As He Closed The Doors

Two Years Of Hell [part 1]

: whatever it is that awaits for all of us on Thursday, to me or hopefully to most of the brilliant fan fic writers here writing on Meerub-Murtasim, their's would always be capable or would always deserve better than what the shitty team could/would give. I intend to give words to some of those imaginations, this being one of those subtle attempts. Bridgerton S2's "Making Love in The Gazebo" was an indiscreet source of inspiration;) This would be published in parts! Hopefully y'all would enjoy as much <8!
---

At certain crossroads in our lives, one stands overly crowded. Crowded to an extent of feeling abysmal and strangled . One expectedly strikes with an intention to get the hell out of that clove , but what if. What if there's no way out for you? What if you can't and you won't have yourself giving up on it even if the feeling rots you from within... every single moment of every day. What if, the people at stake is the wife you are earth-shatteringly, passionately ,unquestionably and unreasonably in love with and your own baby daughter of two, who has only as well just learnt to roll out the word "Ba-Ba" with an adorable drop in middle, and about whose existence he was perfectly unaware of only until recently?

It has been fifteen days, fifteen absolutely heavenly yet damningly brutal days since Meerub had stepped back inside the Khan Haveli - petrifying time to a standstill. If he were to live for a hundred years, he would remember that moment. That moment and all that made him feel, he would have them imprinted across his very conscience of being for as long as he would live.

"...yeh bacchi kiski hai?"

" Ye Murtasim ki beti hai."
.

He had sat there, in an obscure daze , his instincts as good as dead. The celebratory decors, the imprudent chatter of the small gathering comprising of immediate family and friends, the elderly qaazi sitting at the corner, the air pregnant with a velvety incense sickened him. He felt repulsed, breathless. He knew disgust when he felt it.. and yes, he was disgusted . Disgusted with the family, the traditions, the insubstantial aristocracy he was born into. He was disgusted with what he was doing, where he was sitting, what he was making himself do for he knew he still could back out of it for it has always been his word against his. Mostly.
He knew he could blame none ,nor would he have had done th same even if he were in a position to do so. Was he punishing himself or was he punishing her? Was he insulting her cruelly addictive memories or simply, was he insulting his own love for her? For he knew as well as any other that neither Maa Begum's emotional manipulations nor Haya's persistency could ever be reason enough to make him say yes to the marrige. Nothing could force him to do anything against his will, so it was on him and just him for where he found himself in. He sat asking those questions to himself, he sat feeling discreetly... nothing. Nothingness was his person when his thoughts are not probing around Meerub. Other than which, he did what he did best for the past few days.

He allowed himself to curse and burn his insides to hell, allowing himself to feel repulsed with himself. Why was he doing this? Why did he say "yes" to marrying a woman who he held at an esteem as good as null? How could he bring himself to marring anyone , when he knew he could and would want none but her. Love none but her.

He knew he was a marred soldier with wounds that bled for her, that are named after and that could only be aided by her. Sitting there, he knew that for the first time ever in life, he had failed himself.
He did not spare a glance when Haya was brought in ,his mother smilingly leading her on. He did not bother responding to his mother when she encouraged the rituals to initiate. As the old man began reciting verses, he felt something toxic seethe its way inside his soul. He was drowning in something, imploding within himself, as if the prologue of him afflicting nothing short of death upon himself. Death of all that made Khan Murtasim Khan capable of unadulterated, passionate love. In that moment of impending, absolute demise, all he could think of was ,her. She, her name, her presence, her scent, those moments, her laughter, her anger-