Their Last Season

It had been five days since her ankle was sprained.

During those days, Hamza's concern for her had overwhelmed her.

"Overthinking, are we?" she heard Hamza say.

She glanced towards him.

He was smiling, one eyebrow raised as he leaned against the doorframe.

She shook her head.

She gestured for him to sit beside her.

After he sat down, she took both of his hands in hers.

Hamza looked at her curiously.

"Thank you. I am honoured to have you as my husband," she whispered softly.

His breath hitched.

He wasn't expecting her to say that.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"I am your husband, Sumi. It's the bare minimum," he shrugged.

She shook her head.

"Every human deserves acknowledgment.

And you are my husband. It's my love and duty to tell you how grateful I am."

He looked at her in adoration.

How dangerously she always rendered him speechless.

How effortlessly she stole his heart.

He lifted her hand and brought the back of her palm to his lips.

Placing a gentle kiss on it, he silently let her know how grateful he was to have her.

*****

Hamza was at the factory in his hometown, taking care of Hashir's responsibilities.

While standing outside the factory, he noticed a man on a bike.

He recognised him immediately.

It was Danish, his childhood friend.

He waved at him.

Noticing him, Danish parked his bike near the factory.

They hugged each other.

"Where have you been, man?" Hamza asked.

"Nowhere," Danish replied with a faint smile.

"How are you doing?" Hamza asked.

"Breathing," Danish answered in a defeated tone.

A frown appeared on Hamza's forehead.

"What happened, Danish?" he asked carefully.

But he wasn't prepared for the answer.

"Mahira is no more," Danish whispered.

Hamza's heart sank.

He knew how much Danish adored her.

Lost for words, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him.

Danish hugged him back, breaking down in his embrace.

Hamza gently caressed his back.

The wounds veiled from the world often find themselves unveiled before friends.

Danish sobbed.

Hamza patted his shoulder.

"I am sorry, Danish. I had no idea," Hamza said.

Danish nodded.

"You know what, Hamza? Sometimes time takes away a huge part of us as though it belongs to it."

Hamza nodded silently.

"Come home someday," Hamza invited.

"You too," Danish replied.

Sometimes, the vicissitudes of life turn into beautiful memories.

Just like this meeting.

*****

"Bhabhi, did you have lunch?" Sumaiya asked.

Sabiha looked at her.

She had brought lunch for Sumaiya.

Sumaiya knew she hadn't been taking care of herself since Hashir's accident.

"Let's eat together, Bhabhi. Ask someone to bring your lunch here," Sumaiya said softly.

Sabiha tried to refuse, but Sumaiya wasn't in the mood to listen.

They ate in silence.

After a while, Sumaiya started the conversation.

"How are you, Bhabhi?"

Sabiha looked at her.

Everyone had told her to be patient.

Everyone had told her to take care of herself.

But nobody had asked how she truly was.

Her dam broke.

Tears streamed down her face.

"I don't know, Sumaiya. I really don't know."

She wiped her tears and paused.

"I was scared, Sumaiya.

Scared of losing my husband.

Scared of losing the love of my life.

Scared of my children becoming fatherless.

Scared of living without him."

A sob escaped her lips.

Sumaiya rubbed her back comfortingly.

"I saw him lying in a pool of blood. I can never erase that sight from my mind," she whispered.

Tears welled up in Sumaiya's eyes.

"It's over, Bhabhi. It's all in the past.

He is with you and the children today," Sumaiya comforted her.

"You love him a lot," Sumaiya said.

"Yes, I do."

The answer came without hesitation.

Sabiha walked away.

"I wish, Bhabhi, Bhai hadn't done something he shouldn't have," Sumaiya whispered while looking at her retreating figure.

She was exhausted.

Soon, sleep engulfed her.

*****

Hamza was at the hospital with Hashir.

Amina Aunty was keeping Sumaiya company.

They were talking about Hamza's childhood.

When Sumaiya said, "Aunty, Bijaan's green eyes were not inherited by anyone in the family."

"No, Choti Bahu. Shumaila Bibi had her eyes," Amina Aunty replied.

"Shumaila Bibi?" Sumaiya asked, furrowing her brows.

"You don't know about her?" Amina Aunty asked in surprise.

Sumaiya shook her head.

"Shumaila Bibi was Bijaan's youngest child."

"Was?" Sumaiya asked, confused.

"Yes. That poor girl died at a very young age, just four months after her marriage. She was only twenty-four," Amina Aunty said softly, as if remembering her.

"How?" Sumaiya asked, perplexed.

"I don't know all the details, but I think it was some kind of viral fever."

After some time, Amina Aunty left the room.

But Sumaiya remained disturbed.

How many women had died in this family?

And why had they all died so young?

She remembered Shanaya and her cheerful smile.

Her heart sank.

Then she remembered Ayla's bangles.

A chill ran down her spine.

She remembered the grief in Silah's eyes whenever she spoke about her daughter-in-law.

A tear escaped Sumaiya's eye.

And now Shumaila.

Her heart ached for all of them.

She suddenly felt suffocated.

Picking up her phone, she sent Hamza a message.

"Come soon."

After placing her phone aside, she picked up a book from the side table and tried to immerse herself in reading.

******

"Sumi, I have been thinking."

She looked at him and raised an eyebrow, silently asking him to continue.

"We should go on a trip," he said hesitantly.

"A trip?"

"Yes. Just you and me. Somewhere away from household and professional responsibilities.

Bhai is recovering now, and next week is Christmas. Your college will be closed too."

She loved the idea.

"Okay," she smiled.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked.

"Maybe Kashmir."

"It's freezing in Kashmir during the last week of December," he exclaimed.

"That's the point," she replied with a shrug.

He stared at her for a moment before chuckling.

"Alright. Let me book the tickets."

She grinned.

Soon, they were busy planning their trip.

*****

"Sir, Hamza Sir has asked Rafay Uncle to keep an eye on you," a man informed him.

The man didn't react.

"How do you know?" he asked in a deadly calm tone.

The kind of calm that often comes before a storm.

"Sir, I overheard their conversation on the phone. Rafay Uncle's phone was on speaker, and he didn't notice me," the man explained.

He gestured for him to leave.

Once alone, he fell into deep thought.

His expression hardened.

"You shouldn't poke your nose into someone else's matters, Hamza," he muttered.

His face remained expressionless.

But his mind was racing.

And his heart was terrified.

Only he knew what he was truly afraid of.

******

"Amma, what exactly happened that day?"

Danish asked softly.

His head rested in Silah's lap.

She stiffened.

Her hand paused midway through caressing his hair.

He noticed.

"Amma," he called again.

Silence lingered between them for a long moment.

Then she began.

"She was very happy that day.

Very excited to share the news with you.

She couldn't sleep.

So she decided to go to the terrace.

There was a power cut, and in the darkness, perhaps she misjudged the steps and fell."

A lump formed in her throat.

Danish's breath hitched.

He knew Ira had fallen.

But he had never asked how.

Back then, he hadn't been in a condition to ask such questions.

The news.

His heart ached.

He had been going to become a father.

His child was gone before he even knew of its existence.

His wife was gone before they could share their happiness.

Silah stood up and quietly left the room.

Danish noticed she hadn't met his eyes while narrating the incident.

He assumed it was because of her grief.

Then his thoughts drifted to Sumaiya.

The woman who shared the same eyes as his Ira.

The woman who carried his Ira's mother's picture in her wallet.

How were Ira and Sumaiya connected?

He didn't know how.

He didn't know why.

But he was certain they were connected somehow.

And he intended to find out.

****

Only the light of a lamp illuminated the room.

The windows were open.

The pitter-patter of rain was the only sound echoing through the silence.

A

woman in her fifties sat gazing at a photograph.

It was a picture of a young woman dressed in a red bridal outfit, adorned beautifully as a bride.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

"I never knew, my dear, that I would send you away in a red bridal veil only to see you draped in crimson."

Her voice broke.

"I am sorry, my Shumaila."

The woman whispered as a sob escaped her lips.