You feel lonely not because nobody is with you but because you are not with you - Shams Tabrizi
When a bird soars into the high skies, it has no thought of falling. Not the slightest of ideas about how it would feel if its wings were to be clipped, a result that would lead to death. When it flies, it flies with free thought. With faith in it's wings and it's Lord that nothing would go wrong. And so it cuts through the clouds and frees itself of all expectations. If a bird can do it, then why is a human heart drenched in doubt? Where is it's belief? The tawakul? Why does it cage itself? Why does it stop itself from soaring? Why does it not agree to ride out the tide?
Azmaray's eyes were bloodshot as he stared out of the cars window. His index finger, tapping the armrest. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion, lips pursed. He sighed, ignoring the dull throb in his head as he contemplated his whole life. His entire being. Thoughts of questioning his life and purpose were no strangers to him. Infact they went hand in hand, like the best of friends. Most of his life had been lived behind a silver veil. It kept the dark out and gave everything a hue of importance. It was when his father passed, that the veil was ripped away, torn into millions of tiny shreds. The world was a place full of hungry tigers and he was the only deer in sight.
Lately his life he had been living from the eyes of another man. He could not ever call what he had become, the Azmaray of his father. That one had been a man of discipline, found in between the pages of old, yellowed books. The one that sipped on kehva and munched on pistachios, taking puffs out of his father's glass, coal based hooqah. Not the one who sipped on whiskey, munched on bacon and tool puffs out of his friend's cigarettes. He had become poison for himself. And his fingers, were in a crux, because they could in all their glory, turn to him and him alone. No one else.
Stepping inside the carpeted walkway that lead to the doors of the jet, Azmaray hid his eyes behind the sleek frame of his sunglasses. The large tinted eye pieces, protecting him. He passed a tight smile to the woman standing at the door, checking his ticket and guiding him to his seat. Number 4-D. A wave of nostalgia hit him. Nausea gently wrapping around his wide throat as he inhaled the familiar scent of leather seats and airplane sanitisers. The wet tissues handed out in their soft packets, cut at his fingers. Taking him back to the fateful day he had arrived in England. Battered and bruised. And now he left, he even more shattered. The healing promised to him — a hoax.
Holding tightly onto the cushioned arm rest, Azmaray tried his best to ignore the feelings that threatened to eat him inside out. He took deep breaths, taking sips of the iced water out of the silicon cup. The gold, ruby ring in his index finger, glinting under the lights. Soon after take off, the lights were dimmed. Straightening his legs, Azmaray leaned back. Ignoring the web of memories meshed together. Ignoring his identity. Ignoring why he was going back.
One forgets all things but abandonment in their time of need. One can never forget the lack of an arm to hold them, a voice to soothe them. For this Azmaray would never forgive his family. And they knew it, which was why they resorted to emotion blackmailing, something they were well versed with. A thing, they shamelessly used, a reason for their pride. He didn't want power. He didn't want his family if it was all the cost of his father's life. An event that had cut a huge circle in his heart. Leaving it empty, raw, bleeding and unrepairable.
"Sir would you like anything else?" The air hostess, approached.
Her hands set on the industrial trolley, drinks set on display up top. A smile set on her face, showing off the set of perfectly white teeth.
"Whi– water please," Azmaray corrected himself.
He was planning to leave behind the man that he had turned into, in England. Although, he knew it was easier said than done.
She handed him over another glass of iced water. It's almost freezing temperature had his sensitive teeth chatter. Rubbing his fingers against his eyes from under the shades, he squeezed them tight. Ignoring the voices inside his head. He would go back, hand over the reigns to his elder brother, like it was his right. Then he would fly back to England. Cutting off all ties with his family. His mother could have her dutiful son and her desired bahu [daughter-in-law], whilst he could get his freedom. It was going to be a clean affair. No messy involvements.
Or was it?
———
The haveli nestled between the drooping slopes of the mountains, spoke of nothing but money. Old money. The property was spread across acres of land. It started before one even caught sight of the sang-e-marmar [marble] pillars. Large iron gates, with the symbolic Markhor, led into a large drive way. Either side of which, was covered in lush green grass and Fir trees. The road continued for a few kilometres, after which it spread out into an elaborate round about. In the centre, a huge statue of the Greek Goddess of nature, Gaia. A tribute to their ancestors, who had not only descended from Greece, but had been present when the influence of Greek culture was beginning to spread.
The statue stood in all its might, the sculpture, wrapped in copper, distributed water amongst the tiny streams that watered the large gardens. Then it spread into two directions. You could either take the one on the left and enter the large parking space. Or take the right and arrive at the large entrance. The door was guarded by the tall minarets, four on each side. Strategically placed in between them, were ceramic pots, filled with neatly trimmed orange blossoms.
Then it lead off to a large, cooper door with the image of Darius the Great etched on it. Above the door, a large crystal chandelier. This home had stood for many years. Ten generations had lived in it. And whilst most things were changed to match the time, the door was never replaced. It was polished and retouched every now and then, yet it stood up against the war of time — a winner every time.
A large foyer, it's focal piece, the recently installed waterfall chandelier. It tied the entrance together, underneath the fixture, was a mandalla. The floors were the shade of a limestone marble, with red veining and white speckles. The mandalla, made of black marble, through which thin white streaks ran. Hues of green and gold covering it.
One one side, was a curving staircase. It's steps, wide enough to host ten people at a time. The metal railing, made of dark green, with swirling wrought iron decorative metal used in between. The knobs, in the centre of each square, painted a metallic gold. The large round ceilings, gave glimpse of the corridors above. Over hanging pillars and galleries all opening into the foyer.
And right now, the large doors had been thrown open. Letting in the dim sunlight, fog already creeping up the walls as the sun set.
"Abu Azmaray aur Asghar bas phoanch gaye hain," [Father Azmaray and Asghar are almost here,] Saheefa informed her father-in-law.
He nodded his head, slightly. Wrapping his hand around the wooden cane, with a snake head as the handle, he walked towards the entrance. His sharp eyes, took in each detail. The servants running around, ensuring perfection of the highest order.
"Behtar ho ga agar aj hi uski akal thekanay laga di jai". [It would be best to bring him to his senses today itself.] Azan Khan, the patriarch, gave a stifling nod to her.
"Aisa hi ho ga," [That is how it will be,] Saheefa ensured.
The elderly man nodded, his green eyes, an inherited trait that ran in the untainted blood of the family, glinted with fury. His grandson would have to pay for his actions and mistakes.
"Arbaz, Hooriya ap dono dihyan rakhein keh Anbar uska dil jeet lai," [Arbaz, Hooriya the two of you make sure Anbar wins his heart,] he ordered his only living son and his wife.
The two nodded mindlessly, resembling sheep. For now there was no named ruler of their land. The presence of Azmaray, would help ensuring that was no longer the case. He would either take up his duty or Azan would himself chop his finger off and take that ruby ring away from him.
In her bedroom, that had large, painted glass windows, Anbar danced around. Her heart was gleeful. Her man was coming back home, for good. They would finally be married and she would live her dreams out. Her silky, copper-red hair had been curled at the ends. A maroon velvet kurta, with gold gota detailing. The large bell sleeves, gave a hint of her thin, creamy wrist. Leading on to the sharp fingers with manicured nails.
The cat shaped, green eyes, lined with khol and black eyeliner. A maroon lipstick coated her thick lips. Her hands fiddled with the organza, gold veil. Resting it on her head as she took two stairs at a time. Her maroon khusas gliding against the polished floors.
Her hand trained on the railing, eyes widening on seeing her whole family standing at the door. The home screamed opulence. Everything was at its place, no one could guess that just a few hours ago, the only daughter of Azan Khan, Samira Khan, had caused havoc. Breaking the expensive vases in the foyer to release frustration.
"Assalamualikum!" Anbar's bell like voice chimed.
A string of replies followed, as she took her place against her father. Anbar was an only child and the apple of her father's eye. She had been a pampered beyond repair.
"They are here," Arbaaz grinned.
Everyone held their breaths. Hearts beating fast, smiles widening as the man of the hour stepped in. Unfortunately, their excitement was not returned. Azmaray's face carried to it a solemn look. A single nod and a half hug was all that he spared his grandfather.
"Azmar!" Saheefa held his face in her hands.
"Azmaray. Mera naam Azmaray hai!" [My name is Azmaray!] His tone, haunting.
"But you were always called Azm—" Hooriya smiled at her nephew.
"Azmar passed away. He was buried alive, at the hands of everyone in this house". He cut her off bitterly.
But then sensing something, Azmaray walked towards her. Hugging Hooriya tightly. She had been more of a mother, more of a family than the entire other combined since his father's death.
"Mein wapis sirf apki izzat rakhnay aur apnay baap ko kia vaada nibhanay aya hun. Uss sai ziada ki umeed meray sai mat karna!" [I have returned only to keep your face and to fulfill the promise I made my father. Don't have hopes for anything other than that!] Azmaray's words resonated.
Breaking the hug, he turned his back on everyone. Motioning for one of the servants to carry the bags to his bedroom. A nap was much needed before he could face everyone at dinner.
OKAY
THOUGHTS & COMMENTS
HOORIYA WHEN SHE SAW AZMARAY