Sahir Arzoo FF | Love, law, inter alia | Chapter 20: Pg 91 [COMPLETE] - Page 3

Originally posted by: quirky_senorita

That's an awesome piece of writing.

I loved it so so much.

please continue soon and if u can do pm me too.

Will be eagerly awaiting the next part.

Saaz really miss them.

Originally posted by: vinnithelover

a perfect pov. From aarzoo, she is brave enough to fight...ahah😉 you are doing a great work!?! Keep it up!! 

Originally posted by: sushgirly

It was exceptionally written!👏

Waiting for next part!

Originally posted by: nanor

simply amazing
loved it;

Originally posted by: khuwahish

Awesome... :)
Keep it up!!!

Originally posted by: rsk16

Another amazing update.

Loved to read it from arzoo's point of view .

Great job. Keep the updates coming.

Originally posted by: hayakhn

Loved it.. Interesting story line..

pls do continue.. would love to read it!

Originally posted by: vidhichaudhury

Awesome.loved it
thanks for pm

Originally posted by: nisha_hc_bs_dd

lovely update !!

Originally posted by: raaz19

Great update loved the confident arzoo and sahir attitude is also good...

Hope to read next update soon...

Wonder what motivates arzoo to succeed since the names are the same but story is different...

Thanks for posting link on hs forum otherwise would have missed reading this story...😊

Originally posted by: Javeria3991

Interesting start

Awesome updates

Arzoo is definitely going to teach many basic yet important things to Sahir. 

Update next chapter soon 

Chapter 3

Mitigating factors

But of course she was late! Sahir directed his irritation at his watch, as if the dials could run in reverse by the mere glaring. To be fair, they possibly might have quailed and even done so, had Arzoo not appeared just then.

"I'm so sorry, Sahir Sir. The rickshaw -" she began, still panting for breath.

"Let's go," he mumbled, realising that there was hardly any reason for him to be surprised by her lack of punctuality. Not only was she genetically programmed to be perpetually late by virtue of her gender, she was also Arzoo Nawsheen Khan, who had been divinely ordained to do everything humanly possible to get on his nerves. And in any case, he could not risk possibly missing their flight to Delhi by launching into another argument with her.

Evidently, she was an absolute menace to his peace at every step of their journey, and that too, before it had even officially begun. Before they could step onto the airplane, she had already argued with the baggage check-in people because they had tossed her bag in the conveyor belt in a way that - she believed - might have broken her jar of tamarind pickle. Then she argued over why tamarind pickle was a basic necessity of life akin to water and shelter, it seemed; then she lectured the airport staff on how to treat the elderly when they apparently spoke rudely to an old man; then she made friends with that old man and insisted to hear everything about his - what felt to Sahir like - seventy odd grandchildren; then she engaged in mindless chitchat with some other Toms, Dicks, and Harrys in the waiting lounge.

Even though he was being royally ignored, Sahir could barely hear himself think over all that racket. He had attempted to read the same sentence of a research paper at least a dozen times before being forced to give up, and reminisce instead about how he once used to make judicious use of his travelling time by reading and planning what he needed to do, down to the last minutest detail. As things stood then, he was so distracted that he was at a real risk of boarding the flight without his laptop bag, or shoes perhaps.

And all of that was still nothing compared to the unthinkable that she did on the plane. While reasonable people usually grumble about crying babies on planes (which, as it happens, ranks among some of the more effective birth control methods), she decided to pick some random crying, wriggling, drooling baby, place it on her lap, and try to calm it down while the useless mother hunted her bag for diapers or some such nonsense. He felt then that that pretty much settled the matter. Whether or not Arzoo Nawsheen Khan was an idiot or a spoilt brat might have been open to argument, but she, most definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, was completely and utterly insane.

There was something about her, though. Something he could not quite put his finger on. Something that made him think of her constantly, of her little mannerisms and quirks, of her words, her tone, her laughter and her smile, even when she was not around. He had to admit that he had not quite been himself lately. On more than one occasion, he had caught himself humming in his car. He had begun to appreciate the taste of food, the feel of the sun, the sound of the rain. He knew, somehow, that it had something to with her. It was like a bit of her carefree - no, careless and irresponsible - attitude was rubbing off on him, and a part of him did not even seem to mind.

He had watched enough movies to know what the symptoms pointed towards, but the very idea was laughable. He was no languishing, sighing Romeo; he was Sahir Azeem Chaudhary, pragmatic and unwaveringly focused. Anyway, he had known her for two months, and even so, knew barely anything about her. How could it be anything serious? If his newfound feelings were not merely a result of understandable shock and curiosity at coming across such a peculiar creature, it had to be some kind of mild attraction, easily fought against. After all, he did have way more reasons to dislike her than to like her.

"Get a grip," he muttered to himself sternly. She had finally gone to sleep in the plane seat next to him. Finally he had some peace. Finally he could get back to reading that research paper. Which he did, eventually, after wasting another precious five minutes in taking note of the fact that she did look quite pretty, with her serene face framed by a few loose tendrils, once she had managed to shut up.

It had been years since he had last been attracted to someone, and if this was anything close to a crush of sorts, it was... for want of a better word, interesting. That being said, he also knew himself far too well to know that it would not last beyond the initial appeal of novelty.

By the time Arzoo had woken up, Sahir was back to his usual unsmiling self. 

The rest of the flight was brought to an end without any major event. It was, in fact, strangely quiet. He had noticed that ever since he had shouted at her, Arzoo was somewhat subdued around him, well at least when it came to talking directly to him. She kept her conversations purely functional and limited to only the most necessary work-related discussions. She barely even looked at him anymore, or smiled at all. He almost felt a tiny twinge of jealousy when she chose to smile at complete strangers and not him. Yes, it was slightly unsettling, but he knew it was for the best. Wasn't that what he had wanted all along? That she leave him in peace?

But naturally, in due course, things did go topsy-turvy. Arzoo's luggage did not make it to Delhi.

Sahir almost joked that they had sent her bag to Andaman or some such remote place because of all the unnecessary fuss she had made about that damn pickle of hers, but he realised that he was about to make a joke, and caught himself just in time. It was a slippery slope leading down to wearing clown shoes and smashing a pie in one's own face.

In any case, Arzoo would hardly have been able to stomach humour at that point, engrossed as she was in threatening to sue pretty much everyone she saw. It was with much difficulty that she finally agreed to leave the airport, after she had been repeatedly assured that her bag will be sent to the hotel before the conference.

As it happened, her bag did not make it to the hotel on time, and there was one hour or so to go before the conference began, when she pounded her fist on his hotel room door in panic to inform him that she could not possibly go to the conference in the casual clothes she had worn on the flight, and therefore could not go at all.

"It's okay," he said calmly, resisting an urge to roll his eyes at the predictability of unpredictable events when it came to Arzoo Nawsheen Khan, "I'll talk to the manager. Let's see if he can do something. Just relax, okay?"

But he should have known that it would be utterly futile to even try to help someone like her, because when the manager did send a few options of clothes for her, sourced from a nearby shop, she said point blank and period, that she could not wear them.

It was with gritted teeth that he insisted for the reason. Was wearing anything other than designer clothes beneath her now?

"They're... revealing," she said, reddening and lowering her eyes.

"Are you kidding me? You wear pencil skirts at the office for god's sake. These are salwar kameez'es! What are you even talking about? And it's all we have, so stop being fussy."

"I mean, the back is revealing. The kurta's all have a scoop back. I cannot wear those."

He looked again at the kurta's for some clue as to what the hell a scoop back even meant. The back of the kurta's was deeper than the front and there was some sort of string to tie at the back. He could not believe that he was getting caught up in such futile details, when he should have been consolidating his preparation for the conference.

"What the - look, just cover yourself up with the dupatta or something! We have to be at the conference hall in fifteen minutes. Get ready and meet me at the reception in exactly fifteen minutes. If you wanted to bail out of the conference you should have informed the people at the office beforehand. They would have sent somebody else. You were asked to do something, and you agreed, so you do it. Period. No arguments."

He had no patience for insufferable morons like her.

She did come down to the reception on time, having wrapped her dupatta around the white kurta, mummy-style. It was all part of some silly attention-seeking tactic, surely. What was with the whole demure Indian girl act all of a sudden? And did she think that people at a serious high-profile conference had nothing better to do than to ogle at her back or whatever? How vain and self-absorbed could a person possibly be?

And with that, he felt, with a high amount of satisfaction, every ounce of his so-called attraction towards her evaporate into thin air. For the life of him, he could not possibly understand how he could have faltered for even a moment. There was no shortage of pretty girls in the world, and most of them were not bimbettes and did have some sense in them that made them at least mildly tolerable.

He could not deny, however, that what she said to him when she met him at the reception desk was somewhat perturbing. Her voice had definitely shook as she said, "I'm sorry, Sahir Sir. I swear I did not mean to be difficult. I wish I could tell you the reason, so you would understand. But - anyway, I'm sorry for wasting your time."

But it was almost time for the conference so he brushed away the slight hitch. There were more important matters at hand. There were some big names that he had heard would be participating in the conference and that was the main reason why he had been so keen to attend it. After all, conferences presented, above everything else, great opportunities for networking, which was an important ingredient of succeeding in the legal profession.

And flying as high as he could, with nothing to tie him down to the ground, was all he had ever wanted.