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Rajveer & Paras – A Love Story (2 of 2)

… Continued | How very witty is it of time? When a house in a village was decorated with sheen and shine to celebrate a new beginning, there was another dwelling in the same one that was dim due to the grim caused by a broken relation. Everything was silent since the ill-fated news had entered the ancient house. A house so pious that even the walls were familiar with Guru Granth Sahib script and born within the boundaries of this godly dynasty was a son, a smug on the forthcoming descendants of the abode. Sardar sahib had confined himself inside his room and his widowed sister Gurpreet sat outside the door crying for the calamity his brother had seen in just one year.

Yes! It was love that had brought a curse on this kin. Gurpreet being a female was the first victim. On the nightfall of her marriage, the moment she had sewn on her red dress dreams and fantasies of being adored. She was acquainted with a horrible reality. Ignoring his newly wedded wife, her husband descended to the kitchen below. Following him out of curiosity she quietly made her way through the slumbering folks of the house. To her sheer disbelief, her husband was making love to the household maid. Till the dawn she sat quietly in her room awaiting the culprit. When he stepped inside the trap she confronted the man with a voice so loud that her in-laws came running. Angry as hell but deeply broken inside she took her unopened steel box which carried her belongings. In the same red dress she was back to her own house in which she was departed with well wishes.

The next preys were her brothers. It would have been a pleasure if Beena had died of an ordinary disease; no she had taken her life with her own cursed hands leaving Hari Singh to calculate the past of his marriage.  Beena’s suicide had opened a Pandora box. For years she said in her letter that she has devoted herself to the man she married. But when Sachdev, younger brother of Sardar sahib returned home from the battle; she couldn’t wall up her love for him. Apparently Sachdev and Beena were massively in love in their days of youth. Promising Beena for their eternal love, Sachdev went for serving in the military. She tried to give excuse to her parents. She used to find dirt in every single man that came to ask her hand in marriage. She wrote letters to her lover, telling him about the dismay she was enclosed in but after a long silence she gave up and the unstable health of Bibi had left her no choice, she promised Guru Gobind Singh that she would marry without any resistance to the man who will come next. Fate took an interesting turn of events; she was married to the elder brother of his lover. She tried to stay truthful to the man whose child she was carrying in her womb. Everything was in a standard sort when out of the blue Sachdev returned. Guilty inside, she faced him day in and day out hiding from his miserable eyes. Being weak and fragile she couldn’t handle pressure and after so many years of care and love taken from both the brothers, she gave herself up. Her offspring followed her steps in wounding Sardar Hari Singh. Sardar sahib was ashamed to face the world; he was ashamed of his fugitive son. His son was not a Guru Nanak follower anymore, he was a Muslim now.

 Today marked the fifth year of his conversion. He thanked Allah for his guidance and folded the jai-namaz, placing it on the shelf. He made his way to the pergola near the shrine’s garden when he heard someone calling him. He turned his back and saw chotu running towards him, panting heavily he told Ibrahim that someone was there to meet him and they say they have travelled a long way to meet him. Through the fenestrated design in the wall, he saw his past emerging, it was sitting on the shrine’s floor legs crossed and bowed head. Clearly time changes everything, the man in front of him was weak and feeble now with signs of old age visible. The man hadn’t recognized Ibrahim as he had grown a beard on his young face, no one from his previous years could identify him. The man was busy in telling his tale of sorrow; he told him that her niece was cursed by someone because she wasn’t getting married. It had been five years, she was almost about to get married and none of the others proposal succeeded after it.  Ibrahim was absorbing each and every word the man uttered, He was the same person who had disgraced him and sent him off telling him that they won’t marry their niece to a non-Muslim. On this demand he informed him that he had recently converted to Islam, upon hearing this they laughed at him chastening him. Shattered to pieces he had nowhere to go except for turning to Allah. Seeing the decorated Haweli for the last time he walked away from his native land, saying from his mother recalling in his mind “Be neither a heart breaker nor heartbroken” But he was both. He had broken the heart of his father and the girl in white and he was heartbroken by the ailment of time.

He stood up without listening a word that the man had said, he was bubbling with rage and distress. He would have punched the old man if it weren’t for his age. To control his anger he did the only thing his mind ordered. Marching towards the exit, his nostrils caught a hint of familiar attar. His eyes automatically started scanning. At far end he saw what his eyes were searching for. The girl in white, his love, the reason he changed himself was sitting in a corner with a tasbih in her hand. As he moved towards her, Paras raised her head, a smile danced on her small pursed lips; she had perceived him through his sturdy which no more bore the signs of adolescence. The time stood still for both of them as they sensed the difference in each other. It had started to rain; the sky was flowing happy tears in the reunion. They both looked up and then smiled at each other; it was raining the last time they had met. Taking steps towards each other they had found the missing tune of harmony.

Ismail ran fast with his tiny feet. Imitating a plane he raced through the masjid towards the pergola. Ibrahim caught him and lifted him up in the air. The same smell of attar aroused his nostrils. He kissed his son on the cheek and Ismail wiped it real quickly. Carrying his son in his arms he started walking towards his quarters in the backyard of Ajmer Sharif where Paras was waiting for his husband and son. She served them aloo ka paratha and lassi for lunch. Life had given them many hurdles to cross and jump over. At the end they had made it through together hand in hand. The reward was Ismail and another one was on the way.

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Farah Khalid is a story writer based in Karachi. Her areas of interest are social and moral issues and inspirational stories.

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اس ویب سائٹ کا مواد بول پلاٹون کی آفیشل رائے کی عکاسی نہیں کرتا. مضامین میں ظاہر معلومات اور خیالات کی ذمہ داری مکمل طور پر اس کے مصنف کی ہے