We Were Restless Things

5. History is Remembered, Not Repeated

"Waqt pe koi saath nahi deta,

Uske baad sab humdardi jatane aa jate hein"

𝄗𝄗𝄗𝄗♞𝄗𝄗𝄗𝄗

"Salam, Khanum."

The passageway to Rabail's office resonated with the continuous greetings. Everyone stopped when the Khanum passed by. The aura was oppressing and demanded one's attention, respect and superiority; a stark contrast to the Rabail at home. However, there was a time when she passed small smiles as she walked past these very halls; nevertheless, times changed and she learned to change, the hardest lesson if one dared to say out loud.

Standing in front of the familiar framed glass doors of her office, she took a deep breathe to silence the deafening pounding heartbeats. Naim Bakht was just across this very door, numerous times she has met him, yet today the atmosphere changed. Like clouds obscuring the view to the blue sky and painting your heart with a shade of mystery. And Rabail hated, no, loathed mystery. She liked things known and in her control.

Nodding her head to the door-man, he announced her presence to the attendees inside the room. Squaring her shoulders, chin up and stoic face drawn, her heels took her towards her table. The sun rays from the black French styled windows were illuminating the magnanimous room, reducing the workload of the glimmering lamps stuck to the walls. The cream texture of the walls shined with the contrasting wooden mahogany chairs placed in front of them. The dark tangerine shades with cushion borders sitting on the chairs enhanced a regal characteristic to the room. Plants of various kinds, in antique brass pots, were scattered around its length letting the visitors know about the love the owner had toward their greenery. The Persian carpet was being stomped by the feet of the pistachio sofas.

Taking a seat on her mahogany chair, not before forgetting to nod towards kadoo sara, Rabail maintained her stoic face, one that left living souls unable to depict the turmoils bubbling within her. Only twice in her life her mask fell. Only twice and that was going to be it.

"Assalamualaikum, Mr. Bakht" her voice floated across to the rigid form of the mentioned man, breaking him from his train of thoughts. His head was bowed till now. On hearing the flatness of the tone, Bakht thought as if someone from the dead had called out to him. A shiver shot through his spine at that while he cried inside.

"Thora jaan de awaaz mein, Khanum. Hum par reham karein!"

(Add some life to your voice, Khanum and have some pity on this man!)

Training his eyes, he took in the vision in front of him. A wise man said, "What is yours will truly be yours." and surely the same could be said in this case. Rabail Noor Khan was the queen who didn't wear the crown on her head, rather carried it high in her soul. Sitting behind the walnut textured, executive table, added more to that statement itself. The brass drawer handles itching to be touched, the chair holding the weight of her majesticness, the files demanding her attention- this was her territory. Once you enter it, you hand everything to her on a plate, almost like your whole being is hypnotized.. Your words, your plans, your voice, even your saans.

"Walaikum Assalam, Khanum " Bakht thanked Allah in the head as he gave, or could, give out an answer; albeit a little brittle.

"How is everything at your end?" Nothing direct. She rather gave Bakht the time to gather and tune himself out.

"All is well. The preparations are going on. With the amount of fundings, hopefully, we can gather a couple of seats in the southern sides and have a greater show than those opposition-wale."