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Uzair’s head pops in, slightly disheveled. He’s been growing out his hair, lately, and looks a bit boyish, in a way that makes Rehman want to hold him back from trouble.
“Bhai, there’s a girl here who wants to talk with you.”
Rehman shifts, flicking his cigarette with his wrist.
“A girl?” he asks.
Girls are an uncommon sight, here; the women that dare come are usually widows or mothers, the latter of which are the most fearsome. Donga’s mother is one such beast; she will come striding into their lair like a tigress, and take away her son by the scruff of his neck if he has not come home at an hour she deems fit. The men laugh about it, a bit quietly, to avoid her noticing, but they also eat her sohan halwa when she brings some, for such is the duality of mothers.
Rehman knew his long enough to be aware of such things.
“Something about needing help. Should I let her in?”
Rehman waves. He takes the glass from his desk and hides it on the floor, next to his feet.
The girl is a lovely sight, though she keeps her gaze meek, rooted to the floor, and her hands crossed.
“As-salamu alaykum. Please sit.”
“Wa alaykumu salam.”
She sits, draping her clothes and staring at her own hands. He waits, and tries not to peer at her face.
She truly is lovely.
“I have come to ask for help.”
That seems to grieve her. She works her lips a little, chewing on her words, and then goes on, carefully and slowly:
“My father owns a pharmacy right on the edge of Arshad Pappu’s territory, two streets away from yours. He is an honest, honourable man, who does not meddle in the affairs of others and has no interest in stirring any trouble. But Arshad Pappu’s men have been coming to our pharmacy, lately, and taking many drugs without payment, so much so that sometimes, we have nothing to offer to those who truly need them. They have been most insistent that they should be allowed to use our storage room to hide things from the police, as my father’s reputation is beyond reproach, and they would not think to look there.”
Rehman cocks his head to the side, pondering.
“Why has your father not come to tell me all of this?”
“He is a very prideful man, and will not beg for help from anyone.”
“Not even the police?”
“The police will not act, unless someone tells them to.”
Rehman hums thoughtfully.
“You are asking me to go to war.”
“Is that the only solution?”
“I should think so.”
“Then,” and she peeks up, something hardening in her eyes, “That is what I ask of you.”
Rehman drinks in those eyes and finds that words are fleeing from his tongue. Sometimes, one looks at a woman and wants to raise a hand to the sky, in quiet and adoring gratitude.
“We have some money, though it is little compared to what some would be able to give you,” she says, after a while, faltering a little.
“Payment,” Rehman whispers.
He can see Uzair behind the glass, fidgeting. It is thick, but one can hear a bit by straining their ear. Rehman knows, because he is no fool; he checks these things.
“Would you look at me?” he asks.
She does. There is curiosity to her gaze, though veiled with some wariness. He thinks she might like what she sees, although men struck by a woman’s beauty often find themselves undeserving of it.
“That will be payment enough.”
One of her hands clutches at the other, bone jumping beneath skin.
“You may go. Uzair will escort you back to your home,” he says, louder so that he can hear.
She makes a move to get up, but stays rooted to the chair instead, frowning a little.
“Do you swear that you will help us?”
“I do swear it.”
Rehman moves, then, to help her to the door, but walks into his glass and can only watch in dismay as its content spills to the floor.
The girl raises an eyebrow.
Something flickers at her lips, and, for a moment, he wonders if he should not have asked for a smile instead.
Uzair opens the door. She disappears from sight and only leaves her memory behind.
He cradles it for some hours, and realizes he did not even ask for her name.
--
“Ulfat,” her father says, reproving, “It was not your place to do such a thing.”
She is her father’s only child, and, as such, he is capable of anger, but not resentment.
“It needed to be done,” she whispers, stirring some sugar into her cup.
“He is a dreadful and violent man.”
“And yet he will help us.”
And yet, he is beautiful, she thinks.
Her father glares, shaking his head, but does not say much more.
--
“I do not see why this concerns you,” Arshad Pappu sneers, clutching at his pipe and puffing like a chimney.
“You are depriving the people of Lyari of their medicine,” Rehman answers, drawling a little.
The only thing that is agreeable about Pappu is his couch; it is the most comfortable thing, red and velvety and monstrous, attempting to swallow you whole as you sit on it.
“And you deprived your mother of her life,” Pappu smirks, mocking, “Yet I do not come to your door to complain about it.”
“We shall shed blood, then?”
“One thing I admire about you,” Pappu huffs out a cloud of smoke, his face a storm, “Is how easily you will resort to violence to get what you want. Another would have tried to argue, or to bribe me, but destruction is always your first conclusion.”
There is no point in arguing with those who don’t deserve it, Rehman thinks.
“It is only a street,” he says, instead, in a way that implies it is much more.
This, they both understand. Pappu nods, a bit thoughtful.
“Kings have died for less.”
--
Of course, announcing one’s intentions is giving the enemy time to guard its own door. Rehman doesn’t mind; gaining territory in Lyari is a long game that requires patience and violence in equal measure.
He does not need to be there, and yet, he is. Uzair is puzzled by the fact, but his questions take the shape of glances, and not questing words, for the trust between them runs too deep.
Arshad Pappu’s men have slithered in every crevice they could find. The street’s inhabitants have all fled to some other roost for the night, well-aware that this will go on until the moon is bathed in blood.
One of them has hidden behind a door, and, when Rehman enters, they both grapple and fall to the floor, a mess of limbs and anger. Uzair curses, somewhere behind him, but can’t shoot, what with them rolling around like feral cats.
Rehman is not a fair fighter; has grown in these streets, learned violence in them, and knows that every hit should land, wherever it comes from. He bites and he kicks at balls and he scratches until his fingernails are caked with blood.
His opponent has managed to dislodge a blade from wherever it had gotten stuck in his clothing, and is trying to slice his throat. Rehman’s arm comes up, the flesh there taking the stab, and he kicks the other man with all of his might, managing to dislodge them for a second.
It is enough for Uzair to shoot the fucker dead.
“Ah,” Rehman winces, checking the wound, “Messy.”
“I think we’ve won,” Uzair retorts, glancing down at the street from the window, “Most of these fuckers are running away.”
There are some lights dancing in front of his eyes, the ugly fireworks of blood loss. Rehman blinks and rubs at them.
“Pappu will not give up so easily.”
“Then we will come back,” Uzair replies, “But this needs to be looked at.”
“There is a pharmacy.”
“That, I know,” and the boy has the gall to smirk.
Rehman grunts. He gets up, cradling his arm, and wonders if what he’s doing can be qualified as a fool’s errand.
--
“If you’re just going to stand there,” her father chides, looking up, “Then perhaps you should go.”
She startles, and Rehman Dakait looks up as well, his arm held out. The white bandage is greedily soaking up blood, but he does not complain and merely grits his teeth, though her father’s hands are not gentle.
“I did not ask,” her father drones on, “For all of this.”
“But your daughter did,” Rehman replies, “And why should a father go against his daughter’s wish?”
Her father’s shoulders drop a little. The truth is always a bit heavy.
“I am sure she did it for your sake.”
“Who is to say that you will not harm us, when you have pulled us under your wing? An eagle is still an eagle, no matter how warm his embrace.”
“Do you want me to swear?”
“I do not believe in the oaths of men such as you.”
Rehman stiffens a little, like he’s reining in his anger. Ulfat takes a step forward, and, immediately, his attention shifts to her. She holds his gaze, a bit stern, as if to dare him to try anything.
“You shall be safe with me,” he says, still looking at her, “For I admire your daughter greatly.”
“It is inappropriate of you to say such things.”
“Perhaps I forget myself. I have lost some blood, after all,” Rehman retorts, a wry little smirk on his lips.
It looks good on him. Not quite warm, but pleasant to look at.
“Do you ever help with the patients?” he asks her.
“I do not like the sight of blood,” she answers, “But I know a little about medicine. I advise the women on their health concerns.”
They keep quiet, then, until her father is pleased with his work, and, though he is disgruntled, he is still polite as he says his goodbyes.
“I had told you,” Ulfat whispers, the door closing behind him, “That he is a prideful man.”
“I too would be prideful, if a woman such as you lived within my walls.”
Ulfat feels something flutter and clench in her belly. He smiles, again, and there is something softer to it.
She cannot help but smile back.
“Khuda Hafiz.”
--
“Father,” she says, setting his meal on the table, “Is a dove that has been covered in soot still a dove?”
He looks up, startled.
“I should think so.”
“Then you will forgive your daughter, for her eyes have strayed, and you will feel as though she has been dirtied.”
Her father sighs. He is a weary man, on most days. Ever since his wife, her mother, died, he has grown more bitter, more impatient with life. Such is the fate of lovers who cannot wait to meet again.
“If he comes, one day, to ask for me,” she says, and she takes some food in her hand, “Will you let him?”
He thinks, for a while, and then he takes the food from her, though it is with a sigh.
“My daughter, this he has guessed quickly…”
He swallows another mouthful.
“... What you want, I let it pass, even when it grieves me.”
--
“Congratulations on the wedding,” Uzair says, straight-faced.
Rehman turns back, surprised.
“I have not even spoken to her father yet.”
“Ah, but bhai, one can clearly see that your souls have met, and will not let each other go.”
“Have you been reading poetry?”
“No. Should I start writing some?”
Rehman huffs.
He thinks of Ulfat. Ulfat and Rehman. Rehman and Ulfat.
“Fall in love first, then write poetry.”
He grins, and he enters their home. Her father is waiting, while she peeks from behind a door.