Chapter 1: Echoes of the Past
The Fine Arts department of the university was alive with its usual scent of oil paints and fresh canvas, but Rija's heart was elsewhere today. "Simra! Shall we leave?" Rija asked her friend, whose hand was still moving skillfully across a canvas. Before Simra could respond, Rohan joined them. "What's the update, guys?" Simra smiled, packed her brushes, and headed towards the exit while chatting with Rohan. Rija followed silently, her focus not on their conversation but on the mobile phone hidden in her bag. With a racing heart, she checked WhatsApp, hoping for a message from Aneel. There was nothing.
The three of them reached the university's main cafe, a bustling hub for students. Rija took a deep breath and sat at an empty table. She had intentionally chosen a spot where she could see everyone entering. Moments later, Aneel walked in with his friends. He seemed lost in his own world, not glancing towards Rija's table even for a second.
A sharp sting of pain hit Rija; it felt like he had deliberately ignored her. Little did she know the immense fear hidden behind his indifference. As hot samosas and snacks were served, Rohan noticed Rija's fallen face. "Is something bothering you, Rija?" She tried to brush it off, but Simra knew the truth. "I know! Mr. Aneel didn't even look at her today, and now Madam feels ignored," Simra teased. She then turned serious. "But you know how much he fears his father. They are cousins, but their parents can't stand each other." Rohan laughed and suggested, "Why not just get them married? The rivalry will end on its own." Simra shook her head. "Impossible! I was at Nanu's house recently... the argument I witnessed was terrible. Despite being so mature, the elders were fighting like children. Only Nana and Nanu managed to quiet them down, or Salman's engagement party would have been ruined.
"On the other side of town, Siraj Sahab and his wife, Zarmina, were talking in their lounge. Concern was etched on Siraj's forehead. " Rija has two semesters left. Zarmina, I want her to focus on household responsibilities now. My health is unpredictable. I want to marry her off into a wealthy family as soon as possible." He paused, his tone turning bitter. "I have to show Rehman what a grand match I've found for my daughter. " Zarmina nodded silently. She had heard these complaints about her brother-in-law, Rehman, a thousand times. The grudge Siraj held stemmed from a trivial matter years ago—a dispute over whose name should appear first on a wedding card as the 'elder brother.' Rehman Sahab was no different. He lived to spite Siraj.
Both families were educated, yet stubbornness had made them enemies. Despite their wives being sisters and their children longing to connect, the families only met at Mian Quddus's house. Mian Ji and Roshan Ara Begum ruled the family with an iron fist. "As long as I am alive, everyone gathers here on Sundays. Do as you please after I'm gone!" That one sentence from Mian Ji was enough to silence everyone. Living in that same house was 'Mani,' a relative's orphaned grandson who had become the soul of the home.
Mian Ji's own son, Zareef, had moved abroad for business years ago, married someone of his choice, and never looked back. Mani tried to fill that void with his humor, but Mian Ji's hidden pain of separation remained. However, a storm was brewing. After 20 years, Zareef was returning to Pakistan. A return that would unearth buried secrets. Rehman Sahab, consumed by his hatred for Siraj, had no idea that Zareef's wife was his 'long-lost love'—the classmate who had vanished from the country years ago without a word. As the old and new generations collide, new storms are about to be born.
(To be continued...)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright Notice: All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, Ishrat Zahid.