Chapter rc : whisper of hope by Twinklenight_

There were two reasons I was too scared to let people in; the damage they could do and the damage they could find — Chris M Geonu

Dried chillies. That was the first thought in Laila's mind as she stepped out of her bedroom. Placing her hair behind her ear, she noticed the wide wooden door thrown open. The aroma of button red chillies teasing her nostrils. Taking small steps towards the wide terrace she was left dumbfounded to find the whole length of it covered in a white sheet. With wide wicker trays covered with bright red peppers. All left out to dry under the bright sunshine. Squinting her eyes, she tried to make sense of the peculiar sight. No one dried chillies themselves anymore—least of all a family as rich as Azmaray's. The store bought ones were just as good and required way less time.

"Laila what are you doing here?" He rested a hand on her arm.

Laila shuddered, slightly scared on Azmaray's silent arrival. Shaking her head she leaned into his embrace. Pushing him out of the door, following suit.

"Was just seeing the chillies. A peculiar sigh," she spoke.

"It's another one of those 'traditions' that never died," he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

Laila nodded, pulling her black organza veil off of the floor. Her thin, strapped gold heels preventing the black anarkali from brushing the squeaky clean floors.

"Do you want to wait for me or would you prefer to join Hooriya chachi, mama and Anbar in the kitchen first?" He spoke.

Taking her time and counting the pros and cons of each option, Laila settled for the latter. While Azmaray had been clear that she should care less about his family, Laila wanted to make it all easy for him. To get along with them so that his reign as the duke could be easy. It was the least she could do for him.

Descending the stairs slowly she mulled over her thoughts. Her fingers grasping the sides of her dress as she ambled across the vast lounge. The kitchen was mammoth sized. Daunting wooden cabinets covered the majority of the walls. Five industrial sized burners fixed onto the marble counter tops. A large island in the middle of the room was covered with fresh produce. A thin sliding door leading into the herb garden of the estate. She noticed two doors and could imagine one being the pantry and the other, a giant freezer. It would after all take a lot of food to feed the army that this estate required.

Anbar was in between her mother and their mother-in-law, conversing without trouble. The three moved around the chefs and servers with ease. Not an ounce of insecurity or trouble. They had been doing this all their life—there was nothing awkward about their movements. Awkwardly, Laila stood in the door. The help ignoring her presence, to keep on the good side of Azaan Khan ofcourse. However, this further increased her motivation. Crossing the threshold of the door in full confidence Laila cleared her throat.

"Could I be of any help?" Her face held no emotions.

Eyes turned to her. Anbar arrogantly raising her brow as she focused on chopping the fresh basil.

"We don't ask guests to help us," Saheefa retorted.

"And who said I am a guest?" She forced each word out.

"Darling Azmaray is just infatuated. Soon enough he'll leave you and marry one of us," she replied.

"One of you?"

"Yes. Someone with a more presentable family background. Someone whom men and women alike would praise. Not a whore worth two cents," She rolled her eyes.

"Of course. I don't want to sour my mood this early in the morning. But I assure you I've had plenty of men and women praise me".

Saheefa gasped at the audacity of her younger daughter-in-law. Turning her face away from her. She would not stand any such nonsense inside her home.

"Laila come help me. Saheefa relax," Hooriya calmed the two down.

With a curt nod, Laila took steps towards her. Following each step with great accuracy. Trying to keep up and not feel the absence of her mother. Sarah had been an amazing mother to her, the warm maternal embrace. Soft words. Reassurances and what not, all of them had shaped her. Seeing Hooriya and Saheefa fuss over the minor cut on Anbar's hand, Laila's heart pierced in pain. With tears in her eyes, she held the glass bowl, the lemon juice on her fingers causing the bowl to slide an break. Once again, attention was on her. With Saheefa tsking and Hooriya getting the staff to clean it all up. Pushing Laila away as she tried to help around. In the midst of the ruckus, the cut on her forearm went unnoticed.

"I heard someone ruined the filling for your sandwiches today Saheefa," once the table had been set and everyone was settled, Azaan enquired.

"Just that girl. Dropped the bowl, ofcourse on purpose. How could she let Anbar take the spotlight?" Saheefa snarled.

Nodding his head, he narrowed his eyes in Laila's direction. She ignored him scooping up some of the buttery scrambled eggs into her plate. Azmaray silently passing a hot piece of toasted bread.

"Thank you," she spoke.

He nodded his head in silence. Focused on his own food, eating the cheese omelette with great meticulousness. His knife and fork cutting into it with great precision, just the sight of him was enough to have her knees caving. Her breath racing as she remembered the feel of his hands around her. Grazing and prodding. The power he held to coax moans out of her and elicit response from the tiniest of touches was—shameful. A blush coated her face for the rest of breakfast. Her silence spoke volumes to Azmaray and a proud smirk sat on his lips all morning.

In the evening, as the summer sun was setting behind the tall trees of Mushkpur, Laila carried in a tray of tea and pakoray [fritters]. The light rain and zephyr outside was more than enough to demand these. Staring at the crisp golden bites of absolute delight, she sighed. It reminded her of her mother and all she wanted was to hide in her arms. The bruise on her forearm beginning to throb lightly. Entering his study, Azmaray gasped in delight. The wide cherrywood table with the pine green table mat. Large cabinets with wooden frames and glass windows covered the length of the room. They held books of all kinds, philosophy and literature plenty.

She noticed the statues that guarded the large cabinet behind the study desk. They were large and held authority. The strokes that had crafted them were spectacular. Someone master at their craft had been sure to do this.

"Apollo god of knowledge. Athena goddess of wisdom," Azmaray informed.

Looking up from the files infront, he passed her a small smile. Laila nodded her head, not understanding who the god's were. Her eyes were filled with a hazy look—staring out of the huge window. The garden downstairs sprouting with a rainbow of flowers.

"Greek mythology," he further elaborated.

"Huh—" she nodded, slowly.

"Haven't you heard of them?" He was shocked.

"No".

"Well you should read about them. The people of Mushkpur, including myself are descendants of the first Greeks that settled here. We must honour their legacy," he replied.

"Just like some of us descend from the Arab, Persian and British settlers?" Laila questioned.

"Exactly! They are our ancestors and heroes. The Ottoman empire, the Turks and everyone that you mentioned," he agreed.

"I think it's a lie". Laila grinned.

"What do you mean?"

"This trying to relate ourselves to people that haven't lived here for so long. People whose names we should have forgotten keep dictating who we are. We aren't Turks, not Greek. Not Arabic. We're people who belong to the soil of our country. We're Pakistani. Quaid-e-Azam is our hero! Not any of these fancy names I can not even pronounce. Hum sab apnay ap ko sophisticated sabit karnay ki race mein bikhar chukay hain. Koi bhi apnay ap ko Pakistani kehnay ko tiyaar nahi. Sab ka koi na koi hissa eik exotic mulk sai jura hai," [All of us in the race to prove ourselves sophisticated have become fragmented. No one is ready to call themselves Pakistani. Everyone is somehow related to an exotic country,] Laila rolled her eyes.

Before Azmaray could reply, Hooriya knocked on the door. Entering the office and passing the couple a reserved smile. Yes she was glad he had married the woman of his dreams, but she was upset that a prostitute had been the one to replace her daughter. Hooriya's heart trembled at the sight of Laila, the woman she knew, had the power to make men kneel. And she only hoped that would not be a trouble for Anbar to deal with. Looking at the uncertain look filling Hooriya's round eyes, Laila sighed. Oh she knew she was not the kind of woman one could bring to mother's. Her past would continue to haunt her—and this urge to make the hot blooded elders of this family crumble would run behind her. Plague her mind.

"I need to talk to you Azmaray. Alone". She started.

"My wife and I are one unit, I'd rather you say it to the both of us," he replied.

"It's an important matter that can't be discussed with her here yet," Hooriya replied, her tone clipped.

The undertone of calling Laila an outsider, jumped out. It attracted the attention and the words without even being said out loud, hurt her. She was reminded of why marriage should never have been in the cards for her. The life of a lone woman, dancing and 'whoring' around, would have been enough. Companionship with the added bonus of an extra family—was uncalled for.

"She is my wife. She stays," he spoke, his words the final verdict.

"Laiba— I mean Laila leave," Hooriya dismissed her.

Finding herself in an awkward crux, she gulped. The disrespect was visible. The hatred surrounded Hooriya's guarded body language. Laila shook her head, reminding herself of where she came from. Women putting each other down was not a sight she had never seen. Placing a few pakorays in the china plate, she held her cup of tea.

"I'll see you later, Azmaray," she grinned.

Her exit let the room sink into a deep silence. Azmaray leaned back in his chair, his thumb and forefinger rubbing his creased brow. The other hand tapping the arm of his chair silently. His movements were drowned out by the loudness of his own thoughts. He observed Hooriya, his aunt seemed out of place. Her usually well put together look had crumbled. Her hair curled around her cheek in a messy manner and as she began to speak, he noticed her voice tremble.

Azmaray lost his casual attitude. His body turning alert. Leaning on the table with a seething rage burning his eyes. Tears filling up as he clenched his teeth.

"You're lying. Why would he do this?" Azmaray pinched his nose.

"Just trust me Azmaray," Hooriya pled.

"How? You're asking me to belive that dada was the one who killed Samira phopho and baba?" [Grandfather] [Aunt and father?] Azmaray stood up in shock.

"Yes". Hooriya's voice was full of conviction.

"My father died of cancer. And even if I belive you, tell me why?"

"Your dad had cancer but it was the wrong medication that led him to death," she started.

Staring at the look of shock on Azmaray's face, she continued.

"And to answer the 'why'. Jab eik baar jhut bola jaye tou usko chupanay keh liye jhut bolna aur qatal karna, sab jaiz hain," [Because once you speak a lie to hide it lying and killing, everything is acceptable,] Hooriya sighed.

Anna oop—

The author is in hiding

Hehehe

This is literally just the beginning of all the drama. So MUCH is going to unfold. Tighten your seatbelts as we head towards the fall.

Climax time