Mine to take (18+) - Fanfiction

Weak Man

I had very little male contact growing up; my mother, although social, believed in modesty, taught me that a woman should never reveal her face to non-mehram men. Apart from my father, uncle, and a few relatives, I avoided them. In my parents' house out of obligation, and at my uncle's out of fear.

"Stay away from men," I was forbidden to talk to them, with a list of do's and don'ts ingrained in me. Never open the door, never pick up the call, keep your distance from male cousins, and always keep your eyes on the floor. I was trained, so any male contact evoked disgust in me. Usama's touch repulsed me; it was forceful, stripping me of my female pride, leaving me feeling weak, so weak and alone.

I had tried to escape countless times before, but failed. Now that I was far, I had no idea where to go. It was frustrating; my entire life, maybe that's why I turned to tales and lores of a man to whom I was betrothed.

It was psychological; I had suffered from weak males in my family. The tales I heard about Murtasim were the opposite. He had a rebellious streak; according to the stories, he was an authoritarian.

There was folklore about Murtasim Khan, that he had wrestled a lion with his bare hands. If it was about anyone else, people would have laughed it off, but no one doubted any tale about him. And if they did, Khan had a scar running from his left brow to his right cheek to prove it. The storytellers described the scene, each time a little differently. The citizens were really interested in this man, going from one artist to another to hear countless different versions of the same story. They dreamt about it, and in those dreams, nobody could tell apart the lion and him.

His hands looked capable of uprooting an entire forest full of trees, his eyes capable of bringing even the strongest devil to his knees with a glare. He was six foot three inches, a man who could command attention just by his presence.

The richest man in Punjab soon realized that politics was the way to gain more power. People told him that it wouldn't be easy for him, yet they were proven wrong when he got closer to the founder of the People's Party and soon became the governor of Punjab.

But Murtasim's ambitions did not end there; he transcended his role as governor to become the chief minister, assuming authority with the demeanor of a feudal lord. During strikes, he emerged from his jeep clad in a white kurta and knee-length dhoti, a red rose nestled in his pocket—an homage to Nehru, albeit with a sinister undertone. This rose served as a warning to those in power; soon, the balance would shift, and he would reign supreme.

Due to the increasing prices and taxes, people became hooligans. They burnt down police stations, and he stripped them of their clothes, making them fix the mess they created as he watched over while smoking his pack of cigarettes.

The youth found themselves drawn to him, captivated by his rhetoric of freedom and progress. Speculation swirled that he would ascend to the role of prime minister, but Bhutto stood in opposition. A clash ensued, forcing Murtasim to bide his time, recognizing the cunning of his adversary. He may have wielded power in Punjab, but Bhutto was a seasoned player, and Murtasim knew better than to underestimate him. And then, without warning, Murtasim vanished.

Was he dead? Or had he run away?

The uncertainty only served to fuel speculation, with many convinced that their 'Sher Agha' had not abandoned them, but rather was orchestrating a grand scheme—one that would alter the course of Punjab's history forever.

He had the entire country behind him, while I was cycling into an empty field. The adrenaline had worn off and as I hit the pedals, I started thinking, where was I going? My body ached, my vision was blurry and my head was spinning. I could see lines, I wanted to stop but the silent road scared me more, what if they were still chasing me?