Hamlet had said to Ophelia, "God has given you one face and you make yourselves another." There are always two sides to every person; one who we are and one who we pretend to be. Aina had always felt the turmoil of the battle between her two identities. The little girl who always seeks approval from others, who lost everything including herself when tragedy struck. Noor Ul Ain Amaan died in the bank of Daryabagh beside the buried body of her mother.
Noor Ul Ain Amaan was reborn now. She was now Aisha Ayat Malik.
Aisha Ayat Malik didn't smile, laugh, cry; she hid her emotions well. Noor Ul Ain Amaan may not be dead but was so deeply hidden inside that it didn't matter.
Aina never struggled between the good and bad, light and darkness, angels and demons. Ever since she was a child, Aina had always believed in archangels. Her dad, and her childhood best friend, and husband, were her protectors, her personal archangels. She had always believed in good, even if no one believed in her innate goodness and found her weird and fake. So why did her faith and goodness burn down her existence. Why did the two men, her protectors, were the two who mutilated her soul beyond repair?
It doesn't matter now, she sighed, blinking away the moisture that gathered in her eyes, as she saw the mountains passing by, on her way to Daryabagh.
It has been two year, ten months, eight weeks, twelve days since she had last stepped into Daryabagh and memories, countless, endless memories danced before her eyes as she neared the most cherished and dreaded place of her life.
Aina stared at the cottage, her safe haven. It hadn't changed at all. There were so many similarities between the house and herself; she remembered coming here when she felt lonely. A person trotting behind her whenever she did. Her carvings on the bench and the fence, the artist she was. Playing with her Mama in the lawn of this very Cherry Bloom Cottage.
"Amaan, this will my safe haven. Our safe haven?" the last bit of the statement was a question, as a seven year old Aina ran across the porch in circles.
- "Oh, Aina, of course," Amaan smiled at his little Aina, eyes glittering at the cherry trees surrounding the pretty cottage.
She exhaled a breath she never realized that was lodged in her chest. Her heart ached too much, she was glad she was frigid now, so was her heart. She couldn't hurt now like she had been, when she was a naïve fool. She had realized that she was never to be loved, and frankly, she didn't care anymore, as his betrayal was just as raw as it was two years back.
Traipsing outside her car, she walked across the blanket of snow which covered the lawn. A chilling wind blew, making the trees rustle ― making them feel too alive, all too human. She trudged across the stony path towards the main entrance, found the footprints on the snow as she glanced over her shoulder. Her transient footprints. The red of the walls peeked out of the snow as she examined the place. It looked beautiful, and she found herself losing in the labyrinth of the little cherry trees surrounding the charming cottage, her charming cottage.
"Aina, my baccha, what a surprise!" Nargis Bua exclaimed with a smile as she entered into the house. Aina shuffled her gloved hands uncomfortably, seeing the vivaciousness of the lady in front of her, who had raised her since the death of her mother, who was actually murdered by Ali Baksh on her father's order.... she felt getting sucked into the blackhole of her past yet again when a familiar deep rich voice took her name, nor Aina, neither Aisha but Pixie... and she stared square into the eyes of her husband and best friend, Amaan Ullah Khan.
Amaan's eyes widened in shock. He couldn't believe his eyes, it must be a cruel joke. It must be the winter playing an illusion with his eyes.
His blood angel in her red trench-coat, and black woollen slacks. "Pixie?" A whisper. A plea.
Aina snapped her head up and stared at him. The eyes which danced with the stars in them felt cold, her ebony hair were now a chestnut brown. It was almost as if he expected a kiss, and got a slap instead.
A solemn face, with no seeming recognition. A bone-cutting voice with no warmth. "Oh hello, Mr. Khan. How do you do?"
A silent cry filled the air, as two hearts that once beat as one bled away....
you're cold, but you'll love again.
when snow melts, the flowers grow again.
Hindi TV Shows
24