You Can Run

The Abducting

Abru knew something was wrong when she came downstairs for breakfast and saw her mother at the table.

Why was she there?

People always told her she was the spitting image of her mother, which she found ironic. Her mother, Sahabzadi Parveen Azeemunisa Begum, was nothing like her. From her long, straight hair that was always out of her face in a neat braid; to her austere facial features, the small brown eyes which judged her every move and concealed secrets she longed to know but was too timid to ask, to the thin lips that pursed at Abru's current appearance; they couldn't be more different. Abru had inherited her curly hair, round face and soft features from her father's side of the family, from her doting Phuppu-ammi and beloved Dadi-ma, her paternal aunt and grandmother.

But as of right now, her current appearance wouldn't
indicate she was a member of the
noblest family in Hyderabad; the Paigah family. At some point
in the night, her braid had come undone, so she looked possessed, with half her hair tangled on the top of her head. She could also feel crusted drool on the side of her face right now.

Her mom sat beside the head of the table, which her father occupied and looked equally dishevelled; his hair stuck up on the left side of his face in a cowlick.

"Noor," Her mother widened her eyes in astonishment. "Your hair looks like a nest."

In response to that, Abru scratched her head and stretched.

"Abru Noorunnisa Begum!" her mother gasped, getting out of her seat. "It would suit you well to develop some manners!"

She made her way to where Abru was standing. Oh, dear. Abru skipped down the stairs and dodged her mother's attempt to grab her, making a beeline for her Baba's open arms.

"At least spare her from your pestering until after she's done with breakfast, Parveen!" Her father yawned. "God knows this house needs a quiet breakfast now and then with you and Abru bickering from dusk till dawn."

Her mother sighed, knowing she was powerless against the two and walked back to her seat at the table. Abru wished to stick out her tongue and blow a raspberry at her, but that would cause another fight, and the last thing she wanted right now was for Baba to start scolding her as well. So instead, she reached for a custard apple from the extravagant fruit bowl. If she recalled correctly, it was a wedding gift her mother received from the Sultana of Turkey.

"Ammi, aap—"
"English, please, Abru. No one in that English finishing school will be able to understand Urdu, as I've reminded you a hundred times," Her mother sighed, pouring tea into her father's cup. Abru's knuckles turned white against the silver spoon she held.

"Mother," she smiled venomously. "I thought your stay in Warangal ended next week.

"Well, my work there was done earlier than expected. And watch your accent, you sound like an Indian revolutionary." Her mother said the last part with utter disgust; as if to be a freedom fighter was the worst thing one could be.

"I don't see what's wrong with being a freedom fighter,"

"They're not 'freedom fighters', Noor, they're rebels with a mass following of illiterate disbelievers, any civilised Muslim would recognise the favours the British have done for us. End of discussion" Her father interrupted, rubbing his walrus moustache. "Now, finish your breakfast and off to your lessons."

Abru ate the rest of her breakfast grumpily. She didn't see why her parents disliked the freedom fighters. They were fighting for a noble cause, after all.

She headed to her chambers to grab her books and stationery when suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks.

There was a man she'd never seen before.