A taste of midnight; the story of Haya and Mustafa

CHAPTER 2- Count on me

Haya entered the threshold of her house at Azad road and removed her shoes by the shoe stand before entering, a habit her mother had developed in her. The sky outside was a dull grey with hints of a sudden downpour and she had been in a hurry to get home as fast as possibly before the first raindrops. Stopping by the little kitchen, Haya saw a plate of steaming curry and rice waiting for her on the table.

She smiled internally and headed down their narrow hallway, dimly lit from the little bulb. She stopped before her father's door and knocked softly. "Baba?"

"Come in." Her fathers silvery voice came from behind the door. Twisting the doorknob she entered the brightly lit room and her eyes fell on her father who was sitting on his old leather armchair by the window, a book laying on his lap. Haya looked around her father's room, a great contrast from her own messy one. He loved reading ghazals and documentaries, so a small shelf was placed by his study table filled with collections of Mirza Ghalib, Faiz Ahmad Faiz, Mir Taqi Mir, Muhammad Iqbal, Ahmed Faraaz, Jaun Elia, Parveen Shakir and many more, half of the names Haya couldn't remember for the life of her.

"You're early today." Her father nodded in greeting.

"Yeah. I think it'll rain soon." Haya replied and he nodded in understanding. "What about you Baba, you're early too."

"My back's giving me some trouble. Don't worry I had some painkillers." He added further seeing Haya's expression of worry.

"Painkillers just subside the pain, you need to see a doctor baba, before it gets out of hand." Haya chided. This was a conversation that occurred  daily in the Ahmed household.

"I'm getting old beta, it's normal. I'm not the young man I used to be, the doctor can't do anything about that surely." Was Ahmed's answer, the one he gave his daughter daily, chuckling to himself.

Haya knew she couldn't change her stubborn father's mind so she changed the subject, settling besides him on the arm of the rocking armchair. "You didn't had to make dinner you know, I would have done it."

Her father smiled softly, the wrinkles around his mouth crinkling into folds softly. "I know. But you don't have to do everything around the house ya binti. And you have your schoolwork too. I know you stay up late into night completing it."

Haya ignored her father's comment, which was true, and motioned to the book in his lap. "What are we reading today? Iqbal, Ghalib?"

"Shab wahi lekin sitara aur hai,
Ab safar ka istiaara aur hai." Was her father's answer, which he stated in a calm, sweet voice, which eased Haya's tired nerves. It was the same voice that used to read her to sleep whenever she was sick or missed her mother. The same voice that had guided her out of her darkest phase of life, one she would shudder on remembering.

"I have no clue. Neither about the author nor this ghazal."

"Parveen Shakir."

"Ah!" Haya nodded and her father laughed at the fake expression of understanding and remembrance  on her face.

Haya talked to him some more, telling him about her students, a feud she had with the maths teacher, the orphanage and then leaving him to his book which he was eager to get back to, made her way upstairs to her room. She loved her father dearly and knew he wasn't getting any younger, but Haya always stopped her mind from getting into that zone, knowing it would end terribly.

She stopped by her brother's door and stood there contemplating  whether to go in or not, but decided against it. Her heart ached bitterly and she wanted to do nothing but go in there and lay on his bed, which even after all these years, smelled like him. But it had been a fairly good day and she didn't want a damper on her mood before dinner with her father, who could sense her mood and emotions from just a look on her face.