ptv oneshots

The Khan's Wife-3

"You went out without my permission, Meerab!" Maa Begum's voice was a mix of disappointment and restrained anger.

I bit my lip, my fists clenched at my sides, masking the storm brewing within me. "What's the big deal? It was just a party," I retorted, my voice laced with defiance.

Maa Begum's eyes narrowed, her tone unforgiving. "You know our traditions. You're not allowed to just do as you please."

Fury surged within me, but beneath it, a deep-seated hurt festered. "Your traditions suffocate me!" I snapped, my voice cracking with pent-up emotion.

Her words stung, the threat looming heavily in the air. "Remember, you'll be married off soon. You must learn your place."

The weight of her words crushed me, intensifying the brewing resentment I held toward Murtasim for betraying my trust. I fought back the tears, clenching my jaw to hold in the cry that threatened to escape. My heart brimmed with a seething hatred for Murtasim, the one I thought was family.

As Maa Begum's words echoed, a rebellious fire ignited within me. A few years ago something similar had happened and it had me realise my place in this household. That was the first time I had felt betrayed by Murtasim.

For the younger me, Murtasim,  was the unwitting target of my antics. His composed demeanour and studious habits seemed like the perfect canvas for my mischievous strokes. I couldn't resist the temptation to disrupt his structured world, finding amusement in the wrinkles of irritation that crossed his usually composed face.

I didn't quite understand why irritating Murtasim felt so satisfying, but there was an undeniable thrill in seeing his exasperated reactions.

In my mind, Murtasim was the epitome of rules and order—someone whose structured life was just begging to be rattled. His attempts to scold me or set boundaries only added to the allure of mischief, sparking a rebellious streak within me.

I didn't hate Murtasim; in fact, I found his seriousness amusing. His reactions were like a game to me—a challenge to see how far I could push before he cracked.

The day had started like any other, the air thick with tension that seemed to cling to the walls. I watched Murtasim enter his father's study, hoping for a rare moment of acknowledgement or perhaps a fleeting connection. But as always, the air crackled with an invisible tension, leaving me standing on the periphery of their world, an outsider.

I had crafted a paper plane, with a hopeful smile, I approached the study, eager to share this small offering of goodwill for peace. But their voices, harsh and full of disdain, pierced through the door like shards of glass.

"I hate Meerab! She's annoying. She's always in the way," Murtasim's words reverberated through the corridor, each syllable like a dagger to my heart.

I dropped the paper plane, my smile fading into a silent ache, and retreated, seeking refuge behind the door. Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision as I listened, unseen, to their conversation.

"She isn't even your daughter, but you love her more than me".

Shahanwaz Khan's voice, a mix of softness and indifference, delivered a truth that shattered my fragile hopes. " I love you more."

Murtasim's incredulous voice echoed, a mix of anger and desperation. "Then why do you treat her so nicely? Why never a scolding, not even a hint of annoyance?"

"Because she isn't my daughter," came the stoic reply.

"My brother's last wish burdens me with guilt. She is my responsibility, and yours too. You are my son, right? Look after her," Shahanwaz Khan's words held a weighty solemnity.