Chapter 8.

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"Mazak? Yeh ap ko eik mazak lag raha hai? Yeh iss qoum ki haqeeqat hai! Aur ap? Ap ko tou apni third class chaal keh ilawa kuch nazar hi nahi araha?" Arham slammed his hand against the desk, of the borrowed office.
[Joke? Is this looking like a joke to you? This is the reality of this country! And you? You can't think of anything other than your third class tricks?]

"Listen Arham, think with a calm mind. This is in your best favor." Khalid Sarwar replied.

Khalid Sarwar, a resident of Mushkpur was part of their party ever since the place had been declared an individual province. He had managed to claim a place in the provincial assembly although now, hearing his controversial ideas, Arham was worried.

"How? You're asking me to sell promises that have no basis. It will sound absolutely stupid if I tell them I will build a dam!"

"It doesn't have to be one, though. You could make one, we have the funds and the prospects—"

"Do we?" He spoke.

Raising his eyebrow he looked at the elder man with contempt in his eyes. His father had been overpowered when it came to the decision of adding the man in question to their party. Although, the party leadership had in private discussed the regret they had over voting in his favor, there was not much they could do. Kicking him out at such an important time meant inviting bad publicity and an outcry of the locals who demanded — and deserved rightly so, accurate representation in the government.

"Yes! The ball is in your court. Yeh tou woh qoum hai jis ka zamir biryani ki plate sai bhi banda khareed le. Dam ka waada tou phir bhi in logon ko iss tarah hai jaisay eik naya Pakistan bananay ka waada ho." His voice brimmed with humor.
[This is the nation whose morals can be bought for with a plate of biryani. The promise of making a Dam is like giving them the promise of building a new Pakistan.]

The joke he cracked, the humor in his voice were all limited to him. Everyone else inside the office found not an ounce of humor. Arham crossed his arms over his chest, resting his weight against the wall digging the tip of his shoe into the carpet. Through connections, his parents had made arrangements for him to lodge in the home of Asghar Khan, former Chief minister of the province. It was in his presence that the meeting had commenced, and was still continuing with full force.

"Yeah okay, let me do that! And while I'm at it, might as well make a joke of myself in the international community by violating a treaty signed for the betterment of the environment."

"He's right, this is absurd. Behtar yahi hai keh kal jalsay tak ap dono eik dusray sai na milen. Issi mein sab ki behtri hai." Asghar acted as the moderator, creating enough space between the two.
[It's best if till the rally tomorrow you two refrain from meeting each other. That is what would be best for the rest of us.]

He looked every bit the mess that he was. His hair was tousled over his forehead, the buttons of his dress shirt undone and the sleeves rolled three quarters the way. The thick gold ear piercings he had gotten only recently had lead to reddened skin, still healing. Yet, another wound had opened — the flesh had tore itself open. While his heart sunk with the sun, hope rose with the thin crescent moon. Tomorrow would be the day where everything would be cemented, he hoped the tower being built would open it's doors in his yard.

"Arham would you like some tea?" Asghar questioned.

"No, I think I'd like to rest."

"Of course. It has been a long day for you, I'll see you at dinner then okay?"

"Of course uncle, I'll see you in a few hours."

The two parted ways at the end of the corridor, one walking down the stairs whilst the other entered his temporary bedroom. His figure flopped over the mattress, too lazy to even lift a finger he nuzzled into the pillow. Moment by moment, as seconds passed by, he felt his muscles gain weight. The knots inside his shoulders turned tight the veins inside his forehead throbbed and cold chills travelled down his spine. He felt the tingles in each of his fingers, lifting them was taxing. With a throat parched and half a heart, he turned over. His hand rested over the softly beating heart under his dress shirt — would it ever work itself out?

Dipped in troubles, sprinkled with never ending mazes, served on a platter of questions — that was his life as a politician. Not only, had it ripped his privacy into thin shreds that were beyond recognizable, it had also lead to any and everyone questioning him and who he was, each passing moment allowed a new scandal to be born of his name. Arham was in a fix. His mother wanted him to get married, to find a partner ready to stand by him yet he knew, no one could live this life, atleast not of their own choice. His mind was plague his consciousness drowned in a bright red, hints of black spilled in from every direction. Causeless was at fault, the bigger the lies, the more they were believable.

Tiny sparrows hit the closed windows in his bedroom. Their beaks knocked, the small wings tried to grasp the lock and push them aside. The sight was peculiar, as if, God wanted him to make his first step. Jumping off of the mattress he opened the windows, resting his bicep over the columns that lined the outward curving panes. His thick finger rubbed the top of one baby sparrow, he watched in awe as the creature looked at him with warm eyes, such trust. Men were fickle creatures, currency could buy any and all of them — it was just a matter of time. If someone as gentle, as small as a sparrow could trust him with it's life he was sure the people of his nation would too.

Mission win the elections was now working on full throttle. He had a new strategy in his mind. Smirking, he walked out of the bedroom doors — a dangerous glint in his eyes.

The scales were about to be tipped.

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"It smells heavenly in here. What's cooking, good looking?"

Asghar walked into the kitchen, instantly greeted with the aroma of fresh parsley and basil, sounds of bay leaves sizzling in oil with capers being creamed into the light Caesar salad. The room smelt of onion powder and pepper, it was doused in the heaviness of ghee but the freshness of the many lemons and limes cut straight through it. His wife and niece, Filza, were busy leading their team of chefs, their own hands engaged in chopping and arranging the many platters of kebabs and fish — amongst others.

"Taya abu we're making hareesa!" Filza replied.

"He asked the good looking one beta." Laila spoke.

She had walked into the kitchen behind her elder brother in law, in search of her daughter. If she was not in the library or the walled part of her gardens, if she was not to be found in her bedroom, Filza was found in the kitchen. Strolling around picking on the fruit, taking nibbles here and there whilst experimenting with the food. She had a skill for the culinary arts, in fact, almost everyone had been sure that the girl would enroll in one of the fancy schools in Mushkpur made for chefs — it was a surprise when she instead chose literature.

"You wait until I meet your husband!"

"What will you do?"

"I — I won't let you have any of the hareesa I made!" She poked her tongue out in the direction of her mother.

"Aur karein tang usko ap Laila ji!" Anbar said.
[Go on annoy her more miss Laila!]

"Leave it alone, come on Filza you come with me. We need to get your father out of his office," Asghar said, stopping in his movements before he continued, "we'll be joined by a guest for dinner today."

"Who is it?"

"Arham Alamgeer."

Filza squealed under her breath — her infamous crush would share the same dinner table as her. Running into the arms of her uncle she followed behind him, lost in the world of her imagination. It went wild turning the plain white canvas into colors of bold reds, her heart sighed softly, the romantic books she had devoured, the tragedies that were all scribbled across her walls, softly creeped up her arms. Oh how she was ready to meet him — and gush about him, in secrecy.

With energies depleted and spirits numbed they found her father in the abandoned bedroom of the home — which she had just learnt belonged to his mother. Walking behind him towards the dinning room where shrill voices were already making their way out of, she fixed her shirt. The creases on her white sweatshirt were a bit too prominent and the stain of oil she thought she had very sneakily washed off, was returning with full force. Her hair was the only part salvageable. Biting her teeth in annoyance, she walked behind the two men hoping that just this once she would go unnoticed. Of course though, being her parents only daughter and her cousin's only friend, it was impossible for them to ignore her presence.

"Oh Filza there you are, why didn't you change?" Ameena's voice lost is enthusiasm as she stared at her cousin.

"Was just busy," she replied.

"Koi baat nahi konsa koi mehmaan hai idhr. Ajao beth jao Filza." Her younger aunt, Ayna, replied.
[It's alright its not as if there is a guest here. Come on sit Filza.]

"For today's dinner we have kebabs, some steamed fish, rice — of course and hareesa made by Filza. Feel free to dig in." Her mother spoke.

Lifting the covers from some of the covered dishes she motioned for their serves to do the rest, sliding into a place behind her husband. All of them had just began serving themselves when a tall man entered their dining room. He was the guest of honor, the man of the hour. They elders got up and greeted him, forcing him to take a chair beside Filza, at the end of the table. Her breath hitched inside her throat, a cough or two left her lips — she could not recall the accurate numbers as she felt her nerves numb out.

Arham Alamgeer like his name he was power personified. The rolled up sleeves that gave her a glimpse of his veiny arms, built up a tense feeling inside the pits of her stomach, highly illegal she thought. He smelt of everything nice, the hints of spice but the prominence of a scent she could not put her finger on, lead Filza on, into a fix of mystique. He ate with prowess — something she had never possessed. His eyes were like the depths of the SilSil lake — deep, onyx at times but almost always the definition of secrecy. Arham's voice was deep, deeper than her affection for the book Wuthering Heights. An eerie familiarity withered through the sun dried hair, pondering over who he resembled she gasped — a bit too audible.

"Flynn Rider!"

"What?" He replied.

The frown of his lips, the tilt of his head showed his confusion. His suave voice played with the strings of her mind, rendering her incapable of speech as she stumbled over the words. Incoherent strings of letters, broken speech reached his ears — her ears burning red and the flush on her cheeks captivated him.

The short woman beside him with her back straight like an iron rod, a mouth smeared in the aftermath of her dinner, crumbling as she chewed on the rice was as close to a princess he had ever gotten. Gusto that shrouded her pious eyes, the ire that she held behind the veil of her innocence, gripped him in their arms. In front him was no woman, no, it was instead, a witch scheming, toying with his emotions. Rationality had left his brain, only the imprint of her lavender perfume remained inside.

"I'm sorry if I — if I offended you."

She gulped with unease. Arham waved his hand around, shrugging his shoulders. The magnetic pull that she had felt was returned, his own mind had lost it's bearings. So how could he blame her?

"No harm done."

"Best of l—"

"Best of what?"

He was enjoying this. Smirking, he sipped on his water, the tension inside her being was comical.

"Best of luck at that rally tomorrow. I hope you win."

Offering him a broken, nervous smile she dashed out of her place. Leaving everyone, including Arham stunned.

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FIRST MEETING.
FIRST MEETING.
FIRST MEETING.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

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