Sadqay Tumhare

Sadqey Tumhare.

A man who isn't the humsafar that Aaina wanted, but a man who is her man anyway.

Watch as Aaina feels it all.

Love, deceit, heartbreak, power and pain.

Aaina.

I was curled up on the bed, my body warm with the comforter resting all over my shoulders while I scrolled through my cell phone.

My sister laid beside me, her head nearly touching my stomach. She didn't even stir when the dark wooden door opened and our mother stepped in.

I could see how pale Ammi was, more than the usual. Her face drawn in with worry of some sort.

I sat up straight.

She smiled, but it was her fake smile. A smile which usually gave away that something was very wrong.

Or maybe Abbu (father) had been somewhat cruel to her. He had the capability to be that way at times.

"Your father wants to talk to you. He's in his study." Mother announced with another fake comforting smile.

I gulped but stood up anyway. My mother avoided my eyes as I walked towards her.

"Is there a problem?"

I enquired but heard no response. I picked up my dupatta (stole) instead, wearing it around my neck.

"Ammi? Am I in trouble?"

She didn't respond to my query and remained silent as I gathered my hair up in a pony tail.

"Hurry. Your abbu doesn't like to wait."

She said simply, ushering me out the door.

My nerves were at their peak when I arrived in front of my father's study. I took a few deep breaths before knocking twice at the door.

"Come in."

I entered the room with sweaty palms. Our father wasn't the most kind person that I had known.

He was always busy, he almost never paid attention to us and hardly treated mother well.

I tried to relax but I was genuinely scared.

My father sat on the leather armchair, a newspaper in his hand and a phone in another. I stood near the desk and he finally looked up from his paper, at me.

"Salam, abbu." I greeted nervously.

He nodded. "Sit."

I sat down on the armchair across from his desk and folded my hands in my lap, waiting for him to speak.

"The elections are coming next year. My support and my money are still going to the ruling party." He started off.

I frowned, confused.

He had never really included us in his business talks, he thought we weren't intellectual enough.

We were.

My mother knew more about world history and global politics than my own father. But living in a society like ours, she couldn't really protest. Instead, she always acted dumb and remained oppressed by our father, teaching us that this was the duty of a woman, of a wife.

I didn't know whether she was right or not.

Women could be ministers out of their homes but inside, they were either dutiful daughters or honorable wives.