Hirz-e-Jaan

Ulfat 4

Author's POV

The Mirza haveli had taken on a strange rhythm ever since Mehrunnisa's return.
Within its walls, life seemed quieter. She spent most of her hours beside Zubair, preparing his medicines, listening to his tired words, or simply sitting with him when his breath grew too heavy. To the servants, to the villagers who occasionally dropped in with fruit or milk, she was the dutiful daughter—wrapped in her chaddar, her voice soft, her smile brief.

But outside, in the village streets, her return was the most discussed matter.
Some spoke fondly, "Bechari itni der shehar mein rahi he, ab aayi hai to apne abba ka khayal rakh rahi he" (Poor girl, she stayed in the city for so long, now she's here taking care of her father).

Others whispered with more curiosity than kindness, wondering what kind of life she had led in the city, why she hadn't married yet, and whether she was the same girl who had left years ago.

And then, there was Haider.

He had always been a frequent presence in the Mirza household, given his long-standing bond with Zubair. But since Mehrunnisa's return, his visits became more regular, more deliberate—though none would dare to question him.

He would arrive with fruits from the orchards, medicines from the town, sometimes even special food prepared in the Chaudhary kitchen. Always with the same explanation: "Zubair chacha ki tabiyat kaafi nazuk hai, unka khayal rakhna hum sab ka farz hai." (Uncle Zubair's health is delicate, it's everyone's duty to look after him).

To keep these visits from appearing unusual, Haider often brought Taimur along. On the surface, it looked like Haider Chaudhary was simply being dutiful, showing concern for his father's old friend with his younger brother by his side. But Taimur knew better. He stayed quiet, watching as Haider's eyes sought out Mehrunnisa every single time, and every single time, she found ways to remain distant.

Everyone in the haveli knew—whether they admitted it aloud or not—that Haider's eyes searched for something more than Zubair's frail figure.

Mehrunnisa, too, knew. Just didn't know why he would be so adamant.
She would sense his presence before she even entered a room. The weight of his gaze would reach her, steady and burning, even when she deliberately kept her eyes lowered. Whenever she offered him tea or water, her hands trembled ever so slightly—and Haider, sharp as ever, noticed every time. She tried to mask it with courtesy, with formality, but inside her heart beat unevenly, the storm she carried hidden behind silence.

One afternoon, as Zubair rested on his charpai with a blanket over him, Haider came again. He sat at Zubair's bedside, speaking in his usual tone of respect. But today, there was a spark in his words, something deliberate.

"Chacha," Haider began, resting his hand gently over the old man's, "aglay hafte humari khandaan mein chhoti si khushi hai. Saif ka janam din hai. Socha yeh khushi hum sab mil ke manayen." (Uncle, next week there's a small celebration in our family. It's Saif's birthday. I thought this joy should be celebrated together.)

Zubair's tired face lit up faintly. "Allah usay lambi zindagi de. Achha kiya beta, humari taraf se duaen uske saath hain." (May Allah grant him a long life. You did well, son, our prayers are with him.)

Haider leaned forward slightly, his tone respectful but firm. "Main chahta hoon ke aap sab bhi shaamil hon. Yeh sirf hamara jashn nahi, balki apnon ka jashn hai. Aap, Khala, Zorawar aur Mehrunnisa sab ayein" (I want you all to be there. It isn't just our celebration, it's one for family. You, Aunty, Zorawar and Mehrnunnisa should all join us.)

At the mention of her name, Mehrunnisa froze. She had been standing quietly in the corner, arranging a tray of water and medicine. Though she kept her back turned, her fingers tightened around the glass in her hand. She could feel his words pressing into the silence, feeling the deliberate weight of his invitation.