Ishq Mubarak

•3• Dhamki

Nora's POV:

The

mid of night had draped the world in an impenetrable shroud, but my thoughts refused to follow suit. It was a sleepless night, one I would long remember, and it was all thanks to the enigmatic man who had been at the center of my father's discussions - Arsalan Khan.

My mind was a cacophony of questions. What was it that set Arsalan Khan apart, making him a name to be feared in the deepest corners of our city? I couldn't fathom how one man could amass such power and control over others. As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I wished I could uncover the truth behind the aura of dread that enveloped him.

Restless and filled with curiosity, I decided to take a path that would lead me down the rabbit hole of information. My laptop beckoned, and I complied, launching my search. The moment I typed "Arsalan Khan," my screen was flooded with results - a deluge of stories, all connected to this one man.

However, it wasn't the story of a heroic figure or a charismatic leader, as I had half-expected. Instead, it was a tale of crime and darkness. Arsalan Khan, a name etched in the annals of infamy, had a rap sheet that would chill the bravest of hearts. Not once, but twice, he had tasted the cold steel of jail bars. His life was marred by violence and shadowed by death.

It wasn't just the number of crimes associated with him, but the brutality and ruthlessness with which they were executed. The chilling accounts of his actions left me in a state of disbelief. The names and events in front of me seemed more like scenes from a horror movie than the life story of a real person.

The further I dug, the more unnerving it became. Arsalan Khan was no mere criminal; he was a gangster. The crimes associated with his name were beyond reckoning, and the authorities had struggled to bring him to justice. My heart raced as I read about his escapades, a sense of dread and fear taking root within me.

As if to add an even more chilling element to this story, there were no photographs. Arsalan Khan remained faceless, a name whispered in fear. The absence of a visual image only served to heighten the air of mystery and menace that surrounded him. It was as though he were an enigmatic phantom, slipping through the fingers of justice, always out of reach.

Closing my laptop, I found myself shrouded in darkness, both literal and figurative. A deep, unsettling fear had taken root within me. Nora Ahmed Ali, who had lived a sheltered life under her father's protective wing, was now confronted with the grim reality of a world she had never imagined.

With a heavy heart, I couldn't help but worry about the unforeseen consequences of my father's involvement in this world.

As I lay in the dark, unable to quell the unease that gnawed at me,

I prayed for safety and wished to never cross paths with the enigma named Arsalan Khan.

________________

T

he next morning dawned with an air of trepidation that hung heavily in the Ahmed Ali household. Fatima, Nora's mother, had been occupying the grand sofa in the hall, her face etched with worry. Nora, descended the stairs, her steps heavy, mirroring the disquiet that filled the house.

Fatima's tense demeanor immediately caught Nora's attention, and she couldn't help but share in her mother's anxiety. A sense of foreboding loomed over her, a feeling that something was amiss, something beyond the mundane worries of daily life.

As Nora approached her mother, ready to inquire about her distress, her dada Jaan, Khalid Ali, who was usually a man of unwavering composure, was locked in an intense phone conversation with someone Nora couldn't see. The somber atmosphere had cast a pall over their home.