Gunnah e Shab

7. History • تاریخ

He dreamt a dream. A dream of tales. A tale of love. A love, that he no longer had. The affection of course — being his father's. Sajawal Khan, the man who he shared blood with. The man who had wiped his tears and lent him a shoulder. A man who helped him make midnight treats. A man who had never missed out any of his life's important events. In return, Azmaray had given his father nothing but hurt. Refusing to marry the niece he loved like a daughter.

He had tried his best, to state in clear words, that she was and would only be a sister to him. That had been their row. Their last conversation, after which Sajawal Khan finally succumbed to his prostate cancer and passed away. A painful death for a peaceful man. The irony of life. Since then, he had devoted himself to try and forget his father. The emotions that came from being his son, burned through him. They ate away, his insides. However, now that he was back in his home, in the land that he had been born, Azmaray felt himself fall at peace with the past.

Dreaming of his childhood, into the early hours of morning, Azmaray felt like a new man. He had turned a new page. A new leaf. Crisp, fresh, and empty to be filled with his words. The previous chapter of his life — all of them at that, had been narrated by his grandfather. This time around though, he would steal the pen and fill it all himself. A promise. An oath, he had taken on his father's death. Or as his grandfather, a man who prided himself on being 'Greek' liked to state "qalam aur mela humaray hain" [the pen and the ink are ours]*.

Stepping out of his bed, a light breeze drifting through his room, touched his body. The thin white shalwar kameez not a great barrier from the bone chilling winters of Swat. Taking a quick shower and dressing hastily in a maroon, fleece turtleneck and black formal trousers, he headed out of his room. Eyes trained on the gingerbread carpet of the corridor.

The home was an architectural masterpiece. From the painted ceilings to the fine carvings. Sloping roofs and glass domes. Chandeliers, both that ran with electricity and the old ones, that were brought to life by thin candles each night. Marble and wood floorings. Precious metals used all around, on the seams, brought it all together. Into one beautiful, extravagant cloak.

"Azmaray are you going somewhere?" The thick voice called to him.

He stilled in place, ofcourse, no one ever had free space around this home. Everything was reported to the 'master' himself.

"I am". He uttered, two words, with zero hint of humor.

"Where?" Asghar prodded.

Asghar was looking for an opportunity. An opening, a chance, anything to kick his younger brother out of his way. To claim what was rightfully his, but his blinded father had offered to his younger son. Everything was fair in love and war — after all.

"Nowhere that concerns you!" Azmaray rolled his eyes.

This facade of good elder brother and bad younger brother was going to end in a huge loss. Their family knew they weren't the best of buddies. So this certain interest in his life, peaked Azmaray's curiosity.

"This place has changed Azmaray. It's best if you let go of this anger and tell —" Asghar placed his hand on Azmaray's shoulder.

Azmaray shrugged the hand off, turning around and poking at his brother's chest, violently.

"Apni bakwas band rakhein. Ap nai kabhi mujhe bhai samjha hi nahi. Isiliye meri zindagi mein dakhal andazi band kardein. Abu ki qabar par ja raha hun, ap ki tarah subah subah koi mujra dekhnay nahi!" [Keep your nonsense to yourself. You've never thought of me as a brother. Hence why don't interfere in my life. I was going to father's grave, not like you, who goes to see dances early in the morning!] He spat.