Good Hair, Bad Timing
Bilal’s room looked like a phone shop and a clothes shop had crashed into each other and decided to stay that way.
One wall had LED fairy lights, a fake vine, and a printout that said “Subscribe” in big red letters. His study table held a ring light, a phone stand, three open lip balms, and a Mathematics book that looked untouched and offended.
Bilal stood in front of the mirror, phone in hand, front camera on.
He tilted his head slightly, checking the hair from all angles.
“Perfect,” he said to himself.
Then he hit record.
“Assalamu alaikum, guys,” he whispered. “Welcome back to my channel. Today’s topic—how to survive in a house where nobody respects influencers.”
He ran a hand through his hair.
“Yes, this is natural shine,” he informed the camera. “No, I will not share my shampoo. It is classified.”
He opened his door a crack and poked the camera out.
“Let’s meet the characters.”
He grinned and slipped into the hallway.
The Ahmed house was small but full. Not full of things—full of sounds.
Spoons against cups. The soft scrape of chairs. The low hum of a religious channel on TV. The rustle of a newspaper. Someone’s light footsteps near the kitchen.
Bilal turned his camera on the dining table first.
“Exhibit A,” he whispered, “the people who pay the WiFi bill.”
Professor Farooq sat at the corner of the table, reading the newspaper. Grey kurta, white shalwar, thin spectacles. Hair combed back. The kind of face that had read too many books and too many electricity bills.
“This is Abbu,” Bilal told the camera softly. “Urdu literature professor. He can turn your exam result into poetry. Sad poetry.”
Farooq looked up over the paper.
“Bilal,” he said. “Namaz?”
“On it, Abbu,” Bilal answered quickly, dropping the phone a little. “Just… testing the camera. For research.”
Farooq went back to his news. One eyebrow had gone up for a second. That was enough warning for the day.
At the head of the table sat Dada, tasbeeh in one hand, smartphone in the other. The phone screen showed a Qur’an app.
“Zoom in on wisdom,” Bilal murmured.
He captured the old man’s calm face for a moment. Lines of age. Soft eyes. Beard white, trimmed.
“This is Dada,” he whispered. “He sends duas on WhatsApp and thinks every forwarded clip will fix the world. He also thinks my generation is confused, which is… fair.”
Dada looked up suddenly.
“You are talking to yourself again?” he asked.
“No, Dada,” Bilal smiled. “I am talking to the world.”
“Talk to Allah first,” Dada said calmly. “The world cannot fix you. Maybe He can.”
Bilal made a face, then gave the camera a tiny shrug.
“And that,” he muttered, “is why my content is free therapy.”
On the sofa, Dadi was folding clean clothes into neat stacks. Simple printed dupatta, old bangles, soft hands that moved without thinking.
“This is Dadi,” Bilal said. “She doesn’t understand these phones, but she understands when someone is hungry from three rooms away.”
As if she heard that exact thought, Dadi looked up.
“Khaya kuch subah?” she asked him. “Ya sirf phone hi kha rahe ho?”
“I’ll eat, Dadi,” he said. “Waiting for the main villain.”
“Main villain kaun?” she frowned.
“Amal,” he replied.
Right on cue, footsteps came from the corridor.
He quickly turned the camera toward the hallway.
Amal walked in, adjusting her backpack. Navy blue kurta, black trousers, white scarf pinned neatly under her chin and over her chest.
She caught the phone in his hand from the corner of her eye.
“Bilal,” she said. Just his name, but it held a lot of warning.
He lowered the phone a few inches.
“Good morning to you too,” he said. “You look like you are going to cross-examine a judge.”
“Drink your tea,” she told him.
She moved past the table, straightened a slightly tilted glass without thinking, pushed a chair properly in, and turned the TV volume down one click.
Bilal watched her.
He turned the camera back to himself.
“This,” he whispered to the screen, “is my elder sister Amal. She controls everything. Even gravity. Even my alarm. Nobody calls her scary, but when she walks into a room, everyone sits up straight. Including the spoons.”
He felt a presence behind him.
The spoon in his own hand was yanked away.
“Stop talking rubbish to strangers,” Amal said calmly. “And finish your breakfast, Clickbait.”
He froze.
“You called me what?”
She was already walking to the sink with his empty plate.
“Nothing,” she said.
Dadi chuckled. Farooq hid a small smile behind his cup.
Bilal slowly turned back to the camera.
“You heard that, right?” he whispered. “She called me Clickbait. This is abuse. Mentally and emotionally. Pray for me.”
By eight, Bilal was on the terrace, phone back in his hand.
The Ahmed side of the terrace had two straight clotheslines, a blue bucket, and a small dying plant that Amal still watered every day.
The Khan side had one overloaded clothesline with shirts and jeans fighting for air, a cricket bat leaning against the wall, and a broken plastic chair that looked like it had seen too much and given up.
Bilal crouched near the low wall that separated both halves.
He raised the camera just high enough to show the Khan courtyard and dining area below, through the metal railing.
“Now, public,” he whispered, “time for Padosi.”
Down below, the Khan dining room was buzzing.
Jahangir sat at the table in a plain cream shalwar kameez, reading something on a tablet. Back straight. He chewed like every bite was a mission.
“This is Jahangir Uncle,” Bilal told his audience. “Retired army. If you open the door too loud, he looks at you like you invaded the border.”
In the background, Asma moved between kitchen and table with plates and chai.
“Asma Aunty,” he continued, “is the type of mother who can shout your full name and put extra butter on your paratha in the same breath.”
She did exactly that.
“Zayan!” she called from inside. “If you don’t come now, I will lock the kitchen and you can eat your hair gel for breakfast!”
Hoor sat quietly near Jahangir, spreading butter on her toast. Today she wore a simple mint green kurta, hair tied back in a loose bun. Even from above, without zooming, her face looked soft.
He showed just her hands, carefully folding a napkin.
“This is Hoor,” he said softly. “She is… Hoor. I don’t have a joke for her yet.”
There was a bang.
Zayan appeared in the frame, trying to sprint and put his sneaker on at the same time. He crashed into the edge of the table, caught himself, and pretended it was a dance move.
“Zombie in motion,” Bilal muttered.
Black jeans, T-shirt with some coding joke on it, hair damp, eyes half-awake but already mischief-loaded.
He grabbed a paratha, said “Assalamu alaikum” too fast, then flinched when Jahangir cleared his throat.
“As-salaam-u-alaikum,” Zayan repeated slower.
Jahangir gave a small approving nod.
“As you can see,” Bilal narrated, “this is Zayan. He studies Artificial Intelligence and Machine Learning. But he forgets where he kept his own brain.”
Down below, Asma set a cup of tea in front of Zayan and lightly slapped his shoulder.
“Comb your hair before you leave,” she said. “You look like you slept in a storm.”
“It is natural volume, Ammi,” he replied.
Hoor hid a smile.
Bilal stopped recording for a moment and just listened.
Paratha. Chai. Light scolding. Small jokes.
Normal life.
He had no idea yet that one day, half of his content would be about fixing the cracks under these normal moments.
For now, he slid his phone into his pocket and stood up.
The two gates opened almost at the same time.
From one side, Amal stepped out of the Ahmed house—bag on her shoulder, scarf in place. From the other side, Zayan came out of the Khan house—bag slung, one shoe not fully tied.
The driveway was narrow. Two cars squeezed in: the Ahmed family’s small white car, clean and modest; the Khan family’s silver car.
Bilal walked behind Amal, adjusting his tie.
“Don’t talk to him,” he whispered dramatically. “It’s too early for war.”
“Then be quiet,” she replied. “I have only one headache capacity in the morning.”
Zayan reached his car first and, for once, checked his pockets before anything else.
Keys: in hand.
Victory.
He glanced up just in time to see Amal unlocking her car.
“Good morning,” he called, voice light. “You look… intense.”
She didn’t look at him immediately. She put her bag in the back seat, checked that her scarf hadn’t moved, then shut the door.
Only then did she turn.
“Good morning,” she said. “You look… late.”
He looked at his watch.
He was definitely late.
“Well,” he said, “time runs faster when you are intelligent.”
“Then it should stop for you,” she said.
Bilal folded his arms, enjoying the show.
Zayan exhaled through his nose, like he wanted to say something rude and smart at the same time.
“You know,” he said, “if you smiled once in a while, this street would get more light.”
“You know,” she replied, walking around to the driver’s side, “if you walked straight once in a while, this street would be safer.”
He watched her get into the car.
“Careful, Clatter Skull,” she added through the open window, nodding at the shoelace he had still not tied. “Roads are harder than your head.”
Bilal’s eyes widened.
“Write that down,” he whispered to himself.
Zayan looked at his own shoe, then at her.
“Drive safe,” he muttered.
“You too,” she said.
The words were simple. The tone was not sweet.
But nobody slammed a door. Nobody shouted. That was important.
Bilal climbed into the back of Amal’s car, still watching Zayan in the side mirror.
For one second, Zayan’s eyes flicked up—past Amal, past Bilal, to the Ahmed house window where the La-Taqnatu frame hung inside.
He looked at it.
His face changed just a little.
Then he looked away, got into his own car, and started the engine.
Bilal didn’t record this part.Later, he would regret it.
Author’s Note:Next update: Sunday & Wednesday, 9 PM PKT. If you enjoyed this, tap Follow to not miss chapters.
