Gunnah e Shab

14. Sight • نظر

Whoever you are — I am leaving. The me you see now, isn't me I'm just a ghost. - Mahmoud Darwish

The black range rover crossed the wooden bridge that joined Swat and Mushkpur. The streets turning from proper baked roads to broken ones, a courtesy of his family. The money that kept their home running came from their ancestral businesses, but his grandfather was famous for using the tax money of the common man on himself. The corruption rigged the system, making his family immensely powerful, that no one made the mistake of speaking against them.

On either sides of the road was open meadows for miles. Wild grass grew like a large ocean, waves rippling as the Siberian winds blew strong. Markhors grazed the lands, their curved horns glimmering under the warm sunshine. Snow that had accumulated over the weekend finally melting as the sun came out of hiding. Herds of sheep walked beside the car with young shepherd's in tow. As they neared the home, the narrow streets widened into an avenue. Grazing lands turning into well kept orchards ; apples and oranges plenty.

Azmaray observed the market place in silence. The people of Mushkpur all lived lives above the poverty line, or atleast that's how it was made out to be. He stared at the women in their torn jackets, men wearing broken shoes as they tried to sell their goods. In the years he had been gone, the state of these people had declined and it stabbed his heart.

"Who pays for the maintenance of the estate?" He turned towards Asghar.

While the answer was clear, he needed to know how the town was being run. It's rundown exterior ; broken roads puddles accumulating everywhere, bridges missing planks and the broken sewerage system told a story of a failed government.

"Our business ofcourse," Asghar rolled his eyes at the question.

"And what pays for the maintenance of Mushkpur?" He blurted.

"The tax money". The elder brother rolled his eyes.

"Has the tax accumulation in the past few years fallen to nill? The town is practically destroyed". Azmaray announced his distaste.

"The people have fallen lazy," he clenched his teeth.

"How does that make sense? Just because these people are 'lazy', they refuse to pay?" He pushed Asghar's buttons.

"Yes! For fucks sake you haven't been here running this show, so I suggest you back the fuck off!" Asghar shouted, the veins in his forehead bulging.

Azmaray took a deep breath, rubbing his tired eyes. Staring at the 'lazy people'. A part of him could not belive what he was being told. The people of his town were hardworking. They would starve than to eat free food. His family was hiding something from him, and Azmaray vowed to find it out. If he were to hand over the reigns to Asghar, he needed to be assured of his capability. Or the city that was long run by his family, would need to fall into the hands of another.

The car stopped in front of the large gate, waiting for the guards to open the doors. Azmaray stared at the well kept gardens that surrounded the driveway. The mammoth statues that held up lit up candles to light up the pathway seemed like an image out of a medieval painting. And in the distant, their birthplace shone with lights. Warm yellow lights lit up the arched entrance, curved victorian style windows plenty in sight.

"Don't ask your questions inside. They're filled with accusations completely baseless. And we don't need dada to hate you even more than he does right now, do we?" Asghar whispered, patting his shoulder.

Azmaray nodded his head silently following him out of the car towards their awaiting family. Anbar and their aunt Samira were missing. He followed Asghar, greeting their grandfather first and then their mother. The icy cold temperatures on their face were self explanatory.