Gunnah e Shab

17. Run • بھاگ

"There is no one," he denied.

"Don't lie to me. Azmaray I know what you're thinking off.  You want to marry Anbar and then denounce your inheritance. You want to hand it over to Asghar". Hooriya spoke full of confidence.

Grinning as she noticed worry marr Azmaray's feature. She knew her nephew like the back of her hand. Even with eyes closed she could understand, but she had seen him write that down in a secret notebook. One no one supposed to know existed.

"Likin—" [But—] he tried again.

"No! There are so many dirty secrets Azmaray.  Go to Lahore. A van is taking our gardens apples to sell in Lahore. I've paid the driver to take you. Don't ask how. Just go! Marry her. Come back and claim your right! I promise I'll explain it all to you". Hooriya begged.

Seeing the elder woman almost on her knees, Azmaray nodded.

"B-but how do I know it's love?" He whispered.

"You'll know. Think about why you're mind is clouded with her. Now go!" She shoved him towards his balcony.

"One last question. Will you let Anbar face the consequences?"

"No! Anbar will get what fate has in store for her. Worst comes to worst, I'll send my daughter to Lahore. Go and make me proud!" Hooriya grinned, feeling full of life after a long time.

Hugging her, Azmaray climbed down the large pipe. Luckily for him, his room was nearest to a servants exit. Sneaking out was no problem considering everyone was on the main property waiting for the wedding to happen. Azmaray felt his stomach tie into a knot. Sweating profusely nervousness coursed through him. Adrenaline pumping through his veins as he discarded the top coat of his outfit, leaving himself in a simple trouser and kurta. He clenched his teeth as the squeaky gate rattled with his force. In front of the door, a bright blue Shehzore van waited. A man in his early thirties stood infront it wearing a grin.

"Arey nawab sahab aao ji!" [Oh duke sir please come!] The man opened the passenger sides door.

Azmaray nodded, bit skeptical about his getup. The bright pink shalwar kameez and brown loafers were a bit too much. The man handed him a brown shawl, asking him to cover himself, only to leave his eyes uncovered. Taking the driver's seat, the man locked the truck and begun driving. Underneath his breath he hummed an old Punjabi tune. Driving out of the estate, waving at the guards.

"Myself Rangeen Khan," the man grinned.

"Rang-geen?" Azmaray held back his laugh.

"Haan babu. Ap nai nahi suna? Rangeen hai tu rangon sai bhi zyada?" [Yes sir. Haven't you heard? You are more colourful [Rangeen] than colours?] He tsked.

"Haan. Par yeh naam kyun?" [Yes. But why this name?] Azmaray questioned, still confused.

"Humein dekho, jild har jaga sai alag rang ka hai. Hum duniya mein tapka aur aba bola 'lo bhai Rangeen aya hai' aur bas naam par gaya!" [Look at me, my skin is a different colour from each side. When I was born my father looked at me and said 'look colourful is here' and that was my name!] Rangeen laughed.

The man suffered from vitiligo and it seemed that he had been used to treating his condition with humor and not seriousness. Rangeen Khan was full of life, brimming with laughter and jokes. Azmaray was glad he was the man his aunt had hired. Atleast this made it a hundred times more easier for him to sit in the uncomfortable leather seats of the van. Resting his back against the thin seat, he tapped the flimsy plastic handles. Praying and reciting every verse that he knew for Rangeen Khan was sure quite suited to his name. His very colourful language and reckless driving from between cars on the narrow one way, had Azmaray inching closer to death every second.