Anything For You

Prologue

The room was dimly lit, with the only light filtering through a small, barred window high on the wall. The air was thick with a stale, damp odour, and the walls were cold, rough to the touch, painted in a dreary shade of grey.

In the corner, he sat hunched over on a narrow, metal cot. His hair was a tangled mess, and the greasy strands hung around his face. His shabby and unkempt beard concealed his features, making him look far older than his years.

He stared blankly at the ground, his eyes hollow and distant, devoid of any spark of life. His hands, calloused and trembling, clutched a piece of paper—a photograph, crumpled and worn.

As he looked at the picture, his eyes softened, filling with ever-so-tenderness that could even soften the hardest of stones. His thumb gently traced the outline of the figure in the photograph as he closed his eyes, gently drawing the photograph closer to his chest.

His breaths grew steadier, the tightness in his shoulders easing just slightly, only to tense again as reality encroached on his fleeting reverie. He opened his eyes and looked around himself. He was a prisoner, not just of the physical walls that confined him, but of his feelings, of love, and—of this girl, whose photo he held so closely to himself.

The silence was punctuated by the sound of a footstep reverberating through the stone walls. The sound drew nearer, and eventually a person came and stood in front of him.

"Kaisa hai tu?" the man asked, with extreme subtleness in his voice. (How are you?)

He kept the photograph under his pillow and got up from the cot. "Bas zinda hoon," he voiced, giving his shoulders a shrug. (Just alive.)

"Till when will you keep hurting yourself?" The man whispered in a soft voice, his eyes showing the concern that he was carrying.

Fariz came near the bars. He had a sad, sarcastic smile, and his sombre eyes came into contact with his brother's. "Why do you think I am hurting myself?"

Adnan looked at the withered form of his brother behind the bars. Every time he used to come here, his heart used to ache. Seeing his brother in this condition was something he despised. "First, you gave up your freedom for her. Then you didn't let us take you out of here. And now, see yourself. You are destroying yourself in her memories. What should I call this if not hurting oneself?"

Fariz chuckled in response. "It's been THREE YEARS, eight months, 10 days, and a couple of hours since the time she entered my life. And now, when I am confined within these four walls, away from all the freedom, I consider myself free—free to miss her."

He took a pause and looked at the dejected face of his brother, then continued. "And you say I have given up on my freedom? I am the most free person here. At least I am allowed to miss her. I know that when I come out, people will try to take that away from me too. Her memories don't hurt me. They make me strong."

Adnan stood there, rooted to the spot, trying to figure out the strength and endurance his brother possessed that makes him speak like this. "What are you made of?"

Fariz lifted his eyes, brimming with unshed tears. "Mohabbat" was his one-word answer. (Love)

It spoke a lot.

"Badi ajeeb chiz hai, na ho toh bemol lagti hai aur ho jaye toh anmol," he continued. (It's a very strange thing, when it doesn't happen, it seems worthless, and when it happens it seem priceless.)

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