A/N: In this FF, Zaki
is not related to Sahir in any way and they have never met before.
Chapter 4
Pro tempore
Arzoo stole a glance at Sahir as they entered the conference
hall. His eyes were still blazing with anger because of her whole clothes
fiasco. The fact that her luggage was still stranded Allah-knows-where could
not have been her fault, but he had definitely taken offence at the fact that
she had refused to wear the clothes that the manager had brought, and from his
point of view, justifiably so.
She sighed, in resignation to what was to follow. Just when
she felt that he had begun to soften his stance towards her somewhat! She had
even caught a hint of a smile on his face once or twice since they had reached
Delhi. And there they were, back to square one. He had regained his
inexplicable irritation towards her. He would once again snap at her and have those
customary taunts of his be interspersed in their conversations.
As much as she pretended that she could not care less what
he thought about her, as much as she tried to put a positive spin on it all,
positing that it would only make her stronger eventually, it did matter a great
deal. Every glare of his stung. The unfairness of his unfounded presumptions stung,
as did the fact that he did not care enough to give her a chance.
At the same time, allowing her musing to go beyond herself
and her feelings, she could not help but wonder what it was that had hardened him so much. He was barely two years older than her. Granted, he had been in the profession for longer, since she
had started started off by studying literature for two years before branching
out into law, and she had also taken that one year off after her LLB. But he
was still close to her age, even though he behaved as though he was from
another generation altogether. His grumpy embittered approach to life had aged
him, so much so, that the rare times when she had perceived that slight glimmer
of a smile in his eyes had made him seem like a whole different person. She
could not help but wonder, why he was in that constant race, against time, against
others, against himself. In the end, would it be worth having had to forego
living in the moment and appreciating every bit of it?
It was beyond her - the peculiar pull that she felt towards
him. She wanted to know and understand him, to be closer to him. She wanted to
be his friend. She wanted to pull down all the walls he had set up around him.
She wanted him to see with her eyes. She wanted to see with his, to... just
figure the whole mystery behind the way he was, once and for all, so she could
stop obsessing about it. It was probably the strangest feeling she had ever
felt. She was instinctively drawn to people and their stories and always felt a
need to get to know them better. But this was different. It was a feeling strong
enough to be the first thought on her mind when she woke up, as she would
wonder the mood that he would be in that day. And even before she lay herself
in bed, she would find the need to compulsively analyse every word, gesture and
inscrutable facial expression of his. She wondered and hypothesized what it was
about him that gave him the ability to affect her so much, but could never get
to the root of it.
She had joked with her best friend Zaki, that a sure-shot
way of wooing a girl was to act all mysterious and distant and ever so slightly
offhand and occasionally rude. Without realizing it, the girl would get
confused into thinking about him more than she would have if he had not been so
intriguing. Zaki had immediately quipped, his eyes glinting mischievously, that
she was falling for Sahir.
"Kuch bhi!" she
had retorted, wishing that they were talking in person and not on Skype, so
that she could have punched him, "Here I am, giving you tips to sweep girls off
their feet, and instead of being grateful, you are setting me up with him?"
But although she had laughed it off, the thought had
lingered in her mind for some time. Could it be? No. It could not be. Of course
it could not be. She could not allow herself to go down that road again. It had
taken her long enough to begin to find herself, and the self that she had found
- albeit a lost, confused, uncertain self - was not to be lost again with such
thoughtlessness. She had learnt it the hard way - the need to love and respect herself
before anything else.
Her thoughts, as a matter of course, receded to the memories
she would probably never be able to efface. Perhaps it was a good thing to be
like Sahir, devoid of emotion. How could there be pain if there was no
attachment, no longing, no warmth, no happiness? Perhaps she would have done
well to become impassive and detached herself, mechanically living through life
in the form of checklists of achievements and goals. And perhaps that was the
key to the enigma of why her path had crossed with Sahir's in the first place.
She focused her attention back to what was being said by the
plenary speaker at the conference, who had been flown in from The Hague. Sahir
and her had not managed to get seats together, since they had been slightly
delayed due to the security checks. He was sitting in the seat behind her, and
she could just imagine him, completely rapt in attention, and silently fuming
all the same, because there had been one hair out of place in his otherwise
perfectly orchestrated plan.
Earlier she would have found it funny that he could be so
infuriated by such minor setbacks, by something as insignificant as being
"late" for a conference that only officially started once they had been seated
anyway. But she understood now the importance of discipline and order in his
life; she needed to try harder to not upset his plans.
And then, just as she thought that she had finally gotten
the hang of Sahir Azeem Chaudhary and was able to predict the way he would
react to different situations, he managed to surprise her yet again. When their
eyes met during the break for refreshments, she could just about gauge that he
was barely allowing himself to look away from her. She had been feeling
extremely self-conscious as it was, and was constantly re-adjusting the dupatta that she had wrapped around her
shoulders. And here he was, making her feel even more uncomfortable.
It seemed like he wanted to say something, something that he
was struggling to convey through his eyes. There was a most indefinable
expression on his face. Desperation, as he was willing her to understand that
elusive something. And concern, and regret. An apology?
"Sahir Sir?" she said hesitantly, not quite sure of what to
say next.
"I'm sorry," Sahir blurted out.
Arzoo almost giggled. Why did his apologies invariably come
at a time when she no longer had any idea of what he needed to apologise for?
"For what?" she enquired, truly at a loss.
"The clothes," he said, in a strangled voice, "I mean, you
were not to blame. I should have been more - I was harsh, I was just... we were
getting late and you know how I -"
He looked extremely uncomfortable, and kept adjusting the
knot of his tie, as though to unfetter the words that seemed to be constricted
his throat.
"Yes Sir," she said quickly, embarrassed by his apology, "I
know. And I should not have delayed us. You do not have to apologise. I am
really sorry. It won't happen again."
There was a long pause that followed, within which, it
seemed, neither of the two knew what to say. Thankfully they were interrupted
by another lawyer, Mr Rehman, whom Sahir knew from his internship days. He introduced
Arzoo to Mr Rehman as "a bright and promising intern," and she momentarily felt
a mist of unshed tears obscure her vision. Sahir was still looking at her just
as intently and she fervently hoped that he had not noticed that she had been
moved by his words.
Suddenly, she felt, she might have preferred moody irritable
Sahir to this new kind and sensitive version. At least with Gabbar Chaudhary,
she could have some fun, mentally giving him names and imagining ways to pester
him and shake him out of that icily immaculate comfort zone of his. What was
she to do with Gentleman Chaudhary, other than try not to blush too visibly and
look like a complete idiot?
She rebuked herself. Why was she allowing her misplaced ego,
and her childish insistence on winning at their cat-and-mouse game, to blind
her so? What was wrong if Sahir saw that she appreciated his kindness? There
were very few people in her life who had shown confidence in her abilities. Any
word of praise, especially coming from someone like Sahir, a self-made
successful lawyer, meant more to her than he could have known, and if he did
get a hint of it, it could only be a good thing.
She permitted herself to smile at him, and with that, just
like that, she felt a weight lift itself from her heart. The air filled her
lungs again, the light entered her eyes again. One of the shackles she seemed
to have been bound by loosened itself slightly. In that moment, she felt genuinely
happy. In that moment, it was not just her mask that was smiling, it was the
person beneath it too.
Things were changing. She could almost sense it in the air. Somewhere,
at a distance, wild stubborn winds were approaching, carrying with them dust
and debris that would scorch tears into her eyes. Winds that would take away
with them all the grime, all the pain. And perhaps it was only a sign of the
imminent change, that Sahir smiled back at her.
She could not understand the why or the how, what it was
that had made him suddenly drop at least part of the prejudice that he once seemed
to have once held against her. But she stashed the thought away to the back of
her mind. Not everything needed to be explained or rationalised, at least not
immediately.
It was only after the conference that she understood, and
she wished she never had. It only reinforced the niggling thought that
happiness was nothing but an ephemeral mirage.
As she was leaving the conference hall with Sahir, and
walking across the hotel compound to where their rooms were, he gently placed
his suit jacket around her shoulders, perhaps having noticed that she was
shivering slightly, and asked, "How did you get those scars?"
She froze in her tracks, completely still, but for the warm tears
that dropped from her eyes powerlessly. He had seen the scars on her back
during the conference, when he was sitting behind her. Her dupatta must have moved or something.
His apology, his words of praise, the thoughtfulness he had
shown towards her, had had nothing to do with him appreciating her qualities or
warming up to her somehow. They stemmed from pity, condescension. She had been
shown her place. The place of a weak, vulnerable, dependent person.
She brushed away her tears angrily, and handing over his
jacket back to him, she walked away from him resolutely. And he did not attempt
to stop her.
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Edited by _.serendipity._ - 8 years ago
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