Muhafiz-E-Khan (Tere Bin MeeraSim FF)

20 - Naraaz

Anwar pivot, holding onto Meerab's dainty wrist to read into the privacy of her mind, ''Tumne kiska socha hai? Batau? Shayad wohi ho jo main soch raha hou.'' (How are you thinking of? Share? Perhaps it's the same man i'm thinking of.)

It was too risky to say Murtasim's name from her own accord. Meerab's answer falter for a second, the name balancing on the tip of her tongue from apprehension and a tide of ambivalence.

Murtasim, unable to bear the discussion, coughed harshly to intervene, suddenly reminding them of his presence; the man was already her husband. Then he came into view, stood in the doorway whilst still in the uncanny beaded kameez with trousers beneath, hair rakishly undone and skin cast in a layer of sin.

Startled at the hidden presence, they both said his name, ''Murtasim,'' instead.

The name leaving Meerab's lips was a wholehearted confession and Anwar's utterance was laced in genuine surprise, unaware that he still linger in their home.

''Tum yahan, iss waqt?'' Anwar asked the unexpected visitor, pleasantly surprised. (What are you doing here at this time?)

Murtasim gulped, realising that Meerab had taken an irrevocable step into welcoming suitors into her life as if she was single. He stepped inwards with uncertainty, fingertips sliding upon the glossy side table as if navigating a minefield when he explained, ''Meerab ko chorne aaya tha, socha ke aapko poochlou ke koy kaam hai ya nahi?'' There was an undercurrent of rush, wanting to block out any other man's name from being uttered for a while. (I came to drop Meerab off at home, so I thought I should come inside and ask if you need anything or not.)

Sighing from the long day, Anwar nod at the boy. ''Bahir jaane pe garden lights ko on kardena,'' Anwar absentmindedly instructed, not even considering Murtasim for a fleeting second as anything more then their help even though he had become extra useful in his role as bodyguard, and now a political tool to be exploited. (When you leave, turn the garden lights on.)

''Bas?'' Murtasim huffed within the same second, the irk barley concealing itself at their ignorance. Inside, Murtasim burned to new unchartered degrees despite always knowing that his wife was inexorable adamant — she hate with the same intensity she loved, her emotions all consuming and deadly. (That's it?)

Surprised at the novel ardency, Anwar lowly chuckled, the melody rich and oblivious, ''Itne velle ho jo iss waqt kaam maang rahe ho?'' (Are you that free that you're asking for work?)

The surrounding office was hollow, watching as Murtasim's aura darkened from his brewing internal turmoil — no other man could ever propose to his wife, Meerab Murtasim Khan. ''Nahi Anwar sahab, socha tha ke ghar jaane se pehle kaam nibha kar jau,'' Murtasim curtly replied, every muscle in his body twitching as a sensation of uncomfortableness seeped into his bones — at the acknowledgment of his hands being tied. Murtasim recalled at that moment, just as Meerab had taunted in the den, he hate everything about the Khans except for her; now, Murtasim was overpowered before the dictating feudal lord. (No, Anwar sir, I thought to finish off any tasks before returning home.)

After the landslide win, Anwar felt generous and even ventured into the realm of friendliness. ''Anwar chacha bhula lo. Aur ab jau ghar,'' he ordered, gingerly patting Murtasim's shoulder for farewell. The unfitting clothes on Murtasim's frame meant that Anwar fully understood what festivities had taken place. (You can call me Anwar uncle. And go home.)

And then Murtasim took one step back, stifling the growing vexation at his wife, grumbling between them,'' Khuda hafiz, Anwar chacha.'' The word taste astringent. The gifted clothes were a weighted anchor as he strategically exit, laced in the essence of the mujra gathering and rancid hookah smoke. (Good night Anwar uncle.)