"Do you know? I still grab the cup of coffee and sit under the vast sky, stare at the stars like they know all my secrets and you know what do I do? I wait for you."
Sordid reality of society is dawned upon Zaman when he takes the leadership of his...
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صبح کے تخت نشیں شام کو مجرم ٹھرے ہم نے پل بھر میں نصیبوں کو بدلتے دیکھا ہے
-بہادر شاہ ظفر
/////
A tycoon, an emerging politician, a figure to be looked forward to, a blissful soul in the day but as vulnerable as a small dainty feather during the night--Zaman dried his hair. Raking his hands through his half wet half dry strands, he buttoned up his heart. Never in twenty eight years of his life, he had been this ill at ease.
He pulled over his sweatshirt and wore his jacket. Taking the seat in his car, he gestured the guard to open the gate which he hesitantly did after Zaman would not stop honking his car horn. Guards weren't allowed to do it so for Khalil had strictly asked them not to.
Driving on the roads of Saddar Bazaar, he turned the switched to the road that went to that one specific place, he had known well but hadn't had the guts to drop a visit. His hands itched and he drove fast, bay sakhta, uncontrollably, and unaware of his own destination.
Once on the wide roads of Hayatabad, he had reached, he pulled to the side of road and stepped down. Leaving his car on the hushed place under a tree, he strode in the lanes shoving his hands into his pockets for they were numb due to the cold night breeze.
Stopping by the end of the street, he glanced at a familiar house. He didn't know where was her room or if any window was attached to it. He didn't know if she still came to the terrace to watch the stars. He didn't know if her parents gonna approve the suitor. All he knew was she wasn't his and neither should he be here.
He looked at his phone, scrolling up to his gallery. His thumb stopped at an old picture. Taken somewhat three and a half years ago. It was Emir's mac which displayed Amarha in a rose coloured dress. She was totally dripping in it. He averted his eyes from it. "You are an art." He whispered thoughtfully and pocketed his phone.
***
Next morning was a little peculiar from the usual humdrum of life. Zaman was addressing to the people, mostly parents, of Bakhshali-- village of Mardan. No matter what he said, either a praise or an insult, people clapped effortlessly which kind of pissed him off but he remained placid.
Zaman had inaugurated the school. It was his first time ever to setup something like this. He had hired best teachers that he would pay from his own income. Contemporary he was the proudest at the moment. Meeting all the teachers in the office who had dressed classiest, he told them about his expectations from them. He hoped they wouldn't crush them.
Principal was Yameen, the stolid expression carrier. Yameen's University had recently ended and he wanted to join politics with his brother. Khalil wanted him to join the business but it was never his thing.
