ایک عمر سے یہ جنگ ہارتا آیا ہوں
مرا بھی ہوں، مگر ذندہ بھی ہوں
بس اگر کچھ نہیں ہوں تو وہ، تیرا نہیں ہوں

٭

Chapter 4 : Shadi, biah aur 'mein'

With perhaps the strength of a wilted rose, he rose from his drunken stupor. His frame, even in the custom made bad, failed to fit in. The ends of his feet hanging off. An arm slouched over his mouth to prevent the multitude of yawns from escaping. Before a thought crossed his mind, the splitting headache made itself known. Knocking right down the centre of his frontal lobe. Just like that, in the flurries, the thought was lost.

Prey to the carnal instincts he possessed.

A slight blur filled his vision, the room shrouded in a bleak darkness as he slipped out of the covers. An icy chill awaiting him in it's entire glory. Darab's hands pulled into tight fists, coiling over themselves inside his palm, leaving behind deep marks. An addition to the vast array of scars his blue blooded palms were home to. A great feat, he walked over to the doors of his bathroom. His breath laboured, the action requiring from him far more than just simple energies.

The bronze handle pulled apart in his hand. The length of his thick fingers, gripped the head and pushed it apart with the broadness of his shoulder. His thin cotton kameez was sheer enough for the tanned shoulder to show from underneath. Yet somehow still thick enough to not tear at the first stroke of his stretch. Running a finger over the underside of his jaw, his fingernail scratched away at the scar from his first zit. Passing a hand through the bed head, his glossy caramel locks brushed the length of his sharp nose.

As sharp as the terrorising ache was in his skull, feeling as if someone was hammering the sides of the bones, he could not ignore. Darab Hakim Nazim, son of his father, had grown up with the volatility of humans. Their life and the ease with which it could all slip from between his finger. Amongst it all, one thing he had found stagnant. Like a separator between the torrential outpour of life, and the monotony of death. Prayer. It had homed him.

Watching his reflection, the eyes burning red — violent and inspecting the scratches over his neck, he pulled the cold water to himself.
Splashing.
Thrashing.
Breathing.
Reaching out for the soft towel, the dim glow of the first rays of sun, colouring the pallor of his cheeks. Between it's depth of golds and reds, his own skin had been washed. Like spun gold. A fallacy — the life that filled his eyes.

Darab's bedroom was an amalgamation of what was used and what was no longer needed. The headboard of his bed, made from the hands of finest of carpenters, had finally cracked under the years. Varnishing rolling off from the twisted corners, the carpets — thick and thin alike, covered the marble floors of his bedroom. An ashen shade of white, somewhat marked with a sandy lustre in the dimness. Hollow windows, with glass that was thick, barred through the thin lattices running.

In the centre was a round ottoman, it's upholstery had been imported from the streets of Italy, on his sister's insistence. He had argued — Indian or Pakistani silk would work just as fine. Apparently, he did not know well enough. The vanity was large and the only things that kept the wooden table from being entirely bare were his wide toothed comb, a bottle of ittar, and a worn out frame of his parent's. The two had look gorgeous on their wedding — with his mother's starlit eyes and his father's grin.

In a haste he murmured the lasts of his prayer, mumbling under his breath a short list of dua's. His empty mocha eyes stared in to the vast garden beneath his window, the trees were just about beginning to sway in the wind, a thick fog covered the mountains in the distance. And he heard the first of many bleats from their livestock. His fingers wrapped around the rosary, wrapping the thick shawl over his wide shoulders, his feet sank into the weight of his Peshawari chapal.

"Majo kithay ae?" He cornered the first maid he spotted, his voice rough and crude.
[Where is Majo?]

Majo, his father's loyal servant, had been for years, and until the end of his life had served him. Without asking any questions. Just like Darab had inherited his father's lands and estate, he had also found himself owning Majo.

"Sayin o kar de pichlay buvay tou bar gaya si." The maid whimpered a reply, her actions mimicking that of a mouse's.
[Sir he went out of the house through the back door.]

Taking a step at a time, his steps firm over the marble steps, and hand coiled around the thick wooden railing, Darab took his time in reaching the foyer. Craning his neck, watching in a senseless pride as the men and women — alike, slaved away at the day's task. It tightened his chest in glory, knowing that he was the master of it all. Marking his feet over, his steps angered and telling of his status as the owner. Darab stepped around the dining room.

Inside he could hear the chatter of the maids. The chefs already up to begin burning the kitchen's fire. Dawn was full of spirits and light tore in through the windows inside the room. Taking half a step into the room, he stared at the dining table, a floral centrepiece, and around it an array of spotless porcelain plates. The silver cutlery with it's embossed logos had been a part of the first Nazim's dowry. A man who had lived hundred years ago, ruled in his own right.

Following the long shadows down the hallway, a tirade of thoughts fighting inside his still overworking brain, Darab yearned for peace. There had been a handful of moments he had ever felt completely at peace.

First, when he had bowed with his heart before his God.

Next, when he had been in between a woman's legs, buried deep inside of her for the first time.

The third he was searching for still. He hoped, he prayed, it would be a peace that lasted him an eternity.

"Majo!" He hollered, stepping out into the garden.

It smelt of mist and fog, the dew still hanging thick over the eucalyptus leaves and sharp blades of grass. Kissing the edges of his hot skin as he stepped closer to the elderly man smoking his hooqah. Thick, moving sweetness from the scent of the jasmine tree wafted. Smoke curling around the otherwise blizzard, the wood crackling as it burned before the straw bed.

"Sain menu andar sad lenday, bar bot thand ae." Majo replied in earnest.
[Sir you should have called me inside, it is too cold outside.]

"Meray piyo nai kadi tuanu nai si sadya, fir mein kinway kar da ae?" Darab chuckled dryly.
[My father never called for you, so how could I?]

"Nazir jeya koi ho vi nai sakda," he spoke, taking a deep breath, "tussi daso, kinway tudai khidmat karan?"
[No one can be like Nazir, you tell me, how can I help you?]

"Khan da koi intezam kar deyo, bari merbani."
[Make some arrangements for food, thank you.]

Majo jumped off the daybed, nodding his head in affirmation before marching into the haveli. Its vast endlessness was haunting, even daunting at moments. Several jarokha's that spread out from the geometric estate, overlooked the pathways that coiled in and around the hills. Fountains and trees lining the gardens to keep them from falling into monotony.

Taking a seat on Majo's place, he wiped the ends of the nozzle before pulling it into his own mouth. Breathing in the grey smoke, letting himself loose to the endless throes of red passions he found himself acting on each night, without fail. He tightened his claw over the neck of the pipe, blowing the thicket of air into the abysmal fog. It still covered everything in it's white. Death and Earth, rhymed and had plans together to dine soon it seemed.

A season of bloody, icy ends, was time of rejoicing within his clan, and his country.

Flinging his head back, until it rested on the thick bark of the tree, he crossed his legs over the bed. The warm fire coursing nearby, warmed the exposed flesh of his leg, the shalwar riding up at his actions. He toyed with the skin of his feet, tracing each callous, before fisting the small mobile out of his pocket. Clicking on random buttons, hoping to find the game he had stumbled upon last night.

"Sain nashta." Majo spoke.
[Sir breakfast.]

Resting the tray before him, pulling out a stool to sit beside him.

Passing him the pipe over, Darab stared at the green eyes of his manservant. The crows feet beside the almond shaped eyes were the epitome of a wise man, his crystal clear forest like eyes, twinkling with mirth. He saw him with the same eyes that had seen his father, that had overlooked the empire. Majo was no ordinary man. A fact, even the servant himself knew.

The butter melted over the still warm paratha, the oil swimming over the crisp golden top. It's round edges slightly darkened, into a deep earthy shade. Just the sight of it rumbled his stomach, the walls quivering to have the bread inside his mouth. A small bowl filled with pickles and a side of a hard boiled egg, already halved and covered in fine black pepper rested to the sides. A tall fibre glass, filled to the brim with milk, the weather far too cold for him to be served with lassi.

Darab tore into his feast, feeling the oil cloud his tongue, and warmth escape from it's lapels down his tongue, staring at the old man who smoked in silence.

"Putr eik gal kawan?" He broke the air of silence, seeking permission, despite calling him son.
[Son could I say something?]

Darab nodded. Waiting for him to go on.

"Tusi biah te javo, tavaifan wafa nai dendian, te votiyan wafa tou ilawa kuj nai mangdi-an." He explained.
[You should go to the wedding, prostitutes can not give loyalty, and a wife seeks for nothing except for loyalty.]

"Mein wafa nai de sakda."
[I can not be loyal.]

"Te na davo," Majo tsked, "je voti nu pata nai chalay ga te rola kera pavay ga?"
[Then do not give it, if your wife doesn't find out then for what reason will there be drama?]

Darab stared at him in silence. Chewing on the morsel between his mouth. Mulling over what had been said, the aches from his heavy hangover clearing already. The panchayat was adamant on his marriage, and he needed one to ground his large properties.

Find a bride during a rival wedding would not be tough. At the thought of which his cemented lips cracked into a smile.

Things would work out in his favour, after all.

Eid Moobarak besties!!!!
I hope you had an amazing day <3 May Allah SWT bless us all, ameen.

On the other hand, Darab's such a daddy vibe like yum scrumdillyumptious.

Also petition to stop asking me if I'm reading books in particular....