It wasn't a day that you could call 'good'. It might have seemed like a day you would rather shade a different color, grey, but not precisely grey. Because it wasn't grey at first.

It was blue.

Sky, deep blue as if an ocean waved and crashed on the shore across the sky, mirroring that of the sea crashing on Karachi's shore.

Karachi is a lot busier. Much busier than Islamabad, and double that of Murree. I like Islamabad and Murree more because it kind-of shows off arching mountains with greenery, and that is so much more soulful a thought than Karachi can ever be.

But Karachi has it's own muses, of course. Luxurious type of muses. Golden and fancy-looking on the outside type of luxuries given to yours truly, Junaid Hashim, my Uncle- while his inner self remained shallow and cold.

He'd meet businessmen on top of businessmen, dragging his sons along so that he can teach them as well how to be 'decent' in the eyes of society. If the sons are dragged along, wouldn't the nephew, be too?

Also, because I am sure he didn't trust leaving me in his own private guesthouse, because I had a tendency to get into trouble without even meaning it. Ironic, right?

Every once and a while I would be thrown remarks of how my father dismissed these great opportunities and ran away from everything that could have made him useful for this world.

Ran away from money, notch women, business deals, and international offers, etc. I don't know why my father ran away from these things, but they say it was because he was an airhead like me.

Now, how would you feel when you're just twelve and people tell you all sorts of things from the minute you're completely vaporized with the life held simple and sweet, to a ugly-stick environment of clashing virtues, and double-crossed two-faced maniacs.

Yep.

Though I must agree, what my Uncle and cousins got in years of hard work and pleasant relations to society's highlights, my father did not even get anything compared to their lifestyle, even though, what little I remember of him is that he was nice.

Nice.

That's it.

I guess that's all I'll ever remember of him. That he was nice.

Where did that lead him to be?

Alone.

Sending me away somewhere where the sky turns blue from the morning, unlike the green line shades over the mountains, till it dips in grey, giving you a certainty that you're not leaving this nightmare for long.

Excuse my dark-talk.

I'll give a forewarning: It doesn't get lighter from here if anything.

~~~

Pursing her lips tightly, Zara looked over towards Dawood, "I'll go inside, you guys stay here... if anything, Musa probably won't give it- or, would, I have no idea. That boy completely escapes me."

There was a certain tense look shaded on Zara's features, as she held the car handle reciting a few duas, before pulling the car door open she stepped out, wrapped immediately by the feverish wind.

Her mind raced with every step she took forward towards the step of the mansion, it's orange lights giving out a warm glow from the windows till it fell on her feet, on this dark, succumbing evening.

It so happened that the very reason Zara had to come back- exactly after a day of staying at the Islamabad guesthouse, was because Eshaal had finally confessed (quite irritably) that she was the one who had purposefully stolen Zara's story notes journal and gave it to Musa.

A series of cat-and-mouse run happened around the room, like Zara (the cat), her hair disheveled, her mouth writhing, and her chest panting entirely not over the shock yet, tailing Eshaal (the mouse) who was squealing out apologies yet finding them useless.

Zara was... indescribably devastated over the fact that her friend could do such a brave and stupid act to pick up Zara's diary sneakily from her own purse without her permission, and hand it over to the very brother who denies any blood relation with Zara so arrogantly, and to find it that then, her story written on her brother was with her brother who was out of question behaving like a stranger, was... if I may sum it up as:

Absolutely, forsakenly, tummy-twistingly, heart-poundingly, emotionally, dead-panned A.B.O.M.I.N.A.B.L.E.

Now, you can't blame Zara to feel too much, can you?

She had just rung the bell, waiting stiffly before the wide, oak door her sweaty hands clasped together when her bell was received, and the door opened wide only to meet with a shabby, long-haired muscular cousin of hers, Bilal, who looked utterly exhausted at her.

"Zara baji? Wait- aren't you supposed to be in Lahore?!"

Zara cleared her throat.

Let's be direct here.

"Asalamualaykum, Bilal... it's a long story- remember Dawood's car went in a car crash, and of course, he needed it to get fixed- so all the while it just needed some technical adjustments, and we were staying at the guesthouse yesterday- we were planning on going, but not yet and the reason why I am here is that- you see my friend Eshaal gave my diary to Musa, and I just wonder if he can give it back?"

Zara mentally slapped her forehead. Super-direct, Zara. Super-direct.

"M-Musa?" Bilal repeated, patting his ears, seemingly trying to thoroughly bring her words together into formation till his expression showed: 'okay, now it makes sense to me.'

"Yes- Musa."

"Right... Let's just make one thing clear," Bilal smiled sheepishly, though his eyes shifted uneasily. "He left this place."

Was it that Musa left the mansion for McDonald's pick-up or, something, or, did Bilal's tone seemed off as if by 'left this place' he meant somewhat of an escape hound forever?

"What?" Zara blinked, her brows curving resolutely. "Bilal, come out clear I don't get what you mean at all. Where is he gone?"

"This is... quite a long discussion- uh, I would seat you down inside, but baba is not in a very pleasant mood to tend to guests after what just happened today. Can we sit outside in the garden?"

Zara nodded, enclosing her woolen shawl tighter around herself as Bilal closed the door behind him and led the way down the marble steps.

Nani Samira, Dawood, and Eshaal certainly noticed something was wrong for the rest of the squad left the car, and followed Zara and Bilal over the grass, their footsteps crunching till the five of them found garden chairs, and settled themselves down amidst the windy hues.

"What is going on?" Nani Samira asked, her sharp eyes taking in Bilal's unnerved and Zara's out-of-zone expressions.

The crickets chirped in the background, and the prickly grass glinted in the light of the mansion by the dewdrops, bubbling out its dark green intensity.

Dawood glanced from Bilal to Zara, before this silence was not lengthening his patience at all.

"What's going on? What has little man done now?" Dawood groaned, rubbing his hands together.

Bilal shot Dawood a glance at those two words 'little man' before seemingly by the face he kept his tongue in check, and did not respond to that .

"Musa did read your diary," Bilal turned towards Zara, affirming her fear.

"Great... now that he has read your diary, can we go-" Eshaal cut herself off, gulping down when everyone's glares were shot her way as in 'we wouldn't even be here if you hadn't given him the diary in the first place'.

Nani Samira gestured airily towards Bilal. "Don't mind her... she'll interrupt every now and then. Continue. So, when Eshaal gave Musa Zara's diary, he read it then?"

Bilal nodded. "Yep, he read the diary. Hey, what was in that diary anyway? Because honestly, whatever it had, I believe it was the button to push Musa out of the house."

No one bothered answering his first question- all sharing devastating looks.

"Push Musa out of the house?" Dawood repeated, as he ran a feverish hand through his curls. "Great. Just what we needed to complete the bad-boy side of the story. Of course, he leaves the mansion! What now?"

An eerie silence succumbed them all, as everyone looked anywhere but at each other.

Sometimes, when things seem completely out of hand you realize you're needed somewhere, and that is the very reason why Allah, using the obstacles in your life like the car-crash, for if it wasn't for the car crash, the car would not need repairing, and they would have not needed to take up the guesthouse to stay longer here, and if Eshaal didn't give away Zara's diary, and if Zara hadn't moved on from the past-

None of this would have happened.

And yet, Zara felt deep inside, if none of this had happened to lead her and Musa till where they were, something worse could have happened. Way worse.

"Where do you think he is? Why do you think he left? Are you sure the diary is with him and he didn't leave it behind? What on earth has been going on with him? Bilal, please, speak up- you're more a brother to Musa now than I am his sister. You know him so much more than me, and it hurts me to say this, but I have only you as the key to Musa's lock."

When I am not his Appa anymore, Zara thought, before pushing this thought away.

Bilal lifted his head to match her gaze, a strange look in his eyes, and even in the darkness, Zara could see he knew something.

"Speak up, boy, we don't have the whole night," Nani Samira tossed her dupatta over her head, eyeing Bilal impatiently.

"He didn't tell me," Bilal began, his voice low. "But I just know it. I have an idea where he went, but I can't be too sure."

"Where?" Zara sat forward, sounding irritated then. "Where has he went now?"

"I think he's gone to his teacher's."

~~~

Three hours earlier...

He had only flipped to the next fresh page, with his elegant fountain pen amid air, and his eyes endorsed on the lines, his knuckles were white.

He could have been competitive against Bilal when it came to 'hand-writing' other than 'arm-flexing' but Bilal was more of a bodybuilder, and Musa mostly minimized his physical activities to the usage of hands, and hands only. Okay, feet can come in, and of course, other parts- but try daring Bilal to write for a good thirty minutes, and that too, on paper-

He'd cry like a baby.

Musa sniggered at that thought, pressing down his jaw- trying to pick out a word from a lake of vocabulary, but to his dismay, and utter mental turmoil, he could not pull out the fishing rod.

No words were interested in his awkward desire to write.

Or, was it that he had nothing pegged on the fishing rod in the first place, and he was just sitting there by the deck for no good reason.

In fact, it was a park bench. A solid park bench, with a bird-pooped-on left-arm, to which Musa responded to by edging to the farthest side as much as he could, except for the fact that there was an old lady on the other side of the park bench, munching on hard Corn Pops.

He exhaled slowly- it was a familiar, childish tremor sent down his spine, but he was able to forget about the bird poop, and turn back to something more valuable. Zara's journal.

Now, it hadn't occurred to him in one go, of course. It takes time to decide to write with your own bare hands.

Some people might even take years.

Musa was bored, now, you couldn't blame him, for picking out his pen from his backpack, that he had dropped at his legs- and then randomly read through what Zara had written before coming up with his own entry, now could you?

Also, it wasn't that easy, if he could see for himself. First, he had left Uncle Junaid's mansion with no regrets whatsoever. In fact, for the first time in his life, he felt like he had taken the best decision he could have ever taken- he actually felt good about himself, which was a rarity known and cherished for.

And then, for the past hour and thirty minutes was a cumulative series of walking towards the Society's Park, then helping two worried-fret ladies find their kitten over the wall, and then, spotting a bench with bird-pooped arm on one side, and quite, forlorn looking old lady whose white hair sped out over her forehead lining her wide-circle glasses, as she had placed her cane on the other side, and went on munching on Corn Pops as Musa occupying the other side of the bench had whatsoever no effect on her.

Every once and a while, just when Musa felt a tug on his 'word-searching' fishing rod- and he was just about to pull it and catch with a 'eurika!' The woman would make him lose it by her every once and awhile cough of Corn Pops, and that would just be called in Bilal's wordings:

'When you're this close, Musa, this close to having the best game of your life- some kicker would always come and ruin it for you.'

Musa felt that way- giving up too soon and looking feverishly down at Zara's journal- what on earth is wrong with him? Writing about himself? Puh-leeze...

"What are you writing, boy?"

Musa's head snapped up- meeting frost, grey eyes under droopy grey brow- her shining sweat simmering down her face, and her navy blue dupatta loosely hung over her head. Musa opened his mouth- then, closed it shut wondering what could he say?

Surprising even himself, he answered. "Er... just some story."

"Oh," she nodded, wrapping up the newspaper packet of Corn Pops in her hand, then crunching it with her leathery fist. Musa watched her closely, pleased that she didn't seem jovial over this fact because he certainly wasn't.

"What type of a story?"

This is when aunties start their multi-million dollar questions of hundred pages, that even the exams can't account for.

Musa rubbed the back of his neck, his ears tinting red. "You wouldn't want to know."

"I would so I am asking." She responded curtly, her eyes squinting inquisitively.

He did not like the way she was looking over at him- but at times, you're not always victorious in side-stepping questions.

"It's... a story about.... A boy."

Wow, he could've made it sound cooler when saying that, couldn't he? It was a story about him now....

The old lady nodded, wringing her hands- as she shifted slowly to run another gaze at him fully- like an analytical scale. Musa noticed a golden ring on one of her stubby fingers, glinting in the sheen of sunlight.

"And what happens to that boy?" She questioned him further, in the same oily tone.

"Honestly, I would rather tell you but-"

Honk! Honk!

Musa felt pleased than ever, shoving down his journal in his backpack quickly, in fear that if the lady had enough might, she could just grab it from him and read it for the satisfaction of her creepy curiousity.

He skipped to his feet, swinging the backpack over his shoulder- and awkwardly glancing back at the old woman- who stared back at him flaudently.

"Uh- bye, ma'am. I have to go now." He waved- his breathe held in, it was only when he arrived towards the cultus, did he open the car door- and slipped in with barely a salam out of his mouth.

"Wa' alaykumusalam, Musa," Rashid replied, glancing at Musa's flushed face from the rearview mirror, as he tapped the steering wheel. "How are you?"

"Tired. Confused. Free. Writer's Block- but I'm not even a writer... so..." Musa leaned back with his shoulders relaxed.

Rashid did not bother asking about the last statement. "What happened?"

His question was directly splintered from a wooden bark Musa did not feel the need to cut over, and hand out.

In other words to strangely simplify this poetical sentence above- he did not feel the need of cutting Rashid's question down to tit-bits in order to explain the meaning of how life built up to the extent- he was left with no choice but to leave.

But Musa knew- he had no other option but to answer.

His tongue had been untied, and it was going to take extra energy to tie it up with double strings after the first had been cut after all that had happened.

Better just let the free tongue do it's right.

Musa explained everything. How his Uncle kept him inside the walls and mounted over him like a selfish King, how he could barely not breathe, and how he had just about enough of it- how he didn't know what was going to be in his future, and that he didn't least expect anything from Rashid, but however, he had an idea of what he could do in order to just live for himself.

That's it.

Live. For. Himself.

Rashid listened thoroughly through what Musa had said, already driving away from the park's gate, and roving down the street.

"Let's go home, Musa," Rashid said- and that was his only response.

Musa watched him closely from the rearview window, how his teacher's eyes did not flit nor flicker, just quietly sober, was his voice- welcoming as well as non-questioning.

Welcoming as well non-questioning

Asalamukaykum, wonders

Sorry for the long break but I have good news! I'm done with my exams alhumdulillah!

Also, I've been so unsure about this chapter of what I should write next, what's worth to show now? That I realized Zara had been out of stage for so long now, (I missed her terribly) that now she's back!

May Allah bless you and your family a beautiful day and night

Dream big !

- e . a