I am tired of myself tonight, I should like to be someone else - Oscar Wilde
The fire in the brick hearth, studded with a metal net, burned high. The embers fluttering around the large, spacious room. The wood crackling as it burnt, adding a beat to the silent space. The bright oranges, yellows and reds fostered a glaring look. Unforgiving as they roared, their heat reaching heights, unknown. They cast a gloomy shadow on the otherwise dark room, a hollow light on the obsidian bedroom. Shadows fell onto the wooden floors, of a raging beast and a calm beauty. They told their own tales, as the fire continued to lap at the wooden sticks, and the chairs stood still, in silence. Muted, to avoid the rage of their master.
On a dark pine, velvet upholstered Victorian chair, Azmaray sat in complete silence. His breath came out in small whispers, touching the cupids bow of his lip. His hands resting against the carved walnut arms. Legs crossed and the dark blue robe pulled into a tight knot. His ring clad finger, tapped away at the edge, eyes staring at the fire infront him. The other hand, swirling a glass of whiskey, his drink of choice —— always. His lips set into a grim smile, head still filled with thoughts of the woman he had encountered over a week ago.
His mind was clouded with her, enamoured completely. The bitter liquid dwelled on his tounge, leaving a mark behind, for a few seconds, unlike of course the woman named 'Rani'. He could still feel her gaze on him, the eyes that were the brightest of browns he had ever seen. Her touch, like the lightest of feathers, and yet it had burned, brandished him. He felt like he wore an invisible mark. Maybe the kisses she had littered across his hot skin, had burned deep. Seeped into the very being of him.
However, a part of him believed it to be infatuation. There was no way in hell or heaven, that he would fall for a woman in one night. It was out of the question. 'Love', was stretching it a bit to far. The woman had been dominating in bed, her eyes had burned him, her touch and cut through him and the wild kisses that they shared, left him wanting more. It could be contributed to the fact that she was not docile, or complacent like most Pakistani women were raised to be. The spark of sin and desire ran inside her wildly, and that had left him wanting more. He concluded it was the hot blooded male in him, that wanted to control her spirit. A case of infatuation, nothing more, nothing less.
Resting his head on the plush headrest, Azmaray pinched his eyes. Bouncing his leg, deep in thought. The warmth from the fire rested against his cool skin, well. In the background his phone rang, wildly. Calls from his family, asking him to return to Swat. Yet he had it not in himself to show his face to them just yet. In Lahore, away from their manipulative clutches, away from the toxic atmosphere of London and Swat, Azmaray was thriving. He was at peace finally, he felt new. Like his life was changing for the better, and he would not risk his peace for his family's age old traditions just yet.
Completely immersed in his thoughts, Azmaray continued to ignore the ringing of his phone. His fingers undoing the knot on his robe, his feet automatically sliding out of the plum satin slippers. Sliding the thick robe off of his muscular arms, he threw it over the orange ottoman, his hands fiddling with the covers as he slid under them. Head resting on top of the fluffy satin pillows. His hair sloppily laying against the cover. Mind emptied as the gentle ache in his frontal lobe began to spread out into a radiating pain, moving like waves in a sea. Gripping his phone, Azmaray turned it off. Turning to his left, sinking in deeper. Ignoring the list of responsibilities that awaited.
————
Azan Khan stared at his unmarried daughter. Samira, his youngest, was at the age of forty eight, still unmarried. She had rejected good enough proposals left, right and centre. Years of being under her father's care, had turned her into a vicious woman. She had eaten her weight in, and despite the many warnings from the doctor, she had refused to change weighs. Weighing in at a solid hundred kilograms with a height of five feet and five inches.
In her rage, Samira had broken her phone. Throwing it against the walls of the home. Shards of glass littered the floors and the body of the phone lay in his feet. Everyone else, stared at the scene, stunned. Anbar gulping her saliva as she hid behind the pillars. Observing another one of her phopho's tantrums. They were as common as the Friday feasts her grandfather held.
Like a raging bull, Samira stared at her father. Eyes rimmed red. Lips pulled in between her teeth as she took in deep breaths. Her father, staring at her with a deep contempt in his eyes. His fingers stroking the jade encrusted serpent's head on his stick.
"Why?" A singular word, that held more weight than an encyclopedia.
"Abba—" [Father—] Samira hesitated.
"Answer the bloody question!" Azan raged.
At the end of his wits with the behaviour of his daughter.
"I just feel anger at —" she tried.
"Shut up! Samira I've sat through many tantrums of yours. These end now!" Azan slammed hand against the glass coffee table.
"Everything that's happened to you, is your own fault, don't beg for my pity". Azan dismissed, the signs of repulsion in Samira's eyes not going unnoticed.
"Saheefa get this mess cleaned up. Order Asghar to bring Azmaray home as soon as he can. Shaadi ki tiyaari karo," [Get ready for the wedding,] he got up, pausing to stare at his youngest, before continuing.
"Aur jisko masla ho iss shaadi sai, usko kamray mein band kardo. Par shaadi tou yeh ho kar rahay gi! Chahe mujhe janazay hi kyun na nikalnay parein". [And whoever has a problem from the wedding, lock them in their rooms. This wedding will take place! Even if I have to host funerals for it.] Azan uttered, with finality.
Samira's shoulders slumped with realisation. Her father was no longer willing to prioritise her. With the arrival of Azmaray in Pakistan, his plans had to move forward, putting her marriage on the back burner. Which her ego, would never accept. Observing everyone with narrowed eyes, Samira promised to make everyone suffer.
————
Laila gazed at her dress in utter disappointment. Feeling upset at the torn edges of her new dress, the one she was meant to wear at tonight's show. The one, she and Ayna were supposed to twin in. The one her mother had stayed up all night to stitch. Laila stared at it with tears in her eyes, her lips wobbling as her thin fingers grazed the fabric from where it had burnt. Cursing under her breath for not being careful with the iron.
"Laila yeh kaisay huwa?" [Laila how did this happen?] Ayna shrieked.
She had just entered the bedroom and seeing the burnt dress left her shell shocked. Already dressed in her own frock, her hair in a bun with flowers wrapped around it, Ayna was no less than a vision.
"A-Ayna aapi mera- meray sai ghalti ho gai. Kasam sai!" [A-Ayna sister I– I made a mistake. I swear!] Laila sniffed, hugging her sister tight.
Ayna nodded her head, kissing the top of Laila's hair. Calming her down as she thought of a million solutions inside her head. A ruined dress was not a huge problem, accidents happened. It was the fact that they would have to face Asma Bi that scared the two sisters. If Laila delayed them, things would not end up in their favour.
"Uh— Laila there is this one dress in amma's chests. It has this pretty bronze anarkali. She never let's me touch it, but since this is an emergency and you're her favourite daughter, maybe we can take it?" Ayna came up with an idea.
Looking at Laila with a twinkle in her eyes, expecting her sister to hype her up for this decision. The idea was brilliant, and in such a short time, only that was possible.
"Make you hair into a braid and curl the front pieces. Light golden makeup with peach undertones. I'll go and get it, okay?" She patted her shoulder, and exited.
Laila took a sigh of relief, brushing her hair and starting on what her sister had asked her to do. Carefully braiding her hair and curling them softly, she swiped a few layers of mascara onto her soft eye lashes. Swiping the matte peach lipstick on her lips, the golden highlight, brought attention to her face on all the right places. A short while later, Ayna stepped into the room with a soft bronze dress. Its chiffon, looked soft from even four feet away, the golden threads and rhinestones, glittering under the paling sunlight.
"It's perfect!" Laila squealed, in excitement.
Taking it out of Ayna's hands, she rushed behind the flimsy divider, undressing and wearing the dress. It fit like a glove, flaring out into an elaborate show. The borders brushing the ground and hiding her pink toes. The fitted sleeves, ended at her soft wrist. The neckline showing off her collarbone —— it was infact a modest fit, and maybe in it's simplicity was the real charm. Laila's skin glowed in the dress, her fingers, dyed red with the henna, held the veil tightly, returning from behind the divider. Twirling infront of Ayan, showing of the dress in all its glory.
Before Ayna could give a reaction, Sarah stepped inside the room. Her heart stopping on seeing Laila standing in the dress. It took her back to a time she had not forgotten. The memory that was welded into the curves of her brain. Her eyes filled up with tears, instantaneously, lips quivering as she thought of Salma. How she had looked nothing short of perfection, with her innocence. Eyes that searched for home inside of her. Sarah could never forget the day Salma had sobbed on her shoulder for the whole night. Begging to be returned to her parent. However, she had been helpless, and failed to give her friend what she desired which was —— freedom.
Sarah felt like she was back in time. Like nothing had changed and Salma had walked into the doors of the brothel once more. The glittering eyes, cheerful laughter, mischievous movements, everything a stark contrast from what her mother was like on arrival. Wiping her eyes, Sarah took a deep breath, holding her feelings inside of her heart as she spoke.
"B-bacho tum log late ho rahay ho!" [K-kids you guys are getting late!] Sarah patted Ayna's back.
"We're leaving, but mama, tell Laila how pretty she looks!" Ayna hugged her tight.
"Uh-uh yes she really does. MashAllah!" Sarah hid the pain in her eyes, hugging Laila as well.
————
A huge stage had been set outside in the large farmhouse. A circular makeshift stage, with lanterns hanging on top. Cherry blossoms, in the background in full bloom. The midnight blue sky and thousands of glittering stars acted as the perfect companion to the slow, silent aura of the night. The soft tunes of the sitar, began to play. A gentle thudding on the tabla just beginning as Laila took to the center of the stage, her first solo performance.
She stared at the many men infront of her. Each one sipping on a drink of their choice and smoking the hooqah that had been provided. The large, thick carpet covered the neatly trimmed grass. Floor cushions thrown around, their backs pressed against them for comfort. Taking a deep breath, loving the shadow casted on her face by the low lights, Laila waited for the qawwals to begin singing.
Upon hearing it, Laila began to move with vigour. She moved her hips in a controlled passion, her soft back arching and moving barely. Her legs frozen, the hips doing most of the work. The material of the dress felt insanely expensive and made her feel like a queen. The eager eyes, burning deeply into her skin, made her hunger for power rise to surface. The breaths were limited as everyone was hung up over her power, her hands spreading out and raising. The elbows jutting out to make the perfect movements. And then lowering, within a blink of an eye. Mouths dried on her movements as she neared the crowd. Raising her dress, giving them a peak at her feet before she moved to the centre, doing the chakra [twirls], five steps in each. Like lightning she moved.
The crowd felt dizzy on the repetitive twirls, seeing everyone under the haze of the almost climaxing show, Azmaray sneaked out of the crowd, walking towards Asma Bi.
"Kitna?" He raised his brow, pointing at Laila's figure.
"Bees. Par nakhra hai uska. Mana lo!" [Twenty. However she is moody. Convince her!] Asma Bi smirked.
Laila had kept a rule and she stood by it. Asma Bi was happy to comply considering the number of clients Laila's passion and attitude brought in. Azmaray gave an arrogant smile, waiting for Laila to return, no one could resist his charm.
"Rani he wants you". Asma Bi grinned.
Laila, who had just gotten off of the stage, was busy wiping her sweaty brows when the voice had her halting her motions. Turning, coming face to face with Azmaray, she walked forward —— stealthily.
"Sorry nawab sahab, I dont sleep with the same man twice". She kissed his cheek, noisily.
Dismissing him, Laila walked over to another client, a new face. Excited to charm him like she had many others. A seething Azmaray staring at her back.
The game was on.
Posted early cause my phone is almost dead
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AZMARAY'S FIRST REJECTION
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