Flipping the sides of the paratha on the griddle early in the morning, Saima glanced at the wall clock when she heard the dominating voice of her husband, Ahmed.
'Ye uthi ni hai ab tak? university ni jana ise'
(Has she not woken up yet? Does she not have classes today?)
'G me dekhti hu use'
(Wait, I'll ask her)
Saima went into her daughter's room to wake up the Nawabzadi.
She turned on the lights of Maryam's room.
Long curtains hung to the floor, covering one of the walls of the room. A queen-sized iron bed occupied the center, against a white-painted wall. The other three walls boasted a regal shade of purple. Two full-length cupboards stood proudly in each corner of one wall, with slabs in between, adorned with books and decoration pieces.
The morning sunlight gently invaded Maryam's room, coaxing her awake with a frown etched on her face. The commanding voice of her mother cut through the haze of sleep.
'Uth jao, university ni jana tmhein aaj?'
(Wake up. Don't you have to attend university today?)
Maryam, with her raspy, sleepy voice, mumbled, 'Kia time ho ra hai?'
(What's the time?)
'8 baj re hain madam.'
(It's 8 am, madam.)
Her mother's sarcastic tone punctuated the realization.
'Oh, shit.'
With a swift movement, Maryam leaped out of bed and headed to the attached bathroom to freshen up, the clock ticking away another morning of tardiness.
Emerging from her room, she had transformed into a vision of elegance, clad in a blue palazzo jeans and a baby pink short kurta. Standing at an average height of 5 ft 3 inches, her raven tresses were elegantly tied in a ponytail, framing a pair of brown almond-shaped, doll-like eyes adorned with long eyelashes. A small nose and full pink lips accentuated her facial features, while her figure exuded grace, making her resemble a delicate yet captivating doll.
Moving to the kitchen to bid farewell to her mom, Maryam left the house before anyone could insist on breakfast. She strolled towards the bus stand, which lay 20 minutes away, each step echoing the urgency of time slipping away.
Her hurried steps resonated with the rhythmic recitation of Ayat-ul-Kursi under her breath, a comforting ritual in the face of the familiar panic of being late.
Reaching the bustling main road, Maryam quickened her steps as she spotted the bus approaching from afar. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she reached the stop just in time. Boarding the bus, she claimed her usual window seat. The 45-minute journey to the university stretched ahead.
The chatter of girls sitting behind her, coupled with Nusrat's qawwali playing on the bus's radio, created a cacophony that soon became a headache. Maryam, seeking solace, plugged in her earbuds and gazed out of the window. Only ten minutes into the ride, the bus abruptly came to a halt on the main road. Maryam, curious, looked out the window and realized it wasn't a scheduled stop.
As she pondered the unexpected pause, a procession of cars glided down the main road. She overheard the conductor conversing with the driver, mentioning that 'Musa Aban Shah' was in the city for a jalsa. Musa Aban Shah – a name reverberating across the city. The youngest politician in the country. The girls behind her couldn't contain their excitement, fangirling over his looks. Maryam rolled her eyes at the spectacle. Now, they had to wait for his highness to pass before resuming their journey.
After an interminable 15 minutes, the roads finally cleared, and they were given the green light to proceed. The bus resumed its course, and before long, they arrived at the university.
Maryam rose from her seat, simultaneously unlocking her phone to discover her friends waiting for her. A notification from the class group sent a jolt through her.
"No classes today," it proclaimed, courtesy of GR. A momentary despair enveloped her. She had ventured this far, leaving the embrace of her precious bed, only to find out there were no classes.
'Yar, koe class ni hai, seminar hai. Koe bunk krein?'
(Dude, there's no regular class, just a seminar. Shall we bunk?)
The dilemma of attendance loomed, and Maryam, caught between spontaneity and responsibility, voiced her concern
'Lkn age attendance k issue hgya to?'
(But what if they make an issue of attendance?)
In response, a nonchalant suggestion echoed from the group
'Yar, choro le lete hn seminar, attendance lgwa k nikl jaegy.'
(Dude, let's attend the seminar; we'll mark our attendance and then slip away.)
'Han han musa jo arha hai razi ko to jana hi hga seminar lene'
(Yeah yeah. Musa is here so razi must attend the seminar)
A friend of hers teased their friend razia. Maryam frowned at that 'musa was here'. Her mood soured further at the news as she cringed at the teasing.
They agreed to attend the seminar and moved inside the auditorium hall.
As Maryam surveyed the sea of students surging towards the small auditorium gate, her gaze fell upon a peculiar sight—girls who were known for their expert bunking skills were, for once, willingly making their way inside. A mental scoff escaped her; even the most elusive were drawn to the allure of the seminar.
Standing amidst her friends, she couldn't resist voicing her concerns about the impending traffic issues that awaited them on the journey back home.
To their right, at a distance, stood Musa Abaan Shah, encircled by an imposing squad of guards. Maryam, unable to ignore his towering presence, rolled her eyes when their gazes collided. Those damn amber eyes held a magnetic quality that seemed to defy her will.
Eventually, the path cleared, and they joined the stream of students making their way into the auditorium.
The seminar unfolded, but those three hours felt like an eternity for Maryam. Each passing minute was an exercise in patience, and she couldn't help but yearn for the freedom of the outside world.
As the seminar concluded, the reality of waiting for the roads to clear for the journey home set in. Maryam silently hoped that this would be the last visit from that devilish politician. Little did she know what awaited her beyond the auditorium doors.
YOU ARE READING
DIRTY POLITICS
Romance'Kia kregy aap' (What will you do?) 'Wahi jo har shohar apni biwi k sath krta hai' (What every husband does to his wife) Musa Abaan Shah had a singular ambition - to ascend to the position of prime minister and uphold his grandfather's esteemed...
