Episode 8
It was night. The guests had arrived. The air was laced with the scent of attar and jasmine garlands. The courtyard of the old mansion sparkled with lights. Fairy lights dangled all around, and gleaming oil lamps glowed softly. A grand stage was set up at the front—decorated with vibrant bouquets, strings of pearls, and radiant lanterns. The atmosphere was drenched in Sufi colors, casting an almost magical spell.
On one side, the dhol players were tuning their rhythms, while on the other, the vocalists were aligning their melodies. And then, the qawwali began.
Zaryab walked in, holding Mashal's hand with a faint smile on his face. Mashal wore a dark blue gharara, her jewelry was minimal—but she looked so breathtaking that Zaryab couldn't help but pause to admire her. Leaning in softly near her ear, he whispered:
"You look more beautiful than the moon tonight."
Mashal smiled.
"I thought you'd say something different than the moon today."
"I'm speaking the truth. Even these shimmering lights seem dull compared to you."
He leaned slightly closer. Mashal blushed faintly but quickly composed herself. The two of them sat down and began to enjoy the qawwali together.
Atish sat a bit away from the crowd. He wore a grey sherwani, while Meher was dressed in a green and gold sari. Meher was truly enjoying the gathering, completely lost in the rhythm and melody. But Atish wasn't enjoying it at all—not even slightly.
"Why do you look so serious? Don't you enjoy music?"
She looked toward him and asked.
"What's the point of yelling in such a tone?"
He replied coldly.
Meher was stunned.
"You call this yelling? This is qawwali, Atish—something that reaches your soul!"
Atish seemed slightly annoyed but the rhythm of the gathering slowly began pulling him in.
Aaj rang hai...
(Today, there's color...)
Everyone started losing themselves in the music. Meher closed her eyes and surrendered to the melody. And for the first time, Atish felt her presence deeply—so intensely, it stirred something inside him. Is she really as innocent as she looks? he thought. Something about her pulled at his heart, but he kept it hidden, giving away nothing.
As the qawwali reached its peak, the atmosphere turned even more vibrant. Zaryab held Mashal's hand and led her to the dance floor.
"Just one night, on your own terms...
Let go of your shy little ways."
Zaryab hummed softly.
"I'm not shy."
Mashal said.
"Then let's go..."
The two began to sway gently. Mashal slowly rested her head on his shoulder. Meher, who had started dancing alone, paused and walked toward Atish.
"Just for one moment—without ego, without tension... just to live."
She stood in front of him, hand extended. Atish looked at her hand for just a second... then held it.
☆☆☆
Aini wore a maroon and golden anarkali, her hair adorned with jasmine garlands, and her wrists jingling with bangles that chimed with every movement. She sat quietly, a little apart from the gathering, her eyes fixed on the two couples standing on the dance floor. As the melody reached her ears, a different kind of glow appeared on her face—every word of the qawwali seemed to sink deep into her heart.
Amaan stepped into the gathering wearing a black kurta, the collar slightly open. There was a unique calm in his eyes, as though they were searching for someone. At that moment, Aini looked down to adjust her bangles, and that's when Amaan saw her. He slowly walked toward her and stopped right in front of her.
Lost in the music, Aini suddenly stilled when she saw him. A hint of surprise flickered in her eyes.
"Wow, even you seem to have discovered a taste for qawwali tonight?"
Aini teased gently.
"No, I just came to hear one voice."
He smiled.
"Which voice?"
She asked, puzzled.
"The one that can't be heard in a gathering, but only felt in the heart."
Aini went completely silent. She had no reply. Amaan's eyes were saying so much—things she could understand, yet couldn't quite believe.
Aaj jaane ki zid na karo...
(Don't insist on leaving tonight...)
A new qawwali began. The melody was so captivating that for a moment, both of them were completely lost in it.
Amaan leaned in slightly toward Aini.
"Don't you think... some things are meant more to be felt than spoken?"
Aini gave a soft laugh, looking at him with a trace of confusion.
"You say the strangest things, Amaan."
"Not strange... just the things that truly live in my heart."
Aini looked at him for a long moment after his words. Her heart had begun to race—but she didn't reply. No hidden words. No quiet confession. Just one deep, silent moment.
Amaan smiled softly. He knew Aini hadn't fully believed him. Aini lowered her eyes, but a faint smile still found its way to her lips.
Amaan saw that smile, then gently said:
"Some things... should be heard even without being said, Aini."
The qawwali grew louder, more powerful. The entire courtyard shimmered with celebration, yet within that crowd, only one moment truly lived between Amaan and Aini—a silent expression, deeper than words.
☆☆☆
Mashal and Zaryab left for their honeymoon two days later. Tehmina Begum had suggested Atish go somewhere too, and upon hearing that, it felt like Atish's veins were about to burst.
"What do you want from me, Ammi? Just tell me what you want me to do. If you want me to leave this house, then fine. I'll leave!"
Tehmina Begum saw the dangerous look in his eyes and went silent. After that, she said nothing.
Slowly, the days passed. Atish, who used to come home for lunch, stopped coming altogether—because every time he did, he would find Meher wandering all around the house. That day, he had barely spent ten minutes at home, and in those ten minutes, she hadn't stayed quiet even for a second. After that day, he stopped coming.
Ali had left the country for higher education. A few days later, Tehmina Begum also went to visit him for some time.
☆☆☆
The house was quiet. The day was fading, but the atmosphere inside remained still. Since Khala Tehmina had left, Meher had become unusually quiet. Ali wasn't around either—the one she used to laugh and joke with. The house had suddenly become desolate.
Atish would leave in the morning and return at night. But today was his day off. He was sitting in the lounge flipping through the newspaper.
Meher had been busy in the kitchen since noon. Keeping herself occupied was the only thing she could do—and hiding in silence had started to feel easier.
She made two cups of tea. Even she was surprised—why a second cup? Maybe habit. Maybe hope.
When she entered the lounge with the tray, Atish was seated on the sofa reading the paper, as if he couldn't even feel her presence.
"Tea..."
Meher spoke hesitantly.
Atish lowered the newspaper, looked at her… and then just laughed. A laugh that could cut through the heart.
"How many times do I have to say it? Don't try these melodramas on me."
"I haven't done anything wrong..." she said softly.
Atish stood up, came close to her, and leaned in, locking eyes with her.
"Wrong?" he said with a venomous smile. "Your very existence is the biggest mistake of my life."
Meher stepped back. Her hands were trembling as she held the teacup.
Atish looked at the cup, snatched it from her hand, and hurled it to the floor. Drops of hot tea splashed onto Meher's feet.
"This is just a glimpse of the pain you'll have to endure."
His tone held no shouting, no noise—just a cold poison.
Then he walked away… as if nothing had happened.
Meher sat on the floor. Pieces of the broken cup dug into her hands, but she didn't cry. She just sat there, holding her breath in—as if she wanted to scream but her tongue had gone silent.
She stayed locked in her room the entire day. No one called her, no one came looking.
But the next morning, when the sun rose, so did she—as if nothing had happened. She had gathered herself, wrapped her heart in a quiet emptiness.
Atish's behavior, his silent punishment, now seemed like something she could learn to ignore.
☆☆☆
It was a cold afternoon. Atish Zayan was walking swiftly toward his room, as if something was weighing on his mind. He needed an important business file that he had kept there in the morning. Even after searching everywhere, when he couldn't find it, the worry on his face became clearly visible. A strange restlessness flickered in his deep brown eyes. He didn't say a word—just suppressed his frustration and walked straight to the kitchen.
Meher was busy with her work, fully focused on cooking. As always, her innocent face carried a subtle trace of mischief. But Atish wasn't even looking at her; his mind was completely occupied with the missing file.
The moment his eyes landed near the kitchen table, he froze. The lines on his forehead deepened. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
When Meher noticed him, her hand paused mid-motion.
"What happened, Atish?"
But Atish didn't answer. His eyes were locked onto one thing—the file. It was completely ruined, wet and torn apart. Someone had left it out in the sun, perhaps to dry, but the documents inside were scattered and destroyed. He picked it up slowly, like lifting something already dead. Useless papers slipped between his fingers.
There was a silence about him, the kind that comes before a storm.
Then he looked up at Meher, his eyes blazing with a kind of rage she had never seen before. Meher's face turned pale.
"I… I spilled water on it by mistake," she stammered.
Atish stepped forward. Meher tried to back away, but he was already too close.
"I'm not in the mood for any jokes right now, Meher," he said in a low but furious tone, every word seething with fire. He flung the file aside in one sharp motion. The papers flew into the air.
Meher shut her eyes tightly, as if fully realizing her mistake. But Atish wasn't done.
He raised his hand and stepped even closer, now only a single step away from her.
"I didn't do it on purpose, Atish!"
She tried to steady herself, but her voice still trembled. Atish's face remained stone cold, with a killer-like silence.
Suddenly, without a word, he picked up a glass from the shelf and smashed it violently against the wall.
"Quiet... absolutely quiet," he said.
The sound of shattering glass echoed through the kitchen. Shards scattered across the floor. Meher froze. For the first time, fear showed in her eyes.
Atish took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. His heart was pounding—but the fear in Meher's eyes only made him angrier.
"If you can't even handle a simple file..."
he spoke in a dangerously calm tone,
"...then what are you here for? Just to ruin everything?"
Meher lowered her eyes. A lump formed in her throat. She had never seen this side of Atish before.
"I was just cleaning..." she said softly.
But Atish took another step forward. Now there was barely any distance between them. Meher tried to move back but hit the wall behind her. Atish slammed his hand against the wall right next to her head. Meher squeezed her eyes shut.
"Why are you turning my life into hell, Meher?"
Atish whispered, now inches away from her.
Meher's breath caught in her throat. Her hands trembled, but she couldn't say anything. Words wouldn't come.
For a moment, Atish looked at her face—just for a moment. Something stirred in his heart. But then he awakened his ego again.
"You're just a curse, Meher. Just a curse,"
he said one last time, then walked away without looking back.
Meher stayed there. Slowly, she opened her eyes. Her heart was racing a hundred beats per minute. Her gaze dropped to the shattered glass on the floor. She took a deep breath, then silently began cleaning it up.
She picked up a shard with her finger, and in that instant, a deep cut appeared. Blood dripped down. She looked at her hand—wounded badly.
A soft cry of pain escaped her lips, but she said nothing. She just kept pressing the wound and quietly continued to clean up.....
Continue....