Chaos in the Canvas √

16 | past

"Blindly following ancient customs and traditions does not mean that the dead are living but that the living are dead."
- Ibn-e-Khaldun

Twelve Years Ago

Sun shone with all its glory outside, no sign of dense clouds or pleasant winds in the air. It cascaded its heat down upon the inhabitants who wore white, pale dresses, sadness lacing their eyes and hollowness their expressions. No hint of joy hissed through the air but melancholy, which had come to become permanence in the atmosphere around the walls of Yazdani Mansion, located outskirts in the city of Abbottabad.

Inside wasn't a much different view either, women gathered in the great hall, sitting on the white sheets, reciting Qur'an and adhkar soundlessly. At a far distance, an aged woman sat with back resting against the wall, eyes void and lips parched as she stared ahead at nothingness. Few women sat beside, murmuring words of sympathy and condolence to an old woman who had lost her younger son.

"It's okay, Ammi, Allah will establish justice." A middle-aged, decent woman said as she placed a hand on her mother-in-law's knees, "Maktub's blood won't go in vain."

However, the elder woman made no response, not even an atom of her stirred as her daughter-in-law whispered words of reassurances - words she knew were not meant for her but for the strangers sitting around them, words to emphasize that all the rumours surrounding Maktub Yazdani were horrible but false.

"My husband told me that he raped a girl and her brother killed him." A small voice sounded but it was a little too loud in the cursed silence that prevailed and the elder woman's heart shook.

More hush sounds echoed around the room after that and the old woman only clenched her eyes and teeth as she gulped heavily, their words an axe to her wounded soul. She knew well that majority of the women gathered to recite for her younger son's soul were mainly here to gossip, to gather more and authentic news regarding her son's brutal murder.

More inside, however, in the lavish drawing room of the mansion, the view was entirely different altogether. Men, dressed in traditional shalwar qameez and stern expressions painting their faces, sat across the sofas and chairs, such that almost each was occupied and yet, the deafening silence that packed the room was too loud for their ears.

Men, old and middle-aged, sat across the room, glaring at each other, none uttering a single word before Jalal Yazdani, an old man and husband to the old woman who mourned outside broke the silence, his fierce voice ringing across the room and everyone turned towards him - friends and foes combined.

"My son's murder won't be forgotten so easily, his life was not supposed to be taken away like this." His stern voice held ashes and ice and some people clenched their teeth while others smirked - the former crowd belonging to his opponents and the latter to his acquaintances.

"A rapist does not have a right to life, Jalal Yazdani." Masood Khakwani's equally fierce voice rang, making heads turn towards him now, moving between the two men who sat opposite to each other, both intimidating.

"And a bitch does who seduced him? Well, at least she knew that and took her life." Jalal Yazdani's cold words stimulated the uproar that suddenly filled the room, men belonging to the opponent crowd standing up from their seats and charging towards him but their way was blocked by Jalal Yazdani's men.

Shahriyar Khakwani was among the men in the front row who had meant to attack Jalal Yazdani, including his younger brother, Jahangir Khakwani, his face reddening in anger and blood boiling. With blood in irises, he glared at the father of the man he had killed two days ago, at the man who now leaned against the sofa with legs crossed at ankle and a smirk lifting his lips.