Bus Khaak Hogaye

Untitled Part 1

In the suburbs of Lahore, the air was rife with sounds of gunshots and smoke from rifles of jubilant, dancing men. The persistent booms from the guns — five or six in total I believe as I couldn't make out the exact number from the slim gap between the thick velvet curtains — overpowered the thud of the drums and taps from the dancing feet. And the dusty window glass didn't make the task any easier.

With each boom, Meene beside me would shudder and shrink further into me, tightening her grip around my legs. Pagli, I thought. But then, she was just eight. 

I had not been able to get used to the gunshots, be it for celebration or in rage, until the age of 13. 

Still then, I had taken a harsh reprimand from amma for me to somewhat overcome my fear of the sound of gunshot. I believe the rebuke had come after she had lost her patience with me and grown tired of coddling me every time I would shriek and run to hide my face in lap or back. But that day, I had been brazen enough to pull her chaddar over me, making it fall off her greying hair.

"Parey hatt!" She had scolded me, pushing me away. "Baap ke kandhe tak agayi hai, bachpana nahi gaya ab tak," she had gone on to murmur, adjusting her chaddar  back on its place and resuming the important task of stitching a button on my brother Mir's shirt. After all, I had committed the grievous offence of interrupting her while she busy mending Mir's shirt. 

And that day, I realised that I was more scared of amma's rage than the sound of gunshots.

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The gunshots could still be heard — the sound were faint though — when I reached Shahbano's room at the other end of the quaint small house, with Meene holding on to my hand tightly.

Shahbano, my chacha's daughter and childhood bestie (jigri  as we would often refer to each other), was all decked up in red and gold, set to marry one of her cousins from her mother's side. 

Her smile became wider when she saw me and I almost had to force Meene to leave my hand to be able to go hug Shahbano. I could feel her happiness reach me even before I embraced her. She was beaming. 

"Woh aagaye?" she asked.

"Tujhe awaazon se pata nahi chal raha?"

"So to hai," Shahbano quipped, then after a pause, raised her eyebrows and gave me a meaningful look. "Kaisa lag raha woh?"

"Dulha kaisa lagega? Aur dino se behtar hi lag raha hai."

I had never found Zohaib very likable, and now he was even taking Shahbano away from me all the way to Multan. 

"Jhalli na ho to! Zohaib ka to mujhe pehle hi pata hai kaisa lag raha hai," Shahbano slapped her forehead before she showed me her mobile with Zohaib, clad in sherwani and kula, posing on its screen. 

"Phir?" I asked dumfounded. 

At that, Shahbano moved closer to me, hit her shoulder against mine, with her smile getting wider — and if being her childhood bestie I may take the liberty to say — chhichhori. 

"Apna Shakespeare," she replied, as if it should have been obvious to everyone whom she had been asking about. 

"Shakespeer?" It was Meene who asked all confused. "Yeh kaunse peer hain phuppo?"

"Fuzool mat bolo," I told Shahbano before turning my attention to Meene, who had by now started pulling at my dupatta to end her curiosity. "Meene, jao bebe se kaho Shahbano pooch rahi hai nikah main kitni der hai, usse ab ruka nahi ja raha."