Writer - ExoticDisaster | Graphicer - Oh_nakhrewaali | Theme - Bag
Unfolding Yesterday
Zoya coughed, pulling the scarf higher over her nose and mouth.
She had been tasked with clearing out her grandmother’s attic. Zoya’s grandmother had passed peacefully in her sleep last month, leaving behind a house steeped in memories, a whole lot of junk and, dust. For three days, Zoya had been hauling boxes filled with chipped porcelain dolls, moth-eaten silk scarves, and stacks of yellowed magazines.
Tucked deep inside a cedar chest, Zoya found it - a vintage leather bag. It looked expensive, impeccably preserved, and completely out of character for her grandmother. Zoya’s grandmother had been a woman of practicalities, she was always immune to sentiments. Yet here, tucked inside a leather bag as worn as time itself, were secrets.
Zoya carefully unbuckled the bag. The leather creaked softly, a sound that echoed in silence of the attic. Inside, nestled amongst crumpled tissue paper, were letters and cards - dozens of them, tied together with a faded silk ribbon.
Her heart raced; these weren't just birthday cards. The elegant, flowing script on the envelopes hinted at something more.
With trembling fingers, she untied the ribbon. The first letter slipped free. The paper was thin and brittle, the ink faded but still legible. It was addressed to "My dearest Zoya," and the return address was simply "A.A.K."
Zoya sighed. She was named after her grandmother. They had been the closest to each other. But Zoya had never thought she would find out a secret of hers, after her death. Like this.
Looking at the envelope, she hesitated. This felt deeply private, a glimpse into a corner of her grandmother’s life she wasn’t sure she was entitled to see. She hustled between her hesitation and curiosity, taking deep breathes and looking up, as if asking her deceased grandmother for some help. At last, her curiosity won out.
Holding her breath, Zoya unfolded the letter.
"Zoya," it began, “Another day has passed, another day spent yearning for you. Knowing you are so close, yet so far, is like a torture now.”
Zoya’s breath hitched. The letters spoke of secret meetings, whispered confessions, and a love that burned fiercely beneath a veil of secrecy. "A.A.K" lamented the constraints of society, the expectations that kept them apart.
A love affair. Her grandmother, the pillar of propriety, had been involved in a passionate, secret romance. The implications slammed into her, almost stealing her breath.
Driven by a newfound urgency, she sifted through the rest of the letters. They were filled with longing, poetry, and a deep and unwavering affection, but not a single trace of A.A.K.’s location.
Fuelled with an obsession to find A.A.K she couldn’t shake, Zoya turned to her laptop.
"A.H.K. prominent families, Delhi”
The search yielded pages of websites and historical records on google. After hours, a name finally resonated - Asad Ahmed Khan. The Khan family had been prominent landowners in the area for generations. Could Asad Ahmed Khan be the "A.A.K." from her grandmother’s past?
Driven by a sudden impulse, Zoya found the Khan estate listed online. The estate was located just outside of town, a sprawling property with a rich history. She dialed the number listed, her heart pounding.
"Khan Estate, how may I help you?" A deep voice answered.
Zoya swallowed hard.
“Hello, I am researching some family history and I was wondering if I could perhaps speak with someone about the Khan family lineage?”
"Certainly. I am Asad Ahmed Khan, the current resident. I handle most of the inquiries regarding the estate's history. What information are you seeking?"
Asad Ahmed Khan. The name sent a shiver down her spine.
"I have come across…” She began, hesitant. “Some correspondence… that seems to connect my grandmother to a member of your family. Specifically, someone who used the initials 'A.A.K.'"
A brief silence hung on the line. Zoya could almost feel the tension crackling through the telephone wires. Finally, Asad spoke, his voice now laced with a curious edge.
"Are you Zoya Farooki?”
Zoya held her breath.
"How... how do you know my name?" Her voice barely registered above a whisper.
"That, Ms. Farooki, is a long story. A story that starts long before we were even born," his tone was calm, almost hypnotic, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within her. "A story that my grandfather had told me."
Zoya’s mind spun, trying to reconcile the chaos of the letters with this bizarre revelation. AHK... her grandmother… and now Asad, who seemed to be an integral part of a puzzle she was only just beginning to piece together.
"Your grandfather…?" she pressed, her voice gaining a sliver of urgency.
"AAK, Asad Ahmed Khan. I am named after him. Just like you are named after your grandmother. Would you like to grab a cup of coffee and talk about it?”
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The coffee shop buzzed, but Zoya felt cocooned in a pocket of quiet fascination, her gaze glued to Asad’s eyes. His dark eyes, the same shade as the ink on her grandmother’s love letters, held a depth that both intrigued and unsettled her.
She clutched her coffee mug tighter.
"My grandmother… she never spoke of him.”
Asad leaned forward slightly.
"My grandfather, he was a man marked by that loss. He built an empire, travelled the world, but he always carried a worn photograph of your grandmother. He had told me that years back."
A pang resonated within Zoya. The love letters, so full of youthful passion and hope, now echoed with the ache of unfulfilled promises.
"He had her picture?" she whispered, her voice catching.
"Yes.” He paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. "The Khans and the Siddiquis… a feud fueled by land and pride. So ridiculous, looking back."
“There was family rivalry?”
Asad nodded.
“They loved each other. When the families found out, your grandmother was married off forcefully, they threatened to kill my Daadu if she refused. But my grandfather couldn’t bring himself to marry someone else.”
Zoya frowned.
“My Dad…” Asad answered her unasked question. “He was adopted. My grandfather has been a single parent to him his whole life.”
Zoya’s heart mingled imagining the pain older Asad and Zoya would have gone through. How could be the society be so cruel to two people so much in love with each other? Asad didn’t marry anyone because his heart belonged to Zoya. And Zoya, she sacrificed herself for his wellbeing.
All of a sudden, she heard Asad chuckle.
“What?” she couldn’t help a smile that crept on her lips.
“You know why they named us after them?”
“You know?” Zoya asked, curious.
“Yeah,” Asad smiled. “My grandfather told me. Your Daadi in her last letter wrote that she would name her granddaughter Zoya, in a hope that Daadu will name his grandson Asad. So that we meet someday and fall in love. Can you believe it?"
Zoya burst out laughing, a melodic sound that echoed through café.
"That's...that's insane! The most ridiculous, Bollywood-esque thing I have ever heard!" She wiped a tear from her eye, still chuckling. "They clearly overestimated the power of nomenclature."
Asad found himself involuntarily mirroring her amusement. The corners of his mouth twitched, eventually surrendering to a small, reluctant smile.
“I think it’s about emotions. My Daadu adopted a son only because he wanted a grandson. Maybe they believed in destiny.”
“There is nothing like destiny.” Zoya dismissed.
He took a sip of his coffee, the steam briefly blurring his features.
"Is it?" he said, his voice a low rumble. "Then why are we sitting here? Decades later, linked by a love story that ended before it truly began?"
Zoya’s laughter slowly faded. Her eyes softened as she looked at Asad.
“You believe in it?”
“My Daadu never let me had a girlfriend promising me, my Zoya,” he sipped again, shrugging. “I was brought up believing I am destined to you.”
Zoya felt a strange flutter in his chest, a sensation unfamiliar and slightly unsettling. She had always prided herself on her logic. Yet, in this moment, staring into Asad's captivating eyes, she felt something shift within her. She could see a flicker of something similar in his gaze.
"Maybe they weren't so insane after all," Asad whispered, her voice barely audible.
He raised his hand and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. The simple touch sent a jolt of electricity through him. He saw her eyes widen, her breath hitch.
"Maybe," she said, unable to control her racing heart.
The vintage bag, more than just a leather receptacle, became a portal. It held not just forgotten memories, but the echoes of a passionate love that had been buried. In that moment, the absurdity of their grandparents' plan faded into the background. All that remained was Asad and Zoya, the names intertwined, their fates perhaps, on the verge of being rewritten.
The bag - was surely the best thing that Zoya could have inherit from her grandmother.
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Ishaani
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