Murtasim paced restlessly around the dimly lit room, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes dark with frustration. The echo of his argument with Meerab played on a loop in his mind. It had been a ridiculous fight, like most of their arguments, but it had escalated into something much larger than he had expected. He had never intended for things to go this far. Meerab, in her usual stubbornness, had stormed out of the house, packing her things and heading back to Karachi. She didn’t even look back as she drove away.
That had been over a week ago.
And every day since then, Murtasim’s mood had spiraled further into the depths of bitterness and irritation. His ego, a beast that had been tamed when he married her, now roared louder than ever, refusing to let him pick up the phone and apologize. What would it say about him, the great Murtasim Khan, if he bent the knee first? No. Meerab had been in the wrong too. Let her come back. Let her apologize.
But as each day passed without any sign of her return, the house grew emptier, colder. He missed her laugh, her sarcastic comments, even her annoying little habits like leaving her books all over the room. It was driving him insane, but his pride refused to give in.
Murtasim took his frustration out on everyone else. The servants had started tiptoeing around him, afraid to speak or even make eye contact. Even his horse sensed his bad mood and had been avoiding him. If Murtasim snapped at one more person for bringing his tea a degree too cold, the entire haveli would likely crumble under the weight of his fury.
The only person who wasn’t afraid of him was Maa Begum. She watched her son brood, lash out, and sink deeper into his foul mood with a calculating eye. She knew exactly what the problem was: her son was miserable without his wife, but his stubbornness was stopping him from doing anything about it.
She had seen enough. It was time for a little intervention.
---
“Amma, I’m *fine*,” Murtasim growled when Maa Begum found him glaring at a cup of tea in the courtyard one afternoon. The poor servant who had brought it had practically sprinted out of sight after placing it on the table, fearing the wrath that would surely follow if Murtasim found it unsatisfactory.
“You look anything but fine,” Maa Begum retorted, sitting down opposite him with a calm smile. “You’ve been growling at everyone for the past week. Even the plants are wilting in your presence, beta.”
“I’m not growling,” he muttered, but his jaw tightened as he said it.
“You miss her, don’t you?” Maa Begum’s voice was softer now, but her words hit Murtasim like a punch to the gut.
He didn’t answer. His silence was telling enough.
“Do you think this is going to help?” Maa Begum continued, folding her hands in her lap. “Sulking here while she’s in Karachi? You know Meerab. She’s just as stubborn as you. She’s not coming back on her own.”
“I’m not sulking,” Murtasim grumbled, though the scowl on his face suggested otherwise.
“Of course you’re not,” Maa Begum said with a knowing smile. “You’re simply… letting your tea cool while glaring at it.”
Murtasim couldn’t help but snort at that. “She’s the one who left. She’s the one who’s wrong.”
“You’re both wrong. And you’re both right. But this isn’t about winning or losing, Murtasim. This is about your marriage. Do you really want to let something so small ruin what you have?”
Murtasim opened his mouth to respond but then shut it again. He had no argument for that. He missed her. Desperately. But his ego… his damn ego wouldn’t let him make the first move.
