He Is The One For Me.

The Semi-Paki children

He laughed. For the first time in my life did I feel attracted towards the opposite gender. Despite his abhorrent personality I felt myself melt. He seriously was one good looking idiot. I stood there and stared at him, most shamelessly. I took in his brownish-blond hair, his smile, his strong jaw, his amber; wolf eyes, he was the kind of guy who belonged to the cover of a Pakistani romance novel.

He stood tall at approximately 6 feet 2 inches. Could be taller but that's how it looked then and there. He carelessly brushed away the thick lock of those smooth, blond-brown hair that fell in front of his gorgeous eyes. He waved his hand in front of my face, bringing me back to my senses. I felt my cheeks get hot. He smirked at me.

"Tut tut tut- checking out a Na-mehram, are we now?"

My blush got even worse and I turned my face away, so as to hide it. He chuckled.

"Arrogant jerk." I muttered. Mouthing a thank you, he turned and left, leaving the passage free for us to cross.

"I'm so sorry Hadiyah baji!"

"Why are you apologising cupcake? You can hardly control a full-grown man!"

"No Apu he's not like that please don't hate him!"

"I don't hate him, muffin. I don't feel no nothing for him. Do relax! But who is he?"

"He's my foster brother."

"Oh now I remember. Why is he here? I don't want to be rude but I have never seen him here before."

"Baba doesn't like him you see."

That was enough of an explanation, but Arfa went on to tell me he was doing his Masters at the "Birmingham University' in Accounting and Finance. That he was living in Birmingham with his Italian father. I wasn't interested but Arfa looked like she needed to talk to someone. I nodded at the appropriate places and held her when she cried. She loved the jerk too much.

He had come back after ten years. It figures why I didn't recognise him. I do remember playing with a Fahad long ago, but that Fahad was a friendly child, a friend I used to like. This jerk was no where near as nice. The opposite actually, but then again I have a very faint memory of him.

His mother was uncle's younger sister, she passed away on the day he was born. Little by little I'm starting to remember it all. I still don't understand why he is here though. Okay I admit I felt interested but no way was I going to tell Arfay. She was too young for such things. I couldn't wait before I'd be able to talk to my bff.

"Arfay why is uncle okay with him being here now?" I asked.

"I have no idea baji, baba wants us in his room at five. Maybe he'll explain that then."

We went to Arfa's room and she applied Henna on my hands. I beamed at her as I saw her artistic, thin fingers dance away on my hand, leaving an exquisite design behind. Her fingers remind me of those of painters, I think all artistic people have thin and delicate fingers- perfect for their aesthetic abilities. We enjoyed ourselves until it was five pm. Then we went towards his room, our minds full of questions.

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~Hamid Aziz~

The Aziz family, the name that has sparked fear into the hearts of all villagers, since long before I was born. Trained to use all kinds of weapons since our childhood, we stand as the most feared family in this part of Pakistan. We do not wed our children outside the family, let alone outside our cast.

I glanced at the vast expanse of land, all belonging to the Aziz family. It speaks eloquently of the grandeur, hard work and strength of our fathers and forefathers. Even our woman are trained to defend themselves. My mother a true Aziz-blood, was a strong willed lady, feared even by the male species.

I have refused to accept these semi-Paki children, as mother used to call them. They don't belong to the perfectly-Pakistani Aziz family. We have been proud landlords since many years, keeping all our land within the family since generations. Until Shumaila had to go and marry that "Italian" man, who she claimed was a practicing Muslim.

She has always had her way, being the first lady in the family to study abroad. Got a full bright scholarship to a US university. She could not be disinherited, father refused my request to do so. I doubled over with anger the day her share of 'our' land was given to the Italian. I had threatened to kill her, that had a great effect on him and he promised to transfer back the ownership of the land.

Again father interfered and we had a heated argument. To make things worse my younger brother Omar (hadiyah's dad) came home with a Scottish wife. I held my head in between my hands, my siblings were too much for me to handle. It was time I called our older brother into the picture. It would mean bloodshed, yes but they couldn't blame me, I did try to handle things myself, didn't I?

I was saved the trouble when I got the news of Shumaila's death. At least our land would be coming back. I went to her funeral, I couldn't stop loving her, she was my sister after all. I couldn't have killed her for the land, but that didn't mean I wouldn't have called Bakhtawar bhira(brother in pinjabi) to do it.

She died giving birth to another Aziz, but his looks made my blood boil. The two-week old child strongly resembled his beautiful mother, yes- but his non-Aziz, non-Pakistani father ; more so. I glared at the child. Ali ( shumaila's husband) snatched him from my arms.

"What about Shumaila's property ?" I had gotten to my point at once.

"It has only been two weeks since your sister passed away. Isn't it too early for such a discussion?"

He asked of me, hatred gleaming in his Amber eyes. I despise the colour of his eyes the most. Not a single Aziz has ever had such eyes, and Fahad took after him.

"When do I get OUR land back?"

I asked ignoring him completely.

"You won't get it, Shumaila gave it to our son."

The non-challant  way he spoke, sparked my anger. I reached for my pistol and pointed it straight towards his face. Fahad began to cry, he looked so very like the baby Shumaila from many years ago. My hands have never wavered whenever I hold onto a gun. They, however felt extremely weak now. I couldn't load the gun, my fingers shook. I cursed myself under my breath, what are you letting this child do to you? I screamed at myself in my head.

I thrust it back into my pocket.

"Raise him well." I found myself saying, even I couldn't believe myself. I wonder what Bakhtawar Bhira would do to me. I didn't care about it then and there. Closing the door of Shumaila's house behind me I briskly walked, got into my jeep and sped away.

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