بہار کی ایک شام تھی
ایک دل کی تو بات تھی،
پھر کیوں ذلیل ہوئی، محفلِ عام میں؟

Chapter 1 : Mousam-e-sarma ki soughat
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Rain drizzled over the tree tops, washing down the soft dirtied leaves. Plenty of puddles accumulated underneath the foliage, sure to be a hot spot in the coming hours. Petrichor — indulged into the soft smells of petrol and cold air, chilly and impossible to defeat. A mix of some calm. An assortment, somewhat of a caramel mixed with nuts to present the best of the winter's gifts. Within those bejewelled pinafores that was the broken ray of sunlight, a little of terror still lived. It's back broken at the hands of Siberian chills.

Mud and silt sloshed down the hills behind the towering mansion, it's white pallid against the woodiness. Beyond the tall walls that enclosed the home, a hubbub of torrents lived. Broken homes and roads gained nothing ; lived on the mercy of the God above and the measly government below.

Winter in the federal capital had never been kind. It would not start to be so.

Hidden in the mass of vines and cluster of tall walls that hid the ground and first floor entirely in their embrace, was life. Teeming — bursting. Warmth guzzled through even as rain fell over the building, wealth sparked from the corners and whatnot. The servants rushed around in the morning hour. Fates far better than their counterparts who served elsewhere.

Naazim's were known to be kind to their servants. Wether it be their wealth or else that was the reason was unclear. One thing was for sure — the loyalties of their workers could not be bought. Perhaps why they had generations of the same family working in their mansion. Keeping the grandness in order.

As they escaped in and out of the vast finery, through the white walls and water logged grass, their shoes made loud sounds. Only to be drowned out by the entirety of the mansion's grandness. The morning sun was lost somewhere, amongst the grey. Yet it did not excuse the chef's, nor the guards hidden in their bunkers from their duties. Despite being a Sunday ; that until last night had been expected to be a warm day, their duty called. Leaving them bound to answer. Kind or not.

A servant could never stand with the master.

The master of the estate had returned just last night, shortly after his arrival the airport had been shut. He had been lucky enough to escape. Upon his arrival the moon was so up high, that even the building angry clouds could not hide it's opaque whiteness. Nor the in-dulling glow from it's halo. Since then the home had been ecstatic. The workers had felt their strengths return on the sight of the burly figure, their highs driving them through the painful morning. Anticipations of the reunion murmured amongst dried lips.

Arbaz Naazim was in his late fifties, just touching the early wrinkles of his sixtes. Though still nothing could defeat the hold he had over his life, or his vast properties. The parts that had grown like a Tumor, he had chopped off from the root. Despite the soft glossy look inside his deep honey oat eyes, the murderous intent of his feudal blood forbid him from giving in. Unless of course it came to her. In front of whose hazel eyes he was forced to give in.

Seated at the head of the oak table, surrounded on one side by large glass doors — panelled with shishem wood, on the other by an elaborate wall filled with framed calibration, his hands pushed the rounds of his rosary. The shawl hung over his broad shoulders, it's deep ebony matched that of his boski kameez. Occasionally Arbaz rubbed his clipped finger nails against his jaw, keeping his gaze over the piping hot food. The clock ticking silently behind him, the one on his wrist following suit.

Hushed whispers filled the place first, the long corridor, adjacent to the spiralling staircase was suddenly home to sounds. A melodious humming followed the sharp change in the stationary air. It's tiniest of molecules buzzing with eclectic energy as the lithe frame rushed down the stairs. Long, translucent fingers brushing the deep polished railing of the stairs. Auburn tresses mutedly spilling into the air as she ran across the foyer. Even the large aerated gulps of oxygen she took were a symphony to his ears.

Taking firm steps, he pulled open the door. Leaving behind his warm chair, walking further away from the fire leaping out of the fireplace. His heart burst with joy, his eyes catching sight of the only silver lining within his life. Arbaz controlled the tears that threatened to flee his eyes, raising his hand in a swift motion. All the servants and guards abandoning the two. Sniffing a little under his breath, he waited as she stepped over the last step, rushing to his side and into his arms.

Golnar squeezed the broad frame of her father between her short arms. Hugging him to herself, her face lost into the now messy wrinkles of his black shirt. Her fingers touched the muscles on his back, a reminder that he was home at last. That the ruckus she had heard last night — during her very fitful sleep had not been a mere illusion nor a hallucination. She clenched her teeth once more, pulling back to stare at his familiar face. Feeling a tear drip down in haste, over her pouty lips.

"As-salam-ualikum Gol." He spoke in his heavy voice, his breath smelling of cardamom.

"Wa-alikum-assalam." She murmured, finding it difficult to hold herself from bursting into tears.

Fourteen days away from him had been a pain far too great.

"Aj der kar di ap nai anay mein." He gently chided, pressing a kiss over her head.
[Today you were a bit late in coming.]

"Mujhe yakeen nahi araha tha agha ji ki baatun par. Aisa kaisa ho sakta hai, meray aba jaan ghar aain aur mujh sai na milen?" She replied.
[I couldn't believe what agha was saying. How was it possible that my beloved father came home and did not come to meet me?]

"Maf kar dijiye apnay aba jaan ko. Raat deir sai ana huwa isi liye ap ko jagana munasib nai samja."
[Forgive your father dearest. I arrived very late last night so did not find it suitable to wake you.]

Narrowing her feline eyes she ran them over his figure, giving him a cutthroat look over. Before nodding, albeit skeptically. Feeling her inhibitions drop the longer her eyes stared at him, Golnar passed him a smile wide enough to home the sun. Her dimple erupting on one side, the other cheek left crookedly untouched. Pressing her lips into his cheek, groaning at his stubble she lead him into the room. Between them nothing remained save for the sounds of her glass bangles.

They were slender and the shade of midnight. Matching the fitted kameez she wore, it's boat shaped neckline stopping a few inches above her breast bone. Her shalvar rising at the joint of her ankle, hugging her long legs in a draped manner, not giving away too much. Just enough. Finding her usual space beside his left arm, Golnar pulled her shawl over herself tighter. The thick Pashmina kept the chilly ward from giving her a case of hypothermia. Though her fingers turned a shade of deep red still.

She watched with a curious glance as her father filled her empty porcelain plate for her. The fine china was soon drenched in the thick scent of clarified butter, and she did not mind. Round and thin, with defined lattices the paratha oozed heat and smelt of earth. Her favourite scent. Something she held leagues above her Chanel perfume, even above the bottle of itar she had brought back to the country after Umrah last year.

To add to the meaningless Sunday calories she brushed the bread with butter, before dipping it into the inviting yolk of her egg. That was only so happy to give way. Coating her fingers as she took a bite. Heaven on earth — indeed. Tipsy on the flavour of salt and pepper, her mouth burst with a homey warmth. Fixated on the sight before her ; fine china saucers painted with the images of decked up elephants, she chewed slow. Steady in her ministrations. Amongst the sounds of their silent chews the only the third entity was the sound of rain.

Merciless as it poured over the many flower beds, tearing against the cobblestone path. A shiver meandered through her body, the hair on the ends of her dermis standing erect. Just as a single thought of being forced to stand in the cold. She loved the colds of her motherland, the chilly Siberian winds and all, yet detested having to be in them without her shawls. Faux furs to pashmina, her collection was vast. All her true friends in the winters that roamed.

Just as she hovered her derrière in the still air, a hand wrapped at the slouched front of her shirt to pour their tea into the fine cups, a rumble stopped her. It was small and then it rained on them. Her father's coughing fit — that had arrived far too soon. It was just the beginning of December, the cough should not have taken over. Wiping her fingers on the starchy napkin, eyes shrouded in worry, Golnar tore him a piece of bread to chew on. His cheeks now rosy — thanking her with a wide smile that kissed the muscles.

"Aj ap ki chand-baliyan nazar nahi arahi." He pointed towards her bare ears, speaking as he gained his breath.
[Today I can not see your (a form of desi) earrings.]

"Ap sai milnay ki khushi itni shadeed thi keh apnay baqi sab kam chor aai."
[The happiness to meet you was so intense that I left all other work.]

"Humari ladli shehzadi," he stared at her, feeling of immense pride coursing through him, "parhai kaisi ja rahi hai?"
[My beloved princess, how are your studies going?]

"Bas akhri imtehan peir sai shuru hon gaye. Phir chand haftay university sai chuttiyan hain." She explained.
[Just the final exams are starting from Monday. Then university is off for a few weeks.]

"Ye tou kafi achi bat hai, iss mah keh akhir mein gaon jana tha waisay bhi," Arbaz hummed.
[This is very good, had to go back to the village in the end of December anyways.]

"Khariyat?"
[Everything okay?]

"Sab acha hai darasal ap ki phupi marhoma ki sahabzadi ka biyah hai."
[Everything is good actually it is the wedding of your deceased paternal aunt's daughter.]

"Kia ap meri taraf sai muazrat kar saktay hain? Humein nahi jana." Golnar spoke, her throat closing in on her as she imagined the crass insults all over again.
[Could you not give an excuse from my side? I do not wish to go.]

"Eik bar ajao Gol, iskay baad zid nai karun ga." He spoke, asking her, even as his words held a tone of finality.
[Please come once Gol, I won't insist after this.]

Leaving her frame shivering under the heavy shawl, her head forcibly nodding, and dread piling into her stomach.

☀️
Welcome to Sang e Khisht. A book outside of my comfort zone. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing this <3
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