Sang e Khisht

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Bonus six.

Pearl like drops of sweat gathered over the base of her hairline, then dripped sweetly until the scent of her jasmine was intense enough to wash across the pallor of her skin. Painted a beige her nails dug into the loose papery fabric of the hospital gown — it's pasty blue with spotted flowers hugged her figure in a disfigured embrace. The cannula on her left palm ran to the IV liquid, the air conditioner purred air gently over her face, though her legs still cramped over the feathery mattress. Her fingers resting lethargic over the Egyptian cotton blanket.

Golnar groaned in soft whispers of moans that throbbed against her elbow. The dull ache against her hip bones gained intensity every now and then, until it traced lower into her upper thighs in a curse of black magic. The rest of her hair stuck to her forehead and the loose rubber band had snapped against Darab's fingers as he tied it across her strands. Now it rested loosely amongst the spill of auburn. The rich green glass bangles drooped around her right wrist, contrasting against the left bare one.

Mourning with the pain that drummed against her spine, crushing the weight of her bones against her contractions gained intensity, multiplying in hundredths each second. Restless, she raised her legs until they pressed against the bulge of her lower belly, digging her toes into the crisp white sheets, crying softly as she sink herself under the weight of the blankets and pillows. Twisting and turning in a bespoke attempt of fury, she slammed the crown of her wrist at an angle against the plastic arms of the bed.

Their daughter was in a rush to be born — Golnar could tell with how real her contractions were. Yet she was almost not — with the way Golnar had been in labor for the past four and a half hours. With the doctors rushing in and out, their white coats flustered and flew behind them as they ticked their pens against the manilla paper and the cardboard clipboards. Their stethoscopes pressed against her body and the injections of pain killers had stopped working inside her body a long hour ago. They had evaporated much like the fumes of her chamomile tea.

A tear rolled down her flustered cheek, the mesh of blood vessels that crisscrossed against the apple of her cheeks, burnt. As the stray tear painted it's way down her soft chin, her lips quivered and her fingers shook as they held grip of the mobile phone in a feeble attempt to stay on top. Her ribs and lungs burned, the fog of her breath fizzed before her mouth. The November morning failed to cool her down — even as the air conditioner chilled the crisp air. The sweet scent of caramel and cinnamon from the bread rolls her father had procured for her.

Droplets of steam piped against her lower lip, the shade of soft cotton candy lipstick that she wore for the dinner party had long since melted against the corner of her mouth. Even the kohl had drained itself around her lower lash line. In thick tear marks, one after the other they morphed against her upper cupid's bow.

"Mujhe chuti de dein. Bas aba." Golnar whimpered.
[Give me a holiday. Enough father.]

Arbaz Naazim smiles softly, though his eyes carried in them a hint of worry. Fixing the corner of his thick cotton kameez he stepped over to her side, his glasses dropping on to the cushion of the sea green sofa. With a limp in his step and his hand wrapped around the head of his stick he stumbled over to her side. His shrivelled hand pressed on to her forehead, swiping his thin napkin against her skin he bent over to press his lips against her skin. The warmth from it burned his lips, and his hand tapped the back of her hand in comforting reassurance.

"Mujhe ghar jana hai." She sniffed into his palm.
[I want to go home.]

"Apni guriya ke bagheir tou nahi ja sakti na ab ap ghar Golnar." He chuckled, running his hand through her sweaty hair, curling the limp strand around his fore finger.
[You can'd go without your doll now can you you Golnar.]