In the opulent chambers adorned with relics of a bygone era, emotions clashed, mirroring the turmoil that lay dormant beneath the veneer of societal decorum.
Anwar, his countenance etched with an amalgamation of fury and desolation, stood resolute in his resolve. His heart, burdened by the weight of familial honor and the specter of past regrets, grappled with the unrelenting tempest of conflicting emotions.
Waqas, a pillar of legal acumen and unyielding determination, stood firm in his pursuit of justice for Meerab. His eyes, ablaze with righteous indignation, pierced the air with an unwavering resolve to ensure retribution for the unspeakable transgressions that had marred the family's legacy.
As the heated exchange escalated between the two patriarchs, Meerab, ensconced in the solitude of her chamber, stirred from her slumber by the echoes of their tumultuous argument. Her ears, attuned to the agonizing discourse that unfolded beyond her door, caught fragments of the impassioned altercation.
"Is it because you can relate to Murtasim? You had forced Nadia to marry, that's why you are able to sympathize?" Waqas's trembling voice pierced through the walls, laden with accusations that bore the weight of unspoken truths.
Anwar's head shook in denial, his gaze clouded by the anguish of suppressed memories. "You don't know anything," he murmured, his words carrying the weight of untold burdens.
Waqas, his eyes fixed upon Anwar, seized the moment to demand justice. "Murtasim deserves to be behind bars for what he did. There isn't any other way to punish him," he asserted, his tone resolute.
Anwar's weary sigh reverberated through the chamber, laden with the weight of a revelation held close to his chest. Retrieving a file from his cupboard, he unfolded the truth that lay dormant within the folds of legal documents.
"This home, this land—all of it is in Meerab's name," Anwar divulged, his voice resonating with a gravity that pierced through the tension-laden air. He unraveled the web of ownership intricacies, unveiling Murtasim's relinquishment of land to Malik Zubair.
"The gaddi ka janasheen, the landlord—Murtasim, no longer lays claim to any property or land," Anwar stated, a weariness tainting his words.
Anwar's revelations bore witness to the intricacies of a man torn between contradictory actions and unwavering promises. His heart, a cauldron of simmering anger and unspoken sorrow, vowed retribution for every tear shed by his daughter.
Anwar's simmering anger threatened to boil over as he confronted Murtasim, his voice laden with a father's fury and the weight of unspoken sorrow. "Every tear shed by my daughter will be accounted for by Murtasim." Moving towards his chamber, Anwar called Murtasim, a haunting sadness lacing his voice.
"Ji Chacha Sahab," Murtasim responded, only to be met with a glare that seethed with unspoken indignation.
"You've lost the right to call me Chacha Sahab," Anwar retorted, his voice tinged with resolve.
"This home belongs to my daughter, Meerab. She's the rightful heir to this estate and all the land. I won't bear your presence in this house for a moment longer. Leave." Murtasim stood in shocked silence, the weight of Anwar's words crashing upon him. Maa Begum, attempting to mediate, questioned Anwar's decision.
"What is this nonsense, Anwar? Have some sense. He's your brother's son."Anwar's sad smile bore the weight of untold regret. "Bhabhi Begum, now I've come to my senses. I've heeded every word of yours, given Murtasim not an uncle's but a father's love. But when my real daughter was ousted from this house that night, I stayed silent. I wish I hadn't. This home was hers. I am her father, so why shouldn't I pity her?"Tears welled up, the sorrow and remorse painting a poignant picture.
Maa Begum attempted to reason, "Anwar, you wouldn't cast me out of this house?"Anwar shook his head, his gaze unwavering. "No. Only Murtasim."
With resolve, he seized Murtasim's hand, forcibly escorting him out of the gates. Murtasim, engulfed by a haunting sense of deja vu, finally comprehended the anguish Meerab had endured when he had callously expelled her.Anwar drove him to the village, leaving him stranded in the midst of a once-familiar but now alien landscape.
Malik Zubair's land lay before him, no longer his domain. The bitter taste of his own medicine weighed heavily upon him as he sat, desolate and indifferent, soon apprehended by men and escorted to the Malik house.Zubair's laughter rang out, a cruel symphony amidst Murtasim's desolation. "Seeing Murtasim Khan in this state brings me joy," Malik Zubair taunted, reveling in the downfall of the once-powerful scion.
In the shadows of his once-privileged existence, Murtasim found himself plummeted to the lowest rungs of society. Reduced to menial labor, his days were veiled in servitude, his nights haunted by memories that tormented his fractured soul.
The grueling tasks and physical toil became his bitter companions, his body marked by the scars of both labor and occasional abuse at the hands of those who wielded power over him. Yet, in the stillness of the night, when his tormentors were absent, his mind echoed with the haunting recollections of that fateful night.
"Meerab... Meerab," his voice quivered in the emptiness of the night, the anguish lacing every syllable as he lay on the unforgiving ground. The weight of his actions, the consequences of his rage, bore down upon him with unforgiving intensity.
Once adorned in opulent riches, he now bore the ignominy of a pauper's existence, a far cry from the life of privilege he had once led. His eyes, once ablaze with entitlement, now mirrored the desolation of a man who had lost not only his status but his very sense of self.
The layers of arrogance that had once shrouded him dissipated into the oblivion of his desolate reality. His wealth was replaced by destitution, his stature now measured by the bruises on his body and the disdainful glances of those who once would have bowed in his presence.
In moments of searing anger at his reduced circumstances, he clenched his fists, his heart seething with indignation. Yet, amid the fury, the echo of Meerab's name pierced through, a haunting reminder of the irreversible damage he had inflicted upon the one he was supposed to cherish.
"Meerab..." The name escaped his lips like a lament, a fervent prayer for redemption that remained unfulfilled. The metamorphosis from a wealthy scion to a humiliated servant became a relentless cycle, a living purgatory that seemed devoid of absolution.
As he lay on the ground, surrounded by the remnants of his shattered life, the weight of his deeds and the pain he had caused engulfed him. A man who had once basked in opulence and authority was now a mere shadow, his cries for forgiveness echoing in the desolate confines of his heart.
