DECEPTION

3

"He wants to know about Marjan Ibrahim," He whispered lowly into his phone, eyeing the burning tip of a cigarette held between his fingers.

"That is good." He heard the man chuckle before he cut the call.

He brought the cigarette to his lips, once again and pushed the phone into the pocket of his jeans.

Relishing the gentle breeze ruffling his hair, he planned his next move which would ensure his survival in the game he hadn't even begun to play.

⛓

It's been seventeen days, entirely too long since he had laid eyes on her. His phone remained in his hand as he fumbled with it. He carried that God-forsaken device with him everywhere, almost like a part of himself but he only ended up disappointing himself when she neither called nor messaged him.

Laidback in the chair, he stared out of the window at the raindrops chasing each other. Turning a blind eye to the file thrown carelessly on the bed.

"Bhai, Abhi tak tiyaar nahi huay? Mehfil shuru honay wali hai," His brother inquired, barging into his room without knocking.

"Nahi Aaj nahi." (No, not today.) He replied he didn't care to look at Zaraar.

It's been long days and even longer nights. his grasp on the phone tightened.

The sun had long said its unhurried farewell by the time Asraar rose from his chair and hurled his phone at the wall. He walked over the broken pieces, crushing them beneath his shiny black Oxfords with a furious tick in his jaw, only to relish the crunch that accompanied his abusive actions.

Okay, then. Mein bhi nahi karoonga yaad ab tumhain. (i won't reminisce you, either.)

He held the glass in one hand, combing his fingers through the dark stubble sweeping his jaw and taking a big gulp of the glimmering liquid within. He felt the music thrum in his veins, dance with the wisps of fury swirling in his chest. Their living room was draped with a blanket of darkness, a spotlight summoned his attention to the dancer in the centre as he sluggishly descended the staircase.

Her attention faltered, she missed a step, twirling in the circle of men, when she saw him closing the distance between them in a few purposeful steps.

His steel gaze threatened the goosebumps to rise on her flesh.

The beats on the tabla picked up speed, her sanguine dress flowed freely with her, setting everyone in a hypnotic trance as Gulbahar willed herself to move around, spinning like a top. She had practised it on the roof of the old building with the cold air teasing her like an old friend and a big grin stretching her lips because of his invitation.

Asraar wanted to interrupt and took her by the arms, he would have locked her in the same room he had forbidden her to open for anyone but himself as their eyes feasted on her perfect figure. The bloody dress she wore cinched around her petite waist and the slit in it ridiculed him with glimpses of the smooth skin of her abdomen- he downed the liquid in his throat to the very last drop as if he had been walking through the Sahara. He wanted to quench the thirst for their blood- his brother's, his friend's. Blood of all the men present in the room, breathing the very air she breathed, he tasted their lust on his tongue as he stood amongst them.

He wanted to kill them all, slowly.

Blind with rage, he threw the glass at her feet. It shattered into a tiny million pieces like the bloody organ in his chest and for a moment everything stopped.