"Is anyone here?" Faajal muttered to the infinite gloom stretching before. Her limbs wabbled beyond control as dread rasped its nail down her spine. The shadowy fog seemed to whisper omens of melancholy. There was nothing but silence ringing. "Is anyone here?" Faajal questioned louder. No answer.

She trudged forward. Her heart crashed against her breast, its cadence like a thunderbolt. Suddenly, muted light radiated in an arc from the horizon. Hope flared in her. She took a step forward, and the light grew. She trailed the path to the horizon as the light expanded. When she reached the origin of the light, it washed over the entire arena and erased the gloom. Tendrils of different shades of green stroked the sheer haze. The earthy scent of trees and soil filled the area. As each leaf bloomed, gold infused the light until it replicated the rays of the sun. The haze vanished and Rehmatbagh emerged into sight.

Faajal spun her head to detect the reason for being here. Wilted sprigs gritted under her feet. The ambience was familiar. It had been the look of Rehmatbagh when she had first met Yusuf and when she had confessed her love to him.

She peeped through the grove of bushes. None was there. She searched behind the trees. Still, none was there. Fret reclaimed her. She raced to the lake, but nothing answered her hunt save for the petite ripples overlapping each other.

She decided to utter the name whose owner had altered her fate here. "Yusuf,"

A gale swished past her to the banyan tree. Dry leaves from the ground followed its lead. She hesitated, but accepted its guidance. Her tresses swerved towards the banyan tree. Glitters pelted her skin. The gale sped and Faajal quickened along with it. As she was ten steps behind the tree, pang struck her, unbidden and firm. A twig had pricked her sole. She lifted her foot to discover blood trickling down her sole. Hissing, she withdrew the twig and limped to the tree. A waxen edge peeked at her behind the tree's bough. Her feet padded closer to it. Her stomach writhed into a knot. Boughs moaned and leaves crooned. She was a step behind to unshroud her reason for being here. Her foot crossed a step at the front.

A qabar lay ahead her eyes. Atop it, crimson roses danced in a rhythm. Emerald leaves sprawled beneath the roses. White marble slabs bordered the rose bush, shaped by intricate patterns. Sapphire blue veins laced the marble.

Her eyes fell on the headstone and froze. It displayed the name she never expected, not like this. 'Yusuf Khan Dehlavi'

Colours mingled into an eerie tone and the world liquified into an obscure painting. She staggered back as if the ground was snatched from beneath her feet. Breaths ceased in her chest. Her heart forfeit its flow. No, no! Her head twitched. Black clouded her vision and numbness clawed her limbs.

"NO!" Faajal shot up in her bed, sucking in shallow breaths. Her cry reverberated within the walls of her room. Glassy studs trembled in her eyes. Sweat greased her hairline. A nightmare, so vivid it felt like reality.

Gurbani burst into the room, worry written over her face. "FAAJAL!" She rushed to Faajal. "What happened? FAAJAL!" She clutched Faajal's arms as Faajal shivered irrevocably. Horrified gasps escaped Faajal's mouth. "Yu–"

"It's alright! It's alright! Breathe,"

Faajal inhaled keenly, her throat still palpating. Gurbani grazed her shoulder. "Was it a nightmare?"

A drop of tear plunged from her eye. "Yusuf–"

Gurbani leaned closer. "What? What about Yusuf?"

Time stilled to a beat. Faajal met Gurbani's stare. "Yusuf ke dil mein chhed hain." [Yusuf has a hole in his heart.]

Gurbani shrieked. Her face contorted. "Kisne kaha?" [Who told you this?]

"Rustom Jai Vakil." Faajal kicked off the bedsheet and hustled to the bathroom. "I need to talk with him, ma. Call Shankar dada as soon as possible!"

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The black Rolls Royce parked before the studio lot. Faajal raced into the studio, her nerves strained. Today was the last day on the set of 'Do Kalakarein' for the promotional photoshoot. Bursting in the set, she grasped Yusuf blathering with Pran.

Her frame stalled in front of them. Her facial muscles firmened. "Yusuf, we need to talk."

Yusuf's brows curled in concern. Pran shifted his gaze between them warily and strode away. Faajal beckoned Yusuf to move to his room. Yusuf exhaled and obeyed. She drifted after him.

She locked the door and turned on the air conditioner. He reclined on the sofa. Her arms folded over her chest. "So, Yusuf Khan Dehlavi, what did the doctor tell you?"

His irises spun in pique. "Nothing serious. Why are you after me?" He whined. "He told me these can happen due to a severe cold! You know I am prone to getting a cold! Even Yaqoob gets nosebleed sometimes!"

"You vomited blood yesterday." Faajal uttered in composed a voice she could muster.

"He gave me medicine for that! Nothing to worry about!" He swished his hands tersely. The crinkles above his browline accentuated.

Faajal sat beside him and seized his collar. "Don't hide anything from me, liar!"

His neck clenched. "I'm NOT!"

"Yes, you ARE!" She shook him.

"Faajal, I swear–"

"You have a hole in your heart!" Tears sparkled in her honey-brown eyes. Hush carried her fractured voice in the room.

Her finger tightened around his collar. A crystalline drop of salt water escaped her eyeduct, hot on her cold cheeks.

Her right hand splayed over his left breast, his strong heartbeat brushed her palm. Yusuf's face betrayed no emotion, but his gaze intensified. His light blue orbs dulled to grey, like a storm. A bump glided down his throat.

"If something ever happens, I won't survive it, Yusuf." Her words tangled in the pool weighing down her eyes.

"There's nothing like that, Faajal." He stroked her hair. "Believe me. Everything has a cure, and so does my heart. It's just a hole." His soothing tone lulled her eardrums.

"Fate is so fickle, Yusuf. If you ignore it as just a 'hole' and something happens later on, remember one thing:" She inched closer until their temples almost collided. "Bury me before I bury you." Her head snapped aside, and she bolted out of his room. Her teeth chewed her lower lip.

"Faajal, Faajal, wait–" Yusuf ran behind, but she outpaced him. She didn't even glance at him until lunch break, when she went out to the studio lot for fresh air. Yusuf strode to her and tried to rekindle her mood. But, she kept storming out of his reach as he chased her, clutching his chest and panting. Faajal penetrated the block designated for the leading cast, hoping to dodge him. Suddenly, words rumbled from a nearby chamber. Faajal paused on her tracks and peered at the doorway of the chamber. Yusuf stopped behind her.  Eagerness was plastered on his face, coalesced with apology. Faajal thrust one last glare at him before focusing on the room.

"Kya dekh rahe ho?" Chanchal peeped at the photos Pran was skimming through. [What are you seeing?]

"Tumhara hone waala paati." [Your to-be husband.]

"Woh toh main khud dekhlungi." A ribbing smile played on her lips. [I will see him myself.]

Pran snickered. Chanchal sat next to him and scanned the photos. "Are they your girlfriends? I mean, were?"

Pran nodded. "Do you miss them?" Chanchal pitched up. Pran remained stoic. Chanchal pursed her mouth, propping one elbow on the armrest of his seat. "If you had not been so giddy, you would not have been lonely."

"You seem so deft in relationship advice. Do you have someone?" Pran raised a brow.

Chanchal gasped and burst into laughter. "No! I realised from di's relationship. Haye," she cooed. "Aren't they so adorable?"

"Would have been if your father and elder sisters weren't here to nudge her." Pran's mouth curled in disdain. "But, he allowed her to be with Yusuf, at least! You and your younger sister, Meher, may not have that."

"Why?"

Pran said, "Your elder sisters had arranged marriages."

"So? Do you think I shall yield my freedom so easily?"

"Well, I didn't mean that–"

"You know me too little, Pran." Chanchal pitied.

Yusuf stopped behind Faajal and cornered, eagerness, coalesced with apology, plastered on his face. Faajal thrust one last glare at him before focusing on the room.

"First of all, I am older than you. So, call me with respect." Pran demanded with mild indignation.

"Name doesn't carry respect. Behaviour does. So, don't determine my respect towards you by names." Her gaze shifted aside.

"About that," Pran giggled. "I am happy you finally respect me." He loomed closer.

"How's your wound?" Chanchal's look softened. She tucked a lock behind her ear.

"Better." Pran rummaged in his pocket and withdrew the lace. "You left this."

She took it from him, their fingers brushing each other for a mere second. Red dusted her nose tip.

Pran guffawed and his forehead tapped Chanchal's hand. Chanchal frowned. "What?"

"I love it when you blush. It makes you cuter."

"When did I blush?" she faltered, but shared his laugh. "Forget it. You think I know too little about you, right?" He placed his elbow adjacent to hers. "So, tell me about you."

"Am I getting Pran Malhotra's attention?" Her smile widened. "There's too much about me. What do you wish to know?" She fixed her dupatta.

"Your favourite food, favourite colour, favourite season, everything."

"Then, you should also tell me about your favourite things."

"Deal." They shook hands and immersed in a cocoon of their own making. Budding sensations and fond glances cooped their conversation.

Yusuf muffled his grin with his palm. Faajal's eyes formed crescents in awe. She was to leave, but Yusuf pulled her back. "Unn logo ki lagi hain aur tu aise munh banake baithi hain." [They are hitting on each other, and you're making faces now.]

She stayed mute, her gaze elsewhere. He heaved a sigh. "Iss dil ki kasam, Faajal, tujhe jitna chinta hain utna mujhe bhi hain." [I swear by this heart, Faajal, I do worry as much as you do.]

Her eyes shifted to his. She wanted to say things, but those died in her mouth. "Abh hass bhi de." Yusuf caressed her cheek with his thumb. [Smile, now, at last.]

She was to lift the corners of her lips when footsteps punctured the moment. They sneaked to Faajal's room, half-giggling and half-praying none beheld anything. Faajal closed the door and leaned on it, a roguish smile on her lips. "Have you talked with Feroz?"

"Hmm. He told me he would inform me later about the casting. I have hinted to Mehboob about the project. He's pretty riled, but hasn't said 'no'."

"Good thing. But be careful, Yusuf. He's a predator who would ruin anyone pricking his way."

Yusuf smickered, a challenging glare in his eyes. "We'll see."

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The sun clambered down and eventide replaced daylight. Faajal, Yusuf, Pran and Chanchal bade farewell to the crew of the production and wished Prakash good luck, who was sweating all over for the editorial phase.

Nimmi embraced both of the sisters and darted a smug expression at Yusuf and Pran before leaving. Yusuf smiled and Pran winked at her.

"Another project, another end." Yusuf breathed and toyed with the key of his car.

Pran tapped Chanchal's shoulder and handed her a piece of paper. "Here you go."

"When do you sleep?" Chanchal asked, folding the paper in half.

Pran scratched the top of his head. "Even I don't know that. But feel free whenever you want."

"But, you can't feel free whenever you want, you know. Baba."

"Aish, I have experience. I am not a janglee murgi like you, reckless all the time!"

Chanchal sneered but didn't retort. Pran flashed her a cheeky smile and boarded his car.

"I shall go now, ladies. If you excuse me," Yusuf bowed to both.

"You are excused." Both sisters commanded with playful grace.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Finishing dinner, Chanchal and Faajal sat in Meher's room with tea to treat the youngest. Meher had attained the highest score in her college, progressing a step ahead to her dreams of being a lawyer. Albeit Ravinder couldn't mask his indignation, others couldn't help but compliment her effort. She had been an innate scholar after all.

"You two here?" Meher went out of her bathroom, wet strands dripped on her back. Her eyes glinted in wonder. "Are these Danish butter biscuits?"

Faajal nodded. Meher raced to snatch a biscuit and shove it in her mouth. "Thank you, Faajal di."

"It's just a biscuit, Meher. You have more presents to unwrap." Faajal fondled the youngest's arm. Delight filled her chest. "You have to prove what we couldn't."

Chanchal poured them cups of tea and started wittering about everything she had garnered about Pran. Faajal had never seen Chanchal so earnest about a topic apart from her and Yusuf's relationship. Meher heeded her sincerely, awed by each and every detail of Pran's boyhood, friendships, home and likings.

When the sisters wished each other good night, Chanchal hurried downstairs and tiptoed to the alcove the main telephone of the house rested in. Sliding out the paper, she dialled the number and pressed the receiver to her ear. Faajal couldn't resist smiling.

Faajal was preparing her bed as a phone call broke in. She picked it. "Hello?"

"Sat sri akal, Madhu. It's me, Feroz!"

Faajal snickered. "Yes, yes, Feroz sahab. Tell me what's the matter?"

"Don't mind me, but did you recommend this project to Rajan Saxena?" Feroz stuttered.

Faajal's voice deepened. "Yes."

"He approached me a week ago and claimed the role of the male lead."

Coarse silence drifted both sides before Feroz broke it. "Look, Madhu, as you know from reading the script, it's a tragic period drama....I am not belittling anyone, but...." A static disrupted the connection before vanishing. "The character of Khursheed needs someone who can carry both finesse and tragedy. You know how tragedy works, you have played quite a few roles....The storyline isn't an abrupt narrative, you have to dig deeper and perform...."

Faajal could sum up his opinion—he didn't want Yusuf to play Khursheed. "I understand what you mean, Feroz sahab. You want someone competent for this film, someone who can not only cry himself but also make the audience cry. And whom have you chosen for this?"

"It's not finalised yet. I have Madhav Kumar in mind for now. Madhu, please don't mind–"

"I am not minding, sahab. But, consider once. I am not pushing you. The film is yours and we, artistes, have to follow you. According to the script, Khursheed is moon-kissed, the fairest of them all, whose beauty compelled a strong-headed princess like Nurjahan to fall in love and duel against her own royalty. If you pick someone, pick wisely. Because Khursheed shoulders the appeal of the film." Faajal said.

Feroz didn't speak, perhaps pensive about his own decision. "We shall discuss further later, sahab." Faajal ended the call. Feroz's skepticism about Yusuf's potential was rational, given Yusuf's stereotypical performances, where he always laughed either as a deluded rich man or as a delusive conman. She didn't want to stilt Feroz, but she couldn't also let Yusuf's talent go in vain.

A month later, Yusuf was accepted for the role of Khursheed. Yusuf was legitimately frolicking around and crying out in everyone's ear. They had a screen test and a wardrobe shoot where they had slipped into the costumes of the old cast. The filming of 'Deewar-e-Ishq' had first commenced in 1946 with a Pakistani actor who had also decided to produce, and a theatre actress. But the partition jumbled the shooting, and the Pakistani actor had migrated to his home. A year later, he died, leaving 'Deewar-e-Ishq' dangling in uncertainty. Feroz, then, left Bombay Talkies and worked as an assistant director in other films. His dream project had been buried, but not killed. He had approached many studios and elites, but they refused because the budget seemed too great. After innumerable failures, he had built his own production house by borrowing money.

Mehboob Khan wasn't too pleased with Yusuf's decision. But, he accepted Yusuf's decision for one term—this project shouldn't interfere with any other films Mehboob Khan had chosen for Yusuf. Yusuf readily agreed. No term mattered to him when freedom was granted. His excitement burned away any lingering hesitance Feroz had. Yusuf was always the earliest to arrive on set and for rehearsals. 

The screenwriters were still modifying the script. So, Feroz had the cast act out various scenes on weekends. Faajal always worshipped her profession. But, working on weekends would have vexed her if not for Feroz's exclusive concept. Faajal had to practise fight scenes, draped in metal armour that scalded her skin red. Yusuf had to carry a manacle weighing over 45 kilograms. That left violet marks on his arms, but he seemed to enjoy every effort. Within three months, Feroz had altered the side cast thrice, complicating the overall plan. But who could question the perfectionist's eye?

13th July came and the world erupted to wish its beloved Rajan Saxena happy birthday. Postcards, flowers, posters and magazines scrambled across India. The whimsical blue-eyed face befell newspapers and cinephiles. Tabloids captured his wholehearted laugh. Faajal was engaged in her ongoing film 'Madhumati', a horror thriller film on the demise of a poor village girl who was sexually assaulted by the head of her village. Yusuf was shooting in Pune. She wished she could run to him and kiss her rangrez's forehead, tell him how much he was worth to her.

After having lunch, Faajal caressed a wrapped box in her lap. A Eau de Cologne 4711 rested inside the box—his birthday gift. A breath of longing skipped her mouth.

A knock attracted her attention. She rose to her feet. "Who is there?"

"Madhu ji, Raj sahab has come!" 

A/N: Do vote and comment if you liked this chapter, pretty people!