His Prisoner 21+

48

"Ami mujhe ghar ana hai." Emaan said, clutching the landline telephone. (Ami, I want to come home.)

"Beta, me bhi chahti hun tu aye," her mother replied gently. "Par shohar ke bina mayike ana kuch munasib nahi hai." (My dear, I want that too. But coming to your parents' house without your husband isn't appropriate.)

"Toh phir ap ajayen yahan." (Then why don't you come here?)

"Mera bacha, me koshish kar rahi hun. Tere bhai ke liye larki dhoondh rahe haina, toh koi na koi kaam nikal ata hai, kabhi hamein kisi ke ghar jana par jata hai, kabhi koi hamare ghar ajata hai." (I'm trying, my child. We're looking for a girl for your brother, and it keeps us busy. Sometimes we have to visit someone's house; other times, guests are here.)

Emaan let out a sigh, a heavy sadness in her voice.

"Arzal kab ayenge?" Fatima asked her. (When is Arzal coming back?)

"Pata nahi..kuch kaam se gaye huwe hain. Ajayenge jald hi." Emaan replied, though in truth, she had no idea where he was or how many more people he had killed. All she felt was relief at not having to see him. (I don't know... he's gone out for some work. He'll be back soon, I suppose.)

"Toh jab woh ajayen toh dono ghar ana ek saath." (Then come with him when he does. Both of you should visit together.)

"Ji, ami." (Yes, Ami.)

"Asslam o alikum," haya greeted warmly as she entered the living room.

She was a rare comfort in the suffocating opulence of this golden prison. Each day, she ensured Emaan was cared for, refusing to let her lift a finger. Their bond had strengthened over the past week, with Haya often staying by her side, sharing stories and making her laugh.

"Ami, me ap se baad mein baat karti hun." Emaan hung up and returned Haya's smile, greeting her back. (Ami, I'll talk to you later.)

As the afternoon wore on, Emaan, feeling restless despite her injured hand, ventured into the kitchen, determined to make something simple. She grabbed a few vegetables and started chopping with her right hand. The rhythmic sound of the knife on the cutting board was strangely therapeutic. But her resolve was short-lived. Haya entered, her eyes widening at the sight of Emaan struggling.

"Emaan, apko kuch kaam karne ki zaroorat nahi hai. Me khana banaleti hun," Haya insisted, moving quickly to take the knife from her. Emaan had persuaded Haya to call her by her first name rather than "Madam." After much insistence, Haya had finally relented, adopting the more informal way of addressing her.(Emaan, you don't need to do any work. Let me make the food.)

"Nahi, it's okay. Me banalungi," Emaan replied firmly, a hint of defiance in her voice. (No, it's okay. I'll make it.)

"Ap ek haath se kaise banayengi? Jab tak apka haath nahi theek hojata, tab tak me banaleti hun," Haya said, leaving no room for argument as she reached for the knife again. (How can you cook with one hand? Let me handle things until your hand heals.)

"Acha, theek hai," Emaan relented with a reluctant smile, appreciating Haya's persistence despite her frustration. (Alright, fine.)

"Waise agar ap bura na maane toh, apko haath pe itni chott kaise lag gayi?" Haya asked, her curiosity evident. (If you don't mind my asking, how did you injure your hand like that?)

Emaan's heart skipped a beat, her anxiety spiking. "Woh...me girh gayi thi. Me ati hun," she stammered, backing away from the counter, eager to escape the question before Haya could press further. (I... I fell. I'll be right back.)

Days blurred into a week, and Emaan felt a strange lightness in the absence of Arzal. Without his looming presence, she could finally breathe. Haya and Emad filled the empty space with companionship that felt like a return to normalcy. During those days, Doctor Alizey visited to ensure Emaan's hand was healing well.