Tum Hi Aana | A Short Story

Tum Aaoge Mujhe Milne, Khabar Ye Bhi Tum Hi Lana

Bohat aayin gayi yaadein,
magar iss baar, tum hi aana

Four Months Later

It was a lush green field; the most beautiful of them all. A field so green that it made your eyes light as far as they could see. The blue sky opened up to perfectly comfortable weather; not too hot and too cold. Just perfect for the tall blades of crop to waft back and forth and gently sway to a soothing rhythm.
Cutting through the grass was a lean figure in white cotton. With an outstretched arm behind it, it held onto the hand of a figure clad in pale yellow, the light cloth flowing around their figure. Deep brown, cascading hair flew around the face as it looked up from under lowered lashes, a deep contentment in the eyes. The figure clad in white cotton looked back at the one clad in pale yellow and mirrored that bone-deep contentment; like it had seeped into their souls and made them glow from within.

Suddenly turning around and switching hands, the figure in white faced the smaller, yellow clad figure fully, walking backwards across the lush open fields as their mouth turned up in a full, deep smile. With eyes crinkling at the corners and gleaming from happiness and peace, the figure in white cotton bestowed a gaze upon the figure in pale yellow which let them and the world know that, that right there, walking through the fields with her pale yellow dupatta flowing behind her as she smiled up at him, was his soul mate. The very essence of his existence, the reason for his continuing breaths and the centre of his universe. His purpose, his heart beating outside of this body and his red line; the one he would do anything, absolutely anything for.
And as the figure in yellow lifted tentatively eyes form under thick lashes as her mouth curled into an intimately knowing smile, she looked into his eyes and conveyed the exact same.

Kyun ke mohabbat to waqt ke saath khatam hojati hai, lekin ishq, ishq humesha zinda rehta hai...

Iraaday phir se jaanay ke, nahi lana,

tum hi aana...

The dream, as breathtakingly beautiful as it was, continued in the tortured, drowsy minds of those two souls as they tossed and turned in a restless, but now usual sleep on either sides of the province. In Hyderabad, Murtasim Khan lay tangled on the settee in his room, his body twisted at an uncomfortable angle but not a care in the world given to it as his face, so rarely this serene, twitched in joy at what his clouded mind had decided to show him that night. His hand clenched the ring in his palm and his mouth moved a little, as if trying to form words. Of course, the only word he could form came out as breathy, beseeching call.

Meerab.

In a little mohalla in Karachi, many miles away, Meerab Murtasim Khan lay on a simple little bed in the modest home of the elderly couple who had given her refuge ever since she'd left the protective roof of her own. Her body shifted restlessly as the same dream soothed her, a moan of discomfort slipping out as she tossed and clutched the heavy brown shawl bunched up next too her on the pillow; the one thing she had needed to sleep for the past four months. A sigh sounded as she found a comfortable position and smiled dreamily as the feeling of being in her husband's arms, so clear that it felt wholly real, surrounded her. Her free hand slipped from under her chin and slid down, and as her smile shifted to a more serene, calm expression at being reunited with him even if just in dream, a little kick fluttered deep inside her, calling her to caress her stomach.

Even in sleep, her maternal instinct had her rub the barely there bump in a soothing motion whilst she reveled in the sweetness of being reunited with her little darling's darling father again. Her one little lifeline in all these months; the little ball of wonder her and Murtasim had created. The one symbol of their ishq left in the world. Made in the angriest of circumstances but never without love. Love and only love shone around everything to do with the little life in her, and that was how it going to be. He or she was a love-child. A living, breathing reminder that Meerab and Murtasim had loved even if they had lost.