"He was the eldest of the four sons of Rashidul Khan Dehlavi. His family was rooted in Peshawar. They were a large Muslim Punjabi family. His father was a policeman. As their family expanded, they faced financial struggles to make ends meet. So, Yusuf was put to work," Faajal uttered softly. Her eyes felt moist retelling the things he mouthed once. The intrigued woman before slanted closer with her brows squinted together.

Faajal downed the informing sobs. She wouldn't allow herself to break down when she had been restrained in the moments of his end. "He didn't like the daily toil of a newspaper boy and postman. Something else was sown in his heart since his boyhood. And that was acting. He watched theatre plays with his grandparents. After coming home, he would imitate the lines or sing songs before the mirror. So, the monotony of these jobs bored him. He had secretly signed up for a role in a play. But before he got to perform, his father knew and beat him until his skin turned raw. This contrast always remained from his childhood."

"Did Rashidul Khan accept his son's ambition later?"

"At the very end of the stardom. He even refused to accept me. They were very reserved, especially about religion. I was a Sikh, so they couldn't consent to our relationship at first."

"You were born in Chandigarh, right?" Neela Devi questioned.

"Hmm, in the family of a farmer."

"You met Raj, I mean Yusuf, in Bombay Talkies?"

"Not there really. When I was 12, my father, Ravinder Singh, lost all of his land. We came to Bombay in search of work. I roamed around studios for work. Then, I found 'Bombay Talkies'. They hired me as a junior artist. He had joined the same year, but before me as a clapper boy, I remember. We met in Rehmatbagh a few days after my joining. That day still lives in my head afresh."

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

1943, Bombay

Faajal chewed chickpeas beside her father, sitting on a bench before the calm lake ahead. The echo of its feeble ripples reached their way. How thankful she was to have a break after days of moil. Though she must work to earn their bread, the helpless teenager also longed for an exploration of this extravagant city.

Faajal muttered, "Baba?"

"Hmm?" he responded in the usual rash pitch.

"Can we go to the fair held in the next lane?"

"Why?" Ravinder snapped. "You have plays to attend this evening. Aren't you satisfied with this?"

She heaved a sigh and hopelessly shifted her gaze below. "Finish these fast. We must go, " the elder man ordered. She hastily nodded and pressed another mouthful of peas, teeth mulling those sturdy balls to powder. Fury boiled her blood, scorching her face.

"Stay here, I'll be back," Ravinder ordered and trailed away.

The sun had grown a hazy orb by then. Bright orange streaks pierced through the infusing violet. Only a few people were roaming in the park now. And one of them was a boy of 16 chattering with his accomplice.

Faajal emptied the packet of chickpeas and hurled it away. Ravinder still didn't return. She wandered to the boy beneath the tendrils of the Banyan tree and asked, "Excuse me, what's the time now?"

The boy faced her, bearing a smile. "4.47. By the way, aren't you Faajal Kaur?"

Faajal failed to answer, so entranced by his features. He had blue pupils, like two sapphires slashed raw. His skin glistened when sunbeams reflected on his body, like a warm spell to capture anyone. His smile could thaw heavy coats of frost within a second of yielding. His face seemed crafted by a divine artist, so diligent yet a mark of mischief bubbled. Had he been a sculpture, no king or elite could deny gracing their palace with his magnificence. The azure streaks within his eyes played with light, securing a hint of innocence. He resembled the sun's palpating blaze while embracing the moon's exquisite brilliance.

"Hey," The boy chuckled, snapping his fingers before her nose. She jerked and hurried a reply. "Yes, yes. How do you know? You work in Bombay Talkies?"

The boy shook his neck, the smile hadn't yet disappeared. "You should be moving now. You know a shortcut-"

"FAAJAL!" Ravindeer stomped near and pulled her arm. "I told you not to move!"

Shame gnawed at her insides at the scorn she had received before the boy. Her shoulder drooped, "Baba, I just asked the time."

"You won't get late, uncle ji. I know a shortcut to the studio. I also work there."

Ravinder's rage shifted towards the flitting boy now. "I don't need your guidance. Come, Faajal." He hauled her away to her dismay. While dragged afar, Faajal huffed at his path, begging for an apology for the indecent words. But the boy winked, diluting her embarrassment and kindling a fleck of bliss in her heart. The current that gushed inside her veins upon glancing at him was something else. These years of life tend to fall over the physical profile. But the stranger's cheerful demeanour sparked an aura of contentment, driving her fondness towards him. Inexplicable warmth suffused her mind after ages of murk.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The following day,

Faajal revised the scripts when someone cleared their throat. She glanced up to notice that same face, beaming at her. "You?" She instantly stood up and closed to him. Her lips unconsciously parted. "Yes, me. I hope your father isn't here right now."

"No, no..." Faajal bent her head down. "I am sorry for yesterday. He is just-"

The boy sneered, "That's alright. Most fathers are like that. Always scowling and complaining. I saw your play yesterday...." The mention tensed her nerves, anxious about a comment belittling her potential. "You have higher potential than others, I can say." He proudly smiled.

She laughed in relief. "Thank you. You are also an artist here?"

"Hmm. But I joined as a clapper boy."

Faajal suspected anyone would hire this charming face as mere as a clapper boy. "Shocked, right?" He pursed his lips. The sparkle in his voice dimmed at her guilt. "No, I-I...didn't mean anything bad, I..."

He beckoned with his hand, "It's alright. Many people get mistaken over this."

"What is your name?"

He leaned closer, quickening her breaths. "You want the real one or the normal one?"

"You have two names?"

He inclined his head, squinting brows together.

"What's your real name?" Faajal questioned in wonder.

He implied her to get closer and whispered, "Yusuf,"

She gasped, "You are a Muslim? I thought most in Bombay were Hindus."

He laughed out loud. Her mind darkened to the thought of her silly misbelief.

"I am not from Bombay, actually. I am from Peshawar."

Her eyes broadened, facing shock after shock. "Your family lives here?"

"I live alone. They live in Peshawar. I came to Bombay with my distant cousins. Stayed a few days, but they were having trouble with me. So I decided to live alone."

"My father would have never left me alone for a moment." She didn't feel proud but infuriated.

His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Good for you,"

"No, it isn't. Getting constantly watched isn't good. He has turned my life into hell. He has lost his land to harvest. And now I ramble from studio to studio in search of work. "

"Don't you like acting?" Yusuf frowned.

Faajal shook her hands. "No, no, not like that. It has been my passion since my childhood. It's just that he is very restrictive about my plays. Like, which play should I take, which one should be declined."

Yusuf chuckled. His eyes gleamed like waves in deep pools. "Once you grow up to be a superstar, show him your capability."

Some distant treads echoed towards them. Then, a rich male voice resounded, startling them. Ravinder had returned. "You go now." Faajal urged desperately. "We will meet again."

Yusuf drew out the hairpin of her bun. "Wait for me. I will return." He sneaked out by the other exit.

Faajal was left alone, drowning in dismay at his absence. But in the solitude of her daily routine, Yusuf emerged like a ray of sunshine, dispelling the dark clouds. And she was ever glad to Waheguru for this gift.