Muhafiz-E-Khan (Tere Bin MeeraSim FF)

31 - Ehmiyet

Murtasim groaned the tiredness out of his neck, leaning back on the sleek chair in his home office until it threatened to creek. Night had fallen, casting a lonely stillness over the room. The desk was still messy, mind searching for distractions to numb the uncertainty looming overhead. His iMac beamed a fuzzy light onto his face that kept him going, clicking through words on the screen that seemed to blur.

Just as the last sip of potent coffee was swallowed, it's roasted bitter notes inundating his tastebuds. A gentle knock sounded and Murtasim found Mariyum lingering in the doorway. On the surprise presence, he asked tenderly not to disturb the night, ''Soey nahi?'' (You're not asleep?)

The way sleep lined her eyes in drowsiness was cosy, sleep just on the horizon of possibility, and yet out of reach. ''Neend nahi aa rahi the,'' Mariyum admitted lazily. (I couldn't sleep.)

With his hand firm on the table, Murtasim pushed himself back, then stood and circled the desk. ''Kyun nahi bacche?'' (Why not, kiddo?)

A soft lilac dupatta was twirled around her wrist, loitering, rather than broaching the topic that had left her uneased in his doorway.

Murtasim nudged her, but Mariyum only glanced back blankly. ''I thought it was just gossip. Par sach nikla...'' (But it was the truth.)

Murtasim did indeed have an elusive mystery wife. He withdrew, guilt weighing upon his shoulders for his recent absence. ''Batana chahta tha.'' Murtasim trailed. (I wanted to tell you.)

''But you didn't tell me. You didn't share,'' Mariyum countered in solemn reflection. She didn't even meet his gaze whilst complaining, ''Waise, you're always gone. First, it was camp, and then work. Waapis Hyderabad aaye bhi hou, tou nazar nahi aate.'' (Even since you've been back in Hyderabad, we barely see you.)

The soft linen of his off-white shalwar kameez was patted down and he objected, ''Tumhare saamne hi tou hun.'' They were face to face and yet, another unexpected side of him had been unveiled. (I'm right in front of you.)

''Itna surprise nahi hona chahiye tha tumhari shaadi ka sunke.'' A sense of reluctant acceptance laced Mariyum's words; Murtasim was a private man, but at some point, even his own clan was excluded from recieving details. (It shouldn't have come as a surprise that you married privately.)

''Aise tou na kaho. Majboori se shaadi chuppi rahi thi.'' (Don't say that. I was forced to keep it a secret.)

In Mariyum's mind, he was not majboor by any definition. ''No, it's true. I could keep a secret. Tumne mujhe behen samja bhi nahi.'' (You didn't give me the importance of a sister.)

Her words, light and teeming with candour, hit Murtasim like a tonne of bricks. He had broken their trust, not confiding with his nearest and dearest when the moment called for them — even her protest was gentle. ''I'm sorry.'' Murtasim wound his arm around her shoulder affectionately. ''Did you like the chocolates?'' He asked for distraction, to divert attention from his selfishness that made her, his baby — college-going— sister seem like an outsider.

The tip of Mariyum's tongue clicked the roof of her mouth for denial. ''Maine khola nahi.'' (I didn't open them.)

A frown threatened to weigh the corners of his mouth with the burden of upsetting her, evidenced by her disinterest in the gifts. ''Naraaz ho mujhe se?'' He squinted, the late hour removing a filter. Murtasim's heart squeezed painfully, with tendrils of guilt wrapping around the vessel. (Are you upset with me?)

Holding his gaze, Mariyum admitted ruefully, ''Thori si.'' She was just unsettled, feeling a little robbed in the wake of the truth being uncaged. (A little.)

Murtasim patted the top of Mariyum's head, over her soft hair, bringing her in closer. ''Ab tumhein bhi manao?'' Murtasim offered in a sweet, yet tired whisper. (Shall I make it up to you?)