ANAA: A Modern Lens Of Pride and Prejudice

Prologue

Under the blazing summer sun in Islamabad, Sher mansion seemed to have descended into an icy calm. The curtains seemed to have paused it's play in the occasional heaves of the wind, and the regular bustling of servants had come to an abrupt halt. Javed Ali Sher, also fondly known as Chachajaan, could only smile reluctantly at this situation as he gazed at the figure sitting in front of him.
His eyes fixated on the said figure, who proceeded to finish their last sip of piping hot tea, and he desperately hoped that he could distract her with more worldly, perhaps weatherly discussions.

"How's the weather back in Rawalpindi, Ammi?" He managed to say at last, and earned a disproving glance from her. The question could have been framed more subtly, he chided himself subconsciously as his mother, the grand matriarch of the Sher family put down her tea cup. The clatter resounded across the teapoy, the living room and perhaps the whole of Islamabad.

He gulped, hoping that he had not pushed his luck beyond saving.

"The weather, my dear Javed, has been perfectly fine. What hasn't been fine..." She grunted momentarily and gestured him with her two crooked fingers. Obediently, he walked up to her and took her arm until she twisted it towards his ear.

A childhood trick. He should have known better.

"Ammi! Khuda ka vasta, I am not a ten year old child anymore." He groaned as she yanked his ear one final time and pushed him away. "There's no reason to get so upset!"

Badi Ammi scoffed at his remark, as if he made it in childlike jest. "Over these years, I wondered why my heart has never felt fully settled in Rawalpindi. After Junaid's death, it had felt like a duty to protect and raise an empire to the heights which he had imagined. Yet, my worries, my concern, my mind kept telling me that I must be in Islamabad. Right here, with you all."

Javed looked down at his fingers, almost overcome with shame and guilt. His brother's death always brought a sense of regret that could never be erased, and hearing it from his mother seemed to embed the hurt in his deepest memories.

"I'm aware of the past, Ammi. If you wish to retire, I am more than willing to help you with the business..."

"Retire?" She guffawed, and now he gazed at her in bewilderment. "Khoteya, the day I retire is the day I'm in my grave. And if you try to convince me otherwise, you'll be the one six feet under."

He shrugged away her blatant threat, almost too carried away by the initial drift of her thoughts. "Then your visit?..."

She bent her neck, as if looking at the floor seemed to give her the strength needed to speak. His Ammijaan, the one with ice in her veins and a dagger in her words, was finding it tough to reveal the thoughts that were plaguing her aging mind.

"Daneen," she muttered, almost a ghost of her former self. "I'm worried about Daneen."

Javed lips motioned a quick 'o' as he understood his mother's concerns.

Daneen, whom he affectionately called Dani Sherni, was the living memory of his late brother that had become an inseparable part of the household. There wasn't a soul in the city who hadn't encountered her at a club, a party, a charity event, a university seminar, or a public protest. She made it a point to be everywhere and to know everyone. It fueled her, the thought of recognition and the idea of people flocking to her because of who she was. His mother's worry seemed just about right at the moment; he too was afraid of how much she loved herself, and the idea of her in a society that would only hold contempt for her spontaneity.

But he was her Chachajaan, her guardian since her parents' untimely death. She trusted him, more than a child would trust an overbearing, orthodox parent with whom they could barely share anything.

"Ammi," he murmured as he approached her. "I understand your concern, but please be rest assured that she is fine. You left me in her care when she was barely a year old; she's all of 23 now and much wiser and braver to take care of herself. In fact, she reminds me of you in her stubbornness and strength."

"And that is precisely what worries me, Javed." She swatted his hand away, and he looked up at her with hurtful eyes. She sighed at his expression and ruefully glanced at the vast expanse of greenery ahead. "This mansion represents a legacy that my husband built for himself. When he died, Junaid took it upon himself to learn the ropes and take it forward. I thought that nothing bad could happen henceforth; I was widowed at 32, yet my happiness knew no bounds at my son's excellence. Junaid's death, my son's death..."

She drew a long breath.

"I had to steel myself. At 40, I had to rebuild myself to avoid this legacy from crashing down. Losing a husband and a son in a span of a decade is what made me this way, Javed. Not running around in elite circles and glamouring my world to look prettier than it is."

She stood from her chair and held the crispy printed copy of today's Islamabad Daily at Javed. On the front page was a cover story on his niece with two photos framed right in the center. Laughing without a care in the world but with a glass of champagne and the other was her in shorts, teaching children how to surf at Karachi's Clifton beach.

"This article is printed under the headline "Pakistani IT GIRL". Now, before you come up with some lame excuse for what the phrase "it girl" means, let me tell you that I googled it already." Her eyes fixed at him, and they turned steely under the brazen sun rays. "And the results were very displeasing to say the least."

Javed rose from his seat next to her and sighed in response. "I wasn't going to sugarcoat what the phrase meant, because frankly neither do we nor do these so-called 'journalists' know what they write." He grabbed his mother's arms in a bid to console her. "What we do know is Daneen's character, and I can vouch for her. She's not a harebrained child; she is determined, ambitious and passionately desires to be a part of this world. All these photos are a testament to her happiness, her drive in life; they're not some sleazy display of wealth."

Badi Ammi raised an eyebrow at him. "Is it so? Is her ambition so big that it prevents her time to call her Badi Ammi every now and then? Are her dreams so indecent that it allows her to mock her culture by drinking so lavishly and wearing such skimpy clothes? All I see is a ridiculously spoilt child, Javed."

He frowned at her words, as he read between the lines of anger. She clearly blamed him for how things turned out.

You've failed as guardian, Javed.

"Anyways, now that I'm here, there's still some time to salvage all that has been ruined." She adjusted her shawl in a moment's work and looked at her son distastefully.

"Khoteya, I've not come to watch you mope around. Call Daneen downstairs, and let's get a headstart to solving things."

Watching Javed's sullen face, she decided to scream Daneen's name out loud all by herself, and in the process ignored two very important truths.

One, that she had just broken her son's heart and that two, her dearest granddaughter was currently far away from the secluded Sher estate.