Raabta

Fuckoff

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मेरे रश्के क़मर तूने पहली नज़र
जब नज़र से मिलायी मज़ा आ गया
रेत ही रेत थी मेरे दिल में भरी
प्यास ही प्यास थी ज़िन्दगी ये मेरी ||

Fuckoff

“Uth gayi tum?” he asked as I walked into the kitchen, still in the saree I wore yesterday. Oh, right! I forgot to mention that my so-called parents didn’t even bother to hand me my suitcase with all my clothes and books.

I don’t know if they took it back with them or if someone stole it, or what. I don’t even have my own clothes to wear, and this saree is starting to make me feel uncomfortable. I’m a pajama girl, through and through.

Never mind. I stepped into his kitchen, and there he was, cooking something. It looked like he was making sandwiches and tea.

Rolling my eyes, I said to him, annoyed “Mera suitcase kal shayad wahi reh gaya…”

“Mujhe call aaya tha pandit ka jisne kal humari shaadi karayi” he replied calmly, as if mentioning the weather.

The mere mention of our wedding made my anger bubble up again. That fucking wedding.

“Suhagraat ka muhrat nikalwa liya?” I asked, my lips twitching with fury. I couldn’t stand how casually he was taking everything.

His expression remained unreadable as he stared at me.

“Haan... abhi ka muhrat hai,” he said, stepping forward with a calmness that made my skin crawl.

I stepped backward, trying to maintain the distance between us, but his gaze never left me. It was piercing, almost challenging.

“Shuru kare?” he continued, his tone infuriatingly steady, adding more fuel to my simmering rage. My heart pounded in my chest as fear mixed with anger.

What if everything he told me last night was just a sugar-coated lie? What if his promises were fake? I knew better than anyone that promises always are.

I kept stepping back until my back hit the wall. He came closer, his eyes never breaking contact with mine. He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear as he whispered, “Main baccho ke saath ishq nahi ladaata…”

What the hell!?

I pushed him away, my cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and anger. He chuckled, a low sound that rumbled through the room. Was he even serious right now?

“Just shut the fuck up!” I shouted, reaching for something, anything, to defend myself.

Before I could grab anything, he caught my wrist in a swift motion, twisting it gently behind my back. I collided with him, our bodies pressed close as he looked down into my eyes. I struggled against his hold, my frustration mounting.

He twisted my wrist gently, not hurting me but just enough to keep me in place. “Already tum ek mehengi vase tod chuki ho,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

I glared at him, still trying to wriggle free. “Tumhara suitcase do ghante mein aa jayega. Till then, keep your anger low.”

I scoffed, defiant. “Warna… warna kya karoge tum?” I shouted back, my voice full of challenge. This man! I knew it—he’s just another abuser in my life.