"You're going to be my present and my future. You're going to hold all my babies because I'm going to be the lucky man to marry you. You're going to love me again, Maryam Khan. Slowly and then all together. And I will watch you as you do."
Imran and...
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"I'm sorry, Sir. But you can only file a missing complaint after 24 hours you've last seen the person." The female sub-inspector told Imran.
"But, ma'am, she is my wife." He stressed, as though it was the reason enough for her to take an action. "And, it's been more than 12 hours since I'd last seen her. What do you expect me to do for the next 12? Wait for bad news? Aapko malum hia sheher ke haalat kaise hai."
"I know, sir, but I am as helpless as you are." She tried to reason, closing the long register that she had opened in front of her on the wooden desk. "Have you tried asking around?"
"Why would I be here if I had not? Kisi ko bhi shauq nahi rehta police station aane ka." He snapped but sighed with regret the next instant. Running a hand through his face, he apologized. "I'm sorry."
"No problem. I think you should ask around in hospitals and clinics. . .?"She offered. "That might help."
Imran didn't want to even go down that lane. Yes, the thought did occur to him followed by a harsh shudder that ran down his spine. The possibility of seeing his beloved Maryam laying on some stretcher was not something he'd want to picture in a dire situation like this one. He was still rooting for any good news of some sort.
Giving the woman a nod, he pushes the wooden chair backward and gets to his feet. His shoulders were slouched, his steps heavy and slow. It has not been very long, and yet he was drained. Partly from driving around the city, and partly from his own thoughts and the never-ending line of possibilities and what-if that his mind conjured.
He mounts his motorcycle, and turns the key, bringing the engine to life. Driving out of the line of parked cars, he drove to his next destination. Hospitals and clinics.
He would ring her phone every other minute until he couldn't reach it anymore. He hit the brakes when he spotted a small clinic and parked right in front of the set of stairs that led him to the glass door. Pushing his way inside, he walked over to the receptionist. His heart ramming against his chest. A mental prayer running through his being.
Let her not be here. Let her not be here. Let her not be here.
"Hi, Sir, how can I help you?" A lady in her early thirties, clad in a cotton saree with her hair wrapped in a bun, resting at the base of her neck asked.
Suddenly his throat closed in on him. He opened his mouth, trying to form a coherent sentence but his tongue was suddenly too dry to move.
"Sir?"
He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat before a word escaped his mouth. "I, uhh. . .I'm looking for my-- my wife, Maryam Khan, and if she's here?"
"Here?" The lady inquired with uncertainty laced in her voice.
