✩♬ ₊˚.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
When the chaos ongoing in his life reached it's peak, the only way Yaman could purge the demons out of him was by singing his tortured soul away. Music and him had a deep connection. When he listened to music or sang a song, his soul came out of his body and sang in a chorus with him. Whoever listened to his songs, often had goosebumps on their arms and a faraway look in their eyes.
Safe to say he was gifted with demonic voice, not angelic but demonic because it hyponotised people around him.
This was a scene of an overseas university where in the food hall, several students were gathered around Yaman Sethi who was sat on wooden stairs as if it was his throne and several students scattered around him listened to his melodic voice.
A six feet, three male dressed in faded white versace jeans that had holes in it and a pure wool armani cream sweater with rolled sleeves. In his hands there was a guitar on which his long skilled fingers with green visible veins played a tune of his recent song.
On his aristocratic face a content smile played. Female population in the university was mesmerised by his powder blue eyes and messy chestnut hair. They rarely encountered a pakistani men with coloured eyes so that was another fact to be fascinated by. Some were impressed by his looks, some by his singing and more by his wealth.
Sharp features with straight jaw line, perfect straight nose, ice white complexion inherited from his mother's side and rose coloured lips. He was so handsome that he rivaled some of the aspiring models who spent hours on their looks and yet he wokeup and just washed his face.
As soon as he started singing a hush silence fell around him and the chatter stopped.
'How everyone knows about you & me
Jane kuom itani haseen hai
You are breaking my heart in them skinny jeans
Pocket full of love girl just wait and see
So stay right here
And don't let go..'
He sang and people swayed. Some recorded it and published it on social media.
From there it went viral and now it was being played in a village far away in Pakistan. Ustaad Mirza Lok had deep dissapointment etched on his face after listening to his new single.
"Ustaad jee, tussan suneya nava gaana parave da? Bohot sohna gaya ne jee, hai ke na?"
'Ustaad Jee, did you listen to new song of brother? He sang really good, didn't he?'
Ustaad Mirza's assitant came with a tray of tea and left it on his study table. Ustaad Mirza outwardly listening to the song playing on his phone, came out of his stupor and turned the damn weaping thing off.
"Sometime I am dissapointed, otherwise I excuse you of your love for him, Badre, how can you be my assistant? I thought you knew atleast A of good music if not the ABC's?" Ustaad Mirza asked and turned his chair from the vast lush green lawn towards the standing assitant on the other side of the table.
"He sings as if he's going to bleed my ears, tell that brat to give me a call. He has no soul in any of his songs." He tsked and sipped his tea still thinking about him.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊ ♪ ✧
"Maize your father is asking for food, he's impatient, please tell me that you have finished cooking." Omaiza's mother coughed and placed her hand on a wall covered with cement and remanent's of chipped paint. Once cream coloured wall were more cement than cream. The kitchen was extremely small. Only one person could stand and cook in it. There were two other rooms. One store which was Omaiza's room and one bedroom. At the end of the house there was a bathroom attached to the gate.
