Safar-e-Mehram 🤍

"What is the purpose of a heart that yearns, if all desires end in emptiness……!!!"

Some boys and I, all around the same age, were playing together in the playground when suddenly, a man stormed in angrily, muttering to himself. He grabbed one of the boys by the collar and started beating him mercilessly. The man had a simple appearance – a light beard, a mustache, and a cap on his head – but his rage was in stark contrast to his modest looks.

"Ufff,"

I let out a deep breath when I saw the man holding a long, thin belt in his hand, using it to hit the boy...

The man’s anger showed no signs of subsiding, and mustering my courage, I tried to stop him from beating the child. "Why are you hitting him, uncle...? He might die...!!"

The man's eyes were bloodshot, as if burning lava was flowing within them, and taking a deep breath, he looked at me and said in a harsh tone,

"He's, my son; I can hit him, break him, do whatever I want. What’s it to you...? Get out of here...!!!" -There's no goodness left in this world... But I couldn’t bear to watch the boy being beaten like that.

“According to the Indian constitution, the juvenile justice [ care and protection of children] Act, 2015. Under section 75 – Whoever, having the actual charge of, or control over a child, assaults, abandons, abuses, exposes or willfully neglects the child or causes or procures the child unnecessary mental or physical suffering, shall be punishable with imprisonment for a term which may extend to three years one with fine of one lakh rupees or with both. According to this law we have the right to be protected by the government.”

I blurted out everything in a single breath, and suddenly, silence fell over the playground. Everyone’s eyes were wide open in shock.

The man, breaking the silence, spoke,

"So, do you think children have the right to trouble their parents?"

He tightened his grip on the boy's shirt collar and took a step toward me.

I shook my head in denial and, in a soft tone, replied, "I didn't mean it that way, you're misunderstanding," but his response came as another harsh strike to the boy's head.

"Then ask him where he disappeared for three days without telling anyone! Why didn’t he come home? Wandering around like a vagabond. We were so worried... His mother nearly lost her mind with fear."

Tears welled up in his eyes as he expressed his sorrow.

‘Alright, better not get involved here... “So, why stop, uncle? Go ahead, keep hitting him, and throw in a few from my side too,” I said with a slight smirk before walking away.

I’m not interested in such dramas.

I have a habit of stirring the pot. Instead of saving the boy, I left him in trouble and walked off.

A short while later, that same boy started following me. I took out my bicycle and began riding.

"Hey... what's your name?" he asked.

"Ilham," I replied, my eyes on the road as I picked up speed on my bicycle.

"My name’s Fateen, Fateen Razzaq," he responded, matching my pace on his bicycle.

"Where do you live?" he asked another question, and I thought to myself, ‘Why does he need to know where I live?’

I glanced away from him, fixing my gaze ahead, and replied, "Just nearby."

"Come on, let's go to your place," he said, and I quickly realized that this clingy kid wanted to be friends.

I gave a faint smile and said, "I'm not going home right now," then sped up, leaving him behind. But he followed me, saying,

"Fine, wherever you're going, let's go there." He let out a deep breath.

"Why are you following me?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Because from today, you and I are officially friends."

We spent quite some time racing through every street and corner of the city, enjoying each other's company...!!

I usually prefer being alone, but this clingy guy turned out to be good company. Our friendship lasted a long time. He never stopped following me, and our bond began when we were just five years old.

“Fateen...???”

“Fateen...???”

Uncle Razzaq called out as he reached my house, looking for Fateen.

“Hey, get up! Your dad is here.”

I said this to Fateen, who had been staying at our place since last night. I don’t know why, but this kid seems to prefer other people's homes over his own. Now, he has taken to living at my house instead of other’s.

“Man, my dad is something else,” Fateen said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“Why don’t you stay at your own house? Why are you here with me?” I finally asked the question I had been pondering, and immediately regretted it.

“I enjoy being with you, that’s why,” Fateen replied, chuckling in his playful manner.

“Get lost, you creep...” I nudged him, and we both burst into laughter as we peeked through the upper window to listen to our dads talking outside.

“Assalamualaikum, I heard Fateen is here. Could you please call him? I’m his father,” Fateen’s dad said gently to my father.

“Walaikumassalam. Yes, who are you...? And who is this, Fateen?” my dad asked, extending his hand for a handshake.

“I am Fateen’s father, Razzaq Mustafa. I live in the alley behind here, and I’ve a to take him home after hearing from his friends that he’s been staying here,” Fateen’s father said with a slight smile. It was fortunate that my dad didn’t know the neighbors too well.

“Who are these friends of yours who are informing your father about everything?” I asked Fateen, who was scratching his head upon seeing his dad.

“I don’t know, man...” Fateen replied with a hint of annoyance.

“I am Osman Ahmed Khaan... I’m Ilham’s father. Nice to meet you,” my dad continued the conversation with Uncle Razzaq.

“Who doesn’t know you, Mr. Osman? And Ilham? Oh, so you’re Ilham’s father... Masha Allah! You are quite fortunate to have such a clever child,” Uncle Razzaq remarked with a slight smile, or rather, his face was beaming.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite understand...” my dad responded.

“Now, I am gone...” I said with a deep breath.

“Hey, you don’t know? Your son, Masha Allah, is quite bright. He has a good understanding of the Indian Constitution and speaks English as if he were a native, not a desi...” Uncle Razzaq elaborated.

“They’re giving best praise, but to the wrong person...” I thought to myself.

“I don’t know what your dad finds so impressive about my brief compliment, but since then, he hasn’t stopped praising me,” I told Fateen.

“Because of you, he doesn’t say anything to me either... I just mention your name and walks away,” Fateen replied with a laugh.

“You’re such a horrible man,” I said to Fateen, who was smiling uncontrollably.

“Yeah, that’s true.” Fateen admitted.

“Okay, you should come inside. I’ll call Fateen. It seems they both might be sleeping in their rooms... There’s a boy in Ilham’s room with him.”

My dad glanced toward the window, and I stepped back, watching him as he looked at Uncle Razzaq.

“If he’s with Ilham, then I have no problem. If he’s in good company, he’ll do well,” Uncle Razzaq said. Fateen and I exchanged glances and laughed at Uncle Razzaq's words. He waved goodbye and walked away.

I already knew what was about to happen. As I made my way towards the hall, Fateen followed me down.

"Ah, come, come, O Prince," my father said to me, and don’t for a second think he was calling me "Prince" out of affection—no, not at all.

"Yes, I’m here. What is it?" I replied in the same tone he usually spoke to me.

"Reshma…?" My father’s habit of calling my mother into the conversation like this never sits well with me. Seriously, just talk to me yourself, why drag her in as if she's some sort of transmitter? Huh...

"Yes? What’s going on?" my mother responded, looking at both of us, just as she always does.

"Do you have any idea what your ‘Prince’ has been up to all over the neighborhood?" my father started his melodrama.

How would my poor mother know? She’s busy with household matters from morning till night and, the rest of the time, she's caught up in listening to my father’s endless complaints. The neighborhood gossip? That’s always delivered by my father in the royal court of our home. What would my mother know about it?

"What has he done this time?" My mother responded, exhausted, looking at me as if to ask. I motioned back to her—I haven't done anything.

"He’s studying law now, and he’s been going around lecturing everyone about it," my father complained, turning to my mother. Frustrated, my mother let out a deep sigh and looked over at me, while I stood there, doing absolutely nothing wrong.

"I'm not going around giving everyone a lecture. I was only saying what needed to be said in that moment," I replied, as my father stepped right in front of me.

Some parents see their child being sharp and proactive at this age and feel a surge of pride. But no, not my family. Instead, they try to oppress me—seriously?

"Yes, but why are you getting involved in all this? This is not your goal, Ilham, do you understand? Stop studying all this. You are not going to become a lawyer—absolutely not," my father said sternly. But why would I care? Like always, I listened with one ear and let it pass out the other.

"And you're not even at the age to be focusing on these things. Kids your age are out wandering around, acting like fools. You should be focusing on your studies or sports," he added, clearly hinting at Fateen, which made it impossible for me to hold back my laughter. Fateen was trying to avoid eye contact, looking around the room uncomfortably.

"Did you hear what I'm saying?" My father raised his voice, while my mother, as usual, looked weary from our constant back-and-forth.

"Oh, Baba, please, don’t start in the morning. I’m already getting a headache," I responded dismissively, picking up the TV remote and turning it on.

"And now Baba’s words are getting under his skin. Who knows what he'll end up doing as he grows older? Are you watching him?" my father asked my mother, continuing his melodramatic rant. Why does he make such a big deal out of everything? Ugh.

"She's been watching me ever since I was born, how much longer do you want her to keep watching me?" I joked.

"Mumma, you’re not getting bored watching me, right?" I asked my mother in a playful tone. She just shook her head, telling me to be quiet.

“What did you say...?” My father was starting to get angry.

-It was definitely time to stop here, or else I'd end up spending the night outside again. Ever since Nano passed away, I’ve had to stay on the streets whenever things got out of hand.

"Nothing, just moving my lips," I replied, turning on the TV and starting to play some music.

"You’ve been moving your lips a lot these days! Stop reading these books, and focus on the goal I’ve set for you... That’s all I want you to concentrate on. I won’t hear anything else, Ilham!" My father said, leaving the room finally. Not that I ever took his words seriously, nor did I intend to.

As soon as he was gone, Fateen and I started dancing to the music, having fun as the loud music echoed through the hall. If anyone with a delicate or faint heart walked in, they might have just died from the shock. I had set up speakers all around the hall, just like in my room—blaring music in every corner.

We danced and sang along to every word of the song:

Kaisa junoon khwaabon ki anjuman mein tha

(What a passion was there in the gathering of dreams)

Fateen and I were shouting the lyrics in sync with the loud music, completely lost in the rhythm.

Kya mein kahoon kya mere baagpan mein tha

(What should I say, what was in my innocence?)

Ranish Ka Chala Tha -Fateen jumped in, completing the next lines as we vibed and danced along to the song: Fhobwara

Phoota jo khwaab ka goobbara

(When the balloon of dreams burst)

Abb phirta hoon mein

(Now I roam around)

London, Paris, New York, San Francisco

Dil mein mere hai, Dard-e-Disco

(In my heart is the pain of disco)

Dard-e-Disco...

Dard-e-Disco…

"Mumma—will it be a sister or a brother?" I asked my mother while feeding her fruits, as she stroked my hair with love.

"Who do you want?" she asked, smiling at me and then looking down at her large tummy.

I’m thirteen years old, and after all these years, I’m finally getting a sibling. I’m excited.

"I don’t care if it’s a brother or sister—they're both the same to me," I replied.

"That’s fine, Ilham, but you need to stop arguing so much with your father. If you’re going to have a little brother or sister, they’ll look up to you. Children learn from their elders," she said softly. I stopped feeding her and lay my head in her lap.

"Mumma—I don’t argue. It’s your husband who always starts it," I replied.

"Then you should stay quiet," she said, running her fingers through my hair.

"And why did you beat up that boy yesterday? Do you know how scared your father was when he saw you in court? If it weren’t for his connections with the CM, you’d be in juvenile detention right now. You broke that boy’s bones; he’s not even able to walk," she said gently. I listened patiently, but that patience only lasts until my mom becomes Mrs. Osman.

"Mumma—he started the fight. I won’t explain why I hit him, but you know how my anger works, right? I’ll repay one punch with a thousand," I said, laughing.

"Why don’t you behave like Sarem Uncle’s daughter? She’s exactly how your father likes—she prays, respects her elders, how patient she is, and is so well-mannered. She’s such a lovely girl," my mom said.

"Mumma—please. If I say anything in anger, you’ll end up crying. And don’t ever bring her up in front of me again. I hate her. I’ve been humiliated so many times because of her. If Baba thinks of her as his daughter, he should go to her house and be her father there. Why does he need to put up her flags of praise here?" I snapped, irritated.

My mom just smiled at me, pulling me back into her lap.

"I hope one day you’ll understand what I’m trying to say. Your father and I worry about you, Ilham. You’re our only son, and our lives revolve around you. What will we do if something happens to you in one of these fights?" she said. I didn’t deny it, but Baba’s love for me? That’s doubtful—so, so doubtful.

"And that girl—Sarem Uncle’s daughter—I swear, one day I’ll put her in her place. Just pray she never crosses my path.

I just hate her—

I don’t even know what she’s like, who she really is—I have no interest in meeting her. That’s how much I despise her. And why shouldn’t I, when my Mumma and Baba always praise her, always tell me I should be more like her?

Like, me, Ilham, become like her? What even is she…?

“Ilham, you scored really well, beta,” Mumma said, kissing my forehead.

“Ilham and good grades—they go hand in hand, Mumma,” I replied, feeling at peace for a moment.

“May Allah grant you even more success, and may you make a name for yourself in the future,” Mumma prayed for me, like she always does. It feels like every prayer in this world is reserved just for me. Mumma never stops praying for me.

“Mumma, when I become a successful lawyer, we’ll move to Canada. I’ll show you the whole world. Let’s leave Baba behind.” I said to her, and she softly laughed.

“No, I won’t go without my husband,” Mumma refused.

“Why not? You two are always so lovey-dovey. Does that mean I don’t matter to you?” I asked.

“You do matter, but if I had to choose between you and your father, I’d choose him. Wives belong with their husbands, and your Baba can’t live without me, and I can’t live without him. He’s my mehram on this journey, and I can’t just leave him and go with you. A husband’s loyalty is tested from youth to old age—how devoted her husband has been to her. Since the moment your Baba and I got married, he has been completely faithful to me. And a wife’s test comes when age starts catching up—how loyal she remains to her husband, how well she takes care of him, and how she stands by his side at every step,” Mumma said gently. She had a point—she’s never even gone to Nano’s place for vacations because she can’t spend even a day without Baba.

My dad is obsessed with his wife. And I stopped visiting Nano’s place after her death. She was the only one who truly understood me, who always agreed with me in every matter.

But even after all that talk, my mind is stuck on one thing. Mumma’s words keep echoing in my head—She’s so respectful, so graceful in her prayers, such a lovely girl, with so much patience and manners.

“Who the hell are you?” I muttered under my breath. I’m so irritated by that girl.

“Alright, go pray. The call to prayer is sounding,” Mumma said.

“One mother’s love couldn’t convince you to come with me—so what can the love of seventy mothers would do? And anyway, I don’t need to pray, because I am not in any need.” I said, exhaling deeply.

“Ilham, how many times have I told you not to say such things?” Mumma was upset now. She rarely ever gets upset with me.

“Damn it—” I got up and left, not to pray, but to retreat to my room and sleep in peace.

“Ilham—come here…!”

"Alright, Sarem, you’re right about that…"

Baba was deep in conversation with his best friend. I was lying face down on the couch, eating an apple from the fruit basket.

After a while, he started talking to his precious little darling. Why is she always so clingy with my Mumma and Baba? Doesn’t she have her own parents? Like—

"Lie properly! What kind of way is this?" Baba snapped in irritation. I then realized that he wasn’t just on a call; it was a video call. But I didn’t bother looking at the screen because—I—just—hate—her.

If it had been any other girl, I probably would’ve glanced at the screen a thousand times, but her? Look at her?

"No way," I muttered to myself, and as usual, Baba felt peaceful after finishing his chat with his beloved daughter.

Mumma came in from the kitchen with tea for Baba.

"Ilham, should I bring you some too?" she asked me gently. I shook my head to decline, and at that moment, my two-year-old sister started crying.

"Ilham, can you go check on your sister? I’m busy," Mumma said. I only listen to my Mumma up to a certain point, so I got up and went to Suzy.

I picked her up. "I’ll hit you if you make another sound," I said to her. She looked at me with tear-filled eyes, then swatted my cheek with her tiny hands and started laughing.

"Don’t touch me," I told her, but her face was glowing with happiness.

A small smile spread across my face. Suzy is adorable. Of course she is, after all, she’s, my sister.

"Why do you always have to cry?" I asked her, and she smiled while gripping my finger with her little fist. I took her to the balcony and paced back and forth with her. After a little while, Suzy was peacefully asleep.

"Asleep?" I asked. She really had drifted into a deep sleep. I laid her down on her Montessori bed, but as usual, she refused to let go of my hand, which she had been holding tightly.

That Montessori bed was big enough for me to sleep in too, and since it was already quite late, I lay down next to Suzy, resting her on my chest, and fell asleep.

It was around 1 a.m. when I got a call from Fateen. I pressed the side button and put my phone on silent.

Ilham: Yeah, speak…

Fateen: Not speak—come outside. Let’s go for a drive.

Ilham: No, I can’t. I can’t leave Suzy alone.

Fateen: You’re with Suzy?

Ilham: Yeah.

Fateen: Alright, we’ll go another time. I’m heading to your room now.

Ilham: Okay, hang up and let me sleep.

Fateen: But—

I ended the call and went back to sleep peacefully.

"Bhaa---iii---,"

Suzy, sitting in Mumma's lap, was calling out to me. Her little mouth could only say my name. I glanced at her and smiled.

"She didn’t say Mumma or Baba, whose donkey’s name did she just say?" Baba commented, sitting next to Mumma, trying to get Suzy to say "Baba," even if just once.

"If I respond to that, it’s going to turn into an argument..." I said, continuing to lie down in the same position. Phuphi and Phupha had come over.

"Suzy looks so adorable, she’s completely taken after Osman," Phuphi said.

"Correction, she’s Ilham’s sister, so she’s like Ilham," I replied.

"I’m her father... and yours too," Baba said.

"Oh, really? Then why did you just call me donkey? You know what it means….???" I responded sarcastically.

"Shut up with your nonsense," Baba shot back. I gave him a mischievous smile and noticed Phuphi glaring at me, clearly annoyed that I hadn’t bothered to greet her properly with a bow—whatever, that’s how Phuphi always is...!

My phone rang; it was Fateen calling, and it was around midnight.

Ilham: Yeah, speak…

Fateen: Let’s go grab some tea at Charminar, our special Irani chai.

Ilham: I don’t drink tea.

Fateen: I’ll be outside your house in five minutes, just come out.

Dealing with Fateen is better than being stuck here. I got up, went to my room, changed my clothes, and headed downstairs.

"Where are you going?" Phuphi asked.

"Off to be a professional wanderer... want to come? It’ll be fun!" I replied.

"Can’t you talk respectfully?"

"Ilham has never had, does not have, and will never have any acquaintance with manners, because you are not someone who could ever associate with such a concept." I said with a laugh, walking out of the house, where Baba was sitting in the lounge, fuming. He gives too much importance to his relatives.

I left with Fateen, and after some driving, we arrived at Charminar—yes, you might be wondering why I said "driving." Here, we don’t drive based on age but on the passion in our hearts.

Fateen and I stood in front of the famous Charminar, its grand arches glowing softly in the night, bathed in warm golden light under the sky. The four towering minarets stood tall and proud, reflecting the rich cultural heritage of Hyderabad. The intricate designs, a blend of Islamic and Indo-Persian architecture, spoke of centuries-old stories, while the bustling bazaar around it was full of life and energy.

As Fateen sipped on his hot Irani tea, the fresh aroma filled the air, blending with the gentle breeze. The night scene of Charminar was mesmerizing, the moonlight reflecting off the pale stone of the monument, casting a serene glow. The vibrant hustle and bustle below contrasted with the timeless beauty of the historic landmark, giving me a rare moment of peace amidst the fast pace of city life.

The bright minarets seemed to rise into the sky like beams of light, while the vivid colors of nearby shops and stalls added a modern touch to the ancient scene. The calm of the night allowed me to soak in the grandeur of Charminar, as if it were whispering secrets of Hyderabad's royal past.

"Mom, no, I don’t need anything. If you must, just get me some books..." A girl's voice reached my ears.

"No, your cousin’s wedding is coming up. You should shop for it. Look, your dad won’t take us shopping again and we won’t find these things there, so it’s better you buy now," her mother replied. They were sitting nearby, sipping tea, both of them veiled.

"Mom, exactly! It’s my cousin’s wedding, not mine, so why should I spend so much? When it’s my turn to be a bride, then I’ll shop for the most expensive red dress, and everyone will be stunned, by God..." she said with a soft laugh. A smile crept onto my face at her words.

Girls’ dreams and desires seem to revolve more around their wedding outfits than the groom himself.

"Quiet, you silly girl... Finish your tea quickly before your dad comes. I don’t know when you’ll get rid of this tea addiction..." her mother remarked.

"The world might end, but my tea addiction will never go away," the girl replied, and they both got up to leave. I realized that her voice had compelled me to eavesdrop.

And then they disappeared into the busy marketplace.

"Is your tea finished yet?" I asked Fateen.

"Yeah, it’s done," Fateen replied. He was chatting with me while sipping his tea, but today, I wasn’t paying attention to his words. My mind was lost in the sound of that girl's voice.

"Did you see, Osman, how well my child scored again this time? He came first in the whole school!" Mumma praised me while speaking to Baba.

"Now let's see how their darling daughter competes with me," I thought, sitting on the sofa, using my phone.

"There's no use, Reshma… Do you remember how last week he beat up Farooq? Every time, his fights end up getting him into either jail or court. He will never be like Sarem's daughter. The issue has never been about his grades but..."

If parents don’t know how to give compliments, they shouldn't say anything at all. It's why my hatred for that girl grows stronger every day.

I was about to leave when Baba stopped me.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"To the club… want to come? It’ll be fun!" I replied carelessly.

"Ilham..." Mumma emphasized with a stern tone.

"Don't be disrespectful, Ilham," Baba said seriously.

"Let’s go pray... it might give you wisdom, and you’ll straighten up," Baba added.

"Take your darling daughter with you... I’m fine being the bad one," I replied and walked out of the lounge, heading to the lawn. I put on my headphones and started listening to music while walking.

My mind is constantly occupied with her existence. I’ve never felt so much hatred for anyone as I do for Sarem Uncle's daughter.

She's two years younger than me, but her status is somehow higher than mine?

"Shit, man...

Every time, this girl ruins my mood!

I will not spare her......!!!!!