𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫-𝟏

–ZAYAN–

(Seven Years later

Present day)

People say that Allah heals everything and loves everyone, but only a fool would believe it. If He really loved us, He wouldn't have broken our hearts in the first place.

The combination of soothing wind and downpour is not always dreamy. To be honest, it’s irritating on so many levels, and I don’t want to discuss the persistent cold it carries.

Flipping the visor of my helmet, I stare at the flashes of thunder as they brighten the dark night.

"Is it monsoon already?"

Of course it is! Because it has been raining for two days now, and Hyderabad turns into a place of storms and endless rains from August to October.

I scrape the mud out of my boots against the concrete edge of the sidewalk.

My cream-colored slacks are soaked up to my knees with brown mud.

A fresh wave of irritation rushes through my veins.

They were my new slacks.

Stupid weather.

The broad, fogging streets fall empty, glimmering only by the warm lights from the windows of the buildings around me.

If it weren’t for the rain, the warmth of my jacket would have been enough.

The test papers of the students in the bag I'm clutching must have soaked by now and I don’t—

A sudden jolt in my skull throws me off balance.

I catch myself against the wall behind me as I grab my head.

It's like a long-dead wire of electricity activated, but what just happened?

The thunder clashes again, reflecting the exhaustion enveloping my face in the large glass door of this closed, darkened shop.

My teeth clatter with cold.

Shaking my head, I avert my gaze from the reflection of my hollow set of gray eyes, which no longer shone with hope.

The light from the cafe at the end of the street sparkles in another dark area of this street, tempting me with its warmth.

I'm not a fool to wait in this bone-chilling cold any longer.

I dash to the other end of the street and notice a beggar in rags and a torn prayer cap on his head.

He wraps his arms around his shivering body, and his swollen face looks sick from an eternity.

My heart sinks.

I pull out a currency note, holding it towards him.

"May Allah bless you." His words extinguish any kind of kindness I was feeling.

"What an unfortunate your Allah has made you; never trust such lies. You wouldn't be here miserable if He really blessed." I roll my eyes at him, and his face falls at my words.

He pressed the currency note back in my hand, and curling my fingers around it, I shook my head.

I tug the currency back and push open the large glass door of the cafe.

"Same old crap," I mumble, pushing myself through the door.

The bell above the door jingles merrily, a stark contrast to the gloom outside.

Pulling my helmet off, I take in the cozy atmosphere of the warm cafe decorated all in green and yellow.

The door slides open again, and the whirling wind sends chills down my spine. I shift away from the door.

As I pass by the shelves of freshly baked bread, I try to ignore the rumble in my belly. Unfortunately, it can't be helped when I haven’t had dinner tonight, and the time on my watch reads 9:55 pm.

The silent downpour is chilling, and what could be better than a hot cup of coffee when you're soaked from head to toe?

I place an order for a regular cup of espresso and a simple croissant, perching next to a large glass window, watching the droplets drumming against it.

The water from my soaked clothes drips down; despite the warmth of this place, I can't chase away the shivers building in my spine.

I slam my fist on the table, rattling the cool wooden surface.

The place falls silent, and a girl from the nearby table rolls her eyes at me as she cups her coffee mug with both hands.

My mouth curls into a snarl, and I turn away.

I pull out the test papers from the bag, and I'm relieved that they aren't drenched, only damp.

I notice that it's 10 pm on my watch now, and still this place is full of customers, chattering and snickering.

“Name?” My head turns to the waitress holding a paper cup in one hand and a pen in her other hand with a friendly smile.

“Zayan Mirza.”

She nods at me, scribbling on the paper cup.

I sigh, pulling out the red pen from my pocket and moving it across the papers, marking them.

Cross, cross, tick, cross.

15 out of 50? Wow, how can anyone from that class cross 03? I'm amazed.

The moment when the so-called director/principal, Affan Farooqi, asked me to issue a test, I knew then and there it was a waste of my time and paper on these unwilling people.

But I'm still here doing it, frowning at these nameless test pages because IT'S MY JOB!

I shake my head at the obscene figure of a muscular naked man this student drew of me, and if I'm not wrong, it is Hanzala, who searches for such opportunities to degrade others.

My grip on the pen tightens.

He thinks it's cool for grown people like him to disrespect someone. Let me make it clear: he is already twenty-one years old, older than half of the students in my class.

Most of the students are here just to flash their wealth and fake accents, but if asked to introduce themselves, they would start with 'your charming boy.’

No grammar sense and no shame.

These students are the reason that HOD had to appoint a principal for a college.

But I don't understand why the principal doesn't want me to discipline them for their disrespect. Why does Affan ignore the fact that these spoiled brats don't just need academic success but also discipline and direction apart from these tests?

I lean back on my seat, threading my hand through my hair.

These papers are proof that being an English lecturer isn't an easy task at all.

"Sir, your order. Enjoy!" The waitress beams with a friendly smile.

I glance up from the papers, and my lip slightly twitches in an attempt to grin, but I can't. I put the wreckage aside, making a place for the waitress to set my coffee on the table.

‘Zayan Mirsa,’ my misspelt name, lay carelessly written on the paper cup.

"Thank you," I mutter, shifting a bit in my chair.

I run my pen over the written letters and correct the ‘s’ to ‘z’ on the paper cup.

Putting the pen back in my pocket, I dip the flaky croissant in the warm coffee.

The bitterness of coffee bursts into my mouth.

My eyes close in bliss.

"Absolutely delicious," the words slip off my mouth, and I remember the time when I used to share such moments with her.

"I can never forget you,” she teased me.

"Oh, but I did. Who are you?" I grinned at her as she landed punches on my arm.

"Huh! I bet you'll even forget my name if I don't text you for a week or come to watch you play." She rolled her eyes, and I would've stroked her hair, chuckling at her sulking face.

"You are my special audience." I corrected her, pinching her cheeks.

"Sir, we are about to close." A polite voice breaks my reverie, and I look around. The cafe is empty.

Have I started dozing off in her memories again...?

I nod at the waitress, who is wiping her hands on her apron.

My eyes catch a movement outside from the large glass window.

My head snaps up, and my eyes lock onto a spinning figure and something tall looming behind her, shadowy like a lamp but not a lamp...

Standing up, I place my hand on the chilled window.

The mist-covered window makes it impossible to make out the figure, but it's someone.

I walk to the entrance, and it's a woman, but what I saw earlier is not behind her anymore.

"Hello!" I called out, but her swirling didn't stop.

"Aye, Aurat!" I shout again, yet there is no response.

Her feet move with the rhythm of raindrops.

The hem of her dupatta, which already touched the muddy puddle, turned the bright shade of blue into a dark shade of brown.

What kind of fool spins around in the middle of the street on such a dangerous night?

Her giggles pierce the veil of this deafening rain, and my eyes follow the light emerging from somewhere.

No, somewhere, it's from one of the windows from the buildings, two boys with phones in their hands as they hush each other.

People are recording her from their windows.

My eye twitches.

Without another thought, I stride towards her, not caring about the waitress yelling after me to pay the bill.

I stop behind her.

She is humming, and when I clear my throat, she stops.

I look down at her and compose my voice.

"If you really love the rain that much, why don't you just enjoy it in your home rather than dragging yourself out?" I said.

She turns to me, and her chocolate eyes stare into my hazy ones.

Her long lashes touch her puffy cheeks as she blinks, and the sudden current jerks inside my head again.

I grab my head with both hands, standing before her and staring into her eyes.

The confusion etched into the depths of her eyes reminds me of someone... Someone I tried so hard to forget.

A frown on her pink, quivering lips deepens, her eyebrows pull together, and her cheeks turn red.

"Pervert,” she hisses and moves back.

I scowl at her disrespectful words and pinch my temples, reminding myself that I'm dealing with one of the species of women.

Women who never consider themselves wrong, ever.

"Look, I know it's none of my business," I sigh, pointing at the complex.

"But people are recording you."

"Mind your own business, Mister.” She takes up her stance and begins spinning unfazed again.

Her dupatta falls off her head again.

“What a shameless girl,” I mutter under my breath.

I grab her dupatta again, but she jerks it with such force that I stumble forward and my feet slip into the puddle.

The sudden movement tightens my grip on her dupatta, but unwantedly, it's entirely in my hand now, and she is standing before me, clutching her hands to her chest, panting heavily.

My eyes widen, and I toss the dupatta back to her.

I steady my feet and can't control the stutter in my voice.

"I...it was unintentional. Look, someone could make a move on you; it's better if you go home."

I look away.

But before I could continue, a sharp slap burned on my cheek. My hand cups my stinging cheek as I watch her with wide eyes.

"What was that for!?" I ask, the humiliation of the slap burning deep in my chest.

"How dare you touch me!?" She barks, now clutching her dupatta to her chest; tears glisten in her eyes as she backs away scared, and something in my heart wrenches painfully.

I step forward.

"I didn't touch you! I was just trying to drape that dupatta over your head—"

"I know men like you! Always ready to take advantage of a vulnerable woman."

"Excuse me!?" The anger rises again.

I waggle my finger at her as I growl.

"That was unintentional, and why were you spinning in the middle of the street? Aren't you concerned about your wel beings?"

"I don't owe any explanations to you. Get out of here; I will do what I like.”

She shouts aggressively.

“Are you seriously okay in your head?” I sigh when she glares at me.

I dart my gaze to the boys standing in their window and still recording.

I sigh.

“Should I book a ride to your home? It’s not safe here.”

She grunts.

"Not safe here for a freak like you to make any advances towards me?" she rants in anger.

“Just get the hell out of here before I shout and inform everyone." She stomps her feet in the muddy puddle.

"You women are impossible to understand!” My cheeks flare up.

“Jerks like you don't even need to understand a woman." She mumbles and I can clearly see the disgust in her intense deep eyes.

My jaw tensed.

I dart my gaze away to cool the boiling inside my nerves.

The waitress is standing at the glass door of cafe with a bill clutched in her hands.

"Look! I don't raise my hand on women and on brainless people like you.” My fists clench at my sides.

“But you are really testing my patience by disrespecting me and making a scene in the middle of the street. Are you in your senses or high on something?" I watch her intently, and something behind my head flickers.

I'm certain that she was born with a half-brain or no brain at all.

I scoff, but before I can turn away and get myself into the warmth of the cafe, she springs forward, and her palm connects with my cheek again with a sharp sound reverbarating in the air.

My ears ring from the intensity of her slap.

I stumble back.

She turns and sprints away into the distance without any glance, without any word, like she has done something to be proud of.

The snickers from the nearby building add to my growing frustration.

"And insane people like you!” My yell pierces through the night.

"Always blame men for every wrong in the world; even when you buy the wrong color of a dress by yourself, you women end up blaming the man who created the colors!” The anger bubbles in my body.

Jo karte karo! Meku kya!"

(Translation: do whatever you want; why would I care.)

I keep screaming, but she disappeares into the darkness of this rainy night.

My pulse quickens.

"Aye, Hero? Agaya swaad?"

(Oye hero, got your lesson?)

A burst of laughter snaps my head at the first floor of the complex.

The mocking claps and flash of video recording flush my neck deep with a burning rage.

"Do your freaking work, brats," I snarl at them.

"She's such a foolish person—no, not a person; she's a witch!"

Mumbling to myself, I jog back to the cafe.

The beggar is still standing at the cafe.

"I'm not an unfortunate one, but you are the one, who has gone astray from the remembrance of Allah. I may be in such condition, but I haven't given up on Allah." My nose flares at his low, soft tone.

He shakes his head again and leaves in an alley opposite to the cafe.

I snatch the card from the waitress and swipe it with a frown on my face.

Why just can’t people act normal and stop thinking of themselves as the center of attention for everything? Arrogant and stupid people like her and dramatic people like that beggar are the main reason for my thinning thread of patience.

"Tch.”