shirts and trousers, a veil hanging from her neck. The blonde of her hair, dyed a deep brunette. The woman was power — and her sharp mind had reaped in profits for her husband ; and yet still her only identity was that of a loose firangi's in the eyes of her -in law's.

"How are you mummy?" She whispered.

"Swell. I missed you though," her hands mapped the span of Barekhna's contoured face, "you look like you've lost weight."

"Agar sab ki baatein ho gayi hun tou khanay shuru karein?"
[If everyone is done talking should we start eating?]

There it was. The curt tone full of poison. It was worse than hemlock, hearing her grandmother, Sameen Khawar order them around. Helping her mother into her seat, with a parting kiss and an adoring last look, she turned to her grandmother. A fire danced in her eyes, burning the dark brown of her orbs into a glisten. Lightened up. Sliding an arm over her chair she stepped into her chair at a leisurely pace. With her swan like neck placed back into her slender shoulders, she played the part of a rich heiress well. In gold and diamonds, brunette hair that curled at her chin, she was sophisticated and soignée. Her fingers held the gold spoon, spooning the french onion soup with a gentle temper. All the while her eyes remained fixated on the burning face of her grandmother's.

Tall french windows with trees lining the borders allowed the moonlight to fall on her pale shoulders. A pariah. An alien amongst them all with their gold kissed skins. The thin diamond earrings that dangled over her shoulders brushed her cheeks gently. Her sharp brows raised in content as the soup softened her throat. A claret nail tapped at the wood of the table, the gold details on the rim of the soup cups. Wisteria and ivies criss crossed in a gold — part of her mother's dowry — her grandmother had insisted on one. Thick cheese lapped at her tastebuds ; the aroma enriched her skin. It was peaceful, she thought, too peaceful for a dinner with her extended family. The spoon whisked around the contents, her heart fixated on a case and not the dinner in front of her.

"Barekhna you're not eating?"

Saleem cleared his throat, serving her a piece of bread. Awkwardly she shrugged, her stomach seemed to have gotten full. Bile swam and burnt the bottoms of her abdomen. It seemed to have clenched her throat, the silence, the wondering of what would happen. In a haze she spilled the water from the crystal glass over the table. Apologizing, she wiped at it with her handkerchief. Let it begin, she cursed.

"So how was your trip Barekhna?" Her aunt spoke softly, under the guise of a kind woman.

Behind the bright smile she knew, only poison bled.

"Simply splendid. It was fun unwinding after so long."

It was true. Her first trip in the two years after she had cleared her bar at law exam in England and had completed her masters in criminal law. Letting her hair down ; hitting the city with her friends — it reminded her of what it felt like being young. A dreamy sigh escaped her lips the ones that had done their fair share of cussing at men and women both. Barekhan took another sip, biting into the piece of toasted bread, her tongue licking the corner of her lips.

"Yeh tou waisay had hai. Ghair mardun keh saath beti ko bhej diya tum nai Saleem. Kuch tou lihaz kiya hota." Her paternal aunt clicked her tongue.
[This is the limit. You sent your daughter with unknown men Saleem. You should have cared for something.]

"I trust my daughter, Hareem. I have raised her well enough." He spoke in a clipped tone.

"Did you though? She lived all her life with that gora." Her phopho spoke.
[White man.]

"Let the girl speak though. Let her tell the tale of how she tainted our family name." Her grandfather's voice rose above the rest, all eyes turning to her.

She perked up at that, wiping the corner of her mouth with the linen, she rested her cheek over her hand. Barekhna grinned in his directing, beaming — radiant as she spoke. The bouts of sarcasm going undetected. Their cheeks turning streaky red — flushed at her open insinuations.

"Oh let me. I've been dying to tell this tale," she waved her hand in front of her face, "I met this guy. He was really good looking and an amazing kisser. Of course he was good at other things in the bedroom too but I'm sure you'll die of shame listening to how he touched my skin. How he set me on fire with the sparks his fingers left ; an otherworldly experience!" She sighed with stars inside her eyes.

"Shameless!"

"That's getting old. Think of something new Khawar sahab. I'll bite back with twice as much force — and that's a vow."

With a gold knife she sliced through the steak, chewing. Her eyes challenged the power of the man that sat at the head of the table. It was — she came to terms, a life of having an upper hand. Her uncle had taught her well. Cards and chess ; they were her forte. Barekhna was no longer two, twenty and nine was an age where she could — and she would stand up to the forces of the evil nature. Read — her extended family, of course.

"In an age of becoming a mother, she's picking fights with a man thrice her age. Saleem bhai the blood in her veins definitely shows itself." Naeem, her younger uncle taunted.

"Unfortunately it is. It's definitely showing I'm related to Khawar Obaid, a man who was getting women pregnant whilst his own wife was in labor." Barekhan shot back, flinching as the man in question raised his hand.

"Think ten times before you do it dada jaan. I'll cut it off and take you to court for mental abuse!"

"Why don't you leave us then? Go back to the posh castle you lived in? To your uncle? No wait — he" Ghafoor, her cousin, her uncle's son came to their grandfather's defense. He beady eyes of course eyed the large inheritance he left behind.

"Not a word about him. He is an angel! Unlike you guys, he took me in, even with no blood of his in me. He was more family than you will ever be!"

Seething with anger, her eyes saw red. She burned in anguish, slamming the glass door on her way as she ran up the stairs. Her hands pressed against her hard beating heart. He was a sore spot. For him she would die. For him she would loose everything that she had. In pain, relentless, Barekhna ran to her bedroom, slipping on to the marble floors. The tears broke free. Cascading down her hot, sweaty cheeks she wiped furiously at her eyes. The mascara and liner would have surely spread — she imagined, resembling a raccoon. The thought brought a smile to her face, her eyes reached out to stare at the brightest of stars. And Barekhna could not help but call out to her true north.

Come meet me Raphe, your little dipper needs you.

➖➖➖➖➖

Barekhna need not be so fine all the time. How am I ever going to explain her perfect-ness to people?