Strings Attached

~Chapter 7~

Dedicated to Petit for loving this book so much. I love you back for it sweetheart ;)

Alright guys... I'm sorry for leaving you hanging for this long but I wasn't well and then I had my mid-semester exams. I still have one left. 

Hidayah isn't wearing a scarf or veil in this pic. but she does wear them. Just thought I'd clear that up :)

Quite a long chapter for all of you. 

Not edited, sorry.

PLZ VOTE + COMMENT + SHARE + ENJOY>>>

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New Delhi, India.

(Hidayah Ali)

My time to reconcile with mom has run out... almost. I'm supposed to catch my flight early tomorrow morning. I keep clinging to her but she doesn't respond. I think she'll give out though, that too before I go. I just feel it. She is about to say something even now, but then she stops herself. Although, she has started speaking to me, she isn't fussing over me much.

I called Dadi last night. She isn't coming to see me off at the airport, which has made me really sad. I told her that if she didn't come, she won't even be able to see me again for at least a year. But like the high-tech woman she is, she told me to Skype her every day. Thank God! We have so much of technology in our time. Because if I didn't have any consolation that I'd be able to see my granny again, I wouldn't have decided to go. I'm one lucky girl to have her on my side. And now that that problem has been solved, I'm so glad to go.

Rafiah and Samira are really sad that I'm going though. Samira has been calling me every half hour to check if I've changed my mind or not; my room was her makeshift home until her mother yelled at her to come back. Raf too is a somewhat similar story. She's been skipping college just to spend more time with her dear 'stupid' little sister who sold her brains to someone for a 'sitar' years ago. That's not true, I tell you! Poor them... can't get enough of the star of their lives. Sigh...! That's me, by the way.

"Hidayah!" I hear my mum calling me, which is very rare these days. I don't miss the opportunity. "Yes, dearest mother?" is my instantaneous and buttery reply. There is a small pause. "Did you keep that jar of homemade pickles I gave you?" "Yes, ma, I did. Don't worry, okay. I'll be fine," I tell her. "Who's worrying? Not me!" I just wanna laugh at how obvious mum is being. After all, I'm her daughter. She will worry, no matter what she says. "Whatever you say, Mamma, whatever you say."

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I'm dreaming about snowball fights and rainy days, beautiful high-arched stone buildings and crystal clear streams when my ever on the dot alarm clock blasts its ominous tone into my peace-loving ears. Confounded thing! I might as well throw it away before I go. I'm about to do just that when I remember that mom gave it to me on my 12th birthday. Arey yaar! She'd have yet another reason to be cross with me if she comes to know about it. And I exterminate the brilliant idea right inside my brain, where it took birth. Poor baby!