Chapter 36: 32. 𝗧𝗮𝗺𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗮 𝗔𝘂𝗿 𝗡𝗮𝗳𝗿𝗮𝘁..

❛ Zindagi meri ab ek tamasha ban gayi hai,

Jahan har pal mein khud ki tasveer hi badal gayi hai,

Jo tha apna, ab dikhayi dene laga hai ajnabi,

Jab se yeh dunia mere haq mein thokar ban gayi hai. ❜

Third Person's POV:

Arya quickly grabbed Zaviyar's arm, using the momentary distraction of Mahoor's entrance to his advantage. He dragged Zaviyar out of the room, fully aware that if they stayed, Zaviyar wouldn’t escape Altan's wrath, not today, not at any cost.

A tense silence fell between the two. Altan’s chest heaved with each breath, his eyes locked on Mahoor, whose expression burned with fury. Her grip on the stack of newspapers was so tight her hand trembled, as if she was barely containing the eruption of anger that was dangerously close to spilling over.

She walked towards him, her pace slow and deliberate. As she reached just a few metres away, Mahoor hurled the stack of newspapers at his feet. The front page photo of their wedding flashed between them, the bold letters proclaiming their ‘new beginning’ mocking her. Each headline felt like a cruel reminder that she had absolutely no control over her own life, her freedom slipping further away with every passing second.

“Kya jawab hai aapke paas apni is nayi harkat ka?” Her voice was low, yet it carried the weight of controlled fury, demanding an answer as she struggled to keep her emotions in check.

Altan’s gaze moved from the scattered newspapers back to her, his voice steady but laced with urgency, “Mera yaqeen karo, yeh meri kartoot nahi hai.”

Mahoor’s eyes burned with frustration, her voice shaking as she replied, “Aap ke haathon se chhut gayi cheezon ka kya yaqeen karun? Yeh aap ki duniya hai. Aapki manmanni! Aur meri zindagi bas ek tamasha ban gayi hai.” She pointed to the scattered papers, her expression filled with both hurt and anger.

Altan clenched his fists, trying to hold back his own temper. “Tamasha? Yeh mere liye bhi aasaan nahi hai. Tumhe lagta hai yeh sab main chah raha hoon? “Yeh tumhari nahi,” he pointed towards them, “Yeh humari zindagi hai.” His voice raised, unable to keep calm.

They stood there, a storm of emotions between them. Neither willing to back down, but both too hurt to take a step forward.

Mahoor let out a bitter scoff, “Hamari zindagi? Oh, please, Stop this nonsense. Aapke paas shayad koi apna na ho, lekin mere log hain. Mere rishtedar hain, woh log jo meri fikr karte hain. Woh log jo aapke liye exist nahi karte honge, par mere liye meri family hain! Main unhe kya jawab dungi?”

As she spoke, Seyran’s mother, Aira, flashed before her eyes, making her throat tighten with emotion. Her voice quivered with restrained anger, her fists clenched so tightly they trembled. “Main khala ko kya jawab dungi?” she added through gritted teeth, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

Altan remained silent, her words cutting deep, but he still couldn't bring himself to care about what the world thought of them. It wasn’t in his nature to seek validation from others, but Mahoor—she cared. She always had.

“Mere pappa nahi hai, aapko yeh plus point mila. Meri maa zinda hoke bhi meri life mein dead hai, aur iss baat ka aapne pura faida uthaya… ki ladki ke aage peechhe koi hai nahi, kar lo shadi, koi kya hi kahega.”

“Mahoor..” Altan tried to interrupt, but she raised her hand, stopping him mid-sentence. The weight of her anguish was evident, and he watched helplessly as she struggled, her strength waning before his eyes.

A sudden pain gripped her head, making her feel like she was being pulled in every direction. Her body, heavy with the emotional baggage she carried, felt like it was being dragged by invisible chains. Every day the agony seemed to multiply.

“Mere Instagram pe eighty thousand followers hain, aur YouTube pe two hundred and fifty subscribers… usi ke liye har rishtedar se neech se neech baat sunti aayi hoon. Aur ab yeh,” she gestured between them, her voice breaking, “Iske baare mein kya kya nahi kahenge, aapko andaza bhi nahi.”

Her tears, the ones she tried so hard to hide, pierced his heart. They were always enough to push him to the edge, to make him lose his mind. His anger still simmered beneath the surface, a relentless fire fueled by Zaviyar’s one careless mistake. And now, hearing her side, seeing the depth of her suffering—it was starting to make sense.

But even then, he never saw it that way. He never thought she had no one, and that’s why he forced her into this marriage. He didn’t marry her to take advantage of her loneliness.

“Mujhe chahne ke aap daawe karte hain, par,” Mahoor's trembling fingers tightened around her dupatta, her voice a fragile whisper as a lone tear traced the curve of her cheek, “Meri izzat ka khyal kabhi aapke zehen mein nahi aaya, Mirza?”

Altan couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze anymore. Her words pierced through him like a dagger, crumbling whatever was left of his defense. His heart twisted painfully, and he dropped his head, staring at the ground as the weight of her pain and accusation crushed him.

“Koi tumhari izzat pe ungli bhi utha ke bataye,” Altan’s voice dropped low, his face hardening as the vulnerability slipped away. His jaw clenched, green eyes turning a stormy shade darker, “main uska naam-o-nishan mita dunga iss duniya se.”

Mahoor couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze. She turned away, distancing herself from the rage brewing inside him. This was the side she had been running from her whole life—a life marked by the violence of her father, Sinan. She had always prayed to escape the brutality, yearning for a world free from the toxicity of anger and abuse. When her father passed away, she thought she finally got rid of the domestic hell he’d inflicted on her mother and her.

But even as the physical violence ended, life hadn't been kind. School became another battlefield—Adhira’s bullying, teachers’ endless insults. They weren't Sinan's fists, but they still bruised her soul. She craved peace, something soft, something safe. Yet here she was, caught again in the same vicious circle of destruction.

The realization crushed her, leaving her feeling trapped, with no escape in sight. It was as though her entire life was fated to revolve around the violence she had always tried to avoid. The weight of that truth suffocated her, and it was this realization that broke her spirit.

“Har problem ka solution khoon kharaba nahi hota,” Mahoor finally spoke, her voice steady but her eyes betraying the storm inside her as she looked directly at him.

Altan’s gaze locked onto hers, his jaw tightening, “Nahi hota,” he muttered darkly, “jab tak problem tumhe satane na lag jaye.”

Their eyes met, the tension between them thick. She saw the raw, primal need for control in his eyes, the same need she had been running from all her life. He, in turn, saw the fear in her gaze—fear not of him but of being dragged back into a life she thought she had escaped.

She ignored Altan's statement and walked towards the sofa, her heart a heavy, sinking weight. Sitting down, Mahoor took out her phone and logged into the college meeting on the Zoom app. Robin and Vani had already been briefed about her forced marriage by Ayan, and the profanities they spat at Altan were things she saw coming.

Her phone buzzed constantly with tags on Instagram, but she didn’t dare to open the app. She had already turned off the notifications for social media—YouTube, Instagram, Twitter—everything, except for WhatsApp, which was the only connection left to her friends. Robin and Vani had warned her that her marriage was now the front-page news in every Indian newspaper. Altan's status as a famous businessman, a handsome yet rude bachelor who had gotten married out of nowhere to an Indian woman was making headlines. No rumors, no previous scandals involving actresses or women, and then suddenly, this.

The main highlight of their marriage was a half-Afghan, half-Pakistani man tying the knot with an Indian influencer who hadn’t even reached the peak of her career yet. The juxtaposition was striking: a charming, powerful man on one side, and a woman still carving her path in the tumultuous world of fame. Their union was the talk of the town, a story that everyone was eager to dissect and discuss, making them both the center of attention in a whirlwind of gossip and speculation.

The Zoom meeting was scheduled to start in ten minutes, but she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready for the stares, the shocks, the judgmental looks. The whispers and insults would soon follow, she knew. And then there was Adhira—her taunts and venomous insults would be the hardest to endure. Mahoor clenched her phone tighter, her jaw locking as she mentally braced herself for the avalanche of scrutiny waiting for her.

She stood up after logging into the meeting and strode towards the study's washroom, but Altan’s hand caught the edge of her dupatta, halting her in place.

Mahoor paused, her back still to him, the tension in the air thickening. She clutched her phone tighter, her breath catching in apprehension.

“Thoda waqt de do,” his voice was low but firm, the intensity undeniable. “Main sab theek kar dunga.”

Mahoor didn’t move, her eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out his words. “Kuch theek nahi ho sakta ab,” she whispered, her voice heavy with exhaustion, as if the fight within her was crumbling.

Removing the dupatta from her neck, she rushed toward the bathroom. Altan's grip remained on the soft fabric, his knuckles white from the tension. He watched her disappear behind the door, his heart hammering in his chest, and heaving a heavy sigh, he clenched her dupatta tighter.

Closing his eyes, he pressed it firmly to his chest, the fabric still warm from her touch.

“Vaada hai mera tumse,” his voice was barely a whisper, filled with frustration and desperation, “tumhari izzat ko kabhi daag nahi lagne dunga... chahe jo bhi ho jaye.”

Yet, even as he made that promise, the crushing weight of her anger pressed down on him, leaving him more determined to fix the mess they'd fallen into.

However, he could only save her and fix the mess, but he couldn’t control the brewing storms that were breaking through the boundaries of their lives, threatening to drown them both.

•♡•

Zaviyar sat outside in the lawn, the cool breeze doing little to soothe the sting of his wounds. His lower lip bled steadily, a constant reminder of the fury he'd faced. His neck bore light bruises, the distinct imprint of Altan’s grip—an undeniable sign of just how savage Altan could become when it came to protecting his woman. But beyond the physical pain, it hurt Zaviyar more emotionally. He hadn't meant for things to spiral like this, but he was now caught in the crossfire of Altan’s wrath.

At times, maybe twice or thrice, Altan’s personal life had slipped into the headlines, yet he never batted an eye. He’d always maintained the mindset that no matter what he did, people would bark, so it was best to bypass their noise and keep walking. But this—this involved Mahoor, and the trio knew just how vile the media could get. Altan's private life had always been kept under strict guard, despite the relentless flashes of cameras, eager to feast on even the smallest piece of news about him. Thanks to Zaviyar, a skilled hacker, Altan’s privacy has been airtight—until now.

Hearing footsteps approaching, Zaviyar, thinking it was Arya, slowly raised his head, only to find Seyran strolling across the lawn. She was on the phone, her voice soft yet distant, but as soon as she hung up and turned around, her gaze locked onto his. Her eyes widened slightly, taking in the sight of his bruised face and the blood still trickling from his lower lip. Though she hadn’t heard all the details, Seyran had pieced it together—thanks to Arya’s hurried phone conversation with Jannat, mentioning that Zaviyar had leaked the news. She could easily guess who had done this to him.

Curiosity flickered in her eyes, but she didn’t rush over. Seyran averted her gaze, spinning around to leave, but Zaviyar's voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Haal hi puch lete hai log aise ghav dekh ke, lagta hai tum dar gayi.”

She turned back slowly, her hands fidgeting as she tried to find a response to his sharp words.

“Mai dari nahi. Kyu tumhare maamle mein dakhal doon yeh soch ke main bas tumhe space de rahi thi,” she replied cautiously.

Zaviyar let out a bitter laugh. “Jhoot nahi kaho, tumhara bhi mann chah raha hoga mujhe chaar thappad lagane ka, kyu ke mujhse hi ye shadi ki news leak hui hai.”

Seyran stiffly nodded, her voice calmer than expected. “Gussa toh na jaane kitni baaton ke liye aa raha hai, par maarna solution toh nahi.”

Her words hit him harder than any punch. Zaviyar stared at her, unsure of what to say. This was their world—a place where violence often spoke louder than words. In their environment, verbal and physical abuse went hand in hand. Zaviyar hadn’t always been on the receiving end of Altan’s wrath, but when it came to training, he had experienced the man's brutal blows. Yet, today's punches were different—harder, fiercer, and filled with an anger he hadn't seen before.

Zaviyar let out a deep sigh, glancing away. “Tumhari baaton se lagta hai jaise tum kabhi kisi se ladi hi nahi ho.”

Seyran smiled faintly, shifting on her feet. “Larna mere bas ki baat nahi, aur waise bhi... ladai karne ke liye himmat chahiye hoti hai.”

Zaviyar raised an eyebrow, “Tumhe lagta hai tum mein himmat nahi hai?”

Seyran shrugged, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her sleeves. “Himmat hai... par har baar zaroori nahi ke usse dikhana pade.” She paused, her gaze softening as she met his eyes briefly. “Kabhi kabhi chup rehna bhi himmat hoti hai.”

The silence between them settled, a comfortable one, as if they were both unsure of what to say but didn’t mind it. Zaviyar, not used to this kind of quiet exchange, rubbed his hands on his pants.

“Tu..tum bhi mafia mein ho?” Zaviyar nodded once and he leaned back slightly, reading Seyran's discomfort through her body language, but he didn’t press her on it. Instead, he explained, his tone softening slightly, as if to make the subject less intimidating for her.

“Hacker as in... saari information jo chhupi hoti hai ya jise samne nahi lana chahte, woh main nikaalta hoon. Whether it's government records, financial transactions, ya phir kisi insaan ka past—sab kuch. Hamare kaam mein, information ka sabse bada haath hota hai, aur jo zyada jaanta hai, woh hamesha do kadam aage rehta hai.”

Seyran shifted again, her brow furrowing slightly.

“So... tum sirf information ke liye hacking karte ho?”

Zaviyar nodded. “Zyada tar, haan. Kabhi kabhi zarurat padti hai kisi ki identity ko khatam karne ki ya naye naam ke saath kisi ko doosri jagah basane ki. Aur hacking helps control situations before they spiral out of control.” He paused for a second, his eyes darkening. “Jaise abhi jo hua Mahoor aur Altan bhai ke saath. Yeh sab rokne ka kaam mera tha.”

Seyran's eyes widened slightly, understanding now that Zaviyar had been at the heart of the mess. “Toh tum...,” she trailed off, not sure how to finish.

“Main responsible hoon,” he said quietly, looking down at his injured hand. “Mujhse ek galti hui, aur uske wajah se sab bikhar gaya.”

Seyran stayed silent, processing his words. There was something heavy in his tone, a weight of responsibility she could sense but not fully comprehend.

“Mafia mein... sab kuch ek game ki tarah hota hai,” Zaviyar continued, his voice quieter now. “Information aur power ke bina tum zinda nahi reh sakte. Aur hacker ka kaam yeh hota hai ke game ke sabhi pieces ko samajh ke, unhe control mein rakho.”

Seyran swallowed, her mind trying to reconcile the calm, quiet Zaviyar in front of her with the dangerous world he was part of.

“Toh tum yeh sab... itni asaani se kar lete ho?”

Zaviyar let out a dry chuckle, his gaze still down. “Asaani se nahi. It's just a skill... ek aisi skill jo tumhe har waqt alert rakhti hai, har waqt ek kadam aage sochne par majboor karti hai.”

Seyran nodded slowly, still feeling uneasy but realizing that there was so much more to this life than she'd ever imagined.

Zaviyar shifted slightly, his gaze steady as he answered Seyran’s question.

“Tumne hamari information bhi nikali hogi?”

He nodded slowly, not avoiding the weight of her gaze. “Jis din Mahoor Hyderabad pohnchi thi subah paanch baje ki train se, aur shaam ko jab Altan bhai se pehli dafa mulaqat hui thi, uske agle din ki shab tak main ne saari maloomat nikaal li thi—Mahoor ke baare mein, uske qareebi logon ke baare mein.”

Seyran’s expression tensed, a mix of curiosity and discomfort. “Itna jaldi? Tumne sab kuch jaan liya tha?”

Zaviyar shrugged slightly, trying to downplay the intensity of his own skill. “Haan, jaldi hota hai jab yeh tumhara kaam ho. Us waqt tak mujhe pata chal gaya tha ke Mahoor ki zindagi mein kaun important hai, uske rishtedar, dost, har ek bande ki kahani mere paas thi. Yeh zaroori hota hai, taake koi surprise na ho.”

Seyran blinked, processing it all. “Aur tumhe yeh sab karte waqt bura nahi lagta? Kisi ki personal life mein ghusna?”

Zaviyar tilted his head, his voice devoid of any emotion, “Nahi. Jo kaam hai wo kaam hai.”

Seyran exhaled, unsure how to feel. “Main samajh sakti hoon ke tumhare kaam ka ek part hai yeh but it's an intrusion of privacy. Aur soch ke ajeeb lagta hai ke tum mere baare mein sab kuch pehle se jaante ho.”

Zaviyar stood up, his expression unreadable, “Ajeeb lage ya privacy invasion, ya kuch aur, par haqeeqat yeh hai ke main sab ke baare mein wo sab jaanta hoon jo shayad tum log bhi na jaano,” his tone flat, face turning cold, “meri khwahish ke khilaf.”

Seyran instinctively took a step back, even though they were still meters apart. There was no warmth in him, only an unspoken reminder of the danger that these men carried. It was better to keep her distance; their mood swings were unpredictable. One moment they were silent, the next, they were either stone-cold or unnecessarily sweet—leaving her to wonder if she and her sister were the one who had somehow kidnapped them and forced them into this life.

One angry mafia man was already more than enough to handle, and Zaviyar had never given her any reason to feel comfortable around him. Although, tonight, for the first time, he had shown a sliver of warmth—only to quickly replace it with the familiar coldness she had grown to expect from these men.

She nodded and left for her room. Zaviyar, without a second thought or even a glance her way, turned and made his way towards Bagh-E-Azyan, seeking the calm and freshness of the garden. It wasn’t about clearing his mind—it was just everyone's routine, their own escape from the chaos, detached and unaffected as ever.

•♡•

As the meeting continued, Mrs. Chawla, the college principal, addressed Mahoor with a warm smile, “Mahoor, congratulations on the wedding! I must say, marrying the most eligible bachelor – and from such an impressive background, no less!” Her words felt like pins pricking Mahoor’s composure, though Mahoor quickly masked it with a polite smile.

“Thank you, ma’am,” she replied softly, the corner of her mouth lifting as she crafted a flawless expression. Her eyes, however, carried an alertness that Altan could read through even across the room. Beneath her calm exterior, he could sense how forced her smile was, each polite nod a cover for her discomfort.

He got up and left his study to give her some space, heading to the kitchen to fetch a hot cup of coffee that would hopefully bring her some much-needed peace.

Mrs. Chawla, clearly intrigued, continued, “You didn’t seem like one who’d want to settle down so soon, Mahoor. And here we are, with you married to one of the biggest names in business!” Her curiosity lingered, her gaze a little too sharp.

Mahoor had always been vocal about her ambitions, the drive to carve a place for herself on her own terms. Marriage had never factored into her plans, not until she’d built a solid career and achieved a level of financial independence. To her, a woman needed her own foundation, her own legacy—money in the bank, honor in her name—before she tied herself to anyone. It wasn’t just a belief; it was a conviction she’d often voiced openly.

Her college friends knew well how fiercely she rejected the idea of early marriage. She had given passionate speeches in seminars, stressing that a woman should have a life built on her own successes before considering anything else. She’d dreamed of traveling, of immersing herself in each experience, of engaging in charity that could make a real difference in people’s lives. Each of these goals symbolized the independence she so valued, the power she believed every woman should hold. For her, marriage was a distant consideration—a milestone only to be entertained once she’d achieved everything she’d set out to accomplish.

Mahoor's reply was clipped, “Yes, ma’am. It was a bit unexpected.” She shifted, trying to suppress the rush of irritation at how the entire meeting seemed focused on her. Even Robin, Vani, and Ayan were watching her through their screens, their faces showing sympathy and tension as they knew the weight of the rumors spreading like wildfire. Twenty-nine other students filled the virtual room, most unable to resist whispering or typing comments about the “cultural fest” they’d all been waiting for, now only focused on Mahoor’s life.

Her gaze shifted to Adhira, her college rival, who sat silently, eyes narrowed with a smug satisfaction that grated at Mahoor’s patience. It made her fingers itch, but she forced herself to remain composed.

Then a message notification from Robin popped up on her screen: “Meeting abhi exit kar, chauhattar ho gayi hai.”

Confused, Mahoor’s eyes darted to his face on the screen. Robin, Vani, and Ayan all looked distressed, their brows furrowed as they tried to appear composed in front of the others. Her heart sank, a sense of dread creeping in as she unmuted herself, quickly excusing herself from the meeting, and clicked out.

Opening her messages, she saw Robin’s text along with a link. With a hesitant breath, she clicked on it. Instagram opened, revealing a trending post with bold, merciless words plastered across the top: “Famous Businessman Altan Mirza Marries Mahoor Durrani After She Gets Pregnant.” The post went on to say: “One night of passion and Mahoor made sure to secure a future for herself. Rumor has it she lied about being on birth control, forcing Altan into marriage.”

Mahoor’s fingers froze on her phone, her face draining of all colors. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, each beat pounding with disbelief. Her hands felt clammy, and her breathing grew shallow as she scrolled through the brutal comments beneath the post. The venomous words blurred in her vision, but she could still make out pieces of the accusations.

“Golddigger…” “Trapping rich men, typical…” “Another spoiled influencer…”

Her throat felt parched as her phone vibrated with Robin's call. She ignored it, her focus fixated on the screen, desperately searching for someone—anyone—to stand up for her. As she scrolled, her heart skipped a beat when she spotted familiar names: Seyran, Vani, Ayan, and Robin were all defending her under that post. Relief washed over her, but it wasn't enough. She needed more allies in this fight, more voices to counter the negativity swirling around her. She continued scrolling, her hope flickering as she searched for additional supporters who understood her truth.

cheesyburgir: Enough already! People just need an excuse to meddle in others' lives. If you have any humanity left, show a little decency and fear of God!

Riya273: Y’all need to mind your own business. Mahoor doesn’t owe anyone an explanation for her life choices! She’s always been classy and dignified, and that’s something you can’t fake!

blue_snowflower: Are you seriously believing this trash? Mahoor’s been advocating for women’s independence for years. She’s the last person who’d marry for money!💪❤️

chiaplum: First of all, Mahoor has always put her career and dreams first. This story’s so fake it could be on Netflix.🎬🤣

SanskrutiD: This is so obviously a load of nonsense. Mahoor has more ambition than half these gossiping people combined. Find a new hobby!

Mahoor swallowed hard, a knot tightening in her throat. She craved more—more voices on her side, drowning out the vicious, hate-fueled comments from people who knew nothing about her. Her eyes scanned the screen feverishly, desperate for even one more show of support, something to shield her from the relentless cruelty. She jumped to another comment, hoping it would be different.

vrindareads: This whole story sounds like bitter gossip. Mahoor is a gem, and her true friends know her heart. Let’s not let internet trolls ruin it for her!❤️✨

9Chuchu:These accusations are honestly ridiculous. Just because she married someone successful doesn’t mean she ‘planned’ it. Leave her alone.

kababmehadii: LMAO, the things people come up with. Mahoor’s got more brains and self-respect than half the folks on here. Move along, nothing to see😂

letlordbewithu: you really knew Mahoor, you’d know how much she’s against these stereotypes. Some people just can’t handle a strong woman!

A tear slipped down her cheek, her fingers trembling as she scrolled. Only nine comments? She’d expected more—needed more. With eighty thousand followers, there should be a sea of support, a flood of people backing her. But all she found was silence, and the emptiness felt like betrayal. Her thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating, unwilling to accept that so few had stood by her.

affykim77:Mahoor’s been inspiring us to chase our dreams for years. Marriage was never her goal—y'all need to stop assuming! 💪💼

zainixr7: This is Mahoor we’re talking about—she’d rather build an empire than depend on someone else’s! People need to calm down 🔥💅

Waliya93: She deserves all the happiness in the world, and if she’s happy, let her be! These trolls need to get their own lives straight first💖🙏

baewakuf: Wow, the level of imagination here! Mahoor’s always been about hard work and independence, not shortcuts. People need to stop projecting their issues onto her 🙄🔥

She scrolled further, her heart sinking as every word blurred before her. The comments defending her had vanished, like ghosts fading into the mist, leaving behind an endless stream of accusations and sneers. Not a single soul stood up for her now.

A strange mix of anger and helplessness churned inside her, her body shaking as she struggled to grasp the extent of the false story. Her lips trembled as she tried to hold herself together, but the bile rising in her throat was unmistakable. The screen became a battlefield, each word a bullet aimed straight at her dignity, her character, her dreams.

Her fingers stilled as she gasped loudly, her eyes widening with horror, causing them to well up instantly.

xocoxo_67: Fatherless behaviour on peak 😑

desicurl_: Iska baap agar zinda hota toh ye post dekh ke phir mar gaya hota.

The phone slipped from her hand, and tears streamed down her cheeks one by one. She clutched her chest as her breathing grew uneven, the once silent room now echoing with her loud sobs.

The headline wasn’t true. People loved to talk without knowing the facts, but this? Dragging her dead father into it was a cruel blow to her heart, a deep stab to her already aching soul.

Mahoor’s body trembled as she slipped from the sofa to the floor, her breath becoming choppy and shallow. She clutched at her throat, wheezing desperately for air. Her vision blurred, and the vicious words swirled in her mind like a haunting echo, Fatherless behavior on peak… Iska baap agar zinda hota toh ye post dekh ke phir mar gaya hota. The cruelty dug deep, each word twisting a knife in her heart, sending her breaths into ragged gasps.

Just then, Altan walked in, holding two steaming cups of coffee, his face dropped the instant he saw her crumpled on the floor, gasping.

In his hurry, he moved so fast that some of the hot coffee spilled over his hand, scalding his skin. But the sharp sting meant nothing. His heart lurched at the sight of her struggling for air, eyes wide with panic. “Mahoor!” he shouted, his voice cracking with raw fear as he set the cups on the table and rushed to her side.

He crouched down beside her and without wasting a second, he reached into his pocket, fumbling slightly, and pulled out her inhaler. His hands trembled as he brought it to her lips, guiding her to inhale. “Come on, Darlin,” he murmured, his tone urgent but tender, his hand carefully supporting the back of her head as she leaned into the inhaler. “Breathe, Mahoor. Just breathe.” His other hand rubbed her back gently, soothingly, as if willing her to calm down with his touch.

Mahoor’s eyes met his for a fleeting moment, desperation glistening in them, her lips parted as she struggled to draw in even the smallest amount of air. With each pump of the inhaler, she slowly began to steady, but her body was still wracked with soft tremors. Altan’s jaw was tight, his face etched with worry as he held her close, whispering soft reassurances, his thumb gently rubbing the side of her arm.

“Yahi hoon main, Mahoor Jaan. Yahi hoon main,” he said, voice low and almost shaky. The usual composure he held had shattered; in this moment, nothing else mattered but her. Seeing her so fragile, so hurt, was agonizing, but he stayed firm, silently vowing to be her anchor.

His gaze shifted to her phone lying just beside her, the screen still lit. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. Slowly, carefully, he loosened his hold on her arm just enough to switch hands, making sure she wouldn’t feel unsupported. With his now-free hand, he smoothly reached for the phone. Before the screen had a chance to fade, he tapped it, bringing the post back into view.

His chest heaved as each vile word on the screen seared itself into his mind, his breathing becoming slow and deadly quiet. His fingers clenched the phone so hard his knuckles turned white, a dark storm building behind his eyes. The calm, controlled facade he always wore shattered, revealing the fury simmering beneath

Altan’s jaw clenched so tightly it felt like it could crack, veins pulsing in his temples as he absorbed the audacity of the accusations, the pure poison aimed at her. Pregnant… one-night stand… liar. He could hardly see straight, the red mist of fury clouding his vision. His grip on the phone tightened further as a barely-contained growl escaped his lips, his face darkening with a murderous resolve.

This was no ordinary anger. It was a cold, calculated rage, the kind that only a man like him – a man trained to control, to dominate, to destroy – could feel. These faceless vultures had crossed a line, tarnishing her name. They had no idea who they’d provoked.

Now it all made sense—the sudden asthma attack, the raw panic in her eyes, her desperate gasps for air. This vile news had probably triggered her, shaking her fragile heart and leaving her defenses shattered. And why wouldn’t it? Mahoor, sensitive and vulnerable beneath her tough exterior, would feel every jab and slander to her core. The media had crossed their limits, dragging her through mud she didn't deserve to touch.

But they had no idea who they were dealing with.

A dark determination settled over him as he clenched his jaw, his grip on the phone tightening with each passing thought. This wasn’t going to go unanswered. He would pull every string, every hidden lever, and show these vultures exactly who held the real power. They wanted to meddle in his life? Fine. But they would learn, painfully, the price of invading her world.

Mahoor pushed away his support, stumbling back from Altan, jolting him into the present moment. Her face twisted in pain, tears welling up in her eyes once more. The hurt was unmistakable—etched into every line of her face, woven into her body language in a way Altan had never wanted to witness.

Pointing a trembling finger at him, she choked out, “Nafrat karti hu main aap se, nafrat! Meri... meri zin..zindagi ka sabse bada azaab hai toh woh aap hai!” Her hands clutched her head as if trying to steady the chaos within, “Acchi khaasi jee rahi thi, phir aap aaye apne ye gande iraado ke saath! Ab dekhe kya ho raha hai… main ek…” Her gaze dropped to her phone, and a fresh wave of grief hit her. She closed her eyes, her voice breaking as a sob escaped, “Main bas ek tamasha banke re..reh gayi hu.”

She glared at him, eyes blazing with venom even as tears streaked down her cheeks, a reflection of the pain twisting inside her. Her composure shattered, and with a voice raw from frustration and rage, she screamed, her chest heaving, “Allah kare, aap mar jaye! Sukoon aur azaadi milegi mujhe aap se, aur aap ki iss dikhawe wali duniya se.”

Altan quickly grabbed the jug of water, pouring a glass with urgency before striding back to Mahoor, whose uneven breaths made it clear she was on the verge of another asthma attack. The woman seemed stubbornly set on risking her own health in her fury.

He extended the glass towards her, his tone softer yet firm, “Thike, main mar jaunga… par pehle pani pee lo.”

Mahoor’s gaze flickered from the glass of water to Altan’s face, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. She wanted to believe that he felt something—anything—from her words, from the media’s vile claims, from seeing her break. But nothing showed. Nothing seemed to pierce him. Why would it? He was used to the spotlight, the slander, the way people twisted the truth. She wasn’t.

The anger burned hotter, clawing its way to the surface, until she couldn’t contain it. In a flash, she spun around, her breath heavy, her heart pounding with each step as she stormed out. Without a second glance, she ran toward Seyran’s room, leaving Altan standing alone, the glass of water still clutched in his hand.

He sighed heavily, slumping down on the sofa, and downed the glass of water in one swift motion. The cool liquid did little to soothe the fire ignited within him, and he winced as the droplets trickled onto his burnt hand, remnants of the spilled coffee.

With a steely resolve, he retrieved his burner phone from his pocket and dialled Zaviyar's number, his expression darkening as he glanced at his injured hand. “Ek minute mein meri study mein dikh apne laptop ke saath, varna aaj jo tera hashr karunga ussey tujhe Arya kya, Mahoor bhi nahi bacha payegi,” he growled, his thunderous voice cutting through the silence. As he hung up, a singular thought consumed him:

Inteqam.

He could almost taste the vengeance on his tongue, sharp and satisfying, and he was more than ready to unleash it on those who dared to tarnish Mahoor's name.

•♡•

Mahoor’s heart raced as she fought to ignore the barrage of cruel comments assaulting her mind. Every word they threw at her felt like a heavy blow, shattering her already fragile peace.

“Ab inka bhi post aayega and we created you in pairs, phir inka pair bhi 2 saal mein toot jayega.”

“I bet you they are not gonna last. Let's just wait for a few months and we will get the news of them parting their ways.”

“Paiso ke liye ladki ne shaadi ki hai dekhna paise milte hi faraar.”

“Ye ab dusri Sania Mirza ban ke nikelgi.”

Each of those remarks echoed in her mind like a cruel song on repeat. Her throat tightened, and she squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the words. Gripping the pillow with all her strength, she pressed it harder against her ears, hoping it would silence the hateful noise. But no matter how hard she tried, it wouldn’t stop.

She felt the warmth behind her before she even noticed the movement. A sudden heat pressed against her back, and before she could react, an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. Their legs tangled together, offering a sense of comfort, a quiet presence.

She felt Seyran's arms tighten around her, Mahoor allowed herself to lean into the comfort, unsure of what was real anymore in this whirlwind of emotions.

Seyran gently caressed Mahoor's head, her touch a soothing balm to the storm of emotions raging within. With a tender kiss on Mahoor's arm, she whispered softly, “Sab thik ho jayega, Mahi. Abhi ke liye sojao, kuch lamho ke liye bhool jao ye duniya hai.”

Mahoor's eyes brimmed with tears as she grasped Seyran's hand tightly, finding solace in the warmth of her sister's presence. She closed her eyes, allowing the tears to spill down her cheeks, each one a release of the pain and frustration that had built up inside her. The last cruel comment echoed in her mind: ‘Iska baap agar zinda hota toh ye post dekh ke phir mar gaya hota.’ It twisted her heart, making her lips wobble with anguish.

But as the heaviness of her eyelids pressed down, the weight of the world began to lift. With Seyran by her side, the noise began to fade away. Each passing second made her eyes grow heavier, and despite the chaos swirling around her, she felt herself drifting into slumber. Seyran remained close, ensuring that Mahoor felt the warmth and safety she so desperately needed in that moment, cradling her as she finally succumbed to the peace of sleep.

The call of the Asr azaan floated through the room like a soft breeze, its familiar melody breaking the silence and pulling Mahoor from her restless slumber. Her eyes fluttered open, the calmness of the sound contrasting sharply with the storm of thoughts in her mind. She blinked against the light that filtered through the window, feeling the weight of everything that had transpired over the last few days pressing down on her chest.

She turned her head slightly, catching sight of Seyran who was now kneeling in prayer, her movements smooth and graceful, as though the act of worship brought her a kind of peace that Mahoor desperately needed. The room felt still, but inside, Mahoor was anything but calm. She rested her back against the headboard, her arms crossed over her knees, and let her mind wander through the chaos of emotions swirling in her head. The hurt, the confusion, the shock of the media’s accusations, and the burning need to do something—anything—to take control of her life again.

Minutes passed, the only sound in the room being the soft rustling of Seyran folding her prayer mat after finishing her salah. Mahoor’s gaze was distant, her thoughts spinning in an endless loop. The weight of her decision seemed to press on her chest, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had no other choice.

Finally, when Seyran finished her prayers and took a seat across from Mahoor, she met her gaze, her expression full of concern. Mahoor knew what was coming. She could feel Seyran’s eyes on her, reading her every expression, waiting for her to speak.

Before Seyran could utter a word, Mahoor took a deep breath and said, her voice quiet but firm, “I’ve made up my mind.”

As Mahoor spoke and made her points clear, Seyran froze for a moment, her face paling slightly as the words sank in. Her lips parted in disbelief. She stood up abruptly, her hands raising in a gesture of confusion. “Ari balah, pagal ho gayi hai? Baad mein phir kahegi guilt ho raha hai, regret ho raha hai. Mahoor, this is not you! Tumhe ye nahi chahiye!” Her voice was a mix of frustration and concern, her eyes wide with worry.

But Mahoor, despite the hurt flashing in her chest, stood tall. Her decision had been made, and there was no turning back now. “I know what I want, Seyran,” she said, the words ringing with a certainty that surprised even her. “Aur main apna faisla nahi badlungi.”

Seyran’s eyes searched hers, but Mahoor was resolute. The pain was still there, gnawing at her, but it was overshadowed by the need to take charge of her life again. Mahoor turned away, her feet moving as if they were on autopilot. She needed to confront Altan, to have it out with him. This was the only way forward.

As Mahoor reached Altan's room, she hesitated. She hadn't expected Riza to be standing there outside of Altan's room, her posture stiff and formal as she looked up at her with a small, almost apologetic expression.

“Mallika Aanam,” she began softly, bowing her head slightly. “Sultan Zaeem ne mujhe aapka samaan closet mein thik se rakhne kaha tha jab tak aap aa nahi jaati aap ke bina andar jaane se inkar kiya tha.”

“Mirza kaha hai?”

“Sultan Zaeem garage mein hai, bahar jaa rahe hai.”

Why was he leaving? Why now? The weight of everything—her confrontation with Seyran, her inner turmoil, and the uncertainty that loomed in her mind—suddenly felt like too much. She had come here to confront him, to talk to him, but now he was leaving for Lord knows how long!

Mahoor stood frozen for a moment, her breath caught in her chest. Riza’s words echoed in her mind, but it didn't change the fact that she was left standing in front of a room that was now empty, a space that held all of her unanswered questions.

Without another word, Mahoor turned and began walking down the hallway, her heart pounding in her chest. Whatever had driven Altan to leave, whatever was going through his mind, she would find out. She had to. The answers were within her reach, and she wasn’t backing down now.

Mahoor reached the garage, her heart racing as she spotted Altan straddling his Royal Enfield, the bike's engine roaring to life in a way that made her pulse quicken. This wasn’t about the thrill of the ride; this was about confronting the man who had become the center of her chaotic world.

“Kidhar jaa rahe hai?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside her.

Altan turned to face her, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before his expression settled into that signature calm. “Bahir,” he replied, his tone casual but with an undertone of something more.

“Mujhe aap se baat karni thi,” she managed, her voice quieter now, almost overshadowed by the bike’s growl.

“Chalo saath. Baahir thandi hawa mein kehna jo tumhe kehna hai,” he suggested, his tone inviting but knowing full well that she will refuse. He wanted to take her out, to have some fresh air while the weight of their conversations loomed above them like a storm cloud.

“Thike,” she finally agreed, surprising him with her willingness. As she approached, she avoided any physical contact, her movements deliberate as she settled behind him on the bike. Altan raised an eyebrow at her new behavior, his curiosity piqued.

Back in Hyderabad, Mahoor would often catch glimpses of Altan riding his Enfield, the roar of the engine tearing through the air as he disappeared down the street in mere seconds. Watching him from her window, she couldn't help but feel an urge to join him, to experience that thrill he seemed to embrace so effortlessly. There was a freedom in the way he rode, as if he didn't care about anything but the rush of wind against his skin, and Mahoor found herself quietly longing to be part of it.

She wanted to feel that same pulse of adrenaline, to leave everything behind and let go, even if just for a moment. But the idea of asking him terrified her. She was a rebel in her own right, yet when it came to Altan, she couldn’t bring herself to voice the desire. What would he think? And, more pressing, if her strict family ever got a whiff of her intentions, they’d have her buried alive.

And so, she kept her wish hidden, swallowing it along with the countless other yearnings she had suppressed over the years. She remained content with watching from afar, holding on to that secret dream of a ride that might never happen.

She recalled how she had secretly wished he would take her on the bike to the bazaar, the thrill of the ride promising a taste of adventure. But he had opted for the SUV, a safer choice. Now, with the engine rumbling beneath her, she felt an odd disconnect. The rush of wind and the roar of the engine were muted by the pressing need to talk, to dig through the layers of pain and confusion that surrounded them.

As Altan started the bike, Mahoor didn't hold onto any handle or on him. The world around them blurred into a whirl of colors as he accelerated, but all she could focus on was the knot of uncertainty in her stomach. Whatever she had to say was important, but the ride felt more like a distraction from the storm brewing inside her.

As they sped through the streets, Mahoor took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation that lay ahead. This was her chance to address everything that had been left unsaid, the anger, the hurt, and the pressing need to reclaim her narrative. She just hoped that, amidst the speed and chaos of their ride, she would find the right words.

For Altan, this moment felt surreal. She had never sat behind him before, and he could hardly believe she was there now. It was like a dream he’d never dared to think would come true, yet here she was, willingly joining him on his Enfield. He couldn’t choose a thing in her life, yet in this fleeting moment, he felt as though he had the world at his feet—all because she’d chosen to sit behind him.

He could sense her warmth, her presence just inches away, and it stirred something in him. A ridiculous longing bloomed within, urging him to feel her arms around his waist or the weight of her head resting on his back. But he knew better. Those were wishes he couldn’t afford to indulge, dreams far too expensive for him to buy. Still, he rode on, silently savoring the closeness he had, no matter how distant it felt.

“Kya baat karni thi tumhe?” Altan’s voice rose above the rush of wind and the engine’s roar.

Altan’s breath caught as he felt her lean into him, her warmth pressing lightly against his back. Her soft voice reached his ears, breaking through the noise of the wind and the hum of the engine. It sent a shiver through him, and he cursed inwardly at how effortlessly she had this effect on him. His skin prickled, and he could feel his pulse race, an involuntary reaction that he couldn’t hide.

“Kahin baith ke baat karte hain na? Aise hawa aur gaadi ke shor mein kaise baat hogi?”

He cleared his throat, attempting to keep his voice steady. “Thik hai,” he replied, reigning in the urge to turn and see her face. “Lake ke paas rukte hain. Wahan thodi shanti hogi.”

Adjusting his grip, he drove them off towards the lake on the outskirts, every twist and turn of the road feeling charged with an unspoken tension. As they neared, he slowed down, pulling over by a secluded spot near the water, where the distant hum of the city faded away. He turned off the engine, but made no move to get off the bike, waiting for her to speak.

His voice was softer now, almost hesitant. “Ab bolo… kya kehna tha tumhe?”

Mahoor climbed down from the bike and made her way to a set of large stones scattered near the lake’s edge. The lake stretched out like a mirror, reflecting the towering pine trees that framed its edges. A steady flow of water traced along, its gentle rush blending with the soft rustle of the pine needles swaying in the wind. The cold air brushed past her, biting her skin and making her realize she’d forgotten her shawl, but the crisp chill didn’t bother her as much as her thoughts did. Even amidst this serene beauty, peace felt distant and out of reach.

She settled onto one of the stones and gestured for Altan to join her. He chose a stone a few feet away, so they sat facing each other, a quietness settling between them like an invisible wall.

After a few moments of silence, Mahoor looked up. “Time kya ho raha hai?”

Altan checked his watch, his gaze steady on her tense expression. “4:45,” he replied. Another stretch of silence passed, but he could sense the weight of her thoughts in her knitted brows and restless gaze. His voice softened as he finally asked, “Kya baat hai, Mahoor?”

A gust of wind swept through, lifting strands of her hair, framing her face as her brown russet eyes met his sea green ones. Her voice was calm but resolute as she spoke, “Main ye shadi aur aapko, ek mauka dena chahti hu.”

•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•

Milte hai, new year ke baad.