Love me tender

The dusty lane in the old quarter of Hyderabad buzzed with its usual evening chaos. Children’s laughter mixed with the sharp honk of bikes squeezing through narrow gaps, the rhythmic thwack of a taped tennis ball against a cracked wooden bat, and the distant call of a vendor selling spicy chanay. The air carried the faint scent of frying pakoras from someone’s courtyard and the earthy smell of sun-baked mud after a light afternoon sprinkle.

For the past week, the chatter had grown louder with the arrival of a new family from a small town up north. They had squeezed into three cramped rooms just three doors down from where Bilal (16) lived with his parents and younger siblings: Faiza (12), Ahsan (15), and little Shazia (10), who still clung to Bilal like a shadow whenever he was home.

The new family had three girls. Maria (10) was the loudest—quick-tongued and always charging ahead like she owned the street. Alia (6) trailed behind with endless giggles. And then there was Abeer (8), the quietest of them all. She had a soft, wheatish face with delicate, almost doll-like features, and she often wore a faded pink floral shalwar kameez that looked a size too big. She tried hard to keep up with her sisters, but her steps were smaller, her voice softer.

That afternoon, the four older girls spilled into the lane with a worn plastic ball and a taped-up bat. Maria clapped her hands and shouted, “Chalo! Gully cricket! Teams banao jaldi!”

They argued noisily over captains and who would bowl first. Abeer stood at the edge, clutching the hem of her pink shirt, her big eyes hopeful.

“Abeer, tum baith jao,” Sana said without even glancing at her. “Tum bohot slow ho. Har catch chhod deti ho. Aaj sirf dekho.”

Abeer’s lower lip trembled. She nodded silently and walked to the low mud-brick wall near their gate. She sat down, pulling her knees to her chest, and rested her chin on them. The game started with shrieks and cheers. Every time the ball flew past or her sisters clapped, Abeer felt herself shrinking smaller, like she was fading into the dusty wall.

Across the lane, Bilal leaned against his old black bike, trying to shake off the sour taste of yet another fight between his parents. Raised voices had echoed from their big house again—sharp words about money, about space, about everything. As usual, the children had slipped out. Ahsan had wandered off with friends, while Faiza and Shazia played quietly in the side corner.

Bilal’s friend Rameez was kicking the stand of his own bike, getting ready to leave. “Yaar, main nikal raha hoon. Kal milte hain.”

Rameez rode off, leaving Bilal alone with his thoughts. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the small figure on the wall. She sat so still, so alone, like she was trying to disappear.

Something tugged at his chest. He pushed off his bike and walked over, crouching so he wouldn’t tower over her. “Hey, chhoti si,” he said gently, his voice low and playful. “Kya hua? Sab theek hai?”

Abeer looked up. Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears. She nodded once, then slowly shook her head.

Bilal sat down beside her on the wall, leaving a respectful gap. “Khelne nahi ja rahi? Game toh chal raha hai.”

“Unhon ne khelne nahi diya,” she replied in a tiny voice, barely above a whisper. Her gaze stayed fixed on her sisters. “Maria bol rahi ha main bohot slow hoon… har catch chhod deti hoon.”

Bilal’s eyebrows rose. A small, amused smile touched his lips. “Toh confront karo na. Unse kaho ke mujhe bhi khelne do.”

Abeer turned to him with a soft pout that made her look even cuter. “Kaise confront karun? Mujhe argument karna nahi aata na. Maria se har baar haar jaati hoon.” She lowered her eyes to the ground, embarrassed. “wo bolti jati ha .. aur mjhey samjh nahi ata usey kya answer doon.”

Bilal watched her for a moment, surprised by how honest and vulnerable she sounded. There was something so pure about her sadness—it reminded him of his own little sisters when they felt left out.

“Afraid ho apni sister se?” he teased lightly, but his tone stayed kind.

“Of course not!” Abeer looked up quickly, her cheeks flushing. The pout returned, and for a second it looked almost cute, like a little kitten trying to look fierce.

Bilal chuckled softly. “Achha, toh phir… khelna hai? Sirf tum aur main. Main help karunga practice mein. Koi aur nahi join karega.”

Her face lit up instantly, eyes sparkling like someone had turned on a bright bulb inside her. “Sach? Haan! Please!”

Bilal stood and held out his hand. Abeer hesitated for just a breath, then slipped her tiny, soft palm into his. Her hand felt warm and delicate, like holding a small bird. A strange, protective warmth spread through him—not anything strange, just the simple feeling of wanting to shield something innocent from the world’s roughness. He shook the thought away and led her to a quieter patch of the lane, away from the noisy main game.

They found a flat spot near the wall. Bilal lined up three empty plastic bottles as stumps. “Theek hai, tum pehle bat karo. Main slow bowl karunga aur sab sikhaunga.”

Abeer gripped the bat too tightly at first, her small shoulders tense. Bilal knelt beside her, gently adjusting her hands without making her feel clumsy. His fingers brushed hers lightly—soft, warm skin. “Aise pakdo… relaxed raho. Ball pe nazar rakho, zor se nahi maarna abhi.”

He stepped back and rolled the ball underarm, nice and easy. Abeer swung and missed, the bat cutting through air with a whoosh. She looked up at him, embarrassed, biting her lip.

Bilal laughed warmly, not mocking. “Arre wah! Good try! Agla ball dekho—eyes on the ball, okay?”

Ball after ball, he stayed patient. He showed her how to stand, how to swing straight, how to shift her weight. Every small tap of the bat earned loud cheers from him: “Shabash, Abeer! Yeh toh solid shot tha!” When she finally connected and the ball rolled a few feet, she squealed and ran toward the bottles, her pigtails bouncing.

“Run! Run! Safe ho gayi!” Bilal shouted, clapping.

Abeer’s laughter rang out—light and free. For the first time that evening, she didn’t feel invisible. Bilal never sighed, never rolled his eyes, never compared her to her sisters. He made her feel like she mattered.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the old brick walls in warm orange and gold, Bilal realized he was smiling more than he had in weeks. The weight of his parents’ arguments felt lighter here. Every shy “Thank you, bhai” from Abeer, every delighted giggle when she hit the ball even a little, sent a quiet joy blooming in his chest. He found himself wishing he could do this every evening—just this simple, peaceful practice, watching her confidence grow.

When the light began to fade and the azan for Maghrib echoed faintly from a nearby mosque, Abeer tugged gently at his sleeve. “Ap Kal ayenge? Hum Phir practice karenge?”

Bilal grinned and ruffled her hair lightly, careful not to mess it too much. “Zaroor aaunga. Promise.”

She beamed, her whole face glowing, and ran toward her gate where her sisters were now calling her. Bilal stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching her small figure disappear inside. Her soft touch still lingered on his palm like a gentle reminder.

“How time flies,” he thought, a small smile lingering on his lips. For the first time in a long while, he was already counting the hours until tomorrow.