We Were Restless Things

4. Cimmerian Storms and Wailing Winds

"Ab tere zikr se hum

baat badal dete hain

Kitni raghbat thi tere naam se

pehle pehle" ~ Ahmad Faraz

𝄗𝄗𝄗𝄗♞𝄗𝄗𝄗𝄗

The bright sunlight penetrated the hallways, illuminating the whole Haveli to let the people bask in its regal glory. The ivory-golden marble, the kulfi cream walls, the majestic chandeliers witnessed everyone and everything. The Fritz Hansen vase upheld the soft pink hydrangeas, adding more character to the deserted corridor. The stillness joined to the charm and the sweet muzzy scent danced in the humid summer air. Aadhilabad's summer was here.

From the far corner, the tranquility was now dominated by the soft peach scent. Heels cracked on the marble, while her salmon dupatta trailed behind her. Her soft golden hues contrasting to her caramel base of curls were tucked behind her left ear, letting the silver mirror hoops dangling to repel those blazing rays. Rabail pushed a few treacherous strands that escaped. Her left wrist was hugged by a Tiffany wristwatch and a thin bar bracelet housing 10 tiny delicate pieces of Australian pink diamond. Only one was there of its kind, just like her. She never took it off. The elegant ornament not only was valuable to its monetary worth, but equally priceless to the sentiments it single-handedly carried along.

Entering the dining parlor, a smile embraced her heart-shaped lips when her eyes took in her Dadi Jaan's back. Though times have been hard on them, even brutal, Khadija Rehman Khan, the former Khanum of Aadhilabad, stood tall like a pillar for the family, especially for Rabail when hope was a distant tale. Her gray tresses spoke for the cumulative years that she spent, her wrinkled face bore the lines of expressions she pulled out through times and her keen, steady eyes urged you to open yourself in front of her.

Tiptoeing slowly, Rabail planned her steps. Putting her caramel Coach bag on her dining seat, she put her index finger in front of her full lips, colored in her favorite coral nude shade.

Salma, with a knowing smile, shook her head while resuming to arrange the table for morning hustle. Seeing the girl reminded her of the faint past in those three decades that spent in this palatial place, a jovial girl radiated the whole house with her soft smiles, witty words, and glittering orbs. Now the girl is there, the smile is there, yet the radiance of those hazel eyes was long gone. Dabbing the edge of her dupatta, Salma turned and engulfed her mouth to capture her sobbing self. Deep down, she prayed for that light to return, even though that was a far-fetched wish to ask for. Yet, the foolish pounding organ still hoped. After all, hope is what keeps everything alive.

"Nazzakat, aap jaldise Salman ko bulaiye gaari ready karne ko. Warna Rabe dortein huye chaali jayegi bina kuch khaaye." (Nazzakat, tell Salman to get the car. Otherwise rabe would simply run off without eating a morsel) her Daadi Jaan's gentle, yet authoritative voice boomed through the magnanimous parlor. Her granddaughter's antics sometimes put her in great distress. She was a responsible child, subsequently failing to be one when it comes to herself. Shaking her head, as she mulled on what next to reprimand her favorite granddaughter about, a pair of hands encircled her from behind.

"Dadi Jaan, inta gussa?" (Dadi Jaan, this much anger?) Rabail questioned as a smile braced her face, knowing her sweet Dadi Jaan, a list of "worrisome" traits of hers were surely being jotted down.

"Assalamuwalaikum, meri jaan." putting a hand on her Noor's cheek as she turned to greet her. "Walaikum Assalam, Dadi Jaan. Nashta kare?", (Let's have breakfast, shall we?) holding the frail, lined hands, she tugged her Dadi Jaan towards the long dining table.