| Hawaaon Ke Paighaam | Messages Of The Wind

| The Haveli |

Note:

This chapter has multiple photo inspos therefore I have attached them all individually at the end of the chapter. The one in the header is a collage of all.
Video inspo is in the comments.

Milaad is a gathering where religious hymns/naat/nasheed are recited, dhikr is done and they are used for all kinds of purposes. The Khans are using a milaad start the wedding festivities in a positive way, with blessings, so that the events going forward go well.

Mujhe dekhke jab tum yun thandi aahein bharte ho
achay lagte ho
Mujhko jab lagta hai tum mujhpar hi marte ho
achay lagte ho...

Tum mein aey meherbaan
sari hai khoobiyan...

The humongous room practically buzzed. The high, decorated ceiling bounced the chatter back down to the room as interested murmurs merged with excited exclaims, which seamlessly fused with the low tones of pleasantries. The room contained about thirty members of one of Pakistan's most esteemed families; the Khan's. The occupants ranged from immediate to slightly distant family members, but all deemed close enough to arrive early and meet with the hosts before being taken to their arranged lodgings in the haveli. Slightly distant members would arrive just on the day of the events and were arranged to stay in the haveli next door, also owned by Murtasim Khan and currently being used as the staying place overnight wedding guests.

The man in question sat regally on of the brocade and velvet drawing room sofas, leaned back with one leg crossed over the other and an arm resting casually on the arm rest as he listened to his father in law speak about the running of his private law chambers. Humming in understanding, his finger moved over the pad of his thumb, as it always did when he was thinking about something. More often than not, it happened when he was either very deep in thought or outwardly paying attention to something complexly different to what his mind was focusing on.

And right then, though his thoughts did concern his father in law, his mind was most definitely not focusing on jurisprudence and the inner workings of Waqas Ahmed's law firm. His daughter, yes. His law firm, not so much. She'd ran off towards her room about thirty minutes ago, and he'd come into the drawing room to spend some time with the guests because he knew it would mean a lot to his mother that he did so.

That was all well and good until his mind had gone from absently waiting for her to now fixating on why the hell it was taking her so long. She'd either bumped into a nosy relative on the way here or she was burying herself in numerious kilos of fabrics and jewels to look like a Khan daughter in law; neither option he was too keen on. His eyes slid towards where the younger ladies of the family were gathered together with Mariyam. The dress code seemed to be the same; the usual kind of semi-formal clothes he'd grown up seeing on women in the family, the same hair, the usual little gold jewels on the younger lot and heavier ones on the older ladies, and rounded off with a little flip of the dupatta over the crown of the heads. It was like a uniform now.

His wife had never quite gotten the memo; neither now nor back when she hadnt been his wife. This was her first time entering a room in this haveli as his wife amongst guests though. She'd left the day after the nikkah and had only been back a handful of times on private visits with her parents on Eids. Truth be told, Murtasim himself didn't know what to expect from their time in Pakistan. It was unlike it had ever been. They were unlike they'd ever been. Not too long ago, they hadn't been able to stand in a room without one abruptly leaving and breaking the farce of normalny they'd weaved around themselves. That was before and after marriage, and in all instances, Murtasim had simmered whilst Meerab had blazed. They both hadn't been too happy, but as always, they'd expressed it very differently to one another, and to this day, he was mind blown that not a single family member had ever picked up on the tension between for more than half a decade.

They'd all been beside themselves in shock at the news of their marriage, and it hadn't been because their 'dislike' had been known for one another. No, it was because they'd managed to slip that tension so quietly under the radar that people had been surprised to learn they even knew of each other's existence. Everyone had just thought Murtasim was too engrossed in his life to pay attention to the girl who frequented his home over the summer and that Meerab had been too young and bubbly to even think about marriage, or more specifically, marriage to Murtasim.

They'd been quite the bombshell, him and his surprise firecracker fiancé. Murtasim's mouth twitched in amusement. He still remembered the look on his mother's face, and for a second, he'd actually thought she would drop into a faint. He also remembered his first meeting with Waqas Chacha after Meerab had broken the news to her parents, and to say that the man sitting across from him now had stared at him like he'd grown a pair of horns and a tail was an understatement. The bafflement on his face had been so, so severe that Murtasim had done most of the talking and let the poor man digest the news in peace.

The family seemed to have gotten over most of the shock and bafflement, but even now, Murtasim knew gossip was rife within the families about the how, why, where, and when. No one had been offered an explanation about their engagement, and naturally, that had led their immediate families to believe that it was a love match. This rumour had burned through the entire family after their engagement was announced, and Murtasim was sure that the scandalous thought had settled into the minds of every family member even before they'd finished their first helping of the bespoke sweet treats they'd been sent as part of the lavish hampers which had been delivered all over the country to announce his engagement and impending wedding.

He knew those who knew his mother knew that she had wanted another 'type' of daughter in law. It was no secret. Those close to her also knew she had been keen on someone from her own family, most likely one of her sister's daughters. Whilst all wonderful females, Murtasim had never really paid any attention to any of those women in his family. By the time he'd been old enough to fully understand the concept of attraction and had the freedom to explore it, he'd been in London, and that had been another ball game altogether. He'd had his pick of girls, and though he'd experienced attraction many times and had been on the receiving end more times than he could count, he'd always curbed it just before it led to anything lasting or anything physical. The reason had been simple; his religion hadn't allowed it. But he'd also always told himself that becoming entangled sometimes led to you getting attached, and he couldn't have brought home a London girl to his parents.

Not that anyone would've been able to stop him because whilst always responsible, he'd never been the sort to sacrifice himself or his wishes for tradition's dictation. But he'd known his responsibilities from a very young age, and one of those was to marry suitably and carry on the family name. And since it was a name he was proud of, he had never wanted to do anything that jeopardised it.

Another reason, one not so glaring yet still quite pertinent, had been the matter of being trapped into a marriage. Something which affected a small percentage of male university students, the pregnancy trap was a common and well-known way to ensnare a young, rich man at any prestigious university. His own friends had had too many near misses and like most filthy rich guys at the university, Murtasim had known that there wasn't a shortage of girls who would happily sleep with him, or even make it seem like they did, in order to secure a ring and a lifetime of wealth. Most people who knew them knew what an heir meant to them, and many had tried their luck. Most times, it had involved a fake pregnancy, but you'd never known back then. An actual child being used as leverage had been known to happen many a time, and it was only down to the man to keep himself safe. It wasn't a great surprise that Omar had been targeted the most number of times from all his friends, mostly because he'd been involved with the most women, and it still amused Murtasim how he'd managed to graduate without either being trapped into a marriage of duty or having a child.

Lastly, he could never have done that to a girl. To bring a girl who'd had little to no exposure of his lifestyle and its parameters and expect her to adjust fully and raise his heir, who would then be entrusted the seat he currently occupied, was such a mammoth responsibility and could've drowned anyone who wasn't accustomed to the life. it had been too great a responsibility, for him and for whoever who he would eventually marry, and so Murtasim had avoided it like the plague. And it had worked out perfectly.

He still remembered feeling like no woman in his acquaintance could handle the responsibility of being his wife and Khaani. And if she somehow managed that fine and by miracle did a fine job raising his heir as per the requirements of the dynastic tradition, she'd definitely stumble whilst being the perfect Khan daughter in law for his mother, because there was no impressing Begam Shahnawaz Khan unless maybe he presented her with a younger version of herself, and even then, one without the mistakes she herself had made in her youth.

And yet, he'd given that mantle to Meerab. Meerab. Meerab, who his mother could spot twenty shortcomings whilst standing twenty feet away. Meerab, who'd always been too 'azaad-tarbiyat' and 'azaad-khayaal' for his mother and his family traditions. Meerab, who'd had a hard time getting a dupatta to stay on her shoulders for more than fifteen minutes at a time. Meerab, who had hated him for a good few years before his proposal.

He, Murtasim Khan, had given half his life and the responsibility of his lineage, dynasty, and his family to Meerab. And he'd never regretted it for even a split-second. Because he didn't do regrets. He analysed a business deal from at least ten different angles to ensure it was worth his money and time. This had then been his life and family name. He'd known he'd been doing the right thing. How he hadn't known. He'd had two driving forces; one of them very much tangible, and the other, it had been a feeling. A flimsy feeling. It hadn't even been a gut feeling because those Murtasim could count on with his eyes closed. No, it had been a strange, warm light; like a moth being drawn to a flame over and over again. It had felt right, and despite it blowing up in his face spectacularly the night before their nikkah, it still didn't feel wrong.

It was all rather insane, actually. But he'd come to expect insanity with Meerab Murtasim Khan around.

The murmuring in the room pausing and then dying down had him blinking in focus to Waqas Chacha still talking. His head turning to the now almost silent room, his eyes swept over the pale coloured fabrics and glint of gold before clashing with...a kaleidoscope of colours?

Speaking of Meerab Murtasim Khan...

Head turned, necks arched, eyes blinked and then blinked again whilst taking in the vision at the tall doors at the entrance of the drawing room. Mid conversation, almost everyone in the room turned to look at the one person whose arrival had been anticipated with bated breath.

The Khan's prodigal daughter in law had arrived.

Murtasim blinked. Why he'd ever thought her delay would have anything to do with her conforming herself to the age old traditions of primping and preening herself to look like a jewellery box full of gold, he didn't know. He clearly should've known better; he knew Meerab after all. Now more than ever.

He should've known his wife wouldn't appear in the standard traditional clothing which had filled up the haveli since yesterday or that the only gold she'd been wearing would be that dusting of gold sheen high on her forehead and the delicate contours on her face.

Standing at the doorway looking straight at the room, Meerab wore what could, in the most basic of terms, be described as the primary colour palette. Reds, oranges, greens, indigo; you name it, and she had it somewhere on her. It was a long kameez and flared trousers, with the flimsy chiffon dupatta anchored over one shoulder and the shoulders framed by her straightened hair; much more neatly straightened than it had been thirty-five minutes ago. Smoothing his gaze down her shiny brown hair, his eyes hit the bright green squares she seemed to be wearing on her ears and even without looking at himself in the mirror, Murtasim knew he would find a glint in his eyes at just how marvellously this woman seemed to do the opposite of what tradition dictated without batting an eyelid. Did she do it on purpose? He didn't think so. He thought she was so engrossed and so secure in her world that she actually thought no one could judge or hate on another person for being different. It's just how she was; sunshine for days.

"Assalam alaikum."

It almost echoed around the cavernous room.

Her voice was the same as it always was; clear and effortlessly melodious, but with now with a hint reserve. High heels echoed around the room as she took two steps into the room and then were drowned out by the sudden burst of 'waalaikum asalaam's which resounded. People shuffled in their seats, turned and tried to get a proper look as she walked in with slow, steady steps, and then even she halted.

Because he stood up.

And that was unprecedented.

After many years of life as Khan, certain protocols now came to him as normally as breathing. one of these was remaining seated whenever almost anyone came into a room. People stood for him, not the other around. The execetions were, of course, his mother and a few select elders he held in high regard, and even then, that was reserved to formal gatherings. In most formal gatherings, Murtasim didn't stand for anyone. He had his seat, and it was to be occupied by him until he didn't wish to occupy it any longer, after which he would leave the room and people would stand as they bid him goodbye. It was the way of the land, and it now seemed second nature to him. And yet, he stood up.

Because she was his exception, he'd decided. His anomaly. She wasn't one to be hidden, quite literally if that dress was to be considered, and she wasn't one who'd quietly stand behind and nod to whatever he said. She had a mind and a mouth, and God help him, she liked to use it. A lot. She was as strong as she was headstrong, and she had a fire within her that commanded attention. And so he simply ensured the attention was given in a manner befitting her brilliance and rank.

Heads turned again, away from her and towards him this time, eyes widened and then like a domino effect, the entire room, with the exception of his mother and her parents, stood up after him.

And then he moved again. Another unprecedented move.

Stepping away from his seat at the sofas, he stood to the side, leaving the space where he'd just been clear. And as far as the noise of silent gestures went, this one could be best likened to a hundred canons firing into the air.

Because this was his seat.

With his eyes on her the entire time and his hands clasped behind his back, he watched as she looked at him, then discreetly to the seat he'd just vacated, then back to him and then around the room filled with people looking at her before coming back to look at him again. The room was silent as everyone watched, and then, with a steady, dainty step, the echoing click clack of heels was back, and it continued all the way to him.

She got him. That was what was so insanely unique about her. She got him. He didn't know how she did, but she did. She made her way across the room and all the while, Murtasim stood tall, watching her regally nod her head and smile gracefully at every family member whilst she made her way to where his mother and her parents sat with him.

And then she was there. All her colourful, fiery beauty up close. Her dark green heels click-clacked and came to a stop as she rounded the sofas and after smiling at her parents, went to his mother, who sat grandly like a woman of her rank usually did at gatherings. Bending down, Meerab murmered a salaam, and Murtasim watched closely as his mother blinked at her before leaning forward to place a hand on her head; her glaringly uncovered head.

And then she was straightening up and turning to him, all colours of the rainbow aimed at him with her shiny brown tresses glinting on underneath the massive chandeliers. He stood at the junction of two sofas, from where he had stepped out from, and with his eyes on her, he stepped back, leaving the junction open. Like a baton being passed in a relay, she looked at him for a second and picked up from where he'd ended as she walked around the sofas and stepped up to him. Hesitating for just a second, she gracefully walked past him as his eyes and chin both lowered and the fragrance of winter sunshine, flowers, and strawberries wafted around him.

Making a mental note to have her change whatever perfume this was, at least whilst in the haveli because he couldn't have her smelling like that around him here, he slid his eyes to her back as she stepped past and stopped to look at him when she reached his seat. There was a question in her eyes, and it was one which was probably reflecting in the eyes of every single person in the room, his mother's included. The bright green earrings were much bigger this close-up, and her makeup glinted in the lights. She looked so...sunny. Like the room had been a plain field overcast with clouds, and suddenly, flowers had bloomed, and the sun had shone.

And so he nodded at the ray of sunshine beside him and then towards his vacant seat as an answer to her question, and another person would've triple-checked before even thinking to go ahead, but Meerab being Meerab, it was all the confirmation she needed. Smoothing her hands over the back of her kameez, she elegantly sat where he had been sitting just a few moments earlier, a hand flipping her hair back as she settled.

And just like that, in a gesture as simple as letting her sit where he'd been sat, Meerab had gone from being Meerab Waqas Ahmed to being Meerab, Murtasim's Khaani. It was all about powerplay, just as it was in most dynasties and high stakes businesses, and the Khan feudal system was no different. Every person in that room now knew just how highly Murtasim placed Meerab on his life, and though she had never needed his validation to leave her mark on his lineage, if having it meant she would have an easier time whilst leaving it, then he was happy to do it.

The rest of the afternoon was spent as Maa Begum took over and facilitated Meerab's introductions with the various family members. Murtasim watched her mingle with everyone, and in a sea of gold, blacks and various light colours, her vibrantly dresses figure was like a beacon; truly like a lily blossoming amongst a bouquet of flowers which were no doubt beautiful, yet paled in comparison to the brilliance of a blooming lily.

As dusk fell, most of the guests were shown to their wings to freshen up for the grand welcome dinner the Khan's had arranged. It left just Maa Begum, Anila, Waqas, Meerab, and Murtasim in Maa Begum's private drawing room. Mariyam walked in to see the elders murmerng amongst themselves and strangly enough, her brother sitting across the coffee table from her sister in law. That wasn't the strange bit, though. They sat in complete silence, and their eyes never left each other's. It was witnessing a strange same of tennis where their eyes would slide lazily up and then down each other's frame, meet, flicker and do something her naïve mind couldn't begin to decipher, then break contact to give a quick to the elders to check they were still busy before resuming their journey's up and down each other frames.

Mariyam blinked. These were not the brother and friend-turned sister in law she knew. Meerab had always been so loud and vocal, never one to talk with just her eyes when her mouth could work just fine, and she didn't think her brother had ever looked at anything so intently other than his gun when he was loading it. It felt strange to watch. She couldn't imagine what Meerab must be feeling. It was actually one of the rare times she was witnessing the alleged reason behind her solemn and silent brother's whirlwind wedding; love.

Was this love? Everyone thought they'd fallen in love, or at least in infatuation. What other reason could there be when people as different as the sun and the moon ended up together of their own accord? Most people thought Murtasim Bhai had fallen for Meerab and had Maa Begum send the rishta, but what confused Mariyam was Meerab's yes. The Meerab she had witnessed growing up was the literal opposite of what she would've imagined as a Khan's Khaani; especially her brother's Khaani. Her brother, who liked silence and peace, who'd liked to read and design planes when free, who hunted with the precision of a hungry tiger and who could assemble a gun with his left hand dominating and his eyes closed. That Murtasim just didn't go with this Meerab; at least the Meerab which existed in her head. Meerab was chirpy, funny, and so outspoken that it had made Mariyam marvel at how girls could be when not raised the way she was. She was more reserved and spoke very little compared to her sister in law, mostly because of how she'd been brought up by Maa Begum, but she'd often been in awe of how Meerab spoke her mind, always respectfully but always unabashed, and how her parent's eyes would light up and their faces would beam when their daughter talked. Meerab had a way of doing that, radiating sunshine and letting you bask in it.

Maybe that was what had finally conquered the well-guarded heart of her mighty brother. It was the most perplexing of relationships, and she had not wanted to pry, plus with Meerab noticeably extended absence from the haveli after the nikkah, Mariyam had never gotten the chance to ask her friend what in world had gone on between her and Murtasim Bhai and where she'd found the opportunity to fall for her brother between running around after sheep and getting makeovers done with her.

Looking at them now, she wondered if her friend was experiencing the kind of feelings they'd briefly spoken about when Meerab had once brought a romance novel to the haveli with her one summer. Did she feel butterflies in her tummy? Did her skin tingle at the sight of her 'beloved'? Did she feel warm with shyness when Murtasim Bhai looked at her intently, like he was doing now? Did her tummy do somersaults at the thought of him? Because that did happen when you fell in hard in love. After all, who could relate now more than she, who was finally deep in love and about to marry the love of her life in a few days?

Meerab looked up as the door slid open and then slid shut. Her lips rose in a smile at the sight of her friend, who had changed into her night clothes after the day's finery and held a tray of hot, steaming drinks in her hands.

"Aagayi yaad apni puraani dost ki?" she teased.

Mariyam chuckled, setting the drinks tray down onto the ottoman at the foot before taking a seat on the settee, across from where Meerab sat at the dressing table brushing her hair.

"Jaise tumhe meri yaad bohat aayi in saalon mein?" she teased back, pouting.

Meerab's smile dimmed. She had neglected her friend in a way. She hadn't been able to feel at home in the haveli for a long time now, but it still contained Mariyam, someone she did consider very dear, and in a bid to avoid all things Khan, she had become inevitably distant from her friend too.

"Bas yaar, I'm sorry. Nikkah ke baad thora change hojata hai na?" she gave a reason she was sure Mariyam would understand given her traditional upbringing.

Her frequenting the haveli after the nikkah and without the ruksati would be frowned upon anyway, especially if she was alone. It was just the way of their world, and thankfully, Mariyam nodded in understanding.

"Ab batao, shaadi kaise kar rahi ho? Tumhe to padhna tha. Ye shaadi kahan se beech mein aagayi?" Meerab asked finally.

It was a question which had bounced around in her head for a while after hearing of Mariyam's upcoming nikkah, and it was the reason she even asked Murtasim about it that one night when they'd talked. She hadnt wanted to believe that her friend was being coerced into a marriage she didn't want, or maybe she was going along with it for the family, because knowing Mariyam's soft heart, she would. Mariyam smiled, then got up, walked over to the ottoman to pick up both mugs and placed in front of Meerab on the dressing table before walking back to the sette and tucking her feet under her lap, the mug nestled on top. Meerab raised her brows at her in the mirror.

"Padhai bhi hogi, aur shaadi bhi." Mariyam replied simply before taking a little sip and setting the cup back down.

Meerab's brows rose higher.

"Okay... good." She narrowed her eyes. "Tum itni jaldi maan kaise gayi? Abhi kuch time pehle to saaray achay rishtay reject kar rahi thi?" she probed further.

Mariyam smiled; that serene smile that had Meerab confused.

"Bas time sahi laga."

Meerab blinked.

"Aur?"

Another serene smile.

"Aur ladka bhi."

Meerab was truly, officially very confused. This Maryiyam was distinctly different from the Mariyam she remembered. That Mariyam had been quiet and often just went along with the flow. This Mariyam, though still quiet, seemed to be in control. Her smile was serenely content, and her body language was very 'cat got the cream'. What was going on?

"Thora aur batao ladke ke baray mein. Mujhe to naam ke ilawa kuch nahi pata." she asked.

Mariyam clicked her tongue.

"Kya pata karna hai? Bas rishta aaya, mujhe acha laga, Maa ko bhi, Bhai ko bhi, to haan hogayi." Mariyam replied, grinning.

Meerab picked up her mug and took a sip of the hot Peshawari kehwa, a forever staple after dinner at the Khan haveli.

"Jab Shahmeer ne mujhe kaha ke woh mujhse mohabbat kartay hain aur shaadi karna chahtay hain-"

Meerab's kehwa went down the wrong pipe and had her chocking as Mariyam halted mid-sentence, hurrying to her and thumping her back. Meerab's sputtering coughs echoed in silence and were punctuated by Mariyam's chuckles and calls for her to breathe out slowly and look up. after much thumping and painful coughs, a red-eyed, indignant Meerab looked up at a grinning Mariyam with harsh breaths, only for Mariyam to reply with the rest of her sentence.

"-to maine kaha seedhay seedhay ke ghar rishta bhijwaiye. Aakhir Murtasim Khan ki behen hoon mein, raat mein chup ke bhaagi to mere dulhe ki hi gardan kattay gi subha mein. Unho ne rishta bhej diya, haan hogayi, aur ab ye batao ke kis gaanay pe dance karnay ka iraada hai, Bhabhi Begum?" she finished cheekily, her wide eyes filled with mirth and looking at a shell-shocked, gaping Meerab.

It took the next hour for Meerab to catch her breath and Mariyam to reveal the entire thing; the thing being her clandestine relationship with a Shahmeer Shehryaar. A Karachi businessman who had visited her university to give a string of honorary speeches about his business ventures and experience, it seemed he'd locked eyes with Mariyam from across the massive lecture theatre and then had done everything possible to arrange an introduction without seeming like a stalker. A few short weeks later, a highly flattered Mariyam had bumped into him as he'd been leaving after one of his speeches, and he'd taken the opportunity to ask her out to lunch, an offer she has succinctly declined because Khan girls didn't do 'dates' with strange men. They travelled everwhere, from university to the stationary store at the mall with an entourage of armed men, and any sighting of leering males was dealt with swiftly by guns being cocked in the air and about six men ready to use them on the stranger. It didn't exactly create a nurturing environment for spontaneous dating.

Mr Shehryaar, who Meerab was fast becoming impressed by, had then arranged a careers fair in the university, and it had been the perfect 'date'. Mariyam had hesitant at first, knowing she was well known in the university and more so, her brother was its biggest and most prominent benefactor; any slip ups could cause rumours and that was the last thing she'd wanted. But Shahmeer had been the perfect gentleman and had quite simply told her that he wanted to get to know her better. Mariyam hadn't known how to respond because what did that mean, and how did one get to know each other better when one of you was flanked by guards at all times? It had been all sorted out by Shahmeer, who had given her his number and, with it, the choice to contact him if she was interested. The fair had ended, and before leaving, Mariyam had said one thing, her only response to his entire request.

"Mere bhai ko shayad jaantay honge aap. Woh jitney shareef hain, utnay hi khatarnaak. Issiliye iss sab mein aagay tab hi badhiye ga agar apke iraaday naik hain. Warna Karachi kya, Kentucky ho ya Kerela, woh apko dhoond zaroor lein ge."

And his answer had been what had won her over a little, because to her, it had sounded like a man who'd just wanted to get to know her better because she was all he could think about. That, and the fact that any young girl would have a hard time not melting at his smoothly delivered words.

"Aap aagay badhnay dijiye, agar meri sharaafat mein koi kami reh gayi to Kentucky ya Kerela kya, Karachi tak bhi apke bhai ko aanay ki zaroorat nahi paray gi. Mein khud hi Hyderabad aajaon ga saza maangnay."

By now, Meerab was squealing as she hugged the pillow to her chest, her eyes as wide and shiny as Mariyam's were. It was straight out of a fairytale, and the fact that her friend had found it right here, in the middle of Khan-ruled Hyderabad, was nothing short of a miracle. Meerab's heart was bursting with joy for Mariyam, whom she had always protected and nurtured due to the other girl being a little too shy and quiet growing up. Her brows wiggling for more, she listened as Mariyam relayed how they had spoken a little on the phone and Shahmeer had come back to university for more speeches, and they had slowly yet steadily gotten to know more about one another.

He was the eldest sibling of four, an industrialist and as it turned out, an acquaintance of her brother from a steel mills venture they'd both undertaken a few years ago; it was how Murtasim had known who the rishta had been from and why he'd been okay with it. He was incredibly wealthy in his own right, a wonderful man, and so, so in love with Mariyam that it made even Meerab's head spin. She giggled in excitememt as Mariyam hurriedly explained how the rishta had arrived as a completely neutral, third party proposal and how Maa Begum had mulled over it for days whilst Mariyam had read almost every dua she had known so that her mother would agree. When asked for her opinion, she had taken her time and then demurely agreed, only after saying that she would like to study further, a wish she had already known Shahmeer had no problem fulfilling. It had been nothing short of a dream to hear her mother finally say yes after twenty-four whole days of the proposal arriving, and twenty-four bright red roses had arrived at the Khan haveli for Mariyam that day. Of course, they had arrived amongst the massive delivery of gifts which the Shehryaars had sent in response to the acceptance to the proposal, but amosgnts the dozens of expesnive dresses and jewerllery, it had been the twenty-four roses which Mariyam had sneaked to her room. Twenty four; one for each day they had waited anxiously to be allowed to become each other's.

It was a fairy tale. There were no other words to describe it. And as Meerab hugged her friend tightly in joy, a single, surprising tear of happiness and relief escaped her eye. Mariyam wasn't being forced or coerced, far from it. She was marrying the love of her life and was practically glowing from the knowledge, and Meerab's heart was full, because in the family which they all ultimately belonged to, that was as rare as a wish upon a shooting star coming true.

The end of the late night was on the two girls snuggled up in Meerab's bed, cosy in the covers, and all gossiped out.

"Pata hai? Mera bohat dil hai ke Shahmeer nikkah se pehle kisi function pe aayein ya mein unse mill sakun kisi tarha, lekin Maa kabhi nahi maanein gin. Bohat maza aata." Mariyam pouted.

Meerab hummed, her mind on her friend's predicament. She had looked at the list of events, and even the list of events before the nikkah was substantial. It included the dholkis, which were going to probably not stop until the nikkah, the mayoun, and then the mehendi. In between all this, there was the tradition of all the prominent ladies of the family welcoming villagers into the haveli and hosting them for a milaad, which was to be followed by them handing out shagun and gifts to the villagers and spending some time with them before bidding them goodbye. It had been that way since long before Maa Begum's marriage and this time round, the prominent ladies consisted of Maa Begum, Begum Durdaana Khan, the wife of Baba Jaan's younger brother and of course, Meerab. Mariyam was not to be included as she was the bride.

Turns out, the milaad wasn't the only thing that was going to be on Meerab's agenda over the next two weeks. As the main family members sat down for breakfast the next morning, Meerab swept her long dupatta to the side as she settled in the dining chair across from her husband, who was sat at one head of the table and busy in slicing his grapefruit with a knife and fork. Her mouth twitched as an image of him doing the same thing to a pizza slice came into her head, followed by him using similar cutlery whilst eating chicken karahi and naan, and that had her mouth wanting to burst into a full blown grin. He didn't look up when she'd sat down, but she'd felt his eyes on her the entire time she'd walked down the stairs and up to the table.

Maa Begum looked over at her daughter in law. She was dressed a little too lightly for her liking, her hair in an unconvential swept back hairstyle and her jewellery befitting a single, carefree girl rather than that of the daughter in law of one of the country's most prominent families, but what was new? This was Meerab. She would most likely make it to her grave sooner than Meerab started behaving like a traditional Khaani, and so Salma Begum had decided she would need to focus on the things she could work with rather than the things she couldn't. She was a sharp woman, after all.

"Meerab, tumharay liye kuch kaam hain, ek tumharay aur Murtasim dono ke liye hai." She announced from the other head of the table.

Meerab looked up first, her eyes attentive and her attention shifting fully to her, and Salma Begum had to admit that despite her not exactly looking like a traditional Khaani, the girl was beautiful. She had a certain glow about her, and as much as she had a bone to pick with her son about his choice of bride, she couldn't exactly fault his choice in the matter of looks. Meerab had always been beautiful, just in a way which was so childish and cheerful that it had made it hard to realise what a beauty she'd been when growing up. Hard for her, she should say. Her son, it seemed, had no problem realising that particular fact, God knows when, and had promptly made the girl his wife. Letting out a calming breath, she continued when Murtasim finally looked up, his brow raised.

"Tum dono ke nikkah ko ab do saal huwe we bhi kaafi arsa hogaya hai. Teesra saal aanay walay hai kuch waqt mein aur iss khandaan ki kuch riwaayatein hain jo har Khan ke nikkah ke baad poori ki jaati hain." she paused as the table, consisting of Anila, Waqas, Anwar, Durdaana Begum, and Mariyam looked up too. "Ab ruksati nahi huwi to saari poori nahi honsakti-" her eyes were on Meerab, and amazingly enough, not a muscle moved on the young girl's calm face at the mention of what was considered to be the biggest scandal in the family for a long, long time; the curious case of Murtasim Khan's and Meerab Ahmed's delayed ruksati. "-lekin ek cheez hai jo hosakti hai aur mujhe lagta hai honi chahiye. Usmein waqt bhi lagta hai aur zaroori hai ke woh sahi se kiya jaye."

Murtasim's brow quirked again as he set down his cutlery and picked up his cup of espresso.

"Bataiye, Maa Sahab." he prompted after a sip.

Salma Begum looked at her son, a true example of a fine leader; strong, fearless, and so far, extremely successful. There seemed to be nothing he couldn't do. Well, except choose a suitable bride, but weren't the greatest of men historically the ones with the worst choices when it came to women? It seemed this great man was no exception. He had chosen his woman, and now the entire dynasty would have to make do with it. Whatever her personal reservations, the traditions of the family would always come first.

"Humaray khandaan ki lambi tareekh humein achay se issiliye pata hai kyunke har Khan aur Khaani ne apne naam tareekh mein likhwaein hain, jaise ek thappa chod dena. Apne kaamon, apne naikiyon waghera se. Lekin iske saath saath, har joday ko abhi bhi tareekh issiliye nahi bhooli kyunke har ek ki tasweer abhi bhi gaon ki havelion mein lagi huwi hain, unki shaan mein."

There was silence.

"Mein chahti hoon ke Meerab aur Murtasim bhi apna portrait banwayein, jaise inse pehle har Khan aur Khaani ne banwaya hai."

More silence. She looked at Murtasim.

"Waise to pehle waqto mein mulk ke behtareen mussawar aatay thay aur humein sajh ke ghanto baithna padhta tha unke saamne, lekin ab zamaana badal gaya hai." she smiled. "Ab mulk ka behtareen portrait photographer bulwaye jayein gein. Woh tasweerein waghera lein gein, aur phir humaray aziz khandaani mussawar, Ghulaam Asghar, un tasweeron se hi painting bana lein ge. Iss tarha waqt bhi zaya nahi hota aur thakkan bhi kam hogi."

Meerab listened intently. They were going to have portraits commissioned in their honour? She had been a part of this family for a long time, and this surprised even her. Just how much shaan-o-shaukat existed in this family? Enough to have official portraits commisoned, apprently. She hadn't been at the gaon haveli much, but she knew from Mariyam that it was a whole other vibe to the much more relaxed Hyderarad one, so she could fully imagine paintings of every one of the numerous dynastic couples hanging on walls to ensure no one ever forget just how highbrow the family was. Her eyes darted to Murtasim, the Khan in question, and his eyes were on his mother.

"Kya khayaal hai tumhara, Murtasim?" Maa Begum asked.

Meerab watched as he leaned back in his chair, his arms resting on the table in front of him. a hand came up, and his index finger brushed the bottom edge of his dark moustache in a very familiar gesture. The table was silent as it waited for him to respond. And then he did, just not to the person everyone had expected. Turning his head to the right, he looked right at Meerab for the first time since she'd sat down.

"Tumhara kya khayaal hai?" Brows were raised all around the table. "Shall we?" he finished.

Meerab blinked. You didn't really know what 'put on the spot' meant until you had the elders of the Khan family all look at you expectantly whilst waiting for you mull over something they considered of utmost importance. Taking a deep breath, she lowered her eyes from Murtasim and thought about for just a second, and finding no internal rejection at the idea looked back to him.

"Karletay hain." she answered lightly, shrugging her shoulder casually.

And just like that, Murtasim slowly nodded before turning his head to his mother and nodding once more, firmly this time.

"Tayaari karwa lijiye, Maa Sahab. Nikkah se pehle ho to behtar hai." He announced.

And that was how Meerab had found herself being primed and plucked at until every pore on her skin had been refined, her skin glowed and her hair shone from the hot oil treatment it had been lovingly given by the army of aestheticians which had arrived that afternoon. She had sat at her dressing table as they tested makeup and hairstyles until deciding on one that befitted her rank and was also approved by Maa Begum and herself. Her dark hair swept up into a sleek bun, and a heirloom necklace containing a giant ruby was carefully tightened around her neck and adjusted around her throat. A few outfits and boxes of jewellery had arrived shortly after the aestheticians had, and they had been opened to reveal clothing made from the finest quality of French raw silk; a personal favourite of most Khaanis to the extent that meters and meters of the exorbitantly expensive and pure fabric was passed down Khaani to Khaani and was currently stored under Maa Begum's care.

Clad in a black raw silk ensemble, Meerab let one of the ladies adjust her dupatta and put the matching ruby earrings on. Two massive rings were slid over her fingers. She could tell the base was gold and the tops of them covered in diamonds and more rubies. It was exceptionally traditional, but Meerab liked the look, and that in itself was surprising. More than the look, it was the feeling which she realised was distinctly different and not so repulsive. She looked and felt very... imperial. Like she actually was a Khaani now. It was surprising what a difference the clothes and jewels made. Her skin was dusted with a light sheen of highlighter, and then she was ready. Her heels were simple; a single strap of sparkling crystals over her toes and another plain black over her ankles. The main focus, she could tell, were the giant heirloom jewels and, well, herself.

And of course, the man who's Khaani she was. As she walked down the corridor of an unused wing of the haveli, she passed several pieces of furniture covered with pristine white cloth, and bittersweet memories hit her. The last time this wing of the haveli had been used was to accommodate the extended family at Baba Jaan's funeral. It seemed so long ago now, and to think that Meerab had ended up becoming his son's wife and his only daughter would be happily married in a few days. She hoped he was content in heaven and proud of them all; he truly deserved to be.

Heels click-clacked on the marble floors, and two male heads looked up as Meerab Khan, Khaani walked into the elaborately set up makeshift studio. The first was of Murtasim Khan's, who's eyes locked onto the beautiful female who had entered and then really locked on as they darkened and dilated before dropping lower and lower until they swept right back up to her luminous face. The second head had been of Tariq Siddique's, the portrait photographer who had been commissioned. Since lifting his head to the sound of heels, he'd witnessed two very interesting things. One, the sudden and palpable way his first subject, Khan Murtasim Khan, was practically honing towards the woman who he assumed was his wife, and two, the ensuing exchange he witnessed when she picked up on his attention was anything but normal for a couple who allegedly were yet to have their ruksati and by assumption, any sort of intimacy.

These two observations strengthened over the next two hours, as the couple posed for photographs, sometimes individually and sometimes together. In his two and half decades as photographer for the elite, he had witnessed some of the most allegedly scandalous marriages in the world. Khaans, Nawaabs, Kings, Prime Ministers, and First Ladies; you name it, and he'd captured them in his lens. And yet, even ones who were thought to have a love match hadn't made him feel like he was intruding on their privacy by looking in whilst they looked at one another. And apparently, according to Begum Shahnawaaz Khan, who he'd been briefed by, this particular couple were yet to live together, meaning they most likely hadn't shared either a bed or even many touches.

He was going to let Begum Shahnawaaz Khan believe that, for her own sanity. He'd been behind too many a lens and captured too many passionate couples to not be able to recognise when the fire of passion and breath-taking intimacy burned between a couple, and to say it was a surprise they hadn't kicked him out of the room for privacy yet was no understatement.

He murmured his standard sentence of "Please hold the pose." as he adjusted the lens and focused so that the light didn't bounce off the traditional background which had been set up, and as had happened after almost every time he'd uttered the sentence, he watched as Khan Murtasim's hands tightened around his wife's waist and elbow, and even as he held the pose, he inched her in just a breath, like they'd been standing far too apart for far too long, when in reality, they were pretty much chest to chest in a way which was violating all sorts of feudal portrait codes.

Both clad in striking black raw silk, they made an insanely attractive couple. He was darker, harder, and all around bigger, and she was as delicate as a blooming flower. Her delicate ankles and bone structure had been picked up by his trained eyes almost instantly. Her face was exquisite and seemed radiant, and even with the sharp bun, dark outfit, and solemn expression, there was an innate delicate feminine charm to her. She seemed to be the soft padding which moulded around his hard edges and even though he thought nothing could make this man seem soft or weak, standing beside her did indeed make Khan Murtasim look almost...like a normal husband. Almost. But not quite, because there was too much astute hardness circulating within him to appear as anything but the fierce leader he was.

Tariq clicked a few frames, marvelling at how good the photos were turning out without putting in too much effort. He watched as Meerab, the Khaani, slid her hand slightly higher up on the Khan's forearm where it rested, and as her chest expanded on a breath, he watched as the Khan's eyes dropped to it before his throat rippled with a gulp and he again tightened his grip on her. It was these touches that made it impossible for these two individuals to be almost strangers to one another, especially ones who'd had little to no physical contact. Completely, absolutely impossible. The way he touched her, with full authority and right, as if he wasn't afraid of his hand touching any part of her body which she may not be comfortable with, as was usually the case with newly or soon-to-be weds. There was no hesitance, no tentativeness, or even any stumbling of fingers. He knew exactly how to touch her and hold her in a way that ensured she fit perfectly against him; like he could do it with his eyes closed.

Tariq would've even reserved judgement if it was only the Khan initiating and following through with the touches, because in the culture of the highbrow and elite, men were often known to be dogs who preyed on delicate women and made them theirs by hook or crook. He was now an expert on all sorts of touches, having witnessed many kinds of marriages, and this was no preying man. You only had to observe his wife for a few scant minutes to realise that the fire raged from both sides. They way her hands rested on his body softly but with power, like she knew she had rights over this man and his body, was very telling. It was in the way her body subconsciously arched towards his when he slid his hand across her waist, and how her delicate feet stepped in to him every few seconds before realising they were getting too close, and then she could look up at him, they would exchange an eye lock, after which she would smile that smile. That muted, almost invisible smile which smiled through her eyes more than her lips, and it was a smile of utmost power; like she knew she was an equally major player in this partnership of theirs. Like she knew how she affected him.

This was not a woman being preyed upon. It was a woman who was adored and relished in a way that made her totally confident about her power over her man. And it would have to be some kind adoration and relishing to have anyone have that kind of power over this man.

Their hands, their bodies and their caresses, all flowed with ease and without subconscious thought, almost like the actual purpose of the photo-shoot was snow forgotten because who cared as long as they were able to revel in each other's heady spell? Their touches weren't customary, like most couples were when they posed. Their hands fully wrapped around one another, like his tightly curved over her hip and hers over his shoulder.

You didn't just achieve that on a whim. In fact, it took even seasoned lovers weeks to months to become comfortable to the extent that their hands just knew where to rest without any conscious thought. And he was willing to be his entire career that that was exactly what these two were; seasoned lovers. They had to be. He didn't know how or why this was the case, but there was no way two people who touched each other with so much ease and 'haq' hadn't explored each other's bodies in a way only passionately drunk lovers did.

Hence, it had been a wholly strange yet wholly entertaining session; one unlike he'd ever had before, before because his subjects usually tried to show as much of their alleged love, respect, and intimacy. Here, these two subjects had been cool customers, playing it subtle and hiding their intimacy. They'd been serious, their expression and as regal as royalty, though cracks in that also appeared when they'd thought he wasn't looking. They'd had a few outfit changes, and when he'd requested the Khaani to take a seat on wine red silk armchair, there had been a pause of about five minutes when he'd been switching lens to accommodate the lighter champagne coloured clothes. He'd been bent over his equipment at the far end of the large room, and had kept his eyes resolutely on his stuff, but a peek had revealed an extremely different side to the couple; one he hadn't anticipated but it had strengthened his earlier beliefs.

The Khaani had been reclined back on the large armchair and had been angled to the side, where the Khan had perched his elbow over the back of the armchair and was leaning down over hear. She'd been looking up, a little smile, an actual one this time, on her lips and him looking down but not at her. He'd been looking down at their intertwined hands, which had looked like he'd threaded his fingers over hers and was examining her hands almost, and it had been a distinct change from the raw energy which had been coursing between for the past hour or so. It had made the Khan seem more human, like a husband rather than a clandestine lover, and as Tariq had watched on, he'd realised they were having a conversation. In fact, they seemer to have been in almost indecipherable conversation since the start if the shoot. It was so soft that it had been impossible to hear the words, and he further realised that they'd continued the conversation over the next thirty minutes whilst they'd shot. It had been low murmers in between shots, their lips barely moving but sure enough, the hum of their words floating around the room had let him know that along with passion, this couple seemed to also have some substance between them.

He was fascinated, to say the least. It wasn't often such interesting, and frankly, strange dynamics were seen in such a traditional setup. The portraits were taken, the Khan and Khaani approved of their favourites to be sent to Ghulaam Asghar for their official oil paintings and Tariq bid the couple good-bye. The Khan was sat back on the wine-red armchair and the Khaani had been running a hand through her now open curls, and as Tariq exited the makeshift studio after nodding his head low in deference, he was almost a hundred percent certain that the delectable looking Khaani had been swooped down onto the Khan's lap seconds after he'd left. The Khan had shown incredible restraint, if his observation had been correct, and a good two, three hours of holding your wife and lover close but not close enough was going to test any red-bloodied, passionate man.

As Traiq made his way down to the guest drawing room, where tea had been arranged for him, he chuckled at how everyone in the grand haveli seemed to believe their Khan and Khaani were in a nikkah but were yet to enter marital relations due to their lack of ruksati. It was laughable, really. All you had to do was look at them around each other for more than twenty seconds, and one of them was bound to be caught with their eyes on the other. He shook his head in amusement.

What an interesting day.

Murtasim Khan had had quite the interesting day yesterday. Portraits with his wife hadn't been something he'd thought would've been an interesting activity, but he'd come to realise any activity with her around, especially close enough to touch, was going to have his attention. As he walked along the covered path, which wrapped around the front lawns and made for a shortcut between his wing and his mother's, he had a few rare moments of quietness. The wedding, along with the issues of the panchayat, had kept him away from the haveli mostly. Any time he was technically 'free', he was still surrounded by his guards or at least Bakhtu and Shah, along with a few more of his high-ranking advisors. Being away for so long had seen him settle into a quitter, calmer routine. Well, as quiet and calm as one could be around Meerab.

As he entered his mother's formal lounge and sat down after signalling her maids to announce his arrival, the purpose of his visit had him think back to yesterday afternoon.

Yesterday Afternoon

She looked up at him from dark, heavy lashes, and as her hands rose as per the photographer's request, Murtasim felt his temperature rise with them. His eyes becoming hooded, he lifted his hands to catch hers in his as he stepped in, one step closer to her and yet, the only step he could take given the presence of the third person in the room. He'd thought this entire activity would've been a tedious test in the name tradition. He'd been wrong. The test wasn't the tediousness. It was her; she was his greatest trial. Her and this damned proximity. Being so close yet just out of reach, especially when she looked like black sin. Black on her, a rare occurrence, was one of the most delectable sights in the world to him. she didn't seem to be too fond of the colour, and yet, when he closed his eyes sometimes, the first Meerab to appear in his mind's eye was a Meerab in black.

Delicate, almost ethereal and like she would break, perching on his bed in Doha that night so, so long ago. Her pale skin almost pearly against the black fabric of her kameez and her falling dupatta. The delicate skin at her throat and neck rippling as her shaky breaths had ripped out from her and made the slinky black fabric look like it was moving. That was Meerab in black to him.

Black sin. Beautiful, achingly tempting sin. One he'd given into and indulged in that night and then countless nights since because wasn't everything that felt sinful automatically so breathtakingly exhilarating?

Yes. Yes, it was.

Today she'd added another image of her in black to his mental collection, and it was a shame she didn't wear the colour often because when Meerab wore black, it felt like the plain, solid colour, fated to restricted and often negative connotations, came alive and felt like a rainbow in itself.

"Ek baat karni hai."

The softly spoken words, so low that he'd nearly missed them in his musings, had him gulp softly as he shifted his attentions back to her. She stood upright against him, both her hands demurely held up in a pose and covered by his as they stood regally for the pose. His hinds tightened around her smaller ones off their own accord.

"Hmm?" he prompted, glancing at the photographer, who was behind his large camera, snapping away.

"Um...nikkah mein abhi kaafi functions baaki hain, kaafi din bhi." she began. "I was thinking ke kitna acha hoga agar Mariyam ke honay walay husband kisi function mai aayein? Unse to abhi tak koi mila bhi nahi hai."

Murtasim frowned. Where had this come from? He knew even before entertaining this line of thought that his mother would be entirely against the notion. Brides and grooms mingling before the nikkah wasn't the Khan way. He raised a brow but stayed silent.

"Maza aaye ga! He would get to know everyone. Aur socho, Mariyam ko bhi acha lagay ga ke informal functions mein woh aayein. Nikkah aur uske baad to saaray formal, baray events hain. Unke apne rules, restrictions, etc. hotay hain." she explained just as the photographer requested a change in pose.

An armchair was set up, and Murtasim asked to sit on it. The conversation paused as his individual shots were taken, and Meerab waited on a chair nearby. They were soon called together as Meerab perched on the large handle on the armchair whilst Murtasim sat reclined on it.

"Think about it, Murtasim." she picked up from where they'd left.

He hummed whilst looking at the camera. The camera clicked a few times as the photographer got about changing lens and clicking away. As the man leaned back from the camera and looked down at the tray of lens he had splayed out, Murtasim looked down and adjusted his ring just as he felt a hand on his back.

"Kya hmm? I said think about it." she murmered lowly, her tone filled with conviction.

He looked up to the side, strands of his hair brushing against the favric over her chest as he angled his face up to her. His face serious, he raised a brow.

"Khamoshi mein bhi socha ja sakta hai, Meerab. Try it sometime." he replied smoothly, his face finally breaking its solemnness as a silent chuckle graced his face. A series of clicks went off just as he'd lowered his head, smiling at her antics and sliding the ring around his finger, and had him look up just as the clicks stopped. The photographer looked from behind his standing camera, a small, surprised smile on his face.

"Some beautiful candid captures, Khan Sahab. Offical potraits ke liye to bohat informal hain, of course, lekin aap kahein to apke liye ek seprate album mein daalin ja sakti hain." Tariq offered.

Nodding slowly, Murtasim nodded in assent after a moment. They straightened themselves for another round of poses, after which an outfit change was proposed. Back to standing in front of each other, this time in champagne silk, Murtasim slid his hand down the soft, heavy silk over Meerab's back as she held onto his shoulder whilst adjusting her dupatta. A little frown formed on her forehead as she concentrated on the task, and as he looked down at her, a wave of want and surprisingly, tenderness assaulted him. Want was almost a normal state of existence now with her around, but the was his chest rippled from the inside when he thought about how she'd gracefully handled all the introductions yesterday, and even stayed around with his mother after dinner last night as she'd been instructing the house help on the arrangements for all the staying guests. She must've been introduced to more than forty people, and yet even at the end of it all, she'd been smiling softly, her hands folded in front of her elegantly and her back ramrod straight even in the towering heels he'd seen on her feet when she'd been sitting down next to him. she'd anwered all the questins aimed at her, laughed at all the 'right' times, nodded gracefully at all unwanted susggestions and had managed to even stop herself from reacting when one of his relatives had begun speaking about the recent elections, in which they'd voted for well-known corrupt Karachi politician he knew Meerab would personally and happily set on fire. He'd watched silently from across the room as her eyes had widened in instinctive shock, and then she'd blinked, and it had been like the shock had never been there. Then she'd daintily crossed one leg over the other, set her hands on her crossed knees, and replied with a demure smile.

"Phir to Karachi ban hi gaya Dubai."

The elderly relative hadn't gotten the sarcasm, it had been too veiled and all too seemingly genuine, but it had had Murtasim's mouth curving into a half smile which he'd wiped off by taking a sip of his coffee. She had dodged many other situations since, some he was sure he hadn't witnessed, and so little firecracker seemed to be handling the Khaani business all too easily.

He looked down as her hair, now opened and in curls, bounced over her shoulders and stray strands caught onto the fabric of his kurta and waistcoat.

"Ek dum se ye khayaal kahan se aaya?" he lowered his lips a fraction and murmured into her hair.

Her hair, softly fragnant with their usual smell, brushed hard against his mouth as she swung her head up and ended up nose to nose with him. It was only second before she realised they were being watched and she leaned back sharply, letting a somewhat proper distance form between them, but her sweet breath had fallen over his face and Murtasim realised this entire exercise was nothing but a test of his patience. He would never be able to look at the paintings of his ancestors in similar portraits the same way again, he was sure. Blinking, she let go of her now straightened dupatta and looked to the photographer, who guided them into another pose. As they settled with her hand on his bicep and them both looking sideways at the camera, she finally answered.

"Bas aise hi. Tum bhi to humaray mayoun mein aagaye thay. That too, uninvited and technically forbidden."

His body instinctively tightened at the mention of her mayoun. Not the best wedding event when it came to them.

"Woh mein tha aur most importantly, woh tum thi. Mariyam alag hai. Usne aisi koi request nahi ki abhi tak. To phir kyun?"

She blinked again, and it had his radar honing in on her and not in the way it normally did. This focus was more out of alertness than desire. She hid her eyes under her dark lashes and looked down, as if she was avoiding his eyes, and that in itself was so un Meerab-like that it had his mind faintly beep with a warning.

"Mariyam kyun alag hai? Woh bhi dulhan hai, uski bhi khwahishein hain. Uska bhi dil hoga ke uska dulha uske saath functions enjoy karay aur woh dono apnay functions mein apni personal memories bana sakein."

'Aaj chand nahi nikla, hmm?'

A personal memory of another kind hit him, and he shook it away. Much good them making 'personal memories' on their own function had done for them. He breathed out as his hands, joined together and resting between them as they posed, unlinked, and reached for her out of habit. Disregarding the pose, he slid a hand over the side of her hip and rested on the simple at her back, and then remembering how long she'd spent in heels yesterday and even today, his thumb subconsciously pressed against the dimple he now often caressed and massaged. He heard clicks in the periphery but ignored them, and as Meerab's body instinctively arched inwards toards him, as it always did when he did this particular action, their earlier pose was entirely overlooked and a whole new one was adopted. With both her hands resting on her biceps and them both facing each other now, his thumb massaged her dimple whilst his other hand untangled some of the curls that had stuck to the buttons of his waistcoat.

"Meerab. Yahan aksar aisa nahi hota. I see no reason to do it now." he let her silky strands slip out from his fingers and looked her straight in the eyes. "Koi reason hota hai riwaayat todne ka. I don't see one here." he finished as a series of quick clicks went off in the background.

Her hands slid down from his body as the photographer came forward and guided her onto the wine-red armchair and requested him to stand beside it whilst holding her hand. As the man went back to the camera and looked closely at the selection of lenses, Murtasim leaned down, his thumbs stroking Meerab's fingers, which were engulfed in his.

"What if I give you one?" she murmured suddenly.

His brows furrowed.

"Agar mein kahun ke reason hai? Tumhe Shahmeer ko invite karna chahiye aur agar tum karo ge to Mariyam ko acha lagay ga, aur iss sab ka acha khaasa reason hai, agar mein ye kahun, to tum kya kaho ge?"

His eyes narrowed, and the radar which had slowly honed to her before was now on her front and centre, and blaring to boot.

Shahmeer? Excuse me?

Murtasim, after knowing Meerab for almost a lifetime and becoming intimately acquainted with her over the past few months, now knew that there was little that could stop Meerab on a mission. It was like a cyclone that only rested after it had whirled and whizzed its way through the planned course. And right now, the gorgeous and deceptively demure female looking up at him from the armchair with a little 'Khaani' smile on her face was Meerab on a mission.

Cyclone. Dangerous.

"Chalein ji, let's change the pose. Begum Shahnawaaz ne kaha tha ke aap kuch photos ek khandaani chaadar bhi pehen ke le lein, Khan Sahab."

They were broken apart by the voice of the photographer, and Murtasim slipped a hand out of Meerab's before tightening the remaining one and helping her up from the armchair. They were offered an outfit change, and though he wasn't too keen on matching for the third outfit in a row, he knew it would make his mother happy, which was why twenty minutes later, Murtasim walked back into the makeshift in a raw silk mint-green sherwani and waited for his Khaani to arrive.

"Aapka kaafi waqt le liya hoga in photos ne, Khan Sahab?"

He looked up from the armchair as the photographer smiled from a tray of lenses. Murtasim shook his head slowly.

"Ye bhi zaroori hai." he replied pragmatically, standing up and walking to where the man's camera stood on a tripod beside the table of various screens he had set up.

"May I?"

The photographer straightened and walked to him, clasping his hand9s behind his back in respect,

"Ji ji, bilkul." he offered.

Murtasim leaned forward and bent down with a hand against the edge of the table. Flicking through the photos of them from earlier in the afternoon, he came across a folder titled 'Candid', and clicking on it, he came across all sorts of poses which were all too unsuitable to be hanging from one of the gaon haveli walls and would most definitely have his mother fainting in affront. Them standing a little closely as they looked at each other, their chests brushing one another's in a few photos, a few in which they were mid conversation and their expressions were more open and raw then in the official chosen ones and most surprising of all, a few of them in black where he was smiling at her and then looking down. It had been when she'd been urging him to 'think about it', and he'd chuckled. They looked...like a couple. Like a normal couple; a happy one. So unlike them. He'd never actually seen himself smiling so widely and so openly before, at least not in candid photo, and it was quite the strange experience. Heels echoed in the empty corridor outside, and then as a vision in mint-green, the culprit behind his smiles arrived.

Registering her arrival, Tariq looked up just as another person made their entry with an authentic banarsi chaadar draped over thier hands. His mother walked in, all smiles and looking every bit the Khan Begum which she was. Carefully held in her hands was a khandaani chaadar which had which had been carefully brought out from the family's heirlooms, and was revealed to have also been worn by his Baba at his own gaddi and pagh ceremony. She brought it over just as Meerab walked around across the room and took a seat on an armchair. Murtasim walked over to his wife just as Tariq proposed another pose, and standing as he'd been guided to, Murtasim let the man drape the shawl over his shoulders from the back. It was far from his usual style, and the entire outfit wasn't something he would ever wear again, far from it, but then the entire purpose of this shoot was to showcase the Khans in total Khan finery. He didn't have much control over family heirloom, and Meerab seemed to be enjoying herself, so Murtasim was going to let it be. He nodded the man away as he adjusted the shawl himself and watched as Meerab slowly stood up before walking over to him.
His eyes flicked to his mother, who was deep in conversation with Tariq as a maid hovered by.

"What are you up to, wife?" he murmered silkily and ever so quietly.

She stepped up to him, glanced at the occupied duo on the other side of the room, and then looked back at him, her eyes wide and her mouth so wonderfully plush. She took another step closer and raised her hands.

"Shawl pehna rahi hu." she answered with her brows raised and the silent 'duh?' in her tone was heard loud and clear by Murtasim.

That wasn't what he'd asked, though, and she knew it.

The minx.

Her fingers grazed the butter smooth banarsi at the edges before leaning in and running her fingers down the soft edges.

"Shawl mein pehen chukka hoon." he murmured back.

She just brought her hands back up to his collar and started to tighten the fabric around his shoulders, gently pulling at one side to ensure it draped equally on both sides.

She clicked her tongue in disagreement.

"Ghalat pehni hai." she declared.

Her fingers closed around the soft edge as she started to drape it over his shoulders, gently straightening out the creases caused by the fabric curved over his arms.

"Mein ghaltiyaan nahi karta." he tossed back, his brow raised as he stood back, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes looking down at her in fascinated amusement.

His words were light, but he knew she understood the context they'd be delivered in. He wasn't going to let this Shahmeer business cause any problems in the family.

Meerab raised a brow of her own, pointedly looking at him as if to say, 'You're kidding me?' and he knew she was referring to the little secret of their newly physical relationship.

"Woh ghalti nahi hai, and secondly, and most importantly, uss mein mera faida hai." He paused to savour her expression as she narrowed her eyes in annoyance. "Tum jo keh rahi ho, uss mein mera koi faida nahi hai." he finished casually as his hands engulfed her on his chest, and she jolted at the touch before automatically looking at Tariq and his mother.

They were still deep in conversation and by now had moved to the far end of the room, where the veranda doors opened onto a little garden.

Looking back at him, she tigheted her grip around the edges of the shawl and pulled down hard, causing it to pull down on his neck and have him lean down to her just a touch.

"Tumhari behen ki khushi mein tumhara faida nahi hai?" she challenged.

Sounds were heard from the end of the room, and they turned in time to see his mother and Tariq head out onto the garden as she showed him some of the spots his father had been photographed in. The maid followed in tow and as soon as the woman stepped out and dissapeared onto the side of the tinted glass doors, Murtasim's had the shawl slide out of her fingers as he untangled their hands and slipped his around her waist, the edges of the shawl tightly held between his own fingers. Suddenly, they were nose to nose as the fabric strecthed around their bodies and had her hers bring driven forward. Her chest bumped into his as she gasped, her pals flattening onto his chest before tighetning into fists to steady herself. Getting her where he wanted her, he grazed his nose down her temple.

"Meri behen ki khushi mein tumhara kya faida hai?" he retorted smoothly as his hands left hot imprints on her skin through the raw silk.

She looked up, her breath catching and then releasing in a slow, laboured exhale. Her mouth pursed but her eyes sparked with the thrill of challenge. They stood there, finally alone and finally able to look at and touch one another they way they'd gotten so subconciouly used to over the past months. It was a while before Meerab spoke again, and during the silence, neither of them remembered the question or particularly cared for the answer.

"Maan jao." she murmured so close to his lips.

Murtasim let her warm breath blow over his lips, not knowing the exact reason behind her insistence but most definatly knowing that it was trouble. There was something satisfying in letting yourself be seduced by a woman you usually did the seducing to; not that either of them had ever seemed to need much seducing ever. But then she spoke, and somehow even seduction, with all its delicious perks, became secondary.

"Just trust me."

That, he didn't do with anyone. 'Just' trust anyone to do something which would most likely directly affect him or his family? 'Just' trust anyone, anyone, even his own family, to do something he had no knowledge off and maybe couldn't rectify until it was too late? That sounded like personality suicide to a man who had the leashes of control over his life wrapped so tightly around his knuckles that the leashes themselves trembled at just thought of loosening.

'Just trust me.'

"Trust you with what?" he murmered as she adjusted her footing and ended up even more tightly pressed up against his chest, allowing the shawl to neatly overlap over his fingers on her hips.

She looked up with clear eyes as her palms flattened over his sherwani again.

"With this decision. With doing the right thing." she paused. "With not doing the wrong thing."

Murtasim swallowed, looking down at her hooded eyes which didn't let even a speck of what he was thinking shine through. Meerab was still, looking up at him with her palms still flat, radiating heat throught the raw silk of the sherwani and even in the middle of whatever they seemed to be negotitaing, the thought of how she liked to place her hand over his heart when tangled up bed, entered his mind. And God damn it, but just the thought of her doing that, something so simple and seemingly inconsequential to him, when lying replete in bed, had her words make weird, weird sense.

'Just trust me.'

'Just' trust? There was nothing 'just' about putting your blind trust in another human being. In fact, in the worlds he belonged to, both feudal and business, doing that very thing could leave you either penniless or dead. Or sometimes both. He hadn't gotten to where he'd gotten by handing out his trust on a silver platter. He'd made enemies left, right and centre, and trust was a five letter word which sometimes took more than five lifetimes to be bestowed upon another person. And she wanted him to hand it over after forty minutes of broken, cryptic conversation.

And months of intimacy. Months of trusting her with his life, his home, and his personal life. Months of having her in his bed, where she'd trusted him with her body and he trusted her with his. Months of little, mundane things like waking up and having breakfast together, letting little, personal details slip, and never having to worry about them being shared elsewhere.

And before all that, years and years, almost their entire lifetimes up to now, of knowing one another, however inconsequential those young summers seemed in light of their newfound desire.

'Just trust me.'

With his hands low on her hips and the banarsi still wrapped tightly around them, no one would ever be able to decipher exactly what had been going on inside the circle of the fabric or their minds. The tinted glass doors, which had been slightly ajar, slid open, and as a muted gasp sounded in their periphery, both husband and wife's heads jerked to it. The maid, with her head bent low and her fingers wringing nerveously, looked down as her eyes darted from pattern to pattern on the marble floor. Meerab was first to pull back, and Murtasim allowed it, his fingers finally loosening around the banarsi and letting it fall back around his shoulders.

His mother followed, as did Tariq, and as more photos were clicked, his mother left with a smile on her face, and he knew very soon, he would be causing that very smile to vanish. Because somehow, in between his wife seducing him, then asking him to trust her and his mind suddenly hell-bent on convincing him he should, Murtasim had decided that he would.

'Just trust' her, that was.

As the photographer left, Murtasim sat back on the wine-red armchair, which had been their constant for pretty much the entire day. Meerab gracefully stood up from the armrest she was perched on, beginning to turn and letting her hand, which had been held in his for the last pose, slide away. She was half way to turning her back to him when his hand tightened around hers, and without much conscious thought, Murtasim was pulling on her hand until her arm bent and she was falling neatly onto his lap.

Her face, indignant with brows raised, turned to him even as her body betrayed her by settling comfortably and her hands finding his neck and shoulders.

"Shahmeer, hmm?" he began.

She slid he tongue over her lips before answering.

"Hmm?"

"Agar Mariyam chahti hai woh nikkah se pehle ke functions mein aaye, to iske baaray mein socha ja sakta hai. Agar woh khud aana chahay toh." he paused and she sat back, her body relaxing at his acceptance. "Aur ye baat Mariyam mujhse khud bhi keh sakti thi."

She blinked.

"Usne mujhse tumhe kehne ke liya nahi kaha. She thinks it won't happen. Mein khud tumse kehne aayi." she revealed.

Murtasim knew there was more to this story than what he was being told, but he decided to test out the essence of this newfound emotion; trust. Let his Khaani do what she wanted and thought was necessary. He would sit back and for the time being, hope it didn't blow up on them.

Considering the topic closed, his hands slid up her raw-silk clad back and pulled her in, her head bending downwards as her breath became heavier in just a scant second. Her heavy mint silk dupatta, falling off her shoulder, was flicked down her arm and out of the way until his hands could slide up and down her silky arms without hindrance. Their lips, so close the entire day and yet so impossible far, almost trembled as they met in a heady kiss.

Finally.

Almost two days of seeing each other constantly and another two when they'd been apart, and finally, a kiss. It felt like it had been ages and ages since Murtasim had felt like he was sipping liquid honey from her sweet, plump lips. Too, too long.

His mind and body rebelled at this being the norm over the next few weeks, because one kiss every four days? They managed to get more action than this whilst flying to opposite sides of the world every few days. How was one kiss every few days anywhere near okay whilst living in the same house?

It just wouldn't do.

His hands tightened around her little waist as she moved in closer, her fingers pressing around his stubbled neck. Her heel clad feet hung in the air from his lap, and Murtasim wanted to slide his hand into the cut if her kameez and down the side of her churidaar clad thigh, but that was dangerous terrain. And so they kissed and kissed, and kissed for so long that they'd begun at the start of dusk and would've been nowhere done until the complete falling of darkness, if it hadn't been for the automatic lights turning on in the large, mostly empty room.

It wasn't enough. Nowhere near enough. But then, nothing ever seemed to be.

Present Time

Murtasim leaned back, listening as his mother updated him about the preparations of the first event to kick off the wedding. The ladies milaad and it's accompanying activities were to begin in a few hours, and he knew his mother would soon need to begin getting ready for it. So he got straight to the point.

"Shahmeer aur uski khandaan ko nikkah se pehle functions pe bulanay ke baaray mein apka khayaal hai?"

Silence. That, and wide eyes looking at him like he'd grown four heads and said be was going to abdicate the gaddi and live like a common man.

"Kya matlab?"

"Wohi jo apne samjha, Maa Sahab."

She inhaled sharply.

"Murtasim, agar tum bhool gaye ho, toh mein tumhe yaad dilwa dun, ye humaray riwaaj ke khilaaf hai. Humaray yahan aisa nahi hota. Tum aisa soch bhi kyun rahay ho?"

It was his turn to inhale, but his was slow and forebearing.

"Kuch cheezein waqt ke saath, aur kuch halaat ke saath badalnay mein koi harj nahi hai. Mariyam bhi iss se khush hogi. Teen chaar functions hain nikkah se pehle, Shahmeer apne khandaan ke saath aa bhi jaye, to zyaada se zyaada ek jagah baith ke apna function enjoy kar le ga."

His mother's eyes steadily widened until she turned sharply to him.

"Tumse Mariyam ne kuch kaha hai?"

He shook his head once.

"Mein ye apse keh raha hoon." he emphasised.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Murtasim tumhary paas din mein itnay kaam hain ke tum mushkil se ghar pe do ghari paaye jaatay ho. Agar tum waqt nikaal ke mujhse ye baat kehne ke liye aaye ho, to tumhe kya lagta hai mujhe samajh nahi aaye ga ke ye kiski soch bol rahi hai?"

Now his eyes narrowed. And much more dangerously than hers had. It was a warning. One his mother didn't heed.

"Humaray ghar ke kuch qaiday hain, Murtasim Khan. Mein bolti nahi hoon iska ye matlab nahi hai ke mujhe pata nahi hai." He leaned back into the seat, his fist clenching because he knew he wasn't to like whatever would come out of his mother's mouth next. And Murtasim was rarely ever wrong about these things.

"Meerab shaadi se pehle tumharay saath Karachi mein ghoomti rahi iska yeh matlab bilkul bhi nahi hai ke ab Mariyam bhi aisi harkatein karti phiray."

His jaw clenched. There was silence as he willed the sudden aggression inside him to settle.

Mother. Respect. Mother.

Sudden rage, something he'd felt many times before but never where Meerab was concerned and never at his mother, was like boiling, bubbling molten lava inside him. It burned, stung and most of all, it engulfed.

"Meerab par na jaiyein to behtar hoga, Maa."

It was such a thinly veild threat that he was shocked he hadn't growled it. His mother knew it was raw because he hadn't even bothered to add the 'Sahab' after 'Maa'. And still, she didn't let it go.

"Tum achi tarha jaantay ho humaray khandaan ke fard, khaas tor pe ladkiyaan, kuch usool le kar chalti hain. Tum aadmi ho, tumne un usoolon ki pabandagi nahi ki, lekin Meerab ko karni chahiye thi. Aur Mariyam ko meri beti hokar toh bilkul karni chahiye." She shook her head, looking away. "Iss tarha khud hi se mangni kar ke, rishta jod ke ek doosray ke saath akele ghoomna, waqt bitana, kabhi suna hai ye tumne humaray khandaan mein? Tumhe kya lagta hai mujhe pata nahi hai tum har doosray din Karachi niklay hotay thay un dino?"

Murtasim stood up abruptly, his chest expanding on a deep inhale.

"Aur humein kya pata ke mangni kab huwi? Thi bhi ya bas phir kab se aise hi woh-"

Her eyes widened as her mouth snapped shut just as his head whipped around to face her. His eyes must've been sending the right message because she suddenly looked away, gulping and leaning over to take a sip of her juice.

"Mein aapse poochnay aaya tha ke Shahmeer ko invite kiya jaye." Murtasim began, his voice low and ice cold. "Lekin ab mein apko bata raha hoon ke woh aur uska khandaan aayein ge." Her brows raised and her mouth opened in protest, but then settled back down as she realised just how livid he was.

She stood up as he walked over to the sliding doors which led back to the outdoor pathway connecting his wing to hers. Pausing at the doors, he stood with his back to her and his hands clasped behind his back.

"Aap Meerab, Meerab bohat asaani se kar leti hain, Maa Sahab." he began, his voice deceptively low but still with the icy tendrils of repressed rage wrapped around it. "Itni aadat mat daalein meri biwi ke khilaaf awaaz uthaanay ki ke uska maqaam bhool jayein aap." He finally turned around. "Rahi baat uske mujhse shaadi se pehle milnay ki, to woh apki nazron mein ghalat hai, aur issey mujhe koi masla nahi hai. Apke apne khayaalat hain, mere apne hain. Lekin ainda agar in khayaalat ka izhaar kartay kartay aap uske kirdaar tak chali gayin, to mein apki hi sikhayi huwi tameez bhool jayun ga."

His mother's eyes flickered in rage of her own, but Murtasim was too far gone to care. Her not liking Meerab or wishing her not be a part of his life was one thing, and it was something he could live with because he'd been making his own choices and protecting them for a very long time, but to paint a smear over Meerab? Her character?

Black rage. That's what it did to him inside. To even think that someone thought her to be the opposite of the woman of class that he knew her to be, made him want to drive his fist through a hard wall. No one got to think that way about Meerab.

No one.

With that, he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving his mother in a shell shocked state, wondering for the millionth time about how, just how had Meerab, of all people on earth, managed to make Murtasim her fiercest knight?

Meerab's outfit:

Hello my dear readers! Happy MeerAsim reading ♡

The much loved(at least by me) Erum Jamal photshoot has finally made a debut in HkP! I have been waiting for this chapter since that reel in black silk released, and I hope you enjoy the words to all the visuals.

Let me know what you think.

Till next time, D xo