Chapter 26.

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Mein bhi ziada comments deserve karti hun boys.
Na karo sahi ACM lai kar bhag jaun gi idhr sai.

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Trident shaped fires roared out of the glass windows, the shards spilled out into the adjoined gardens. Crucified winds pinned the orange gloom into the brick walls, inside the timber catching fire with ease. Everything smoothed out under its capricious violence, what had started off as a one room fire had spilled out through the ground floors of the annex, within a bat of the eye. Red covered the vision and tiny embers of pain, flushed into the orbs of hopeful divinity. Crushed dignities, like broken paint bottles covered the skies in their grey smoky allure. Media personnel tackled the security and scrutinized the powerful gait of the firemen, TRP's took precedence over humanity and human life — always.

Chorus of awes ran through the crowd accumulated at the gates. It grew in number, every passing minute. Elderly and the youth alike, ran to the doors of the secluded property smelling smoke fill their nostrils even in the comfort of their homes. Midnight gossip, it would be — for the anchorpersons as well as the common man, it would of course all be licked with their vicious tongues for so as long as it did not hit their homes, a flood was always welcome. Camera flashes captured the aesthetic silhouette of the blackened annex, the expensive material used turned to nothing but charred dust. Only the top windows remained in tact, as the curtains hanging on them began to catch bits of the escaping fire.

Dressed in their parka trousers and fireproof jackets, the men trudged through the sloshing snow. Mixed with mud, it looked disgusting, their feet slipping even in their heavy duty shoes as they neared the eye of the fire. They breathed in their masks, their eyes burned as the water tore through the centre — the start of it all, the kitchens. Groaning, injured bodies lay on the grass a few feet away from them. Wounds from the glass and fire both, covered them whole. An ambulance had drove in with great difficulty as the populace refused to part and let it through. First aid was rushed through and the police on spot awaited the first signs of a recovering eye witness. With aching limbs and a raging fit of cough the teams worked together in silence. Palpitations inside the depths of their valves, squinting gazes in the colossal heat and an arching back as they moved through the collapsed landing in search of any survivors inside the building. It was chaos, a murder attempt or a stupid mistake? The authorities had yet evaluate and in the midst of this all, the walls that had to crumble, towered over cowering figures.

"Get out! The building is going to collapse!" Voices, not in tens but thousands erupted outside, the floors trembling under the heat.

Sounds of crackling wood soon took over the cries of surprise, the two firemen stranded inside. In alarm they retracted their footsteps, praying that everyone had been evacuated. As the two walked out, a wooden beam fell into their feet dividing the nether regions of the house. A burst of volcanic magma through their bodies outside, the roof collapsing and the last thing they saw — beaming green eyes calling for help inside the kitchens.

"Medic! We need a medic here!" Men surrounded them, wiping the blood off of their brows.

"Wom-an there is a —" one of them breathed with unease, "in-side. Inside the house!"

"We can't go back. She's probably buried inside the debris. I say maximum five minutes of survival. Pray for her, my brother, may God bless her soul." Rangeen patted the shoulder of the man, tears inside his own eyes as he saw the home of his beloved niece fall to tiny pieces.

"Mr.Rangeen?" Major Raheel cleared his throat, motioning for the man to follow him.

In silence the two walked around the desolate pile of brick and rubble. As the smoke oozed out of the pores, a tiny glimpse at the once happy house, the floors now covered in blood stains and anything but signs of peace. Rangeen's eyes filled up with water, his chest shook with violent fear of where his niece was. He had been out on the fields doing a round with Asghar when they had gotten a phone call. By the time they returned, everything had been destroyed. The women, inside the estate had lost their senses, sobbing and screaming for Filza to be safe and sound. Azmaray and Zaeem who were in Dubai attending an important conference were duly informed too, their arrival was expected in the early hours of morning. Who would have thought that the night, bleak in it's midnight moonlight, would lead to a tale of heartaches.

"I've heard you're an important part of the family Mr.Rangeen." Major Raheel stared at him.

The man's hair dyed a shade of flossy pink — a dare from Ameena he had wholeheartedly fulfilled, and the bright purple shalwaar kameez. He did not look the part of his position, yet then again, who was he to judge, Raheel internally sighed.

"I am. Apnay bacho ki tarah hai mujhe unkay bachay. Meray bhai behen jaisay hain un bachun keh maa baap." He replied in affirmative.
[They are like my kids to me, their kids. They are like my siblings, the kid's parents.]

"So then you'd have an idea of family rivalry? If there has been any threat to them as of late."

"No. There hasn't been any, otherwise I would know."

"Interesting," he rubbed his chin, a glint of mischief spread through his clean shaven face. "Or maybe they hid it from you?"

"Never. I may not be direct family but wife my and I are told everything." Rangeen shook his head, crossing his arms against his chest.

He may be a peculiar man, but that was only to keep his beloved family grinning. In fact, there was no man as ruthless as him in the entirety of Mushkpur.

"From what we know, as of now—"

"You know nothing, Major Raheel. The forensic department is yet to investigate. That is of course, unless you knew of a threatening lead and chose to hide it from us for reasons unknown." Asghar intervened, his white shirt stained with dried blood, hands and knuckles bruised — another day another wall.

"Mr.Khan, we had no such prior information. However, someone has been poking into my personal information from this home."

"As an employee of our family I would like to remind you, we have full authority over keeping check on your record. We will not have another serve our enemies." Asghar cleared his throat, his eyes pierced through the young man's in warning.

"Asghar whose blood is that?" Rangeen crossed his fingers, hoping to be proven wrong once.

"Filza — she's been found." He replied.

With a crestfallen face he led the two men towards the landing of the estate, where body bags lay in neat rows. The medics, counting and numbering, matching facial evidences before leading them towards the ambulances. Asghar's shoulders sagged in pain, the expression of his wife and sister-in-law's as he broke the news to him danced along his eyes. The pain and the shouts, his wife had sniffed the blood on him before collapsing in his arms. How had a day of such perfect normalcy turned their home into a blood bath once more? Why was God no longer protecting them? Was it time for the grand family that had survived and raised echelons over time to finally meet their end? Such was the pain of the night that as his phone rang inside his pockets, he ignored all responsibilities, gripping a glass of bourbon for the first time in years.

A dark evening had succumbed to the whispers of the devil's folly and the owner was still missing — at large.

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The entire world had taken to the roads. There was no other way about it. Starting from the turn right at the doors of the parliament, to beyond the national highway at the exit of the city, all the roads were blocked and signals below receptive levels all of a sudden. Protests. Violent, and peaceful at the same time, the opposition was out on the streets, their slogans on the top of their lungs and banners in hand as they roared against dynastic politics — fought against him. Even as he returned from a day of fighting for them. Their hand slammed against the doors of the car, screaming on top of their lungs, words that no child of their age should be using.

It was an atmosphere of pure pain and anarchy. Arham's head throbbed and his chest filled up with anger. The hazel of his eyes had long since continued to live, instead leaving only a dark black that could match the inkiness of the night outside. Of the moors that surrounded them on either side. His leg bounced up and down, the sleek phone pressed against his ear as he called any and everyone. The tip of his fingers itched to sieze the steering, to cut through the chase and drive back to his home. To her. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, his nostrils flared in anger, the muscles of his jaw flexed in pain as he smoked his second cigar.

Nerves inside his palms exploded with pain. The once arrogant shoulders withered and the pride on his face, disheveled like a man in his old age. He looked out of the tinted windows with a longing look in his eyes. He could after all, not help but wonder what was going on. It had been forty minutes and seventeen seconds since Arham had gotten that fateful phone call. The normally ten minutes drive had been turned into one that would last more than an hour. Sixty minutes — of ignorance, intelligible ignorance of what had happened to his family. His wife and their pet kitten, the joys of his mundane life. A body taped to it's place, trapped amongst an army of free loaders that have no regards for the pain and suffering of anyone — what would it do? Roar and scream, burn with a fire that ravages the under-men. The call like a fife had roused in him a fire he had long buried. The one that called forth his physical strength. One that made him feel every single pump of blood within his veins.

No worthy gift for a man like him, save for pain and longing. Hallucinations of her tear filled eyes as she begged for forgiveness — solely on a crime that wasn't hers even. The way her figure had rolled into a tiny ball in bed did little to soothe his mind and heart, instead they rejuvenated what he already knew. A searing disappointment gripped him by the throat. Tinker-bell like laughter, arms full of love to give and a mouthful of disastrous jokes. Her hair that shone underneath the pale moonlight and like flossy gold spilled in between his fingers as he held them. What a vision she was and what a loser he.

"Sir your phone's ringing!" His driver cleared his throat, looking at him through the viewfinder — worried.

"Hmm— oh!" He sighed.

A private number, he frowned. Placing the phone against his ear, he took a deep breath. He searched for perfect words to break the silence on either side.

"Arham?" A silvery voice cackled through.

"Who is it?"

"Who am I? Who am I — indeed." The voice chuckled, the longer the laughter resonated, the more Arham felt like puking.

"Listen I have no time for your games. So it's better you spit what you have to say!"

His fingers massaged his forehead, staring out of the car windows. A bit of relief flooded in his body as they neared the final exit, the estate's main door in view finally.

"Did mama not teach you to respect the elderly?"

"Not wicked old people — no!"

"Hmm. How is your wife?"

"Don't you dare talk about her! I'm giving you five minutes to tell me who you are or else—"

"Or what? Silly boy, you can't even touch a single hair on my head. However, since I feel the need to have pity on a widower, I'll tell you who am I."

She was interrupted as Arham spoke the words in agony, had his worst fears come to life?

"What do you mean widower?"

"Don't interrupt me anymore Arham! Widower — as in a man whose lost his wife and has not remarried. Ha! I'll give you a little riddle. Perhaps that will help you find out who I am. After all times a ticking, and this show wont go on for much longer," the person added in a sing song voice.

"Save the last bits of heartache. A sun is yet to set. Have some patience. Everyone will see. Everyone will know. Forward your palms. All must rest."

The call dropped, leaving in returned a confused man, with a broken heart and an aching head.

Bits of thunder filed over the starless sky. The clocks ticked nearer to one by the minute as the car rolled into the driveway. Underneath the heavy weight of the car the gravel was crushed, like the souls of those battered in the brittle battle of life. Slowly, the tires rolled through the white marble fountain, crossing the pillars it came to a halt behind a group of people. Their necks covered in tags and hands held a various color of microphones. Any and everyone, had thrust themselves into the front yard, surrounding the temporary medical set up, interviewing, those that could not even speak yet as the tremors danced along their skins. Wedged into their nails, blood and mud, their faces hollowed out in misery. Shroud with guilt, their eyes were ghastly. Tears, of blood, fell down their cheeks solemnizing the loss.

Arham ran through, clawing his way amongst the crowd. His shoulders hit the crowd with a rowdy fierceness, blindly he smacked his hands around. Semblance had left the balanced mindset of his. The words rang through his mind, each one still as sharply carved into his mind as any other. His phone buzzed, blaring his ears as he searched through the white chiffon tents. Black smoke filled his vision as he neared the back of the home, sliding through the tiny gully of bricks. No man knows how powerless he is until he sees that which he loved in a pile before himself. Same happened to Arham, his knees fixated into the soil as he fell with a thud.

A broken building.
A burnt home.
A disastrous sight of his failure.
Smoke and tar, filled the garden that was till this evening, full of white roses. The creeping vine had not survived either, smashed under the bricks, only a tiny branch creeped our, a last cry for help. He neared his hand into the still hot tar, the charcoal colored particles slipped out of his fingers. With a visible need for comfort, and mouth dried at the sight of the losses, he crawled into the now dead eye of the fire. Arham's shoes crushed the remnants of their home. It had already collapsed last night as a result of his fiery anger, today had only cemented that which he knew. Hot tears slipped out of his eyes – helplessness unlike any. The back of his hand wiped away at them, his cheeks coated in the soot.

Were the dreams of my life,
The tales of my beloved's whisper
Not reason enough for us to have loved each other longer?
Arham thought to himself, turning to the skies with an agonized look, crying to his God, did he not deserve joy?
If she had suffered pain, if she no longer breathed — he vowed to himself, resting his hand on a burning wood, the skin of his hand blistering, he would cause hell. He would not let anyone breath in peace.
If he were to be homeless for the rest of eternity,
He would haunt the wrongdoers forever.

"Allah ta'ala I have placed my trust in you forever. Let her have lived, I'll love her in whatever way she is, just don't don't take my home away from me!" He whispered into his arm, his vows imprinted into the skies with the moon as his witness.

Arham sat in a still silence, the wind tousled his hair ever so softly. He inhaled deeply, from the smell of burning soot somewhere deep within he could sense the sweet vanilla fragrance. Biting his hand in pain, he walked deeper into the crushed home. His feet walked over and under what once was a home brimming with life. Amongst the dark brown soot, he found a black and gold gleaming material. He inched towards it, holding the book in a tight fist as he walked away, smoothening out the pages and removing the last signs of dust.

With a heavy heart and a bleeding hand Arham walked back through the path he had walked through first. Dead on his feet, the tears replaced with an icy membrane of indifference he ran towards the tents. Doctors and nurses wiped down the bodies, a few already smelt of rotting meat. The fire had too soon taken too many lives. Forty nine deaths — he heard a reporter announce. Thirty five of those, still unidentified. It was selfishness he knew, to wish his wife was not one of them — yet his selflessness had led them to this point. If he saw her smile once more ; Arham promised himself, he would be selfish.

"Excuse me Doctor, can I have a word?"

The man, in his early forties nodded, walking away from the tenth patient whose limbs he had wiped down to assess the damage. Doctor Shaheer had come from the city next to Mushkpur with his team, the damage was too much for one city to control on it's own. Not only had the annex collapsed, but a few neighboring stay houses were also taken by the hungry fire. The numbers of deaths out of this place, yet to be calculated he grimaced.

"Minister I understand and extend my deepest apologies to you for the damage to your property." The man shook his hand, Arham's left one behind his back, curled to hide the wound.

"I don't care. I want to know if a Filza Arham has been treated by you."

"Ah! Your wife," he nodded, "if I'm not wrong she had been discovered before I arrived."

"Dis-covered?"

"Yeah. The doctor on duty before me found her. Unfortunately, I have no idea where she is. Maybe you should head inside and mourn with the rest of the family."

"Thank you doctor sahab, I'll take him now." Asghar interrupted their conversation.

With a single nod of his head Shaheer walked away, leaving the two alone. Arham walked towards his uncle in law, staring at him with hope flickering through his eyes. The caramel of them held the embers of the wild fire in them, they screamed at the man elder beyond years for an answer that would be the truth. He rested his hand on top of Asghar's shoulder, hissing under his breath as the flesh filled with pus squeezed. Dressed in a starchy white shalwar kameez, his face set in a state of mourning hurt him. A pallor for the first time on Asghar's face alarmed him.

"How — how is she? Tell me she — she is alive. She is, isn't she? She just wants me to suffer for hurting her! I'll apol-ogize apologize to her. Just take me to my Filza!" He begged, his throat screaming each word with a sharp heaviness.

"Arham." Asghar sighed, rubbing his weary eyes.

"Tell me! I know her! She wouldn't leave like this. I know she's in her bedroom, with – with Luna." He added, hysteria threatening to take over.

"Come with me okay? Let's go inside."

"Where is everyone else?"

"They're in the lounge. Maybe you should go and mourn with them on the marble altar. They've burnt candles for the departed souls." He whispered, leading her in.

"I know she won't leave me. Her first gift to me survived, I know she has too. Wuthering Heights — if you left me my darling dearest, I'll haunt you forever. In the depths of eternity, we will walk these moors together once more." The last bits spoke only for himself to hear.

Walking through the dark corridors, nothing but wax candles to light up their pathway as they walked into the lounge. The room with sage green walls was cast in a orange hue, everyone dressed in white silk in prayer. On glass candle-bras, over the altar that their Christian ancestors had once used, they bowed and prayed hard. Emotionless, he walked closer to the head of the room, spotting the face he had been dying to see. In the paleness of the face and frozen green eyes, Arham stared hard. The book dropping to the floor as he screamed her name, rushing, and hugging her body to his warm chest.

"Oh Filza!" He wheezed in pain.