Mai dil ko samjha lunga

Tu khayal tera rakhna

Zihal-e-muskin makum ba-ranjish

Bahaal-e-hijara bechara dil hai...

The magnificent Doha skyline glittered in the balmy night. The city itself was a marvel, but observing it from the fourty-fourth floor of the Mandarin Oriental was pure magic. Murtasim loved Doha; it had the distinct ability to brighten his mood and relax him simultaneously, something he wasn't in the habit of doing.

Standing on the terrace of his penthouse, facing the city he loved, he couldn't be further from relaxed. Taking a long drag of the cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, he let the smoke escape his lips and viewed the city-scape through the haze. The familiar comfort that smoking brought with it took effect instantly.

The last conversation he'd had here with his wife repeatedly flashed in his mind, bringing with it a new interpretation each time. What was any normal man to do in this situation? He let out a sarcastic chuckle, shaking his head. A normal man wouldn't accidentally find his wife of two years in a foreign country, embarking on a career he knew nothing about. A normal man would ideally be living with said wife, and not be able to count their interactions with one another on two hands.

"Mai darr gayi thi. I panicked."

"I felt betrayed."

He shut his eyes and took another deep inhale of the cigarette.

"Tum sirf ek baar sach sach kaho, kya mujhe apni marzi se apni zindagi guzaarnay ki ijaazat di jaati?"

Her words had been gentle, her voice low and devoid of complaint or aggression.

He watched as the cigarette smoke vanished into nothingness.

"I was okay with everything. Tumne kaha shaadi kartay hain, mai maan gayi. Mai dil se raazi thi shaadi ke liye Murtasim. Lekin kya mila mujhe meri achaai ka?"

"Tum aise keh rahi ho jaise tumhe situtaion ka pata nahi tha Meerab."

"Mujhe situation ka pata tha, lekin uske saath lagai huwi pabandiyon aur jhootay vaado ke baray mai mujhe batanay ki zehmat kisi ne nahi ki thi."

He'd taken offense to that; he had never made any false promises to her, had never been anything less than honest, and neither had she. It was why he'd believed they would work. But she hadn't let him speak; she'd been carrying this burden within for too long and now she'd finally had an outlet. A target for her catharsis. Him.

"All I ever wanted was to just find my own way in life. Ke mujhe kya pasand hai, mai kis cheez ke baray mai passionate hu. Tumhe lagta hai mai humesha se flight-attendant ban na chahti thi?"

"Meerab tum kya chahti ho ye mai pichle do saal se samajhne ki koshish kar raha hu yaar." His voice was low and weary.

Raising his hand to the back of his, he squeezed the throbbing pain which had appeared as he'd stood there listening to her; she'd looked like a Frida Kahlo painting; bold, beautiful and breathtakingly tragic. Stubbing the now-spent cigarette into the standing ashtray on the terrace, he lit another one instantly and let it hang from his fingers across the glass railing, its ashes dropping into the abyss of the city below.

"Ye sab kuch jaan nay ke baad bhi mai chup chaap rukhsati nahi karsakti thi. Mujhe haveli mai ek decoration piece bana ke rakh detay Murtasim."

"I'm strong, but I'm not unbreakable. Mai ahista ahista har kisi se nafrat karnay lagti; unse, tumse aur khud se."

He'd felt like her solemnly uttered words had slammed into his body and knocked the breath out him. If what she was saying was indeed true, then she had been betrayed. By people she had trusted. By his family. She'd changed the trajectory of her life and thrown herself into a new path in a pre-emptive attempt to shield herself. A wrong tackled with another wrong.

Murtasim had felt detached from reality. It wasn't easy to blindside him, but he felt like someone had woken him up from a long, ignorant slumber.

Suddenly, her actions during the past two years made so much sense. Her sudden coldness. Her resistance. The fragile bond they'd created had been eviscerated so mercilessly that Murtasim had started to doubt himself; had they really had an understanding, become a team? The Meerab he'd gotten to know before the mayoun was a world apart from the one he'd met in Karachi the night before the nikkah. Was the Meerab who'd impressed him with her astuteness and kind heart a fragment of his imagination? Where was the girl who'd sat across from him, looked at him with wide, solemn eyes and agreed to become his wife? What had happened to her?

The distance between them had become almost insurmountable. And all because she'd heard some bullshit which had frightened her, and she'd run scared. Terrified of losing her identity. Of being the queen of a gilded cage.

Meerab had been taught that God waited for His people to seek him. To ask from him what they couldn't obtain from anywhere else. It was in those moments that your imaan was tested; you had to believe in the power of prayer more than you believed in anything else. You had to bow your head, spread your hands and just ask. And then believe. Tawakkul.

She had always speculated if people told this to themselves to shake off their burdens and to make the acceptance of defeat easier; if it was the will of God, who could blame you for your failures? She'd had many a discussion with her parents on this, always playing devil's advocate, in order to understand the balance of prayer and action.

But as she sat on her prayer mat, her hands raised in dua, Meerab realised that maybe Tawakkul was Allah's way of relieving His people. Maybe leaving your matters to Him was not cowardly, but brave; it was the ultimate way to empower your imaan; resisting the urge to rely on anything tangible in this dunya and having faith in His plan for you.

As the cool breeze on the balcony gently kissed her cheeks, she opened her eyes, took a deep breath and for the first time since lying to her parents about Doha, Meerab smiled. Genuinely smiled-her cheeks flushing, eyes sparkling and dimples showing. She'd done it; she had told Mama and Baba the truth. Most of it anyway. Truthfully, she was not surprised at their response; her parents had always strived for an open and honest bond with her, and her upbringing had been a wonderful balance of love and gentle discipline. So it hadn't been surprising that though disappointed with her lie, they had strived to understand her reasons without judgement and advised her of the risks involved.

As Meerab had been sandwiched in a hug between them both, she knew she had done the right thing by withholding one piece of information. She may be too young to fully understand complex family dynamics and relationships, but was wise enough to know that revealing her reason would destroy her father's perception of a loved one. The perch he'd placed them on was high, and the fall would be great, but Meerab knew that in the end, her Baba would be the one left a world of hurt.

Two Years Ago

Waqas Ahmed's Farmhouse, Murree

Meerab tiptoed down the wrap-around staircase, her henna-adorned hands held up in the air and her steps careful, avoiding the hem of her long gown. It had been decreed that she was to now stay in her room, not come out unnecessarily and not step foot outside the house except for when they left for Karachi. She'd also been told that she was to stay in her mayoun dress until the nikkah, but there was no way she was staying in this dress for the four days until the nikkah.

Everyone had gone to bed after the mayoun festivities had ended sometime in the early hours of the morning. The event had gone on longer than expected due to the surprise arrival of her groom, who'd then been invited in and placed next to her on the floral swing decorated for her. He hadn't really had a purpose there, it was a ladies event after all, but he'd sat there, intently watching his name be decorated on her palms. Meerab had chosen for his name to be written in English, so when the mehendi artist had asked for spellings, he'd reached back for his wallet and taken out a card to give her. Meerab's peek had revealed it to be his pilot's license.

His hard bicep had brushed her arm as he'd reached over to take the card back, the same way it did every time either of them moved, and despite the strong scent of fresh flowers and mehendi in the air, all she could smell was him. He smelt like an intoxicating combination of lemon, patchouli and cedar, and Meerab had never been as intensely aware of a human being as she had been then.

They had been so close that she could tell exactly where an exhale ended and an inhale began, and yet their eyes had only met once.

"Dulhan Bibi aap noor ka jharna hain bilkul."

Meerab smiled recalling the mehendi artist's words. Her head lowered, she'd looked up from under her lashes to her side and landed on deep espresso-coloured eyes looking straight at her. There had been something so intense in his gaze that her lashes had fluttered down; breaking the only eye contact they'd had during the event. He'd then reached back into his pocket, taken out a wad of cash, touched it to her thigh and handed it to the mehendi artist, his eyes on her the whole time. The girls had started um-ing and ah-ing but Meerab could only look up at the enigmatic man next to her, who'd finally looked away.

She was in the middle of reheating leftover chow mein and pouring herself a glass of strawberry milk when it returned; the sudden urge to lift the hem of dress and look at her ankles. Or rather, what was looped around her ankles. Quelling the urge, she grabbed a fork and sat on a bar stool to dig into her late-night snack. Halfway through the tasty plate of chow mein, the silly urge returned. Putting her fork down with a thwack, she huffed and lifted the hem, staring down at her ankles with furrowed brows. They were beautiful. So classy, fitting just perfectly around her ankles. Had he chosen them? What a peculiar choice of gift from a man like him; she would've guessed he was more into diamonds than plain gold, and definitely more contemporary. These had a very traditional look about them, but then again, he'd ebbed when she'd thought he'd flow.

Now full and ready to get some sleep, Meerab had been halfway across the foyer of the farmhouse when she'd heard voices coming from the prayer room her father had designed and built. Curious, she tiptoed up to the door and was about to look in when she heard Maa Begum's low voice. Meerab had been about to turn and make herself scarce before she was caught but stopped short as she heard her name.

"Tumhe Meerab ke mizaaj ka to pata hai."

Excuse me? What had she done now?

"Bhabhi Begum Waqas ne mujhse khaas baat ki hai iss baray mai. "

It was Chacha Sahab; they'd both most likely come downstairs for fajr prayer.

"To jo woh sunna chahta hai, tum wohi ussey bata do."

There was a long pause.

"Aur karna?"

"Karna humein wohi hai jo nasalon se humaray khandaan mai hota aaraha hai. Meerab ya Waqas ko shaadi se pehle mana kardein ge to unho ne zaroor koi rukawat paida karni hai. Mujhe to iss baat se koi masla nahi, lekin ye meray betay ki pasand ka mamla hai. Behtar yahi hai ke jo woh sunna chahtay hain, unhe woh suna diya jaye."

"Aur shaadi ke baad?"

"Anwar tum mujhse aise pooch rahay ho jaise tum khud anjaan ho. Shaadi ke baad Meerab ko bata diya jaye ga ke ab uski zindagi mai kaam aur pardhai jaisi fazooliyaat ki koi gunjaish nahi hai. Woh Mir Murtasim ki Begum hogi, ye koi aam baat hai? Ek baar shaadi hokar ussey haveli mai aanay do, wahan uski nahi chalay gi.

Meerab had never felt so cold. Her fingers suddenly felt like ice, her feet unable to move from the spot she was glued to.

"Bhabi Begum apne khud abhi Meerab ke mizaaj ka kaha hai. Apko pata hai woh aisi bachi nahi hai jo na-haq baat pe chup hokar baith jaye."

Maa Begum let out a chuckle and Meerab felt tentacles of ice shooting up her back.

"Isme na-haq baat kya hai? Humaray khandaan ki riwayat hai. Aur tum aise keh rahay ho jaise Meerab na huwi koi sher hogaya. Kya karlegi woh? Woh ek akeli hogi, ussey wahan ke usoolon ke liye jhukna hoga. Aur agar baat samajh na aayi ussey, to dheet haddi ko seedha karna aata hai mujhe."

Meerab was reeling. Unable to even stand, she shuffled up to the staircase and sat down on the first step. The taste of betrayal was so intense that Meerab swore she could feel the knife in her back. Were these really the people she had spent all her life respecting and adoring? Granted Maa Begum had never been the warmest, but Meerab had always put it down to that just being her personality. Didn't everyone have that one strict, killjoy elder in the family? But this was something else; had she always been this sinister? Had they all? Had they really hidden their filthy souls all these years, calling Baba family only to think about betraying him so easily? Was this the same woman who'd welcome her into the haveli every summer, sit with her and relay funny anecdotes of the past and without fail, call her to wish her happy birthday every year? Was she really now going to lure her into their home with false promises and then cage her there? A shudder racked her body as a terrifying thought sneaked into her mind.

Did he know?

Meerab had never thought she'd see hypocrisy so up-close in her life. The very next morning, having little to no sleep, Meerab sat in the living room of the farmhouse and watched Maa Begum declare that Meerab was their daughter, the marriage was a blessing and that they would ensure that she had no problems in her new home. When Baba mentioned her goals, Maa Begum simply laughed and told him not to worry, that Meerab's wishes were their wishes after all. As Meerab started at the woman fooling her family so easily, a strange stillness fell over her body; she wasn't going to dignify this disloyalty by putting up resistance, it would just create a mess for her parents. As Maa Begum sat regally, patting her Mama's hand in false reassurance, Meerab realised the one thing she valued most was her authority, her rank as Queen Bee. It seemed the only way to win would be to get the only person who out-ranked her, on her side.

**************************************

Finishing her prayer, Meerab leaned back into cushioned balcony wall and wrapped herself in a cosy blanket. Time was a strange thing; it healed, sometimes let you forget the pain of horrible scars, but then there would be that one feeling which just wouldn't go away. The years had dulled the absolute misery she had been in the four days after the mayoun, but Meerab still, to this day remembered the atmosphere in Murtasim's Karachi apartment the night before the nikkah. It had been silent chaos from the moment she'd walked in through the door of his apartment to the moment he'd watched from his car as she entered her own home.

She had been drenched from the rain, dripping on his Turkish rugs and had just gotten straight to the point. With every word she spoke, she saw his bewilderedness increase until he'd held her by the shoulders and tried to sit her down. That had been when things took an antagonistic turn; shrugging him off, she'd relayed her wishes again-issued her ultimatum. Which he'd flat-out refused, funny considering he was the one who needed something from her, putting him in no position to reject her demands.

'This isn't a negotiation Murtasim. I need this. Maan lo, warna mujhse shaadi bhool jayo.'

He'd looked at her with incredulity and brimming anger, and they had stood in front of each for what felt like eternity until she saw his clenched jaw loosen and he gave one firm nod. She'd held her breath, the tension stiffening her whole body.

''If you need it, then you have it." His beautiful words had been so at odds with his low voice, taut face and angry eyes.

And so she'd done it; Meerab Ahmed would not have her rukhsati until she had completed her desired studies and started her desired career. The particulars of this study and career were up to her and she was not to live with him until she was ready to do so. Once living together, she was to be allowed to work if she desired to do so, in employment of her choice. Lastly, to everyone else, they were just a normal couple having their nikkah done and wanting to have some time before having their rukhsati and walima.

She had Murtasim Khan's word that her wishes would be respected.

Looking back, Meerab was aware of two things; first, that she'd grown up overnight, her heart hardened by the cruelty of people she'd considered her own, and second was that deep down, there had never been any doubts that he would've have let her walk out of his apartment disappointed.

She had prevented herself from immediately being thrown into the haveli and all the sinister intentions that came with it, but one day she'd had to have her rukhsati, and then there would be no running unless she had a legitimate reason for her absence. That was where her odd choice of career had come in. Her thoughts shifted to their last conversation in Doha. Murtasim's face flashed into her mind; she'd watched as comprehension had dawned on his face and his head had lifted sharply, his eyes narrowed.

"Mayoun sirf teen din pehle tha...tum nikkah se pehli raat pe aayi thi..."

His eyes had lifted to hers and her name had escaped his lips on a breath. His 'Meerab' had been loaded with angst, understanding what she'd done, how desperate she'd been.

"She wanted to shackle me at home, I just found a way to be away from it."

She knew she may have sounded crazy. To him, to everyone. But she hadn't been able to muster up the energy to protect herself alone anymore, to keep her reasons hidden. To have a burdening agenda hanging over her like a sword ready to fall. She was drained. And somewhere within her being, she had been glad that he now knew. That Murtasim Khan, who could almost command destinies to change, now shared the burden of her secret.

Stubbing the last cigarette in the ashtray, Murtasim watched as the faint orange glow turned to ash. Shaking his head, he finally sat down in front of the platter of Qatari qahwa and sweets which had been bought up by room service an hour ago. He'd just taken a sip when his phone rang; it was Omar. Frowning, he picked up.

"I thought you were at the palace for dinner tonight?"

"Brother, the quicker I can escape the fourth step-mother, the better for all of us involved. Dinner's over, you at the penthouse?"

"Hmm"

"I'm coming over."

There was a pause as Murtasim contemplated his tone. Omar spoke before he could ask.

"There's been another threat. A fire at the facility in Al Rayyan. Fifteen staff members have been injured."

"And the culprit?"

"Don't have one yet. I think it's time MK."

Hello my dears, happy MeerAsim reading :) Photos above for inspo (one of MK just because I felt like it 😋)
A couple of points to clarify:

1.Sadka isn't always done by twirling money over someone's head, although that is the most common practice. It can be performed simply by touching the money to whoever the sadka is for e.g. how he touched Meerab's thigh. This is how its commonly done in my family.

2. It is very common for Pakistani couples to have their nikkah and then have a separate baraat (rukhsati) and walima afterwards. The time in between these events varies for everyone, but can be as long as the couple wants; hence the reason why M and MK do not live together.

Lastly, so many of you messaged me about a few things:
1. The song for chapter 'Hyderabad' is called Heartless by Badshah. Apologies for not replying sooner.
2. There is all sorts of romance incoming, we just have to be a lil patient for M and MK to establish their backstories. As the story is in the present and jumps back and forth from the past, I have incorporated flashbacks(in italics). We'll be done with them soon.

Till next time, D xo