YA' ABURNEE

Chapter 1

Axl Rose's voice could be heard from the room next to this. Line gliding after line. Paradise City was being played at the makeshift gym of our-no correction-his house.

He? He's Danish Hamza Umair. A man in his mid 20s. Tan skinned, five o'clock shadowed and strong built of 6ft. Every element needed to be considered a handsome man, he has. But inside, he's trash. At least to me.

And me? I am Maheen Sadat Erum. His lawfully wedded wife until I make his parents understand this marriage is a destruction, so is he.

Syed Mujtaba Ali, a well known author, once said, "Cold blooded murders are common in Europe, so is cold blooded marriage in this Indian sub continent."

He couldn't be anymore right. And I was stuck in the latter.

I stared at my reflection on the floor length mirror. Each day passes by. And same routine runs in a cycle.

We get up from sleep. I prepare the breakfast while he works out in the gym. I get ready and leave for work. Thirty or more minutes later, he leaves for work too. We come back home. Eat dinner silently. And go our ways for the day, in our separate rooms. This house is big enough for two people which I am thankful for.

I can not imagine living with him, in the same room. Living in this house is already a penalty I'm paying for my father to die at the presence of his father.

My mother died when I was three. She had breast cancer. Sometimes when I think everything would've been better if she was still alive, I think to myself at least she is now freed from the pain she had to go through. May Allah grant her Jannah.

And my father, Noman Sadat, also had to leave me. Three years ago, I suddenly received a call from an unknown number. Telling me my father was feeling sick, vomited three times already and was being rushed to the hospital. When I reached, he was already put in life support. Doctor said if he regains his blood pressure then he might recover from this massive heart attack.

I saw his limp form through the glass door, connected to numerous wires to different machines beeping. There I met Amir Hamza, Umair's father. He was the one to call me and take my father to the hospital from office.

Mr Hamza supported me through all these. While my uncles tried to fight me for my father's business and wealth, he was the one to make sure I get my rights right. He backed me up like a protective father figure as I fought with my uncles. He thought marrying me off to his son will keep me protected. He never realised in this way he pushed me in a love less marriage.

I could never deny him. His debts had already shut my mouth by then.

Three months ago, nearly two years after my father passed away, we were married to each other.

I still remember the first night. Mr and Mrs Hamza came themselves to drop us off in this house. Mrs Hamza was more excited than I.

And here I was lost of expectations already. I was scared to be happy. Because last time I remember I was happy and then everything was snatched right away. I didn't want to built a castle of sand again.

When they left Umair got up off the couch and said, "You can choose any room you want to stay in, except this one." He motioned to a room to his left. "Its mine. But there's plenty more. So you don't have to worry. And it'll be better if you don't expect anything from me. I'll do my duties towards you. But I can not pose as a husband. Ever."

It didn't take any time to register his words. I presumed it. And I too preferred it this way.

I replied, "Understood. And it'll be better too if you don't take it up as your duty to protect me." I air-quoted the word protect. "You father might've told you something like this. But I am an independent woman. And I can take care of myself. I won't look up to your duties towards me either. Thanks."

In a small country like Bangladesh and at a mega city like Dhaka, everyone was busy with their own lives. No one cared who lives or who dies. Everyday new scandal new news. Everyone is running after something. While keeping up with the Joneses, it was no one's business what we got ourselves into.

I never blamed Umair. He is in this mud as deep as I am in. But the cold shoulder is no longer helping me to live in the same house as his.

If I didn't have the job, I might have died of the silence of this house.

There's TV there's music. But there's no life in this house.

Sudden sound of calling bell grabbed my attention. The music was off and the house was dead silent. I guess I didn't hear it before because of the music. I unlocked my bedroom door to see who it was.

Umair was already at the door. He in his sleeveless t-shirt and basketball shorts. Covering the half open door with his large form. Sweat was visible in his shoulder and upper hands.

"Who is it?" I asked.

The man himself turned around. Sweat dripping off of every visible part of his body. Long jet black hair was sleeked down. While his features were godly to stare at, his cold black eyes gave off nothing.

"Your parcel I guess." He replied, handing me a box.

I turned the box to see from who it was. Oh! I ordered these stuff online and I was expecting this for a whole month. When I got tired of texting the shop owners back and forth, I left the hope of receiving it. Now its finally here.

"Finally. Thanks. Don't pay, I have paid for it." I said out of courtesy. I knew he wouldn't bother to pay. We never stuck our noses in each other's lives. This is how things were working until he said these.

"But I paid this boy already."

My head snapped to meet his eyes. "Stop him! You should've asked me, Umair."

"He's gone." He replied as if nothing had happened. He shut the door behind him as he started to walk away.

"How in the world!" I couldn't decide who should I get mad at.

"But I can not take your money." I went after him.

"You did not. The delivery boy did." He replied sitting on a leathered bench of his gym and grabbing one of his dumbbells. Pulling the weight up to his chest and again all the way down.

One press. Two press. Three press. Repeating the process.

Frankly, the dumbbell bench press is not an effective enough chest exercise to justify its massive popularity. It's a great exercise, sure, but its place as a workout staple is perhaps down to the fact that benching a big weight is as good for the ego as it is for your muscles.

Words from last night's Google search floated in my mind as I kept staring at the scene right before my eyes. I couldn't believe I searched up something related to him.

All these times, we never crossed each other's paths. And never did I watch him do the exercise.

I blinked my eyes a few times to break me out of the spell and cussed myself in my mind.

"Yeah. But in a way you spent it for me. And I won't let that happen." I gathered the words floating in my mind.

"Why?" He never stopped the work out. Too busy to look up.

Why? It was a rehearsed conversation. I rehearsed it in my mind thousand times before. Then why am I now lost of words?

"Because I don't like others spending money for me." I somehow gathered.

He finally looked up. And when he did I regretted.

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