When I wrote the first OS, I had no idea it would be so loved. Thank you to each one of you who commented, you made a very happy writer. Thank you also to those who Liked, for letting me know you stopped by.
I've taken the same point in time where the last OS ended, but I've changed the point of view.
So here goes...😛 dedicated to Moon_ light who PMed me to ask me to write more.
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The first time she'd seen his back, all smooth glistening skin, dips and planes, muscles and sinew, she'd felt a clutch inside herself, as if her body had forgotten its most unconscious of actions--breathing.
Allah knows she'd grown used to watching his broad back in jackets, his square shoulders that looked like they could carry the weight of the world as if it were a scarf, not much more. But this, the way the reflected light of the pool touched his wet back: this, this was magic. It had made her want to wade in to the water herself, stretch out her fingers and dip it in the hollow of his spine, and slide it, all the way down, taking her time.
She'd swallowed, and wet her dry mouth, but no word had come out of her lips. She had frozen, on the spot.
Sharam, of course, that's what it was. All good girls had that. Allah knows she had never seen a bare male back before in her household of females, from her grandmother to her sisters, down to the parrot, Asharfi.
Right now, as she stood there, half-shivering in front of his door, she would have loved to have her friend on her shoulder, someone who would have pulled at her ear or hair, brought her back to her senses.
It was a memory, Arzoo, just that. He couldn't be like that right now, and if he was, he would ask you to wait. Or not let you in. Wake up, and knock on that door. Calm this heartbeat, you're afraid, you bewakoof. Let no one say Arzoo Nausheen Khan is a dimwit. Breathe.
She laid a hand at her breast. They felt heavy and achy, and she touched herself over her kameez, just where that bit of black net touched fabric. What if, instead of her own fingers they were...tauba, what was she thinking about? Allah knows, she had no right"He may have blessed her with rain in December, but not for this. He in his Mercy may have brought this man, now in the room, to her out in the rain yesterday, but even Allah wouldn't forgive her thoughts. Ishq was a pure, tender thing.
What was wrong with her?
This was her boss, she was an employee, and she had received several messages from him all day. Nothing direct, but always, "Sahir sir asked whether you had called the fabric supplier" or "Sahir sir said you should get these designs ready this week."
Other than Anam Ma'm and Kurti Apa, she'd heard from almost everyone. And Zaki, she'd heard more from him more than she wanted to. Seriously, what was wrong with that boy? He'd sent her a dozen messages to call him. She hadn't. Didn't he understand she was running?
All day long, ever since the morning in the cabin, when her boss had called her, his mane of hair crackling with anger. Kurti Apa might be right after all"she had felt like a bakri under his eyes, him the sher, who would catch her and gobble her up. She'd felt those eyes on her, often, when they burned holes through her back, when they clashed with hers, as they often did, if she looked up from her work and looked towards his cabin. But today his eyes had looked darker, as if someone had lined them with koh'l (she half giggled at that image), his eyes had wanted something from her when she'd finally looked up. They'd been dangerous, with anger, and with something else she couldn't read. So far, she'd met Gabbar Chaudhary and Sahir Chaudhary, who was this one?
The one who'd met her in the forest, a machete in his bleeding hands, warning her to stay away. Tum samjhti kyun nahin... she felt her skin prickle at the memory of that voice, broken, demanding, angry, pushing her away, yet calling her. What was she to understand? What had he thought then, what ached him? Because that could only have been pain in his blazing eyes. What else?
She felt a shiver run through her, of fear perhaps, but of other things she couldn't name, so before she could think another thought, she knocked on the door in front of her, and the practised words fell from her lips.
"May I come in, sir?"
Silence, a pause, and then that voice that had begun to take over her dreams these days.
"Come in."
It sounded croaky, as if he had a cold.
Stop swimming around in the cold water, Sahir sir, or you're going to fall sick. She opened the door a crack, and wished she hadn't.
There he stood, and there that back she'd been... no she wouldn't go there. She would be professional, she would ask him what it was he wanted and she would leave. She opened the door but didn't step in. Easier to run if she had to.
"What is it? Ya sari sham wahin khare rehne ka irada hai?"
That voice, it called to her, and despite all her effort, her foot crossed the threshold. First one step, then another.
"Ji sir...matlab, nahin sir, wo...aphi ne toh.." She clutched at the wall for support. She shouldn't have come here. She had to have better control over herself, her limbs, which even now seemed bent on dragging her to him.
"Maine? Kya maine?" He turned, and now she faced his chest.
If she walked up to him, her head wouldn't touch his chin. Or would it? A droplet of water clung to his lips, then trickled down into his beard. She clenched her hands by the side, on her kameez, so her fingers won't run away and touch him, his beard. That beard. How would it feel? Coarse, like wool? Smooth, like resham? She drew in a breath. Her face, her ears, felt warm, as if she stood in front of a choolha. Ya Allah , raham.
"Jab tumse sawal poocha jai, toh jawab dia karo!"
"Yes..yes sir."
He had asked her a question. What was the question? Fabric? Designs? Supplier?
"Khare khare mera mooh kya dekh rahi ho? Maine kya kiya?"
No. She wouldn't stare at his face. But that left his chest. Sleek skin, on which droplets of moisture still clung. Collarbones. Chest. Those small dark circles, puckered up. His skin had prickled. She tore her eyes away, directed them to her feet. She could see his feet too, not so far now.
"Arzoo!"
That startled her. In all these days, he'd never taken her name, never called her directly. It was 'suno' and 'tum'. But he'd said it now, her name, in anger, yes, but he had said it for the first time. How he dragged out the word, as if to give it meaning. Arzoo, khwahish. Desire.
Ah that's what it was. He had wanted something, asked it of her today. What was it?
"Aap..apko kuch chahiye tha...sir." She did not look up.
"Mujhe?" His voice drew nearer. It had broken again, lost that makhmali quality. He really shouldn't be standing there, half wet, talking to her. Better get it over with, get her scolding for the day, and run.
She could smell him now: the chlorine from the swimming pool, which she hadn't yet managed to get off of her green kurta. But under the chlorine, a musky smell. Male. She hadn't come across it before, but her body seemed to know it. It leaned forward when she would have stepped back.
"Jee..sir." her voice came out on a shaky breath. Was there even breath? Why did his room have no air? Had Gabbar Chaudhary sucked it all in?
"Tumhe jan na hai mujhe kya chahiye?" He stepped forward, and she felt his fingers, those long supple digits she had long admired, grip her arm.
He shook her. "Jan na hai tumhe?"
"Tumhe pata hai mujhe kya chahiye?" She now felt his breath on her throat. How did that happen? When did he...?
But she couldn't finish that thought, because that very moment, a moment that could have been longer than a trip to Lucknow and back, or shorter than the blink of an eye, she felt his lips.
At her neck. At first a touch, and then pain. Piercing pain that made her see lights behind her closed eyes, made her gasp, moan, and her head spin. And then she felt a wet, soft touch where the pain had been, a laving, a healing, worship. Tenderness, ishq.
Now she knew. She knew his name. Sahir Ashiq Chaudhary. Because only an ashiq could give that much pain, and then bring such devotion, so much ecstasy at the same time.
"There." He thrust her away, and she staggered back. "Ab tum mere kamre mein ane se pehle sau baar sochogi."
She stumbled out. But she turned to look at him one last time, and he stood there as if uprooted by a storm, his hair tousled, his eyes blazing with that same light she'd seen that evening in the jungle.
Later, as she touched the mark on her neck, for he had marked her, she would remember his face. She would remember the way he stood, tottering, as if he were drunk, his eyes glinting with tears now, the hair she didn't know she had touched held up in bunches, his trembling lips.
She would stand for hours, in front of the mirror. The mark would turn into a rose, angry, livid, like its giver, her ashiq. She would hide it behind her dupatta, but she wouldn't be able to hide the smile it brought her. And though she had no right to call him hers... Allah knew she had enough sadness, what could a harmless little dream hurt? She would make up her mind not to go to his room again, ever.
But there, at that moment, she turned and ran, not sure if the air carried his voice to her, a hoarse whisper. She heard her name, but this time, softer, as if in longing. Allah, raham.
She kept running, unmindful of who would see her, and she crashed into a lithe body.
"Jahan Ara?"
Edited by Neemsundari - 10 years ago
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