Sang e Khisht

باب اٹھائیسواں

کیا مر کر بھی مرتا ہے
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Chapter 28 : Sacha piyaar

Black pepper and salt were the stars of any kitchen, despite their not so attractive aura and intense flavour on an average day, they were the best accomplices. A little bit in harmony would turn the blandest of meals into something more. A little over the top and the dish would crash and burn — into raging pieces. Of course crushing the freshest of peppercorns was best, falling directly into the pot, the rock salt cracked in next. Beside the glass rack of spices the bottle of olive oil, and desi ghee sat.

The strobe lights that hung low just about missed the towering frame of Darab. The filament lightbulb buzzed lightly inside of his ear as he pulled the spices out of the cabinet, stirring the pot absentmindedly with his other hand as he searched for the correct spice. The opaque light woody powdered cinnamon and all spice covered the marble counters in the tiny amounts. His fingers pinched and thew it into the bubbling pot of soup, tasting it later as he realised it was cinnamon—and he in fact wished to add garam masala and not that.

Groaning out to himself he rubbed his eyes in fury. The spices that covered the tips of his calloused fingers burnt his eye all of a sudden. They pinched his nerves and his pupil gauged into a large abyss. Already the red that lined his waterline doubled over in it's intense shade, groans of frustration escaping his lips as he turned the tap of water on. Running a hand under the cool water, he threw it over his face, though just then the aroma of his broth base burning filled his nostrils.

Cursing to himself he leaped across the kitchen with the tap water running maddeningly. Gripping the wooden spoon he scraped the bottom of the pan before stirring up a cloud, throwing in the unevenly chopped pieces of carrot and celery. The washed pieces of bright yellow corn coming in next. His manly fingers that were not so used to the deft motions of fragility required within the kitchens, stung. Using the fork to pull apart the chicken from the bone — like he had seen Majjo do at many occasions. He had stabbed his fingers more than once.

Turning a fleshy red, his fingers were the proof of his incapability.

The fish crackers — fried and now soggy over the linen napkin rested in a porcelain tray, the bowl of his finished soup coming to rest beside it. Lifting the tray he walked out of the kitchen, carrying it towards his bedroom where Golnar slept still. The sun long having risen above horizon. The action far too unusual for her. Ragingly, Darab had dialled Husayn's number and thundered out orders to show up the first time it had occurred. Though he had still not been assured by the blame falling on painkillers. Adapting a new habit, his mornings started with him walking towards her bed and holding a finger beneath her nose. Ending with him lightly checking her pulse.

Covered in a dim light from the softly pulled back curtains, the bedroom was painted in a colour of soft dreaminess. Resting the tray over the glass coffee table he pulled open the curtains. The large dialled clock striking twelve thirty in the afternoon, on the dot. Smiling to himself, with a curled fist he walked towards the side of the bed, his hand barely touching her skin.

Darab's eyes stared at the side of Golnar's face. It's innocence could not have been hidden no matter what the circumstances. The wound on her forehead had begun to heal and the sling had been removed. Though a cast remained still to ensure the bone was healing properly. A tiny hairline scar remained over her forehead, her pale skin had gained some brightness. The apples of her cheeks, like honey-crisp apples had turned red, and her lips were the shade of the freshest of Naazimgarh's cherries.