LA TAQNATU

***

The afternoon light fell lazily through the windows of the Ahmed house, turning dust particles into tiny floating stars.

In the kitchen, Dadi ruled the stove with the quiet authority of someone who had been feeding generations long before any of them existed. Her hands moved with memory—stirring, tasting, adjusting salt without measuring.

Saima stood at the counter, arranging plates with military precision. Her dupatta was pinned back, sleeves rolled, face set in that particular expression mothers wore when they had too much to do and not enough hands.

“Farooq!” she called toward the living room. “Lunch is ready. Come before it gets cold.”

“Coming,” Farooq’s voice floated back, calm and unhurried.

Dada was already seated at the table, tasbeeh resting beside his plate, eyes half-closed in quiet contemplation. He looked peaceful—the way old people look when they’ve stopped rushing and started simply existing.

Amal drifted in from her room, still adjusting her scarf, face carrying that distant expression she wore when her mind was elsewhere.

She took her usual seat without fanfare. The front door crashed open.

“I’M DYING!”

Bilal exploded into the house like a natural disaster with good hair. His bag flew off his shoulder and landed somewhere near the sofa. His shoes kicked off in two different directions. His arms spread wide in theatrical despair.

“Starvation!” he announced to the ceiling.

“Actual starvation! My stomach is eating itself!”

Saima didn’t even turn around.

“Wash your hands first.”

“But Ammi—”

“Hands. First.” Bilal’s dramatic performance deflated slightly. He looked toward Dadi for rescue.

Dadi smiled, soft and warm like sunrise. “Come here, my child,”

she said, opening her arms slightly. “Look at you, all tired. Did they not feed you at college? Did they torture my grandson?”

Bilal immediately switched from dying to being pampered.

He walked over and bent down so Dadi could pat his cheek.

“They gave us nothing, Dadi,” he said mournfully. “Just knowledge. And knowledge doesn’t fill the stomach.” “Poor baby,” Dadi cooed.

“Go wash quickly. I made extra bread just for you.”

Bilal kissed her forehead dramatically. “You’re the only one who understands me.”

From the table, Amal snorted. “Dadi, he literally ate three samosas from the canteen. I saw his Snapchat.”

Bilal whipped around, betrayal written across his face. “Snitch!” he hissed.

“Traitor! I trusted you!” “You posted it publicly,” Amal replied flatly. “With captions.”

Dadi waved her hand dismissively. “Samosas don’t count. Those are snacks. Go wash, beta. Food is waiting.”

Bilal shot Amal a look that promised revenge and disappeared toward the bathroom.

By the time everyone was seated, the table looked like a small feast. Rice. Lentils. Yogurt. Fresh salad. A pile of flatbreads still warm from the stove. Pickle in a small dish. Water glasses filled and waiting. Farooq sat at his usual spot, looking relaxed. His notebook was closed, set aside. His face carried none of the heaviness Amal had noticed earlier. He even smiled when Bilal reached for the bread before anyone else.

“Bismillah,” Dada said quietly, and everyone echoed him.

For a moment, there was only the sound of spoons against plates, food being passed, the comfortable rhythm of a family eating together.

Then Bilal broke the silence.

“So,” he said, mouth half-full,

“I’ve decided to become famous this month.”

Saima raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been ‘deciding’ that since you were seventeen .”

“This time is different,” Bilal insisted.

“I have a strategy. A plan. A vision.”

“Does your vision include passing Physics?” Farooq asked mildly.

Bilal waved his hand dismissively. “Physics is temporary. Fame is forever.”

Amal shook her head. “You’re going to fail and then cry.”

“I never cry,” Bilal said with dignity. “I express emotions cinematically.”

Dadi reached over and put another piece of bread on his plate.

“My grandson is too handsome to fail,” she announced. “The teachers should give him marks for his face.”

“Finally!” Bilal exclaimed. “Someone with sense!” “

That’s not how education works, Ammi,” Saima said tiredly.

“It should be,” Dadi replied simply, and went back to her food.

Farooq caught Amal’s eye across the table and smiled—a small, private smile that said: This family is insane, but it’s ours.

Amal smiled back without thinking.

He seemed fine. Normal. Maybe she really had imagined things. She let the thought go and focused on her plate.

***

In the Khan house, the dining table had a different energy. Asma set dishes down with quick, efficient movements, talking the entire time.

“The lentils today are perfect,” she announced. “Not too thick, not too thin.

Finally, Allah has blessed my cooking.”

“Allah blessed it,” Jahangir said, “or you actually followed the recipe for once?”

Asma gasped in mock offense. “I always follow recipes. In my heart.”

Zayan entered, still slightly damp from a shower, wearing a T-shirt that looked like it had been through several wars.

Good evening… I’m really hungry.

Asma said, “Come on over, my child, food is ready.”

***

The sun was still up, casting long golden shadows across the floor.

Inside the Khan house, the living room was quiet. The TV was off. The only sound was the faint ticking of the wall clock.

The front door opened quietly.

Hoor stepped inside, her bag sliding off her shoulder as she closed the door behind her.

“Assalamu Alaikum,” she whispered to the empty room.

No answer.

Ammi must be resting or in the kitchen.

Hoor walked to the sofa and practically collapsed onto it. She leaned her head back against the cushion, closing her eyes, letting out a long, tired breath.

The silence felt good.

Heavy, but good.

She sat like that for a minute, just breathing.

Then—the soft clink of glass against a table.

Hoor’s eyes flew open.

Khan Dada stood there, holding a glass of water. He wasn’t leaning on his stick; he held it tucked under his arm so he could carry the glass with both hands—carefully, steadily.

“Here,” he said softly. “Drink. You must be tired.”

Hoor scrambled up, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“Oh God, Dada!” she exclaimed, reaching out to take the glass quickly. “Why did you trouble yourself? I could have gotten it!”

Dada waved his hand dismissively.

“What trouble?” he said. “I am your grandfather, not a guest.”

He watched her drink the water, his eyes soft behind his glasses.

“Did you eat anything?” he asked.

Hoor lowered the glass, wiping her mouth. A small, sheepish smile touched her lips.

“Yes, Dada. I had lunch at the office.” She patted her stomach lightly. “But where it went, I have no idea. It just vanished into thin air.”

Dada chuckled—a warm, rasping sound.

“Office air does that,” he said. “It makes hunger grow faster than the work.”

He picked up his walking stick properly now.

“Go on, freshen up. Your mother made cake. I’m going to pray Asr. We’ll have tea after.”

Hoor smiled, feeling the tiredness melt away just a little.

“Yes, Dada.”

She watched him walk toward his room, slow but steady.

Then she picked up her bag.

The day had been long. The work had been hard.

But coming home... that was always easy.

***

The sky had turned deep purple, stars beginning to appear one by one.

Amal came up to the terrace with a cup of tea, scarf loose around her shoulders, feet bare.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

But Zayan was already there.

He sat on the low boundary wall, one leg hanging off, staring at his phone like it had personally offended him.

Amal paused.

She took a long, deep breath.

For a second, she considered leaving.

But this was her space too.

So she walked over and sat on the opposite wall, far enough to make a point. She set her cup down on the ledge beside her and closed her eyes, just wanting five minutes of peace.

Then—

Click. Clack. Tap.

The sound of Zayan working filled the air.

Amal opened one eye.

“Can you not?” she asked.

Zayan didn’t look up. “Can I not what?”

“Make that noise. I came here for peace.”

“And I came here to fix my charger,” he replied calmly. “Go to the garden if you want peace.”

“I was here... well, I’m here now,” Amal corrected.

“I was here first,” Zayan said. “You have a problem? Go. I’m not moving.”

He reached blindly for a small screw he thought he’d placed on the ledge.

His hand missed the screw.

Instead, his fingers wrapped around the handle of Amal’s mug.

Distracted, eyes still on his work, he lifted it to his lips, thinking it was his own water glass.

He took a sip.

Paused.

Took another.

Then drained it.

Amal stared in horror.

“Zayan!”

He looked at her, empty cup in hand.

“What?”

“That... was... my... tea.”

Zayan blinked. Looked at the cup.

“Oh.”

He set it down.

“Well,” he shrugged. “It was getting cold anyway.”

Amal stood up slowly.

“You drank my tea.”

“I thought it was water. Honest mistake.”

“It was hot! How does water feel hot?”

“Global warming,” he said smoothly.

“Make me another one,” she demanded.

He laughed. “No.”

“You drank it. You replace it.”

“I am not your servant,” Zayan said, picking up his plastic part again. “And I am busy. Essential repairs.”

“I don’t care about your repairs. I care about my caffeine.”

“Then go make it yourself.”

Amal glared at him. “Give me my tea back. NOW.”

Zayan looked at her, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“There’s no return policy,” he said.

Then—completely deliberately—he started humming:

🎵“Which tea would you like, sir...”🎵

🎵“It’s Lipton, of course...”🎵

🎵“Live on Lipton...”🎵

His voice filled the entire terrace.

Amal’s eyes practically caught fire.

“I want my tea back. NOW.”

“There’s no return option,” Zayan said plainly.

Amal scowled. “Then bring me tea.”

“How?” he asked. “You figure it out. Make it yourself, or get it from somewhere. I don’t care.”

Zayan chuckled. “Are you serious?”

“I’m completely serious,” she shot back, not pausing for even a second.

Zayan stared at her, disbelief written all over his face.

“No one is making tea, Just end it now” he said.

“Doesn’t matter. I want tea. You bring it. End of story.”

Zayan knew she was particular about tea, but today he finally realized just how particular.

“If you don’t bring it, I’m going to Khan Dada,” Amal warned. “He’ll deal with you.”

“Watch your step, Amal,” Zayan snapped. “You’ll deal with the consequences yourself if you do that. It was just a tiny bit of tea, and suddenly it’s a catastrophe? What’s the big deal?”

They glared at each other. A standoff.

Just then, Hoor entered, holding a cup of tea. She had clearly heard enough.

Amal’s face was nearly on the verge of tears from anger, while Zayan’s expression was a mix of shock and irritation.

Seeing both of their faces, Hoor wanted to hide her laughter but couldn’t.

“Why is the air so tense?” she asked, chuckling. “Did someone die?”

“He drank my tea,” Amal said, pointing an accusing finger.

“She threatened to frame me,” Zayan countered.

Hoor looked at the empty cup. Then at Zayan.

“Seriously?”

“It was an accident,” Zayan lied.

“It was deliberate theft,” Amal corrected.

Hoor sighed, shaking her head, but smiling.

“Here, Amal. Take Zayan’s tea,” Hoor said, handing over the cup she held.

Before she could finish, Amal snatched it.

Zayan yelled, “Amal! That’s my cup! My tea! You can’t just take it! I barely drank any! I want my tea back!”

Then Amal, in mock defiance, started singing:

🎵“Which tea would you like, sir...”🎵

And ran off with the cup.

“Stop! Give my cup back!” Zayan shouted, chasing after her.

Hoor stepped in to stop him.

“You two are crazy,” she said. “Relax. I’ll make tea again. Be thankful she didn’t go to Khan Dada—that case definitely wouldn’t have ended in your favor. Why did you tease her, idiot?”

“Come on,” she added, “I’m making tea. Trust me, it’s better this way.”

***

The house had grown quiet.

Most of the lights were off. The television was silent.

Jahangir stood near the front door, pulling on his shoes with careful movements, trying not to make noise.

He checked his phone once. Pocketed it.

Just as he reached for the door handle, a voice came from behind him.

“Baba.”

Jahangir froze.

Zayan stood in the hallway, arms crossed, watching him.

“Where are you going?” Zayan asked. “It’s late.”

Jahangir’s jaw tightened. He turned slowly, his expression hard.

“Since when do I answer to you?” he said, voice low and firm. “Am I the father here, or are you?”

Zayan didn’t flinch. “I’m just asking—”

“Don’t ask,” Jahangir cut him off. “Do I need your permission to leave my own house?”

“No, but—”

“Go to your room,” Jahangir ordered. “Sleep. Whatever you do at night—do that.”

He opened the door and walked out, closing it behind him with a quiet but final click.

Zayan stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door.

His jaw tightened.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then he grabbed his jacket from the hook.

“Not tonight,” he whispered.

And slipped out after him.

***

Author’s Note: Follow to not miss what’s coming.