In three words I can some up everything I've learned about life : it goes on – Robert Frost
A flurry of skirts climbed up the large staircase in a hurry. Purpose filled steps clashed against the sleeping giant. The synchronisation with which tens of steps smacked against it, was a performance of its own. Like a dozen flamingos flying away from a body of water. Their wings flapping in a single rhythm. These women, rushed to get to their designated rooms for the night. A sense of duty awakened in them as they proceeded to get on with the night be it willing or unwilling. Eyes clashed against each other, a fury, an untouched tension filled the tiny crevices of the floorings. An arrogance in them as they brushed past against each other. It was after all a profession that pit — women against women.
Laila was among the group of women, like fluttering butterflies, they scattered in all directions. Their bright dresses, clashing with the pale walls of the large farm house. Like petals thrown around on the arrival of an important guest. These women were all married, married to their career. To their bodies, they were devoted. And to men, they served. Their selves, their souls, their salvation, their damanation. Everything in the hands of — men. Revolting, disgusting, hypocritical men. Yet ofcourse, they with their greying beards and filled to the brim pockets, got to keep their respect. Their status, their pride and a seat at every respectable family's dinner.
She turned a corner, and entered a dimly lit room. It was sparsely decorated, clearly the owners had focused more on perfecting what the guests would actually. Inside these rooms, the eyes were always on the women. It didn't matter that the bed was dingy or that the closet hung on the wall, sloppily. Taking a deep breath, Laila settled herself on the foot of the bed. Only her hushed breathing and the rustling of the linen underneath her. She mentally counted down until her first client stepped into the room.
She did not have to wait long. For a mere five minutes later, he was inside the room. A sinister smile on his thin lips. Laila passed a polite smile, gathering her courage and wits. She looked down at her feet, her heartbeat fastening. And then her pupils, widened. The chocolate of her eyes vanishing, only a darkness of her pupils remaining. Her maroon lips, pushed under her teeth, softly biting onto her flesh as she looked up once more. In that micro second time frame, Laila had been replaced by Rani, the confident alter ego.
Laila or Rani — if you will, took five soft steps. Her mouth pulled into a grin. Her inexperience would not control her, she decided. She would let her body follow it's own voice. The man's gaze, irked her. But here the customer was — God. And this was her life. Her hands traced all the way up from his arms to his soft shoulders. The tip of her nails dancing against his hot, sweaty neck.
Javed shuddered, this was the first time a woman took control. His arm, wrapping around her waist. Their chests crushing. Feeling the warmth of his palm seep into her dress, she rubbed the tender skin behind her earlobe.
"Ap kafi thakay huway lag rahay hain, sahab". [You look very tired, sir.] She let out a breezy giggle.
Javed passed a tight lipped smile. The discomfort in his body, only increasing with her soft voice and tender caresses.
"Ap hain nai is thakawat ko dur karnay keh liye". [You're here to help me rid of this tiredness.] He winked.
She let out a giggle. Her voice, breathless. Breath rate increasing exponentially as he threw her on the bed. Rani skillfully guided his hands to the back of her dress. Enjoying the feel of his rough palms against her own heated skin. She felt a flush over take her body. Her fingers, tugging Javed's clothes off of his body.
He took her, for most of the night. Like a crazed beast, he knew no stopping. It was uncomfortable at first. She felt a pain, but soon, Rani lost herself to it. The feeling of him filling her, the sliding of their bodies. His hands touching her. Everywhere. He was everywhere. His scent was everywhere.
"Can I try something?" Rani widened her eyes.
Under the orange lights, she looked like a medieval painting. And Javed had no choice but to agree. Too forgone in his pleasure to even realise what was happening. She threw him on the bed, taking herself on him. His body was not picture perfect, but the man sure knew how to treat his women. She was lucky her first time was not with an old, lazy man. But instead with someone who was not too hard on the eyes.
Around the early hours of morning, when the first signs of dawn where just beginning to show, a tired Javed slumped on the bed. Asleep, snoring away. She got up from the bed, limping, to the bathroom. Taking a hasty shower and dressing in her clothes. She stared at herself in the mirror. All night they had gone at it, a cruelty. Her body ached now, and it was near impossible for her to walk downstairs. But there was still something missing. The fire had been doused, but now she wanted more of it. Like an itchy spot that had been missed, dissatisfaction filled her.
Laila was a mixture of feelings as she sat down against the window. Peering out into the world of luxury. Large, spacious lawns, flashy cars, decadent meals. However, she preferred taking glimpses from afar. These lives were perfect on the surface level, otherwise, why did men rush out of their homes as soon as the clock struck six? Why did their wives cover themselves completely and put up facades of happy families?
A tear trickled down her cheek. A shaky breath escaping her parted, chapped lips. It was all of joy. She was a woman now. Her mother and sister, feared for no reason. The night had awakened the power inside of her. The power to control. To make men bow. Laila would be dammed if she didn't cultivate this to her own favour. They were all pieces on Asma Bi's chessboard. However, it would be her that called 'check mate'.
———
Azmaray had been back in Pakistan for two days. In these two days, forty eight hours, he had spent a majority avoiding his family. The sight of them, revolting. They had all grown in the lap of luxury, but his time away had opened his eyes to the cruelties subjected onto their people. His family's enormous estate, could be chopped off to house the poor. Their lavish feasts, knocked out to feed the hungry. Yet, how could you be affluent if you cared for those beneath you? Was it not the first and foremost lesson of aristocracy, to kill the humanity inside of you?
Dressed a maroon khaddar kurta with paper white fitted trousers, he exited his enormous bedroom. His room, was the only part that felt like home. Everything else had changed. Gone were the humbling tones of the estate his father had worked to install. Instead, replaced with ice cold statues for humans. He fixed the kausia on his head. The Greek term for the Chitrali hat. Another tradition the people had adopted from the Greek invasion. His family, prided on using the more fancier term. Still hung up on their ancestry. Ofcourse, there was no one more pure than the family of Azan Khan in the whole of the region.
"Azmaray nashta?" [Breakfast?] His mother called him.
Sighing he nodded his head, it was time to grace them all with his presence. Pumping his chest, and widening his shoulders with a head held high, he walked into the dining room. Demanding attention from everyone around him.
"Aiye tashreef rakhein nawab sahab!" [Please come have a seat duke sir!] His grandfather taunted.
Azmaray knew his absence from the welcoming dinner had not gone down well. Fortunately for him, he had long stopped caring about what his family wanted to say. Ignoring the elderly man's words, he took a seat at the head of the table. For now, he was the ruler, unofficially but still. His eyebrow, raised in challenge to his family. To see if anyone had the guts to challenge him.
"Beta ye lo qeemay keh parathey. Khud ap keh liye banay hain!" [Son here take these minced meat breads. I've made it for you myself!] Hooriya patted his head.
Azmaray passed a small smile, his eyes turning steely in mere seconds. Focused on the fried bread infront of him. A crystal bowl, filled with curd placed next to it. Anbar poured water inside his glass, sitting with her mother. All eyes trained on him to take the first bite. Not wanting the stifling silence to ensue, he dipped a morsel into the cool yoghurt, chewing on the bite with calculation. The warmth and taste of home filling his blood with a fuzziness. Tears almost escaped his eyes, his lashes catching them before anyone could see the crack in him.
"Asghar take some more!" Shaheefa fussed on her elder son.
Her voice broke Azmaray out of his reverie. It reminded him, that he was an intruder in their home, in their perfect lives. A broken soldier whose mardangi [manliness] was not enough.
"Azmaray do you want to go see the petunias I've planted in the garden?" Anbar turned to him.
Her cheeks flushed red, going well with the white raw silk dress she had worn. Her fair skin, turning a hue of rose as she caught his eye.
"I'd love to," he wiped the corners of his mouth with the linen handkerchief.
Staring at the lotus embroidery on the ends of the napkin. A signature design, prepared under the eyes of his great great great grandmother. How they knew this fact? Each ruler left behind a detailed account of his lives. From the number of wives to what he had for dinner every night. Through centuries, they had amassed a number of volumes, each one thicker than the rest.
Getting up from his seat, he nodded at everyone politely. Moving outside with a silence, opening the glass doors that led into the large gardens. The well maintained garden, had a central statute, around it, the garden divided into various quarters as paths led down them. A chilling fog had set over the grass and cobblestone pavements as he waited for Anbar to arrive.
"Let's go!" Her voice interrupted his meditation.
With a simple glance thrown over his shoulder, he waited for her to lead the way.
"So what have you done whilst I was gone?" Azmaray passed her half a smile.
He had always held brotherly affection towards Anbar, that his family was dead set on calling 'love'.
"I've completed my bachelors is political science. Planning to start my masters soon," she grinned.
He nodded, rubbing the back of his head. How was he to make conversation with a person who had had no contact with him over the years?
"Azmaray why don't you like me?" She moved closer.
Her hands resting on his sturdy shoulders.
"I do like you — " Azmaray began.
His voice cut off by her squeals as she rushed inside.
" — but only as a sister". The rest of the sentence a whisper in the air.
Forgotten and purposeless. Much like the man who had said it.
OKAY MISS LAILA NO LONGER VIRGIN
BET YOU THOUGHT AZMARAY WOULD BE HER FIRST *insert eyeroll*
RANI/LAILA IS A QUEEN
THEY MEET SOON
AHHH ANBAR!!!