22 Qadam Continued

3. A Rare Invitation

Junaid roamed their usual pitch but it didn't feel the same anymore, now it was exponentially larger without the tempered, virile strength that he once had pumped in his muscles. His limbs felt heavy, lacking the precise, agile control gained from vigorous exercise.

As directed by the physiotherapist, he did slow, steady laps. The crutch was just in the corner of his eye-line, resting upon a white scuffed-up chair. The ground chosen was the paved area where Fari had caught a glimpse of him for the second time, wildly cheering on for Liza as her first fan — Junaid scoffed to himself at being unable to out-walk thoughts of her.

''Yeh muskurahat kis baat pe,'' Fari's voice pierced through his daydream, teasingly as she approached.

At the vision of her in the same pastel green dress, he softened, standing taller with less tension. ''Yakeen karou gye agar main kahun ke tumhari yaad mei?'' Junaid offered. He had an indigo shirt on his frame, reverting to athleisure wear as was his second nature.

''Bilkul bhi nahi,'' Fari chirped, slouching her bag down and watching him vigilantly, still cautious of his recovery as if it were a folly dream that would soon disintegrate, not fully real. A part of her mused that it was just her imagination when he threw back a shy smirk, just as they used to toy with whilst training for the Azaadi cup amid planks and shoulder stretches.

''Yaad kar raha tha jab tum Lizey ka naam ley rahe the, cheekh cheekh ke,'' Junaid shared, a humoured lilt to his words at that bubbly, crazy version of Fari that immediately drew him in; perpetually optimistic, she was a medicine he needed more now than ever.

They were beneath a shaded area, the roof affording protection from the blazing sun ahead. Still, the heat wrapped around them mercilessly as if situated in a bubbling sauna.

The cap on his head was affixed, a cosy quietness falling over them as he practised walking, ironically the most simple of movements for a sportsman — an old version of him would have scoffed at unfitting helplessness. He was starting from the beginning, trying to turn back time.

''Aaj bhi uski fan hun,'' Fari chuckled lightly, mirroring his slow movements as if weary that he'd fall even though he had gotten around independently for a week. ''Tumhari bhi.''

''Main tou khiladi bhi nahi raha,'' he sighed playfully yet with an undertone of loss. ''Fan kaise ho sakti ho?''

''Ban jauga,'' she countered within the same second, leaving no space to argue as if it was only a matter of time. ''And if you lose stamina, I'll force you back in line,'' Fari added, firm.

A warmth of ambition bloomed in his heart. Previously, he had failed to appreciate how lucky he was to have his mother, Liza and Fari as support despite his sour mood. The same presence he once pushed away on finding it suffocating, was now identified to be unwavering love and loyalty; he was seldom, he understood it, in her company. ''Shukria, Pari.'' In return for his newfound aspiration, they looked at him pridefully.

''Yaad hai, tumhare apartment mei, larte hue tumne kaha tha ke mere khwab tumhare khwab bann gye the aur tumko patta bhi nahi lagga. Shayad tumhein malum nahi ke tumhare khawab mere khwab bhi hai,'' she explained, her reading finger making loops in the air between them to illustrate the point, an infinity that bound them together. ''...meaning tumhare khwab bhi unmei shaamil hai. You have a fan in me.''

The words got messy but he understood it clearly; if their dreams bounced off each other enough, they fused in the bigger picture. ''Sorry. Maine khabi apologise nahi kiya. Bahut kuch keh diya maine. Tum khabi kusoorwaar nahin the,'' Junaid uttered while he cringed at himself for raising his voice, for the accusative tone and the knife that had been waved around between them.