Sang e Khisht

باب چہم

ایک عمر سے یہ جنگ ہارتا آیا ہوں
مرا بھی ہوں، مگر ذندہ بھی ہوں
بس اگر کچھ نہیں ہوں تو وہ، تیرا نہیں ہوں

٭

Chapter 4 : Shadi, biah aur 'mein'

With perhaps the strength of a wilted rose, he rose from his drunken stupor. His frame, even in the custom made bad, failed to fit in. The ends of his feet hanging off. An arm slouched over his mouth to prevent the multitude of yawns from escaping. Before a thought crossed his mind, the splitting headache made itself known. Knocking right down the centre of his frontal lobe. Just like that, in the flurries, the thought was lost.

Prey to the carnal instincts he possessed.

A slight blur filled his vision, the room shrouded in a bleak darkness as he slipped out of the covers. An icy chill awaiting him in it's entire glory. Darab's hands pulled into tight fists, coiling over themselves inside his palm, leaving behind deep marks. An addition to the vast array of scars his blue blooded palms were home to. A great feat, he walked over to the doors of his bathroom. His breath laboured, the action requiring from him far more than just simple energies.

The bronze handle pulled apart in his hand. The length of his thick fingers, gripped the head and pushed it apart with the broadness of his shoulder. His thin cotton kameez was sheer enough for the tanned shoulder to show from underneath. Yet somehow still thick enough to not tear at the first stroke of his stretch. Running a finger over the underside of his jaw, his fingernail scratched away at the scar from his first zit. Passing a hand through the bed head, his glossy caramel locks brushed the length of his sharp nose.

As sharp as the terrorising ache was in his skull, feeling as if someone was hammering the sides of the bones, he could not ignore. Darab Hakim Nazim, son of his father, had grown up with the volatility of humans. Their life and the ease with which it could all slip from between his finger. Amongst it all, one thing he had found stagnant. Like a separator between the torrential outpour of life, and the monotony of death. Prayer. It had homed him.

Watching his reflection, the eyes burning red — violent and inspecting the scratches over his neck, he pulled the cold water to himself.
Splashing.
Thrashing.
Breathing.
Reaching out for the soft towel, the dim glow of the first rays of sun, colouring the pallor of his cheeks. Between it's depth of golds and reds, his own skin had been washed. Like spun gold. A fallacy — the life that filled his eyes.

Darab's bedroom was an amalgamation of what was used and what was no longer needed. The headboard of his bed, made from the hands of finest of carpenters, had finally cracked under the years. Varnishing rolling off from the twisted corners, the carpets — thick and thin alike, covered the marble floors of his bedroom. An ashen shade of white, somewhat marked with a sandy lustre in the dimness. Hollow windows, with glass that was thick, barred through the thin lattices running.

In the centre was a round ottoman, it's upholstery had been imported from the streets of Italy, on his sister's insistence. He had argued — Indian or Pakistani silk would work just as fine. Apparently, he did not know well enough. The vanity was large and the only things that kept the wooden table from being entirely bare were his wide toothed comb, a bottle of ittar, and a worn out frame of his parent's. The two had look gorgeous on their wedding — with his mother's starlit eyes and his father's grin.