Hirz-e-Jaan

Ulfat 1

Mehrunnisa quickly shook her head, stepping back. "Apko takleef lene ki koi zaroorat nahi he Chote Sahab. Mein len jaon gi." She reached for the pot. (You don't have to bother Young Master. I can take it.)

Haider grabbed it before she could. He adjusted the pot in his hand and looked at her, "Pehli baat, mera naam Haider he." (First of all, my name is Haider.)

For a moment Mehrunnisa forgot that he was the village's next head. She stared at him, trying to see any malice.

Neither of them noticed the figure standing a short distance away, watching. Zubair Mirza's jaw tightened, his grip on the rolled papers in his hand hardening.

"MEHRUNNISA!" His voice cut through the still air, sharp and commanding.

The sound jolted her. She turned so quickly that her dupatta slipped further down her shoulders. Haider's head snapped toward the voice, his posture instinctively straightening.

Zubair's eyes moved between them—his daughter standing with lowered gaze, the Chaudhary heir holding a pot that should never have been in his hands.

"Idhr kia ho raha hai?" His tone was calm on the surface, but the undercurrent was enough to send a chill down Mehrunnisa's spine. (What's going on here?)

Haider shifted the pot into one hand and stepped forward, his voice steady. "Uncle, bas madad kar raha tha. Mehr yeh utha nahi pa rahi thi." (Uncle, I was just helping. Mehr couldn't carry it.)

Zubair's eyes narrowed, his silence heavier than any accusation. He gave a curt nod, though it was the kind that ended conversations, not invited them. "Chhodo, main le jaata hoon." (Leave it, I'll take it.)

Haider hesitated but handed the pot over, watching as Zubair took it without another glance at him. Mehrunnisa kept her eyes fixed on the ground, her heart pounding.

"Haider, tumhe Chaudhary Sahab dhoond rahe hon ge. Unke paas jao." Haider flinched at Zubair's voice. Zubair never called him Haider. It was always Chote Sahab or Haider Miyaan. (Haider, Chaudhary Sahab is looking for you. Go to him.)

Haider walked away hesitantly. He kind of knew he was in big trouble. This wasn't ending anytime soon.

What made Zubair cautious wasn't the act — it was the familiarity in Haider's tone, the way his daughter's face looked almost... different in his presence.

As soon as Haider walked away, Zubair Mirza looked at Mehrunnisa with hard eyes. Waiting for her explanation. "Baba, mujhe nahi pata wo kab aya. Mein to yeh Rukhsana khala ki taraf le kar jaa rahi thi." (Father, I have no idea when he came. I was going to drop this to Rukhsana Aunty's house.)

Before Zubair's anger could get the best of him, he said: "Ander jao. Mein tumhe bahir na dekho ab. Ye mein chor ata hoon." (Go inside. I don't want to see you outside now. I will drop this)

Mehrunnisa nodded and stepped into the house. Zubair had to trust his daughter for the time being. He had faith in his and his wife's upbringing of their children. He adjusted the pot properly and headed to drop it off.

That evening, after ensuring Mehrunnisa was in her room, Zubair made his way to Chaudhary Sahab's haveli. The sun had dipped, casting long shadows over the courtyard, and the faint smell of burning wood drifted in the air.

"Arre, Zubair!" Chaudhary Sahab greeted warmly, setting aside the ledger in his hand. "Kya baat hai? Is waqt?" (What's the matter? At this hour?)

"Chaudhary Sahab, mein manta hoon ke Haider iss gaon ka agla panch he aur apka beta he. Magar Mehrunnisa bhi meri izzat he." Zubair said as he looked at Raza Chaudhary. (Master Chaudhary, I understand that Haider is the village's next chief and he is your son. But Mehrunnisa is also my pride and honor.)