A Court's Maim

وقت | Time

Chapter 3.

"Time? How much more time will they ask for?"

The whiskers on the side of his face scuffed, his lips pursed. He pinched the skin of his brow, the phone held between his shoulder and ear as he tapped away at the keyboard. His fingers seldom stilled, going over the last bits of details. July was coming in a few weeks, and with the new budget on head he was expected to present the committee with a detailed report ; expenditure and profit — the audits and all. The problem? The company his personal assistant had hired vanished over night with sensitive information and now, this.

Aliyaar scoffed as the assistant director for the corporation that had signed a deal to sell them cheap energy had yet to hold their end of the deal. Everyday, every minute, he — his business, their mills faced losses worth billions — spare change to him but in the long run hundreds would find themselves jobless. Grimacing, he bit his tongue, spasms grasping his brain in a taut hold. With eyes closed shut, he imagined with vividness. The screams and shouts, the glares and taunts over his privilege. Pot bellied seniors with the buttons of their shirts ready to burst open, with screaming red cheeks slamming their hands over the table to slander him. To make fun of his father — of his grandfather for trusting him.

"No don't you understand? I've got hundreds dependent on running that mill! If you can show a bit of sensibility, I want to see your boss in my office tomorrow. Ten thirty sharp!" He roared over the phone, losing the tightly knit hold of his calmness.

"—very well. My assistant will book the slot, or else we'll drag you to court. And I assure you mister Sikander, you don't want to go there!"

Slamming the receiver in place he stared out of the blind windows. The back of his pen tapped away at the obsidian glass table, his legs stretched out under it's wooden frame, a long list of paperwork awaiting his attention. White ceiling lights kept the office from drowning in the darkness of the sunset. Dark blue skies moulded with a singular star and orange streaks of the sun. A cup of coffee discarded — cold and forgotten sat on the corner of his table. He had taken a sip, in rage, spitting it out. Tea was for him. His only semblance. On the opposite end of his office's creme walls, frames of Quaid-e-Azam and Allama Iqbal stared him in the eye. As if keeping check on him. Ensuring, he would not, step out of line. The Persian rug covered most of the cherry wood floors, black leather seats and a sofa set in the farthest corner, in front of the large glass windows sat.

A chiller behind him blasted with cold wind. His shoulders remained roughly taut, an ache on the muscles of his lower abdomen reminded him of the accident that had occurred a year ago. Dancing his long fingers over his trousers, tracing the scar left behind involuntarily. Aliyaar's fingers worked a labyrinth of signatures over the printed pages. The black ink bled in soft cursives, proposal after proposal he read through with wild speed. When all he wanted was to be back home, seated on the low rise seat playing his trusted piano. An armor he wished to slip off with time, to show her his talents. As his eyes closed, Aliyaar could see her face and silhouette dance before his eyes. Her lustrous words and illustrious smiles — reserved for the best. She would give in only, his heart knew, when she found the crème de la crème. It was a race, to vie for her sole affections. He was losing, by miles.

From the yellow lamp that burned tall behind him, his eyes absorbed the bright rays. Warm affection in his borderline gold orbs twitched ever so slowly. A vein in his forehead throbbed, the pale of his skin washed in paints of peach. Sweat covered his forehead despite the bone chilling cold. Blisters on the back of his knuckles — a sweet reminder of him having lost a match against Zayed pinched his nerves. Aliyaar ignored everything. All he wanted, all he did in that moment was let himself bleed over the once blank starchy pages. Too tired to continue working, too empty to face his family. A single rap on the door did barely enough to break his thick reverie. He was a man on a mission. On the span of his shoulders, the weight of hundreds of worlds rested.