A Little Tangled Up

15

Abid Yazdani reached his home by afternoon, walking the familiar roads that now seemed strangely foreign. Neighbors and acquaintances recognized him on the way, some offered him a lift, others asked where he’d been left. But their chatter didn’t settle the gnawing unease in his chest. He had walked the rest of the way.

Inside the haveli’s lounge, the air felt theatrical. Akbar Chaudhary was performing anger like a rehearsed monologue. Abid sat across from him, watching every twitch and forced growl as if measuring the man’s truth by the tremor in his voice. If Abid hadn’t seen Akbar with his own eyes during his captivity, he might have believed the show, that Akbar was devastated, humbled. Instead he recognised the performance for what it was.

“Humayrah kaha hai?” Abid asked without preamble, cutting straight to it. His voice was tight, controlled.

(Where is Humayrah?)

“Hu… Humayrah?” Akbar’s eyes feigned surprise, as if the name itself were new to him. The pretense was thin, and Abid felt his irritation rise.

“Javed Khan ne humse achha badla liya hai.” Akbar spat out, pretending fury. Abid looked at him, incredulous.

(Javed Khan has taken his revenge well.)

“Javed Khan?” The name fell on Abid like a bad joke, he could not believe it.

“Haan, tumhari kidnapping ke piche wahi toh tha. Mujhe pura yakeen hai.” Akbar insisted, his chest pounding out the lie.

(Yes, he’s behind your kidnapping. I’m sure of it.)

A laugh wanted to tear out of Abid, sharp, bitter. He fought it down. Akbar’s pantomime was clumsy, and Abid could have called him out then and there. He didn’t. He kept his expression flat and asked again, quietly, the single question that mattered.

“Humayrah... kaha hai?”

(Humayrah… where is she?)

Akbar’s composure slipped for an instant. A tiny, human crack and then he reached into his kurta pocket with shaking fingers. From the folds he produced a handful of photographs as if unveiling the crucial evidence he’d been saving. He spread them on Abid’s lap. “Yeh dekho,”

(See this,)

Abid recognized Humayrah at once. The stiffness in his face vanished, confusion and a cold, sinking dread replaced it. These weren’t simple family snapshots. In one picture the two of them stood together on some unfamiliar street, and in another the man was lifting Humayrah into his arms. The backdrop, the posture, everything felt staged and intimate.

“Javed Khan ka teesra beta... Mikaal,” Akbar said, watching Abid’s reaction. “Javed Khan tumse badla lena chahta hai. Apne baap ka... apni behen ka.”

(Javed Khan’s third son… Mikaal,)

(Javed wants revenge for his father... for his sister.)

Abid clenched the photos until the edges grew white. Fury lived under his skin, but he kept his voice remarkably calm. “Meri beti koi mohra nahi hai, jissey jiska jab marzi kare istemal karle mujh tak pohochne ke liye.”

(My daughter is not a pawn that someone can move around as they please to get me.)

He looked up and fixed Akbar with a warning that did not need words. “Meri beti ko zara si bhi takleef hui, chorhunga nahi main.”

(If anything has happened to my daughter, I will not let it go.)

For the first time in the conversation, Akbar looked small. The constructed bravado fell away. The man’s eyes held a flicker of genuine concern. He had placed a bet that could cost him dearly.