LA TAQNATU

*** By mid-afternoon, Bilal stood on the shared terrace, phone in hand, leaning over the wall and searching for content.

“ You’ve met my family… but there’s still one member you haven’t seen yet. whispered to his camera.

“Now, meet the secret weapon of the other house.”

He slowly tilted the camera down toward the Khan courtyard.

In the middle of the yard, in a fat square of afternoon light, an old man sat on a plastic chair. White beard. Zayan’s Dada.

A small radio sat on the stool beside him, switched off. His walking stick leaned against his leg. On the charpai in front of him lay a remote—and a WiFi router with three blinking lights.

“So this,” Bilal murmured, “is Khan Dada. Number one enemy of WiFi in this area.”

Down below, Khan Dada picked up the router like it was some poisonous animal.

“Look at this thing,” he said loudly, though no one had asked.

“Three antennas. Three doors for shaitan to enter.”

Zayan passed by with a bowl in his hand—cereal, because Zayan treated cereal like a personality trait and didn’t care what time it was.

“Dada, it is just internet,” he said. “Just internet?”

Khan Dada looked offended.

“First it was just TV. Then just phone. Now just internet. Soon it will be just your brain—finished.”

He put the router back on the charpai and poked it with one finger.

“You know, in our time,” he said,

“we had one antenna on the roof. It brought news.

Now you have three antennas inside the house.

They take peace.” Zayan tried not to smile.

“So should we throw it, Dada?”

“Yes,” Khan Dada said seriously. “Throw it in a well. Then throw yourself after it so you understand what drowning feels like.”

Bilal nearly choked, holding his laughter in. He turned the camera back to his own face.

“You see?” he whispered.

“This man is dangerous. He can roast you and your router in one line.”

Down below, Hoor walked through the yard carrying a small laundry basket.

Khan Dada’s tone softened immediately. “Put that down,” he said.

“You will hurt your arms. Call Zayan. He is young. Let him be useful for something.”

“I am here,” Zayan protested.

“You are not useful,” Khan Dada said without looking at him. “You are just here.”

Hoor laughed and set the basket near the door. Bilal didn’t show her face. The camera cut at her elbows and caught the basket instead.

“See?” he whispered to his viewers. “Rude, sweet, and too protective. A complete grandparent package.”

Khan Dada picked up the router again, flicked one antenna, and muttered,

“This thing is like those influencers. Lots of signal, no substance.”

Bilal recorded another clip—sunglasses on indoors, a hairbrush in his hand like a microphone. He flipped the camera.

The Ancient Warrior (Dada Abbu) Bilal narrated: “Here we have the Alpha: Dada Abbu. He believes WiFi is a big conspiracy, and that I am the root of all problems.

Let’s approach.”

Bilal walked up. “Dada Abbu! Say hi to my fans!”

Dada Abbu squinted at the phone. “Is that the machine that steals your brain?

Get away, you nalayak (useless)! Go bring me tea!”

“Abuse caught on camera! Likes are going to skyrocket,” Bilal whispered, retreating.

***

By night, the lane had a different mood. The sun had gone, but the heat was still hiding in the concrete. A dim streetlight hummed outside the gate.

Inside, between the Ahmed and Khan houses, the small shared garden glowed under a cheap yellow bulb and a few tired fairy lights someone had hung last Eid and never removed. There wasn’t much to the garden: a short patch of grass, two uneven flower beds, a few plastic chairs, and one old iron bench with peeling paint. But tonight it held both families, which made it feel too full and just right at the same time.

On one side of the circle, Jahangir sat with his back straight—even in a garden chair—a glass of water in hand.

Next to him, Khan Dada sat in his sweater, walking stick within reach, staring at the sky as if it had once been under his command.

On the other side, Farooq leaned back with his notebook on his lap, enjoying the rare moment when he had no class and no marking.

Ahmed Dada and Dadi sat together, Dadi with a shawl around her shoulders even though it wasn’t that cold yet. Between them, Asma and Saima moved back and forth with a tray of chai and biscuits. The smell of tea and some distant neighbour’s chicken karahi floated in the night air.

The younger generation had taken over the ground.

Bilal lay sprawled on the grass, one hand behind his head, the other holding his phone up.

Zayan sat on the low wall that divided the flower bed, one foot dangling, straw of a juice box in his mouth.

Amal sat on the iron bench, back straight but hands relaxed.

Hoor sat next to her, knees drawn up, chin resting on them.

If a stranger passed by the gate right now, they would not think, This is the start of a big story.

They would just see two families, tired from life, trying to be less tired for one evening.

Bilal, of course, saw content. He lifted his phone a little. “Night broadcast,” he muttered.

“Featuring: elders, chai, and free life lessons.”

“Bilal,” Amal said without looking at him, “no recording when Dadas are talking.”

“I am not live,” he defended. “Just… emotionally live.”

On the other side,

Khan Dada shifted in his chair. “In our time,” he announced suddenly, “people sat like this every night. No phones. Just faces.”

“Now we have both,” Asma said, passing him a cup. “Faces and phones.”

“Hm.” He accepted the chai. “Phones have bigger light, smaller warmth.”

“Deep,” Bilal whispered to his screen. Ahmed Dada chuckled.

“Write that in your captions.” Farooq smiled and flicked open his notebook.

“You started; now he will turn it into couplets,” Saima murmured. He pretended not to hear her.

Khan Dada looked at him.

“Professor saab, you are the poet. Say something about this generation.”

Farooq tapped his pen against the page and then, with a small, shy half-smile

“They keep their screens at full brightness,

and their hearts on power-saving mode.”

There was a small silence. Then a soft “wah” from Asma. A laugh from Asma’s side.

A low “Nice line” from Zayan.

Bilal put a hand over his chest. “I feel attacked.”

“You are always attacked,” Amal replied. “By your own choices.”

Hoor laughed quietly, nudging Amal’s arm. “I like this. Two Dadas, one poet, and one victim.”

“Two victims,” Zayan added. “Don’t forget me.”

“You are self-inflicted,” Amal told him.

“Children,” Ahmed Dadi cut in, “eat the biscuits before the ants discover them.”

Everyone reached for the plate at once.

For a while, the garden just hummed with soft talk: who had back pain, who had a rude student, who remembered the mohalla when there were fewer cars and more trees. It was the kind of scene no one posts, but everyone remembers later when things change.

“Petrol went up again,” Saima said,

wrapping her fingers around her cup.

“Next month I will send children to school on a goat.”

“We used to walk,” Ahmed Dada said. “Five kilometers. In winter. Barefoot.” “Here we go,” Dadi muttered.

“Now two houses,” Khan Dada said, ignoring the interruption, “two cars… four children… and one city that doesn’t care about your fuel.”

Jahangir nodded. “They take the same road. Same direction.”

“Exactly,” Khan Dada grunted.

“One car goes half full. The other goes half full. Petrol goes all the way empty.” He glanced around at the younger four.

“From tomorrow,” he announced, “this circus will travel in one van, not two.” All four looked up at once.

“Excuse me?” Zayan said.

“What van?” Bilal asked, already excited.

“Not a real van, you loud buffoon,” Khan Dada snapped. “I mean one car. One ride.”

He pointed his walking stick like a general picking soldiers.

“You,” he pointed at Amal. “You drive.” Amal blinked. “Me?”

“You drive safely,” he said simply. “You don’t race with shadows, and you actually use your mirrors. I have seen you.”

He turned the stick to point at Zayan.

“You go with her.” Zayan looked like someone had told him all sports channels were cancelled.

“With her?” he repeated.

“You think your degrees grow on the tree outside?” Khan Dada said.

“Same university, same city. One car.”

He swung the stick toward Bilal. “You get in the back. First stop is your college.” Bilal saluted from the grass. “Yes, sir.”

Then the stick moved to Hoor. “You also go,” he said. “. You’ll be going too, since we’re at the same university.

No more three different cars for three different places like ministers.”

“As if we have three cars,” Asma muttered.

Hoor looked between Amal and Zayan. “All four of us… together?”

“For now,” he said. “Until petrol falls from the sky or one of you learns to teleport.” There was a small beat.

On the Ahmed side, Ahmed Dada was smiling. “It is sensible,” he said. “Shared fuel, shared time. The world is burning anyway; we don’t need to help it.”

Farooq nodded. “And safer. One car, not many.”

Saima glanced at Amal. “You are okay with this?”

Amal’s instinct was to say no. Four people.

One small car. Every morning. With these three. Her control-loving mind didn’t like the picture. But she saw the look on Farooq’s face. The tired numbers running constantly behind his eyes—petrol, fees, inflation.

“Yes,” she said. Only that.

“You are okay with me?” Zayan asked, a little too quickly.

“No,” she answered.

“But I am okay with the plan.”

Hoor bit back a smile. Bilal sat up.

“Wait. Does this mean I get daily car vlog content? Daily? Four characters, one car. This is gold.”

Amal shot him a look. “If I see your phone on in my rear-view mirror, I will throw it out of the window.”

“You know she can,” he whispered to Zayan.

“I am aware,” Zayan said.

Khan Dada settled back in his chair, satisfied. “Done,” he said.

“From tomorrow, one car leaves this lane in the morning, carrying four headaches.

God help Islamabad.”

Ahmed Dada laughed, a short warm sound.

“May He help the driver,” he said, looking at Amal. She met his eyes, and for a second, something proud and soft passed between them.

***

The Night Before the First Ride Later, when the garden had emptied and cups stood forgotten on the table, the houses pulled back into themselves. Lights went off, one window at a time. The street became quieter. In her room,

Hoor laid out her clothes for the morning: a simple kurta, her bag, her file for the internship. She smiled to herself at the thought of all four of them squeezed in one car.

It felt… like school days again. Like old times when everything was simpler. Somewhere under that, there was a tiny discomfort.

A whisper: You are not a schoolgirl anymore.

She ignored it and switched off her lamp.

Next door, Amal checked her bag twice—notes, ID card, keys. She placed the car keys on her bedside table, on top of Farooq’s half-filled notebook.

The words on the open page caught her eye:

“We only see the ink. He sees the whole book.”

She did not read more. She just put the keys there like a bookmark.

She let out a slow, irritated breath.

“Every day,” she whispered.

“Going together. Every single day.” She shook her head, already exhausted by the thought. “Oh God,” she murmured.

“Please give me patience.”

A beat.

“And wealth too.”

In his room, Zayan lay on his bed staring at the ceiling fan. One car. With Amal in the driver’s seat.

“Great,” he muttered to the darkness. “Daily torture.”

His phone buzzed.

Bilal: BRO, CARPOOL STARTS TOMORROW SEASON 1 – FOUR IDIOTS IN A SUZUKI

Zayan replied: Take my name out. The car will reject it.

Bilal sent a string of laughing stickers and something about episode titles.

Zayan put the phone to the side, a smile lingering.

In the Ahmed house, Bilal set three alarms.

He named them:

“Fajr”

“College”

“CAR VLOG OPPORTUNITY”

Then he fell asleep with his phone in his hand.

In the Khan house, Khan Dada turned off his small radio and looked up at the ceiling.

“One car,” he murmured.

“Four kids. Two families. And You.”

He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to. Someone else already knew all the roads.

***

The morning light slipped into the lane like a guest who knew the way. The street was almost empty. A dog slept in a patch of shade. A milkman’s bicycle clinked faintly in the distance.

The Ahmed car stood ready near the gate: small, white, slightly old, freshly washed by Bilal’s extremely lazy effort.

The front door of the Ahmed house opened.

Amal stepped out, bag on her shoulder, scarf already in place, keys in hand. She took a breath, like someone about to start a long exam.

From the Khan side, their door opened.

Zayan came out, fixing his watch strap. Hoor followed with her bag.

Bilal ran back inside once because he had “forgotten his brain” (actually his phone), then came out again.

For a second, all four of them paused—as if the car itself knew what kind of chaos it was about to carry.

“This,” Bilal said, “is how disasters start.”

“Oh, I forgot my file. I’m coming,” Hoor called, and went back inside.

“Get in,” Amal said. She opened the driver’s door.

Bilal immediately tried to slide into the front passenger seat like it was a VIP lounge.

Zayan’s arm shot out and blocked him. “No.”

Bilal blinked. “Excuse me?

Front seat is for senior citizens, drivers, and influencers.”

Zayan stared at him. “Front seat is for people who don’t want to die.”

Amal paused mid mirror-adjust, already regretting the entire petrol-saving plan.

“Bilal,” she said, calm the way teachers are calm right before they explode, “back seat.”

Bilal pointed at Zayan. “Why is he front?”

Zayan pointed right back. “Because I have survival instincts.” Bilal scoffed.

“I respect you, but you have an ego.”

Zayan scoffed harder. “You have an underdeveloped brain.”

Bilal gasped like he’d been slapped with a legal notice.

“Bhaiii, that was too personal. Say it again.”

“I said—”

“Enough,” Amal cut in, voice sharp.

“Both of you. Back.” Neither moved.

They kept arguing—half in insults, half in volume. Zayan:

“Your seatbelt discipline is embarrassing.”

Bilal: “Your face discipline is embarrassing.”

Zayan: “You don’t even tie your shoelace.”

Bilal: “At least my shoelace has freedom.”

Amal inhaled. Exhaled.

“Listen,” she said, stepping back from the car, pointing at both of them like she was addressing a courtroom.

“If you two don’t get in right now, I will leave. I will drive away. Alone. And you can explain to both Dadas why the ‘one car’ plan failed.”

Bilal froze. “You won’t.”

Amal’s eyes narrowed. “Try me.”

Zayan muttered, “She will.”

Bilal muttered back, “Then stop provoking her.”

Zayan snapped, “YOU started it.”

Bilal snapped back, “YOU were born with it.”

Footsteps came from behind them. Hoor appeared at the gate, bag on her shoulder, face calm—like she had walked into a normal morning and not a disaster zone. She took one look at them.

“Zayan,” she said. Zayan paused mid-sentence. “What?”

“Move,” Hoor ordered. Simple. Final.

Zayan’s eyebrows shot up. “Why? I’m sitting front.”

Hoor didn’t blink. “No.”

Zayan looked offended.

“Hoor, come on—why are you acting like the traffic police?”

Bilal whispered from the side, respectful but very interested, “Bhai, don’t start. She’ll win.”

Zayan ignored him. “I’m not fighting. I just don’t trust Amal behind a steering wheel.”

Hoor looked at her brother and smiled—softly, like she’d heard this exact drama a hundred times.

“Nothing will happen, silly. Amal drives well—accept it. Now sit in the back, my dear brother, before she leaves both of you here and you have to explain it to Dada.”

Zayan exhaled, annoyed at himself more than anyone else, and stepped toward the back seat.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But I’m not happy about it.”

Hoor turned to Bilal. Her voice softened instantly.

“Bilal,” she said, and reached up to lightly smooth his hair—gentle, brief, the way you calm a dramatic child without humiliating him.

“My hero.”

Bilal’s entire attitude collapsed. “Yes,” he said immediately, like a soldier receiving orders from a queen.

Hoor nodded once—tiny, polite—toward the back seat.

Bilal went without a single complaint.

Amal looked at Hoor. She was smile, and she gave Hoor the smallest nod of approval, like: Good.

Hoor opened the front passenger door and sat down.

As Zayan walked around to the back, he muttered under his breath,“This is favoritism.”

Bilal whispered loudly, “This is love.”

Zayan whispered back, “This is manipulation.”

Bilal: “Same thing.” “Seatbelts,”

Amal said, starting the engine.

From the back, Zayan and Bilal spoke at the exact same time:

“Tell him not to breathe like that—” “Tell him not to exist like that—” Amal tightened her grip on the steering wheel. This was going to be a long semester.

***

Author’s Note: Next update: Sunday & Wednesday, 9 PM PKT. If you enjoyed this, tap Follow to not miss chapters.