Their Last Season

"Amma, we should visit Khan Haveli to meet Hashir Bhai," Danish suggested, sipping tea in the hall.

The hall was spacious, with a sofa set placed in the middle, and a six-seater dark brown dining table with intricate floral designs.

The hall had a wall clock, and on the front wall hung an abstract painting.

It was painted in light grey, with one wall in dark grey.

But it looked gloomy to Silah and Danish.

"Hmm, it has been more than a week since he returned home," Amma nodded while sipping her tea. "Okay then, we'll go at 3 p.m."

Danish had already informed Hamza about their visit.

In fact, he had practically forced them to come.

******

"Sumi, my friend Danish and his mother are coming over today," Hamza told her while setting his jet-black hair, looking into the mirror.

"Oh!" she reacted while leisurely enjoying the book she was reading.

A classic romantic one.

"You must have met Aunty during the muh dikhai ceremony, but I know you probably don't remember her. There were so many women there, and every face was a stranger to you," he added while coming towards her.

Sumaiya nodded, looking up as she kept the book on the table.

Just then, he was about to sit on the bed.

A knock sounded on the door.

Hamza asked the person to come in.

It was Aariz.

"Chachu, your friend has arrived," Aariz announced while coming in.

He stood near his chachi.

Sumaiya ruffled his hair.

He immediately scrunched his nose, taking two steps back from her.

Boys and their obsession with the love of their lives—their hair.

Sumaiya rolled her eyes.

Before leaving, Sumaiya looked at herself in the mirror.

A red silk suit with golden embroidery on it.

Her golden hijab was styled elegantly.

She went near him, who was already looking at her in adoration.

The two of them headed towards the drawing room, where Hamza's friend and his mother were waiting.

The moment she stepped inside the drawing room, her eyes flickered towards them.

Sumaiya stilled.

The woman who had ghosted her and the man whose eyes always seemed to search for something in hers were sitting on the sofa.

Her feet stopped against the floor.

Isn't Danish from Delhi?

What is he doing here?

A hundred questions flooded her mind.

Her chain of thoughts broke at Hamza's voice.

"Sumi?"

She turned towards him.

One of his eyebrows was raised in question.

She shook her head.

Together, they walked further inside.

The drawing room gave a vintage vibe.

Tufted velvet furniture with carved wooden frames in plum, paired with gold.

The walls had wooden panelling.

A golden chandelier hung in the middle, casting a warm golden hue.

"Sumi, meet my childhood friend Danish and the aunty whose handmade curry-chawal was my guilty pleasure, Silah Aunty," Hamza said with a grin, moving towards them.

"And this," he continued, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, "is my companion, my soulmate, and your daughter-in-law, Sumaiya."

The moment her face registered in Danish's mind, he forgot to blink.

What was she doing here?

Why was this woman connected to everyone who mattered to him?

First, the same eyes as Mahira.

Then, Mahira's mother's photograph in her wallet.

And now, she was the wife of his closest friend.

His mind wandered.

Silah Aunty smiled warmly at her with adoration.

While Danish stared at her in stunned silence.

Then he averted his eyes.

He shouldn't stare at a woman like this.

There was a very uncomfortable silence.

"Serious, are we?" Hamza tried to break it while sitting on the adjacent sofa.

Sumaiya smiled, trying to be a polite host.

Just then, a house help came with a tray of snacks.

The brewing aroma of coffee felt like a refreshing wave in the room.

She passed a cup of coffee to Silah, gesturing for her to drink.

She took the cup, but her eyes were on Sumaiya.

"I have come for your muh dikhai," Silah started the conversation.

Sumaiya was twisting the edge of her dupatta around her finger.

She stilled.

The eyes.

The song of melancholy.

The forehead kiss.

And the envelope.

How could she forget this?

She maintained eye contact.

She nodded at her.

"I met Bhabhi in Delhi at her college when we went for placement recruitment.

But at that time, I didn't know she was your wife," Danish said casually, regaining his composure.

He wanted to know about this mysterious paradox.

The one who connected with his beloved.

Hamza was surprised.

He looked towards Sumaiya.

She looked at Danish.

But her posture was stiff.

She gulped the lump forming in her throat.

"Yes, I met him at the college.

But we were unaware of each other's identities," she added casually, but her tone was pointed.

Hamza chuckled.

"What a small world we live in," Hamza remarked.

While the tension between Danish and Sumaiya was palpable.

They nodded.

"Well, Bhabhi, are you from Delhi?" he asked, turning towards her.

"No, I am from Raebareli," she answered.

"Oh.

Do your parents also live in Raebareli?" he added, wanting to know more.

Sumaiya was perplexed by his questions.

"Yes," Sumaiya replied.

"My brother also lives in Raebareli," Silah told them.

"He is a principal at a college," she added.

"Oh, my father is also a principal at a college," Sumaiya replied, getting curious and surprised by the coincidence.

"What are your parents' names?" Silah asked.

"Ahsan Khan and Safa Khan," Sumaiya said warmly.

Silah nodded.

"Is your name Sumaiya because your mother matched her initials with yours?" Danish piped up.

Sumaiya calmly looked towards him.

"Well, kind of," she replied.

But Danish was frozen.

Mahira was named Mahira because her mother, Marwa, wanted to match their initials.

He remembered that once Mahira had told him this.

Safa and Marwa aren't sisters.

Often, names like this happen by coincidence.

His mind wandered.

And he knew this woman was definitely related to his Ira.

And now, he would find it out.

Hamza noticed Sumaiya's discomfort.

"We should meet Bhai now," he said, trying to divert their attention from Sumaiya.

They nodded.

Then Danish and Silah went towards Hashir's room with Hamza.

Sumaiya returned to their room.

But she didn't know why she was feeling a wave of frustration towards Danish.

She didn't know why Danish's eyes often scared her.

As if they were going to unveil something that would change the course of life's tides.

She shrugged off the thoughts.

*******

"Sumaiya, complete the packing first because the day after tomorrow we have to leave for Kashmir," Hamza said while entering the room.

"I am doing mine. You do yours," Sumaiya stated while folding the clothes and keeping them in the suitcase.

Hamza took a slow step towards the cupboard.

He took out a trolley.

Scraping it against the floor, he brought it near the bed.

He scratched his head nervously.

She saw him picking up the bag with utmost distaste.

And his nose scrunched up.

"You don't like packing, do you?" Sumaiya questioned while arranging the clothes.

His hand froze.

He looked towards her.

He then nodded.

"I hate it," came his reply, his lips forming a pout.

She laughed, looking at his expression.

He gave her a look.

"Mocking, are we?" he said, scrunching his nose.

She stopped mid-laugh.

Putting the clothes on the bed, she took a step towards him.

She stood in front of him.

"Hamza, we all dislike something. It's normal. You could have told me," she said warmly.

"And I was laughing because your expressions were cute. I would never mock you, Hamza."

She said it, knowing his insecurities.

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

Her words blossomed like a bud in his heart.

Placing a shirt in her hands, he exhaled.

"Then pack it, Begum." He winked at her and lay down on the bed as if he had displaced mountains.

She looked at him with a done expression.

Moving back towards her work, she looked at him.

"Aye aye, Mr. I-don't-like-packing." She winked back.

It was Hamza's turn to get flustered.

*******

Bijaan was sitting in her armchair.

The same old space.

The lamp threw a small, indifferent circle of light over her.

She was staring at a rug that had memories woven into it.

A tear rolled down her cheek.

She took the old pen that looked as though it was made of copper.

It shone in the light.

She scribbled in the diary.

"I was afraid of losing another child again.

Hashir's accident has left me shaken.

I wish that in this life, I never see any of my children on a funeral bed."

She bled onto the paper.

The windows were blurred with rain streaks, and so were her eyes with tears.

She closed her eyes.

Inhaling the earthy scent brought by the rain.

A lot of woollen yarn rolls and knitting needles lay on the rug.

A girl in her twenties was intricately weaving a shawl.

Dressed in a blue anarkali.

Her hair was tied in a bun.

Some strands flicked across her forehead.

Her earrings swayed with the breeze.

Her eyes were shining after accomplishing her task.

The same almond eyes as her mother.

"Amma, see. It is for Abba," she said, showing the shawl to her mother, who was sitting on the rug knitting a pair of socks.

The woman smiled.

The light green cotton suit looked sophisticated on her.

The mogra woven into her braid scented the whole room.

Her almond eyes were adorned with kajal.

"Beautiful. What about me?" the woman teased, narrowing her eyes.

The girl's hands stopped knitting.

She placed the shawl on the nearby table and walked towards the woman.

Wrapping her arms around the woman's torso from behind, she smiled.

"Amma, after Abba, I will make one for you."

She spoke lovingly, looking at the half-finished knitted socks.

Her mother lightly tapped her head.

And smiled.

"For you, your Abba is always first," the woman fake-glared at her.

Her lips curled up.

"My lovely Amma." She hugged her.

"Stop buttering me, Shumaila," the woman said.

"I am not." She showed her teeth.

"You know, Amma, he also loves me the most, more than Bhai or anyone else."

She said it proudly.

Her mother nodded.

"Even if the whole world is against me, Abba will be my shield," she added proudly.

Bijaan smiled, seeing the adoration in the girl's eyes for her father.

Bijaan opened her eyes.

She glanced over the rug.

Everything was the same.

But the soul of this room wasn't here.

She looked towards the bed.

When another memory flashed before her.

"Abba, you know I love you the most. I would never lie to you," Shumaila said in a defeated tone.

Her hair was messy.

Her eyes were swollen.

Her cheeks were tear-stained.

She was nervously twisting the edge of her kameez.

Her father refused to look at her.

"Abba, please. At least look at me," she begged, taking a step forward.

Her father didn't meet her eyes.

He was gazing at the rug.

"You also think I am the culprit," she whispered, utterly broken.

He remained silent.

His jaw clenched.

His lips were tightly pressed together.

And just then, Shumaila laughed.

While tears rolled down her che

eks.

Then her chuckles turned into hiccups, and she cried.

Cried for someone to believe her.

Cried knowing that the person she loved the most didn't believe her.

Cried for being a disappointment to her father.

And cried for being born a girl.

More tears fell from Bijaan's eyes as she stood near the bed.

"I wish, Shumaila, your father had loved you the way you always thought he did."

She said, looking at the empty bed.