A Garden Of Hydrangeas

اُڑان | Flight

Chapter 12.

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Monday's were days that followed the sunny Sunday's. They were days where the province worked slow and steady — like gentle ants who preserver no matter the situation. The days generally started of with the large brass bell at the entrance to the capital city — Mushkpur ( named after the province itself), it would ring at four in the morning before the call to prayer, it had been a tradition and only on day of mournings would the bell collect dust on top of it's barrel. The ringing would rouse the Imam in turn who called his brethren to prayer, the start of the day in the worship of the glorious.

That particular Monday, the skies had reigned terror on the land. The thin roads were blocked with muddy puddles, crisply ironed uniforms of the children stained with the mud and rain drops, which they wore with pride as they ran back home — a holiday declared what more could they want? Grey of the skies that rumbled with the ferociousness of the khemaas — a monster in the fables of those that lived near the city. From the centre of the clouds a gaping whole formed and sunlight fell undiluted on to the roof of the minister's residence.

A thin rainbow danced near the edge of his windowsill, which Arham observed with a smile so small it barely seemed real. His eyes were glassy, the rainbow reflected in them with perfection not a color out of place. The sight before him was new, sunlight and rain together, rainbows and hail accomplice. Vapors of his breath materialized themselves to life, the tip of his nose all but squashed against the panes as he saw the under construction part of the garden turn into a mess of broken rock, bricks and discarded roots. Nature in it's truest form was the eye witness of tragedy and despair.

"Uh—sir the - the reports have been emailed to you — unfortunately they found nothing that could be an odd interaction."

Burhan's head lowered until the edge of his beard brushed past the buttons of his formal shirt. His hands were neatly folded in the crook of his lap, awaiting judgment. The man he called boss was an enigma, the power that he held, his words enough to influence for days — the silence he reeked in search of whatever it was in his mind, caused his own brain to turn to mush.

"Burhan—Burhan—Burhan how long have you worked for me?"

His words were monotonous, where there should have been a hidden meaning or threat, there was an abyss and it was even more dangerous.

Burhan gulped his thoughts and fears down, anger did not mean he would resort to violence — at least he hadn't in the time he had served him.

Breaking the silence, he wiped his hands discretely against his trousers, "s-sir fo-four years."

"Speak clearly Naeem. I did not hire a kid to work for me!"

He slammed his palms against the desk, rage dripping from his actions as he slid into his chair once more.

"Sir four years!"

"In those four years have you not learnt anything? It's unfortunate really that you're still working under me. A withering, shivering flower petal has no place in the lion's dungeon. Am I clear?"

"Sir yes sir!"

"Very good. Excellent!" He pulled back in joy, faux joy.