Gunnah e Shab

30. Clean • صاف

"Laila let's go to the central marketplace! You haven't been ever and Asghar is dropping me off so join us," Anbar offered, twirling her hair on her finger lightly.

"Um I wouldn't wish to impose," she rejected.

"Please Laila bhabi join us, it would be a pleasure," [sister-in-law] Asghar added.

Laila turned to her husband, in a fix with the situation at hand. His gentle nod, making her feel better and she grinned in her new friends direction, the girls were about to hit the town.

———

Azmaray sat on the terrace joined to his bedroom. A forgotten cup of tea cooled down on the side, his hands fidgeting with yellowed pages of an old journal. The outside made of leather, polished white. A bouquet studded on top of the binding bearing the family's signature emblem. His fingers dug into the pages, running over the faded out ink. They words had gone into a pale blue, the pristine cursive handwriting of his grandfather, spoke volumes of the kind of man he was. His fingers fiddled with each edge, the curved page preventing from paper cuts. Tears clogged his throat, his eyes closing. He traveled to a time distant and long forgotten. The pain and vulnerabilities of his grandfather was felt through the words he had written, years ago, for the next heir, for him.

His aunt, Hooriya had given him the journal last night. Running into his room like a thief as soon as the house was serene. She had handed it to him, explaining that it held the truths no one had mentioned to him. That it was the key to understanding why his father and aunt had to go. Fear had coated her eyes as she exited, making him swear on her life that he would not mention a word of it to anyone. He had devoured through it last night. While Laila slept peacefully, his mind and heart had been at war. With each page that he turned disgust filled him up. Flowing out of him like a flooded riverbank. He finally, understood why 'ignorance is bliss', were the parting words of his father.

Gulping down the hatred and nausea, Azmaray's eyes returned to the pages of the journal. It had been jotted down by Asfandyar Bakhtaawar Khan. The man who had sired his mother, his maternal grandparent. The person because of whom Azmaray was the heir to the large Khan estate. All of it had been his mother's family, and yet his father's had been the one to enjoy it. The rich opulence, the free flowing piles of riches, nothing was theirs and yet how had his grandfather—no. How had Azaan Khan so carefully managed to destroy the true family and take over?

Willing his heart to be a bit mightier in will, he opened the page he had left off at. It was one of the last few pages and he knew, this would answer the questions. The final piece in filling the puzzle's gaping hole.

' My only child, my beloved daughter Almas married the son of our gardener last night. The ceremony was private, and no one save for my now son-in-law's family had been invited. I had known of their romantic involvement, feigning ignorance until I found out Azaan was making Suleman marry the chef's daughter, Saheefa. I had stepped in then, fighting for my pride and her happiness. Offering all the riches. Alas, I had failed. Yet somehow a few months after Saheefa had given birth to their son, Azaan and Suleman had shown up at my door. My iron will had lost as soon as Almas shed a tear. Saheefa had reassured that she had no problem with the union and the two were married. '

Azmaray felt his heart wrench. So ths cruelty of Azaan Khan had not begun after the takeover. He had been cruel from day one. Merciless. He had not even cared for his own son, so how could one expect mercy? Azmaray silently turned to the next page, the entry was dated nine months after. Clearly his nana [maternal grandfather] was not a man who liked to write.

' Almas birthed a son last night. I had the luck of naming him. Sasha, my wife would have loved that name. Azmaray Bakhtaawar Khan. We had decided on that for our son, but instead of a boy we were blessed with a girl, our Almas. For which I would always be in debt to God. I hope Azmaray lives a happy and healthy life, unlike my daughter's, whose frail health and torturous in law's have me worried.'

Azmaray's heart lurched. He felt sick beyond measure. He wished he could question the cruelty his mother had faced. Perhaps had she lived longer, perhaps if she were alive, he would have seen maternal warmth. Felt how it was like to have a mother worried for you. She would have cherished Laila and treated her like a gem. He wiped a stray tear that fell from his eye, feeling more alone than ever. His eyes skimmed over the rest of the pages until they stumbled across the last entry. A letter addressed to him.

' Azmaray my child things have not gone well. I'm sick, on the verge of death. Your mother is pregnant again, with a son. However, I have seen the murderous glint inside Azaan's eyes. I fear for her safety. I hope whenever you read this, you realise I did what I did for your mother's safety. And for you to be able to live. All for you three my loves. Azmaray I faked a fire in the west wing last night. A fake body installed in your mother's place. Your mother is safe at my friend's place, I assure you. I have no idea how long I shall live, but my child I am handing this over to the daughter of your mother's nanny. My Almas's closest thing to a friend, Hooriya.

خدای دې درسره وي! '
[God be with you!]

Pregnant. A son. Lahore. He had a younger brother somewhere out there. His mother was out there. His heart fluttered in joy, a light, a hope filling him up. He would find them, the address on the piece of paper his grandfather had fixed into the binding, finally made sense. He fixed the location into his GPS, eyes widening as he realised one thing, his mother was at Sardar Shams' home.

OMFG
THE CAT IS OUT OF THE BAG
I GAVE SO MANY HINTS TO YOU GUYS BUT THIS IS THE TRUTH. I'M SORRY IF YOU STILL CAN NOT TELL WHO HIS BROTHER IS LOL

THOUGHTS & COMMENTS