| Hawaaon Ke Paighaam | Messages Of The Wind

| The Penthouse |

Tu baymisaal hai, teri kya misaal doon?

aasmaan se aayi hai yahi keh taal doon

phir bhi koi jo poochay kya hai, tu kaisi hai?

haathon mai rang lekay hawa mai uchaal doon...

Murtasim had been extremely young when he'd realised that the people around him thought he was someone special. It had been in the way he was waited on, looked at with reverence and treated with the utmost deference. This attitude of care and duty towards him was always enhanced due to the nature of his work, both feudal and as a pilot. He'd had a little too many skirmishes with danger and he was now well-versed with the 'Khan Care Protocol'. It involved the entire staff rushing to his side, his mother calling every pir she held in high regard and dozens of animals, clothes and food being distributed as sadaqah to ward off evil.

His needs were placed on top priority and actions performed in his care seen as an act of respect and deference. And all of it was done in full volume. He'd been told repeatedly what an honour it was to serve him, how fortunate they were to be able to care for their Khan and that they were willing to lay down their lives for him.

He'd of course, always appreciated the loyalty his people and family showed him; it was part of what solidified his high status as Khan. And maybe because he'd known nothing else, Murtasim found himself confused and marvelling at the new, strange type of care he was receiving now. For one, it was silent. There were no exuberant calls of gratitude and joy at being able to serve him during this time.

His dedicated, self-appointed carer was doing almost everything one could to care for an injured person. She arrived with a smile which had gotten sunnier every time, took stock of how his day had been health-wise and when satisfied that he was doing fine, curled up on the armchair with her books, leaving him to slowly dose up on the 'sunshine and rainbows' energy she radiated.

When he was on the phone on business, she'd jot down things he needed to remember for later, hand him documents and take the pen out of his hand with a tsk whenever he tried to strain his wrist by writing something. She'd also bring her training booklets and Macbook every time and read out whatever she was working on to him.

Murtasim was not a man who liked to be at the mercy of anyone, and had so far ensured he never fully had to be, until now. He was accustomed to being waited on hand and foot, but relinquishing even a little bit of control and giving it to someone else whilst acknowledging his own momentary weakness was new to him, and he was surprised. The ease with which he had allowed her to take charge of some aspects of his life was unusual, yet had felt completely natural.

The quiet, confident calm with which she did things had a lot to do with it. She didn't make a fuss, didn't needlessly bend over backwards in deference or profess grand declarations, as though caring for him was some sort of privilege. It had made being cooped in a room much more tolerable, and the change in his usual attitude was always commented upon by any doctor who visited after she arrived.

Murtasim had stayed in hospital for four days in total, and it had been day three when he'd found out that Meerab had been skipping meals in order to make sure she spent the majority of her time at the hospital. In an effort to give him some 'comfort food' as she called it, she'd turned his chicken soup and bread-roll into a disgusting looking mush which Murtasim had rejected with a firm 'Nahi'. She'd looked at him like he was a starved man rejecting a culinary delight, and had proceeded to sit down and start munching on the unappetising meal, grumbling about him being strange and her being hungry.