Note: I have borrowed the names of actual historical figures, with similar incidents but this world is entirely fictional. They are completely inaccurate and are just present to set the world of year 1971 Pakistan.

I have noticed most readers rarely comment or vote (it lowered my confidence I thought readers weren't into this story until the dms and ngl came in) guys I can handle constructive criticism, and I would love to have your insight on the chapters. So please do comment💖

Warning: Mature language.

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The man lay on the opulent bed, surrounded by the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows against the silk-draped walls. His peaceful slumber was interrupted as he shifted, feeling a cold, unyielding touch against his forehead. With a jolt, his eyes flew open, widened by both surprise and a sudden rush of fear.

"Murtasim bhai, aap yaha?" His voice wavered, a mix of disbelief and a tinge of panic, as his fingers convulsively gripped the embroidered edges of the luxurious blanket draped over him. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, tracing the path of his mounting tension, as he scrambled to process the situation he found himself in.

"Kya kaha tha tumne? Is baar ki fasal barbaad hogayi?" His breath hitched, the fear in his eyes growing more palpable as he locked gazes with the strikingly handsome figure before him. Murtasim Khan commanded the room effortlessly, adorned in resplendent traditional attire that accentuated his regal demeanor. His piercing, dark black eyes held an intensity that mirrored a predator's gaze, adding to his allure and aura of authority.

The trembling man recoiled, apprehension etched deep into his expression, as Murtasim's firm grip seized his collar, his voice a low, menacing growl. "Tumhe maalum hai ki mujhe jhoot se kitni nafrat hai."

A tense silence hung in the air before Murtasim relaxed, reclining in the chair with an air of nonchalance, drawing in a long drag from his cigarette. In a moment of distraction, the trembling man stealthily reached under the bed, retrieving a pistol, and aimed it at Murtasim with shaky hands. Click. A momentary pause, followed by Murtasim's sardonic chuckle.

"Khaali hai goli." Murtasim's smirk and his calm demeanor unnervingly steady as he continued, unfazed by the failed threat. "You see, this year, I am partaking in the elections. A tarnished record wouldn't bode well for me. So, I present you with an option," he said, his voice laced with a mixture of authority and an underlying warning.

"What should I do?"

"Don't withdraw the state assets from the East", The cunning man said as he twisted his curled moustache, his shawl draped down the chair. 

Pakistan was split into East and West regions, separated by a thousand miles of India. In an attempt to establish the independent nation of Bangladesh, East Pakistan sought autonomy. Ahmed Durrani, serving as the Governor of the State Bank, played a crucial role on the sidelines. Bhutto, leader of the People's Party, dedicated himself to asserting West Pakistan's supremacy and covertly urged Durrani to withdraw state assets from the eastern region.

"Bhutto will kill me", Durrani said trying to convince Murtasim, but Murtasim nonchalantly tipped of cigeratte dropping it on the carpet and extinguished it with his foot. His eyes now met Durrani's and he shrugged, "So will I".

In a swift movement, Murtasim rose from his seat, his presence towering over the room. With a calculated grace, he approached Durrani, his footsteps echoing authority. He extended a hand, a gesture that held both a semblance of camaraderie and an underlying threat.

"Make your choice, Durrani. Decide whether history will remember you as a patriot or a traitor." His voice was a low rumble, resonating with finality.

Durrani hesitated, his hand trembling as it hovered over Murtasim's. The room seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the verdict that would echo through the corridors of power.

With a resigned sigh, Durrani clasped Murtasim's hand in a firm shake, a silent acceptance of the path Khan had chosen for him.

_

As he stepped out of his Toyota Land Cruiser, the villagers bowed and greeted him with reverence. "As-salamu alaykum, Murtasim Sahib," they said in unison.

Murtasim acknowledged their greetings with a nod and walked towards the large bungalow where he held court. Inside, he was met with the sight of a tall and regal-looking woman with glowing white skin and deep black eyes. She was the subject of a dispute that Murtasim had been called upon to settle under the Jirga system.

Murtasim listened attentively to the allegations against Safia, a married woman and her lover, who had eloped. He recognized that Safia was the legal property of her husband and ordered her to be returned to him. 

Safia pleaded not to be forced to return to her husband and begged, instead, to be allowed to work for Murtasim and his family. Murtasim considered her request for a moment, then said, "Very well. You may stay and work for me. But remember, you are under my protection now. You will do as I say, and you will not leave this bungalow without my permission."

Safia bowed her head in gratitude, and Murtasim turned to leave. As he walked out of the bungalow, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror and adjusted his moustache out of habit.

Outside Murtuza Khan Jatoi, his left hand was leaning nonchalantly on his car, straightened as Murtasim's arrival drew his attention. "The gun was shipped today from America," he announced, a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

Murtasim's gaze lingered on the weapon, his admiration evident as he took it into his hands, raising it casually and aiming it at Murtuza, causing a sudden start in the latter. "Kaisi lag rahi hai?" he inquired, his tone seemingly casual, though an edge of calculated mischief underlined his words.

"Acchi... achii lag rahi," Murtuza stammered, his words tinged with uncertainty, unsure whether Murtasim's query was genuine or another facet of his unpredictable games.

The crack of a shot split the air, Murtuza instinctively shutting his eyes in a reflex of fear. The bullet whizzed past him, narrowly missing by a hair's breadth, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

"Banduk humesha janlewa lagni chahiye," Murtasim stated matter-of-factly, a faint smirk dancing on his lips as he patted Murtuza on the back, relishing the effect of his unsettling display, he loved intimidating his men, reminding them he held the power. 

With an imperious nod, Murtasim dismissed the tension of the moment, striding toward his car with a confident swagger. "Murtuza, bring that woman to the haveli," he commanded.

----

They say a dead body smells like rotting meat, that's to be expected. But there's something sickly sweet about the smell, there's almost a fruity undertone to it. The type of sweetness that might make a person feel sick to stomach. The odour could be covered by chemicals, but it remains a constant reminder that it's masking the scent of death. It's not easy to work with dead bodies, but for a young girl like Meerab it was a daily chore. She was responsible for cleaning, handling and moving the corpses in the small morgue, it was located just across her uncle's house, the only reason she was allowed to work. It started as a punishment when she had slapped her fifty year old fiance and spat on his face infront of the crowd.

Her phupho was pissed off, the large brown eyes quite similar to hers narrowed into slits as she had given her the punishment. Meerab had pleaded her with tears in her eyes, the young girl had the phobia of darkness, she couldn't survive even a minute without the light and Razia had used that to mentally torture her. In the beginning looking at those bodies, Meerab would break down, she could feel their eyes on her. But a few months passed, bodies of young baby girls would reach her she would sew pink frocks for their tiny bodies, some were infants but most were above three months old.

Babies found in the garbage, the foetus still having their mother's umbilical cord attached, the mother who had given them a life, would choke their little baby girls upon their birth. But could she blame them? Women were brought up in this schizophrenic society, with only two purposes, to be obedient wives to their husbands and give them a male heir.

Then there were bodies of kids who passed away due to polio, chicken pox and minor infections. It was the morning of Eid when an old man had carried his ten year girl into the morgue, her tiny hands covered with henna, his eyes were filled with tears as he pleaded her to cover her corpse so no animal could harm her again. Meerab looked at the state of her assaulted body, the young girl's eyes were wide open and her lips parted when she had passed away. Someone had choked her, after using her tiny body.

Dealing with death makes a person numb but it doesn't take away their emotions. The image haunted her, she suffered from nightmares for months after that.

Imtiyaz Ali owned the morgue, he was a man of few words, he rarely spoke. And when he did, it was to pray for the dead bodies. Meerab was supposed to work free of cost, but the young man was impressed by her work so once in a while she would receive either a new suit or some cash. The body brought in was that of a prominent politician, a figure whose influence rippled through the local political sphere. Imtiyaz glanced at the lifeless form, his face betraying no emotions. "Another one," he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of years spent witnessing such scenes.

Meerab observed the scene, noticing the peculiar paleness of the politician's skin. "Isn't it strange how many politicians are dying of cardiac arrest lately?" she pondered aloud, a furrow creasing her brow.

Imtiyaz, adjusting his glasses, replied in a solemn tone, "It's a stressful life they lead. The pressure, the decisions, the constant scrutiny-perhaps that's what's taking a toll on their hearts."

She nodded in agreement, yet a flicker of doubt lingered in her mind. As she continued with her duties, handling the body meticulously, she couldn't shake off the peculiarities she'd noticed. The faded cyanosis around the politician's lips and nails, the unusual paleness that hinted at something more than stress-induced strain.

A soft inquiry broke the silence. "How is your new fiance?" Imtiyaz asked, his voice a low murmur that seemed to echo within the narrow walls. Meerab's eyes, visible from behind the veil, flickered with a mix of emotions.

"I will handle this one perfectly," she replied with a determined smile, her beautiful brown eyes, pools of depth.

Imtiyaz continued, concern etched in the lines of his face, "Does your fiance even care?" Meerab, grappling with uncertainty, admitted her lack of knowledge with a shrug. "How many years would you wait for him? You are nineteen now," Imtiyaz probed gently, his words carrying a subtle hint of concern.

A defensive edge crept into Meerab's voice, her response laced with authority, "Do you want me to get married to these men then?" Her words hung in the air, soft but firm.

"No, but find someone else. There are other men apart from Murtasim," Imtiyaz suggested, his concern palpable. Meerab sighed, sadness shadowing her eyes as she confessed, "I can't do that." Her loyalty tethered her to the man she was betrothed to.

Love... she didn't expect it from anyone, loving someone takes eternity, what she wished for was a loyal man.

-

Mohammad Naseem Baig was sixty-four years old when he married his third wife, a sixteen-year old girl from Multan, Razia. Baig Sahib
had sixteen children; Razia bore him seven sons and a daughter.

Her eldest son Usama Baig was married to his thirteen year old cousin Wajiha when he was seventeen. Later he fell in love with another woman named Haifa, whom he met at a brothel. He married her and she bore him three daughters. A month ago he married his wife's servant. He slept around despite having three beautiful wives.

And still he lusted after his young cousin Meerab, he had caught glimpse of her face a couple times before when his mother had slapped her. Like most men in the area, he was spellbound by her beauty, his lecherous gaze followed her around. He had even proposed their nikkah to his father, but he refused, he wanted to get rid of that 'affat'. He believed Meerab was a curse, a women with lose reputation. He didn't wanted her name to be included in his family records, his son didn't deserve her.

But lust was lust, it grew with time. Usama soon became obsessed with her, he had watched her since she was sixteen, and knew her weaknesses. So he aimed for them, by always presenting the worst suitors for her.

It was Saturday morning, infront of the large gate stood Meerab, her veil covering her face but one could read her eyes. They were filled with rage. The same old man who had proposed her a few years ago was back, presenting her with gifts and treasures. The gifts were stacked up to the hilt, passersby noticed the commotion and gathered around interested to see how this proposal would go. They could see that the old man was trying to win her heart.

Meerab narrowed her eyes, glaring at his hand that was presenting her the gifts as if he was trying to buy her in exchange.

"Yaha se dafa ho!" She spat out, slapping away his outstreched hands that made the expensive china bowls to tumble down onto to the floor. Clash. The noise now gained a bigger audience.

"Meerab meri jaan..."

"Himmat kaise hoyi mere baarein mein aise khayal rakhne ke? I am the same age as your grand daughter you creep", she pointed her finger at him, "Get lost right now or else I will break the few bones in your body that are still intact".

The neighbourhood was aware about the old man being a family acquitance, so they whispered and realised he had tried to propose her.

"Qasim Dada aap toh mere Ammi Abbu ko jaantey they, aapne mujhe bade hotey huey dekha hai. Phir mere liye aap itni gandi soch kaise rakh sakte hai? Sochkar bhi ghin aati hai mujhe."

"Meerab", her uncle warned her his rage filled with eyes telling her that there would be consequences. Looking at the crowd Meerab felt the humiliation, this lecherous old man desired to make her his wife. He was ruining her reputation, what if the news spread and reached Murtasim Khan? She couldn't let that happen.

So she pushed that man, and picked up his gifts throwing them inside his van with rage. Showing her disgust, her lack of interest in him or his gifts.

"How dare you! The entire country knows that I belong to Murtasim Khan and if he comes to know that you were trying to pull this move he wouldn't spare you".

"You are a vile man!"

She screamed out her frustration, the gathered audience threw unpleasant words at the old man, for trying to woo a woman who already belonged to another man. Did he expect he could woo a young woman with his wrinkly skin? It seemed he was trying to challenge Murtasim Khan by running after his fiance.

"You are delusional, I was trying to save you from living a life of a spinster. You are twenty years old at your age women have three kids in our society. You think Murtasim Khan would want a woman like you?? He had discarded you, he doesn't care about his ugly fiance. That ruthless man is a monster..".

Meerab had kept quiet when he spewed shit about her, but when he uttered the word monster, she was triggered. Her shoes came off and she started hitting him.

"The monster you are insulting is the reason you are able to get food at your table. Our city has electricity, water and gas just because of him, and you are insulting him?"

The old man clutched his heart and Meerab backed away, she didn't wanted to entertain another body in her morgue and that too of this vile man. The gathered crowd agreed with Meerab's words, they whispered and sneered at the man who stood up collecting his broken gifts and pride with his aching bones.

Meerab had broken all three.

"Meerab!" Usama shouted, as he rushed towards them and backhanded her. He held her elbow tightly as Meerab tried to break free from the grip, "Maafi maango".

This made her laugh, "In your dreams". Another slap landed, Usama realised people were looking at the show so he pulled Meerab inside the house.

The crowd dispersed but a man stood there unmoving, "Interesting", his lips curled up as he finally turned to leave.