Chapter One

17th February 1933

Today, I ran like I have never run before. Had Ammi seen me she would have definitely given me a scolding—

Her khussa chappal pounded against the pavement as she ran. Her black shawl flapped in the wind and she had to hold onto it so it would not fall off her head. Her cheeks were flushed and her arm held securely onto a file that she held to her chest, dodging the people that walked to and fro.

"Hey!"

Mahrosh nearly fell over the carton of amrood*, and before she could get a scolding from the street vendor she quickly gathered them and put the carton back in its place, her ears deaf to the man who was cursing at her.

She was too excited to even reply to him — and with an apologetic smile, she shouted a loud, "I'm sorry! I hope you have a good day!" and ran off again.

The scowls of the sellers and the rush of the marketplace drowned into the background till Mahrosh was only aware of her heart drumming against the file she held close.

Her destination was a rickety store that looked quite out of place between the two bazaars. It was run-down and had a low ceiling; the unpainted brick wall and the litter around it made it invisible to most eyes, and the fainted board that said Khabarkhwan was only noticeable if someone paid particular attention to it.

Through the cracked window Mahrosh could see an old man bent over some papers. He looked up when she walked in.

"Assalamualaikum," she said, fiddling with her file.

The man scowled, pushing back his spectacles. He grunted an inaudible response as he got to his feet and walked towards the pile of freshly printed newspapers.

Mahrosh felt for a second that her heart would jump out of her chest. It pounded profusely against her ribs, her grip tightening on the file.

"It's on page eleven. I had a mind of leaving it out this week —"

Mahrosh did not listen. Every bit of her attention was on the newspaper as she quickly skimmed through it. Page eleven. Page eleven. Page eleven —

She spotted it instantly.

ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴜʟʙᴜʟ ᴄʜɪʀᴘꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴅᴀᴡɴ

It was beautiful. The slightly smudged print on the side, the touch of the paper under her skin. Mahrosh' eyes glazed.

Khushi*. If she could give her feeling any word it would be this.

And then her gaze flickered towards the name under the title and her bubble burst.

by Walid Ibrahim

" — when is this Walid Ibrahim going to come himself?"

Mahrosh zoned back to what the editor was saying, and her face must have reddened for the man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. She cleared her throat, feeling the heat of his gaze through his spectacles.

"Erm he can't really come, sir, but he sent another article," she tried changing the subject as she extended the file towards him, "You can go through it and see if you want it."

He did not look convinced, but took the file regardless. "And why can't he come?" He scowled, his brows arching.

Mahrosh feigned nonchalance. "If it wasn't private, sir, would I keep it from you?" Her demeanor shifted, and she straightened her shoulders. "What about the payment?"

That seemed to do the trick. The editor had perhaps been hoping that she would not mention it and it wasn't easy for him to take a few coins out of his pockets and drop them in her outstretched hands.

"That's all you're going to get," he said before she could say anything, "Scram now."

Mahrosh glanced at the few coins. Other papers would have given at least twice it's amount, she thought to herself but this did little to grieve her and with a smile, she pocketed the coins and skipped off, the newspaper rolled under her arm.

To make up for throwing the vendor's box over, she bought two guavas with her money on her way back. The juicy fruit tickled her throat as she walked back home, the rolled newspaper now in a plastic bag with the green fruit that swung from her hands.

Her house stood distinct from the others. It was perhaps the largest of the houses in the street, and the architecture hinted clearly that whoever had this house made cared about design just as much as comfort. It was a place that caught eyes — both ones filled with respect and ones filled with envy, but to Mahrosh, it was home and that was all there was to it.

She sensed something was up when she walked in, closing the door behind her. The house opened to a round courtyard, and it remained the central point of the two story infrastructure that circled the yard.

The usual peace that settled in the house was now replaced by a buzz, and Mahrosh' eyebrows drew together as she watched her mother rush about with the servant girls, cleaning and organizing.

Mahrosh was tempted to turn around again and make her escape before she was seen and dragged into the work, but her curiosity got the better of her and she tiptoed towards her grandmother.

Dadi sat on a charpai, her fingers expertly going through a tasbeeh as she watched everyone work. "Psst. Dadi," Mahrosh whispered, catching her attention.

The old woman's eyes naturally crinkled by the sides and she waved Mahrosh over. "Where were you?"

"Out. Brought you an amrood," she smiled, taking out the fruit from the plastic bag and handing it over to her grandmother.

Dadi smiled fondly, and in the manner with which she accepted the fruit, it would have been easy for someone to assume that the cartons of guavas in their kitchen were empty.

"Is someone coming?" Mahrosh asked, sitting next to Dadi on the charpai.

Dadi nodded. "Walid."

Mahrosh blinked. "Walid who?"

Dadi's brow shot up and she tilted her head, watching Mahrosh closely. "How many Walids do we know, gurya*?"

"Not a lot —" Mahrosh nearly choked on her guava when she realized which Walid her grandmother was talking about. Her eyes widened, and she could only stare, hoping for her grandmother to tell her that she was joking.

Dadi worriedly rubbed her back, taking the fruit from her. "How many times have I told you to eat slowly, Mahru? Nobody's going to take it away, I promise-"

Mahrosh wasn't listening; frozen still as she stared unblinkingly at her grandmother. Walid. Walid Ibrahim was returning to India, and she was as well as doomed. The dread that settled in her stomach constricted her throat and her voice was strained when she spoke. "Why?"

Dadi blinked. "Why what?"

"Why is he coming back now — wasn't he supposed to return in another two years or so after completing his degree?"

It must have been the clear exasperation on her face. Dadi stared at Mahrosh for a second before her hand reached out for her ear and boxed it.

Mahrosh yelped. "Dadi!"

"What do you mean, why is he coming back? Astaghfirullah. If you're not happy you can at least pretend to be."

Mahrosh rubbed her ear, muttering incoherently under her breath. "Why should I fake something that isn't true —" she jumped out of her grandmother's reach when she caught the flicker across Dadi's eyes.

"Mahrosh?"

It was Ammi.

Mahrosh's widened eyes flickered from one woman to the next. Ya Allah — before either of them could say anything, she dashed for the door, their calls drowning in the background.

The newspaper was still tucked under her arm, but all of the excitement she had felt had dissolved into a pool of dread.

Life really didn't seem to like her much, did it?

"You should have told me, Aleena!"

She paced the room, her arms crossed in front of her and her panicked eyes momentarily flickering towards the girl who sat on the bed.

Aleena sighed. "How many times do I have to tell you, Mahrosh? I just found out yesterday myself."

Mahrosh wasn't buying it. "He is your brother. Aren't you the one who is supposed to know if he suddenly decides to return to India —"

Aleena was tempted to pick up the crutch placed next to her and hit Mahrosh over the head. "I haven't been in contact with him for months now, okay? And why are you this panicked anyways? You do realize that he was supposed to return at some point, right?"

As Aleena crossed her arms, Mahrosh' arms slowly fell by her sides and the redness of her expression transformed into a sniff till she dropped to the floor and buried her face in the pillow, a groan escaping her lips.

Aleena blinked. She had expected her best friend to have a fit but panic to this extent? Her brows drew together and she inched closer to Mahrosh.

"Mahru?" She whispered, awkwardly patting her on the back. "He might have changed a little, but you don't need to worry so much."

Mahrosh raised her head. In the redness of her eyes glittered the reflection of a soldier on her way to doom. "If only, Lina," she muttered, "If only I could have worried about him changing..."

Aleena was silent for a few seconds.

"Mahru?" She said eventually, the concern dripping from her voice, "My saheli*, please listen to what I have to say with an open heart. You know I really want the best for you, don't you?"

Mahrosh straightened up, her eyes matching with the genuine ones of her friends. Perhaps she could tell Aleena the whole truth. Aleena was sure to help —

"Mahru, I really think you need to get your brain checked by a doctor —"

And just like that, all the gratitude and love building up in Mahrosh' heart vanished. Her eyes twitched and she forced a smile to match Aleena's concerned expression. "Should I?" She got to her feet, dusting her clothes.

Aleena nodded, opening her mouth to speak but was cut off by a pillow hitting her face. It was only natural for a fight to ensue, and while it did the trick of distracting Mahrosh, it also lengthened her stay at Aleena's place till the evening call to prayer rang in her ears and she had to run home.

The town was not the same once the sun had set. The lively bazaars and street vendors all packed up and went their ways, and the doors of the houses closed as soon as the crickets sounded their alarms. The moon guided Mahrosh back home, and the stars whispered to her to be careful of getting caught.

The main door of her house had been left open but Mahrosh walked past it without a second thought. She entered the narrow gali next to her house and through a backdoor which was never used and known to be barred up, Mahrosh stealthily made her way inside.

She could hear her family out on the yard; her mother telling her father about Walid's return and complaining about Mahrosh, her father humming in response in clear disinterest and her grandmother's silence.

"Why don't you talk to her, Syed? She isn't a child anymore —" Ammi's voice faded when Mahrosh closed the door behind her. She stood by the door a few minutes, till the sound of her heart pounding against her ribs rang in her ears.

Her room was small but it was home, and the leather bound notebook on her table felt more like home to her than anything else. Mahrosh glanced once at the newspaper and as if she was now incapable of thinking of anything else, the name under her article flashed in her mind and she hurriedly hid the newspaper in her drawer.

And then she went to her only confidant.

When paper had been her only listener on so many occasions, how could Mahrosh not fall in love with writing? 

amrood – guavas
khushi – happiness
saheli – friend

assalamolaikum! to those who are a part of my already existing wattpad family and to those who are new ~ ahlan wa sahlan. 

mahrosh has made a very interesting entrance - would love to hear what you think about her so far. and ah yes - walid ibrahim has been mentioned too - he will be coming in the next chapter so you won't have to wait much.