LA TAQNATU

***

The car rolled slowly out of the lane.

For exactly ten seconds, there was peace.

Hoor fastened her seatbelt and looked straight ahead, watching the road. Amal checked her side mirror, then the rear-view mirror. Bilal held his phone low, thumb hovering like a criminal planning a small sin. Zayan stared out of the window like the city owed him money.

Ten seconds.

Then:

“Can you put the AC a little higher?” Bilal asked.

“It’s on,” Amal said. “Normal.”

“Normal for you is Antarctica,” he replied.

“Some of us have blood that still moves.”

“It will cool slowly,” Hoor said gently. “Leave it.”

“Like her personality,” Zayan muttered from the back.

Amal’s eyes flicked to the mirror. “What did you say?” she asked.

“I said you drive slowly,” he corrected smoothly. “Very… careful.”

“That is called being responsible,” she said.

That is called being ninety years old,” he shot back.

“You checked the mirror four times before turning the car on.”

“Good drivers use mirrors,” Amal replied.

“Good drivers arrive on time,” Zayan said. From the back,

Bilal whispered to his phone, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Episode One of Driver vs Passenger.”

“Bilal,” Amal said without looking. “If I see your screen once, you walk.”

Bilal turned the phone off with the guilt of a professional criminal.

“See?” he whispered to Zayan.

“She is allergic to content.”

“Stop talking,” Hoor said, but she was smiling.

Bilal shifted in his seat and frowned. “You’re sitting on my bag,” Bilal complained.

“Your bag is on my space,” Zayan replied.

“Your legs are on my oxygen,” Bilal shot back.

“Breathing is optional,” Zayan said.

“Both of you,” hoor said, voice flat, “sit like normal human beings.”

For exactly five seconds, they did.

Then Zayan muttered, “He started it.”

Bilal whispered, “He exists like that.”

Hoor sighed. “Allah… give me patience.”

Amal didn’t comment. That was agreement.

***

The car turned into the narrow road outside Bilal’s college. Groups of boys in uniforms, backpacks hanging on one shoulder, moved like a small army that didn’t know where it was going.

“Stop here,” Bilal said. “In front of that tree. My friends will see I have a car life.”

“You have a sister life,” Amal corrected, pulling over near the gate.

Bilal unbuckled his seatbelt, already half-standing.

“Okay, public,” he muttered, sneaking the phone up again. “Live update.

I am reaching college in a shared vehicle with three dangerous people—”

“Out,” Amal said.

Bilal leaned forward between the front seats instead.

“Pray for me,” he told Hoor theatrically.

“If I fail, tell my story to the world.”

“I will tell your story to your Physics teacher,” Hoor replied.

Bilal put a hand to his heart.

“Betrayal.”

He pushed the back door open and jumped out. Before closing it, he stuck his head back in.

“Bye,” he said. “Don’t fight too much without me. Amal, drive like a human. Zayan bhai, use your inside voice. Hoor, don’t let them bore you.”

He slammed the door and jogged toward the gate, shouting something to a friend.

The car felt quieter.

For three seconds.

Then Zayan said, as if Bilal’s absence had freed him,

“You could fit another car between us and the one in front.” Amal didn’t even blink.

“You could fit another brain between your ears.”

Hoor pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. “Stop it, both of you. It’s early.”

“It’s Islamabad,” Zayan said. “If you leave this much distance, rickshaws steal it. This isn’t Switzerland.”

“You want me to drive like you?” Amal asked.

“Jumping between gaps like a squirrel?”

“You’re like a very focused turtle,” he replied.

She glanced into the rear-view mirror.

Their eyes met for a second.

“Careful, Clatter Skull,” she said. “Turtle will still reach. Squirrel might fall into the canal.”

Hoor sighed. “I should have taken a bus.”

“You should have learned driving,” Amal replied.

“I know how to drive,” Hoor protested. “I just… don’t like the roads.”

“You don’t like other cars,” Zayan said.

“You’re scared they’ll scratch your imaginary future showroom.”

“What showroom?” Amal asked, suspicious.

“Nothing,” Hoor said quickly. “Just talk.”

The light ahead turned red. Amal slowed and stopped gently. On the side of the road, a gigantic billboard showed a model laughing in bright sports shoes—some new sneaker brand, loud and confident, pretending life was that easy.

Zayan pointed at it. “If we ever open a sneaker shop, we’ll pose better than that.”

Amal snorted. “You’ll fall off the display stand.” Hoor shook her head.

“Please stop dreaming while Amal is driving.”

The signal turned green.

***

University mornings had their own noise—less chaotic than college, louder in pride. Amal parked with her usual precision: straight, centered, enough distance to prove a point to the world.

Hoor stepped out beside her, smoothing her sleeves like she was resetting herself. Third year had made her calmer, not softer.

Zayan got out last, stretching like the car had personally attacked him.

“I survived,” he announced.

No one asked,” Amal replied.

Hoor raised one finger. “Ten minutes. Both of you. Act normal.”

Zayan nodded solemnly. “I will behave.”

Amal’s eyes flicked over him once. “Lying is a sin.”

Zayan’s mouth opened

Hoor’s finger stayed up.

Zayan closed his mouth again.

They walked toward the gate together—three people sharing one routine nobody had requested.

At the entrance, they split.

Amal went toward her building with the speed of someone who hated wasting seconds.

Hoor got pulled into friends and deadlines.

Zayan headed toward his department, hands in pockets, face blank. Normal. Just normal.

That’s what fooled people.

***

Midday in the lane looked quiet, but both kitchens were in full battle mode.

On the Ahmed side, Dadi stood at the stove, flipping flatbreads with the calm authority of someone who had fed entire generations. Beside her, Dada Jan was rinsing rice, sleeves rolled up, moving with slow, steady patience like lunch was an act of worship.

“Saima left early for school,” Dadi muttered, checking the pot.

“And Farooq is at the university.” Dada Jan nodded. “May Allah put barakah in their day.”

Between the two kitchens was the window they had insisted on years ago—wide, practical, and more honest than most walls. It stayed open almost all day.

Asma’s voice arrived before her face did. “Dadi!” she called. “I swear my lentils are angry at me today.”

Dadi didn’t even look up. “Lentils don’t get angry. You do.”

Asma appeared at her own kitchen window, hair pinned back, sleeves rolled, wooden spoon in hand—dramatic even while cooking. “My mood is also not cooperating,” Asma admitted

“Ever since morning I’ve been thinking… four kids in one car. May Allah protect everyone.”

Dadi flipped another flatbread. “No one dies because of one car.”

Asma widened her eyes. “Dadi, you haven’t seen Bilal and Zayan together in the back seat. Those aren’t two people. Those are two disasters.”

Dada Jan, still rinsing the rice, said calmly, “Disasters are also tests.”

Dadi shot him a look. “Not everything is a test.

Some things are just Bilal.”

Asma laughed. “Exactly.”

From the Khan house, a cupboard shut loudly.

Then Khan Dada’s voice boomed from somewhere inside. “Asma! Who left the internet device blinking again?”

Asma sighed toward the ceiling. “Here we go.”

Dadi leaned closer to the window and called out sweetly, “Khan Dada, eat lunch first. You can fight the router after.”

Asma covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

Dada Jan didn’t laugh. He just said, very calmly, “Food solves problems faster than arguments.”

Dadi clicked her tongue at him. “Stop turning lunch into poetry.”

Asma stirred her pot and sighed—still dramatic, but softer now.

“Hoor will be picked up from university by the company car today,” she said. “Then office. Then they’ll drop her home in the evening.”

Dadi’s hands slowed for half a second.

“Third year, and office after classes… she must get tired.”

Asma nodded, eyes on the pot. “She does. But she says, ‘It’s policy.’”

Dada Jan set the rice aside and wiped his hands. “People matter more than policies.”

Asma’s mouth tightened for a moment, then she forced her normal tone back. “And my dua matters more than both. I pray every night.”

Dadi nodded once, satisfied. “Good. Now tell me—how much salt did you put in the lentils?”

Asma frowned. “I think… too much.”

Dadi smiled like she had been waiting for this exact problem.

“That’s why we made this window. Now I’ll supervise your cooking from my kitchen.”

Asma groaned. “Dadi, please. Don’t humiliate me.”

Dadi held out a small spoon through the window like this was a legal procedure.

Asma tasted, made a face, and sighed. “Too much,” she admitted.

Dadi nodded like a judge delivering a verdict. “Yes. Bilal-level salt.”

Asma burst out laughing—real, tired, warm.

For a moment, both kitchens felt lighter.

Not because life was easy.

Because the window was open.

***

At the university, Zayan did what he always did when he wanted calm: he walked toward Professor Farooq’s building. Not for permission. Not for drama. Just because Farooq’s office felt like a reset button.

Farooq was in the corridor outside his office, holding a file, reading it like it was personally insulting him.

He looked up and saw Zayan. “You are late,” he said immediately.

Zayan shrugged. “I’m consistent.”

Farooq’s mouth twitched. “A poor quality to be proud of.”

Zayan leaned against the wall, casual. “How many students have you mentally disowned today?”

Farooq sighed. “Only three. It is early.” Zayan grinned. “Progress.”

Farooq studied him for a second. Not his face. His tiredness. “You ate?” Farooq asked.

Zayan blinked. “Sir, why do you talk like my mother?”

Farooq replied, “Because your mother is correct.”

Zayan smiled, then lowered his voice a little. “You’re tired.”

Farooq looked away for half a second.

That half-second said: yes. Then he regained the poet-professor composure. “Tiredness is normal,” he said. “Don’t make it a story.”

Zayan didn’t argue. He rarely argued with Farooq about feelings.

He only nodded. “Okay,”

he said. “I’m going.”

Farooq stopped him with a look.

“And Zayan,” he added, as if it was a casual thing, “don’t waste your mind on petty fights.”

Zayan smiled like he wasn’t guilty. “Sir,” he said, “petty fights are my hobby.”

Farooq shook his head, but there was affection in it.

“Go,” he said.

Zayan left. Farooq watched him for a second too long. Then he went back to his file.

***

By afternoon, the campus started emptying out.

Hoor stood near the main gate, checking her phone. Amal approached from the side, bag heavier, face tired in the controlled way she never admitted.

Zayan followed a step behind—close enough to be “with them,” far enough to pretend he wasn’t.

A black sedan waited near the gate. Amal’s brows pulled together.

“What’s that?”

Hoor adjusted her bag strap. “Company car.”

Zayan blinked. “Company?” Hoor nodded.

“Pick-and-drop. They pick me from uni, take me to office, and later drop me home.”

Amal paused. For a second, something warm loosened inside her chest—relief, maybe. Less road. Less waiting. Less risk. One small mercy in a tiring routine.

“Daily?” Amal asked, keeping her voice flat even though she wanted to smile.

“Yes,” Hoor said simply. “Policy.”

Amal nodded once, firm like she was approving a plan. “Good,” she said.

Then, softer—almost to herself—“Alhamdulillah.”

Hoor’s eyes flicked to Amal’s face, and her smile turned real for a moment.

Zayan muttered, “That still sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” Hoor admitted, then shrugged. “But it helps.”

The driver stepped out politely.

“Hoor baji?”

Hoor nodded. “Yes.”

She looked back at Amal and Zayan.

“I’ll go,” she said. “And you two—please—don’t start a war the moment I leave.”

Amal replied flatly, “I’m not interested.”

Zayan replied with equal arrogance, “Neither am I.”

Hoor stared at both of them. “You’re both liars.”

Zayan coughed. “False accusation.”

Amal didn’t comment.

That was confirmation.

Hoor got into the car. It pulled away smoothly, disappearing into traffic like it had better things to do than babysit anyone. And suddenly, Amal and Zayan were left standing together with no buffer.

Amal turned immediately. “Come.

We have to pick Bilal.”

Zayan fell into step beside her. For four seconds, he behaved.

Then—like an illness—commentary returned. “You know,” he said, “your driving is still too… bad”

Amal didn’t look at him. “And your mouth is still too… open.”

Zayan smirked. “At least I’m consistent.”

Amal unlocked the car. “Get in.”

He did—back seat, deliberately. Amal noticed.

***

Bilal was waiting outside his college gate like a celebrity waiting for fans.

The moment he saw the car, he waved dramatically, as if the vehicle had come to rescue him from prison.

He got in and immediately started talking.

“I survived. Barely.

Because my friends are jealous of my carpool lifestyle.”

Amal didn’t respond. Zayan didn’t respond.

Bilal paused. “Why are you both acting like you attended a funeral?”

Amal spoke without turning. “Seatbelt.” Bilal buckled it, offended. “Yes, ma’am.”

Zayan muttered, “Welcome back.”

Bilal grinned. “Thanks, bhai.” Then he leaned forward slightly, reading the atmosphere like it was content.

“You guys fought without me, didn’t you?”

“No,” Amal said.

“Yes,” Zayan said at the exact same time.

Bilal’s eyes lit up. “Details.”

Amal said, “Silence.” Zayan said, “Sit back.” Bilal sat back, satisfied.

“This is what family looks like.”

Amal tightened her grip. Zayan’s mouth twitched. Bilal smiled like he was collecting content even without a camera.

***

By the time they reached the lane again, the sun was dipping, and the street had that tired evening mood. Bilal jumped out first.

“I’m starving.”

And disappeared inside like hunger was a national emergency.

Amal stayed in the car for a second, hands still on the wheel, like she needed ten seconds to stop hearing voices.

Zayan opened the back door.

“Bye,” he said, too casually.

Amal didn’t look back. “Don’t slam.”

Zayan smirked. “Control issues.”

Amal replied instantly, “Ego issues.”

Zayan shut the door with the exact amount of force that proved her point.

Amal sat there for another second. Then she finally got out. Inside the house, life continued—cups clinking, someone calling someone, the normal chaos that hides bigger stories under it. And somewhere in the middle of that normal life,

Amal saw it. A thin brown envelope on the side table.

No sender name visible from this angle. Just a stamped corner and old paper.

Farooq noticed her noticing. His hand moved—fast, quiet—to cover it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t important. Like it wasn’t heavy.

Amal didn’t ask. But something in her chest tightened anyway. Because in a house like theirs, secrets didn’t announce themselves.

They just arrived—silent—like letters you never wanted to open.

Author’s Note: Next update: Sunday & Wednesday, 9 PM PKT