Covering the lid of the pan, Maryam waited for the cheese to melt, her delicious pizza bread almost ready. The warm aroma wafted through the kitchen, a comforting contrast to the exhaustion etched on Maryam's face. Leaning against the kitchen slab, she scrolled through her Instagram homepage, a brief escape into the world of memes providing a momentary respite from the day's challenges.
Laughter echoed in the kitchen until her father's voice penetrated the air from the distant TV lounge, carrying the weariness of navigating through blocked roads and societal unrest.
"Main road block tha, itni mushkil se pohancha dukan tak, in kambakhto ny jeena haram kia hwa hai," he lamented, the frustration resonating in his words. (The main road was blocked; I had so much difficulty reaching the shop. These rascals have made life unbearable.)
Maryam had only returned an hour ago, and the fatigue weighed on her shoulders. The flickering light of the stove cast shadows on her face, emphasizing the tired lines that had etched themselves on her features. She craved her bread pizza and some rest, and that's precisely what she did.
Meanwhile, Musa had just arrived at the haveli, a place saturated with history. Entering the main hall, he surveyed the clean surroundings, thanks to the caretakers.
The haveli, an inheritance in the heart of androon shehar, stood proudly with walls adorned in ancient tiles and windows radiating pre-independence vibes.
Musa appreciated the dark-themed furniture, reminiscent of his haveli in Islamabad. The play of light and shadows on the antique furniture painted a visual narrative of legacy and tradition.
Sitting on the sofa, Musa observed the British touches in the decorations – a spiral staircase ascending to the first floor, an extravagant yet ancient chandelier.
This haveli, once owned by a British bureaucrat, became his family's legacy after the British vacated the area. Musa's scrutinizing gaze traversed over the historical artifacts, each telling a story of its own, resonating with the weight of time.
As Musa continued his inspection, his PA, Saqib, entered with a man and two women, introducing them as the caretakers – Bushra Sakeena and Amjad.
Sakeena and Bushra maintained cleanliness, while Amjad took care of the garden. The atmosphere in the haveli was tinged with a sense of preserved history, as if the walls themselves whispered tales of bygone eras.
Musa nodded, observing the caretakers with a scrutinizing gaze. Saqib, noting his master's nod, continued,
"Sarkar, jab tak aap yahaan hain, Bushra bibi apke liye khana banayengi" (Sir, Bushra will cook for you until you are here). The anticipation and responsibility etched on the caretakers' faces reflected the significance they attached to serving the legacy of the haveli.
Dismissively waving them away, Musa called Saqib to stay back. "Saqib, aur kitne din ka tamasha hai?" (Saqib, for how many more days will this circus continue?) The weariness in Musa's voice carried the burden of responsibilities that stretched beyond the immediate present.
Terrified, Saqib looked at Musa. Despite Musa's polite and handsome public image, Saqib knew the monstrous side of him. "Sarkar, hafta rukna hai. Abhi BZU jana hai, unho ne apke lie seminar arrange kia hai. Meny party workers ko bol dia hai rallies nikalne ko" (Sir, we are staying here for a week. We have to attend a seminar at BZU, specially organized for you. I have asked the party workers to lead rallies in different areas). The air hung heavy with the weight of political obligations and the toll it took on Musa's personal time.
Humming in acknowledgment, Musa leaned back, his eyes closed. Musa Abaan Shah, to the world, was a polite and handsome politician, but Saqib knew the underlying monster. The news of attending a qawali night at Punjab University irked Musa.
"Mana kar do unhein" (Reject the invitation)
he ordered, his tone carrying the weight of a man who sought solitude amidst the demands of the public eye.
Gulping nervously, Saqib stammered,
"S...sarkar, Punjab University ke vice-chancellor ne qawali night pe chief guest ke tor pe bulaya hai" (Sir, the vice-chancellor of Punjab University has invited you as a chief guest for the qawali night).
Saqib's hesitation underscored the delicate balance between personal desires and political commitments.
Musa's eyes snapped open, his anger simmering beneath the surface.
"Mana kar do unhein," he repeated, but Saqib hesitated, trying to convey that Musa's grandfather had already committed to the invitation.
The conflicting emotions played out in Saqib's eyes as he navigated the difficult terrain of delivering unwelcome news.
"Sarkar, badey sarkar ne pehle se hi chancellor ko bata dia hai k aap aayenge" (Sir, your grandfather has already informed the chancellor that you will come), Saqib finally spilled out, feeling the wrath building up in Musa's eyes. The weight of familial expectations collided with Musa's desire for autonomy, and Saqib found himself caught in the crossfire.
Musa's eyes turned red, the yellow hues darkening. His jaw clenched, and with a sudden burst of anger, he smashed his fist on the archaic table, breaking it in the process. Saqib, terrified, gulped but managed to maintain his composure.
Musa, dismissing Saqib with a wave, took deep breaths to calm himself. Tired and drained, he stood up, deciding to call it a night. The shattered table remained as a poignant symbol of the clash between duty and personal autonomy, the room echoing with the reverberations of Musa's internal turmoil.
The atmosphere in the haveli was charged with tension, each word and action carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. The broken table stood as a silent testament to the intensity of emotions that had unfolded.
In Maryam's kitchen, the sizzling of the pizza bread seemed to echo the simmering frustration within her. Her father's words from the TV lounge painted a bleak picture of the world outside, amplifying the weariness that clung to her. The aroma of her pizza, once inviting, now carried a tinge of exhaustion.
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DIRTY POLITICS
Romance'Kia kregy aap' (What will you do?) 'Wahi jo har shohar apni biwi k sath krta hai' (What every husband does to his wife) Musa Abaan Shah had a singular ambition - to ascend to the position of prime minister and uphold his grandfather's esteemed...
