A Court's Maim

لڑائی | Fight

Chapter 24.

"'Are the Alamgeer's finally out of luck?' 'The murky origins of Barekhna Saleem—Aliyaar.' 'An unlucky union.'" Barekhna read through the numerous titles that covered the tabloids.

"Oh this is my personal favorite 'the bastard brings bad luck'. How did the media find out about my parentage? Why is it being linked to Aliyaar's arrest Malika?" She snapped at her timid assistant.

"I—I don't know."

"Do me favor, find the writers who wrote these and drag them to my office. Got it?"

"Yes." Malika sniffed.

"Good. While you're at it, take Zayed with you."

"What for?"

"So that he can show 'em his loaded pistol! Malika do as you're told, okay?"

Nodding, Malika scurried out of the mute office. Inside the room swirls of silence had descended over, like maroon strokes of air they crushed reality in whatever forgotten web they were spurred in. It's dimness — owed to the burning candle at the centre dial, the thin metal candleholder, only provided a little of light. A deep orange arranged itself around the head of the table, shadows of lengths incomparable drummed the walls. Spurring muted entities over the trophies and medals. The frame with his name — the seal of his degree hung above their heads. Keeping watch as she stepped out, breathing freely.

The chambers were kept from seeking the truth of what went on beyond the doors. The spirits of might had decided at last to spare their doors — not knocking even with a whisper of their knuckles. Showers of torrential rain outside, covered the streets in a river of it's own. Something primal about it. Large lawns that were arranged to match the opulence of the exterior of the home swam in bouts of it. Roots plucked and weakened, the pets resorting to sleep in the comfort of the lounges where the hearths kept everything warm.

It was a first for Lahore. Rains of unmatched strength appearing in the time of winters. When death was everywhere.

It was not a first for Lahore. Watching in silence as an innocent was schemed against — to be hung for no crime.

Taped to the ends of the tapered rugs were musical strokes — the aftermath of constant wear and tear. Sheets of paper filled the room, strewn around like a haphazard mess. As if a child had struck through the room, in search of something. File after file, image after image, the grains of black and white, a mass of texts and news paper clippings fell every now and then to an early demise over the floor. Under her shoe. As winds struck the colossal winds, shaking the very base of the few candles that burn just from the reverberations, the room lost it's shapely integrity. It spun — like a topspin, with buzzing light streaming in every now and then.

Hollowed voices through the speakers of her laptop shared the space with her bartered breath. Like shackles on a prisoners feet, they pricked her earlobes. Each word uttered in a messy junction. Half the syllables eaten over — drunk over wine and they made proposals and signed them. Ghastly lights reflected over her face, the white of the hospital corridors cut off far too soon. There was nothing. Not a single proof that would point to her husband's innocence. It was a case made with patience, whoever had planned it, knew the loopholes. Peeling the skin at the sides of her finger, she hissed as the pain struck her. Traveling all the way down her spine.