There comes the eve of Eid — the silence before the storm.
The chandeliers of the Sikandar haveli glowed brilliantly that Eid night. Silver trays of sheer khurma and roasted lamb passed hand to hand. Children ran through the drawing room, their laughter colliding with the clink of teacups. On the surface, it was a night of celebration, as it had always been for decades in the Sikandar household.
But beneath the polished floors and practiced smiles, cracks widened unseen.
At the head of the long table, Agha Sikandar sat dignified, though age had begun to bow his proud shoulders. His children surrounded him — six grown, each with families of their own, yet still his children in his eyes.
It was Wajdan, the eldest, who shattered the fragile calm.
He placed his spoon down with a sharp clatter and leaned forward.
"Abba," his voice rang loud enough to hush the room, "we cannot delay this matter any longer. Your will is ….. outdated. Times have changed. I am the eldest son — it is my right to take charge of the businesses and properties now. Enough of this talk of division."
A heavy silence fell. Even the children froze mid-bite, sensing the shift.
Ruhan straightened in his chair, tone calm but edged like steel.
"Our father's name is greater than his wealth, bhai. Do not speak of his will as if it were a scrap of paper. It is his life's struggle, written with sweat and sacrifice."
Wajdan's eyes blazed. "Spare me your sermons. You've always been self-righteous. What do you know of responsibility? Of carrying the burden of being the eldest? Everything we have stands because I was at the forefront!"
Then, with a cruel smile, he struck deeper — mocking Ruhan's years as a salaried man.
He reminded the table of the humiliation in the Forex corridor, when he called his younger brother a "jobber."
The words sliced through the room. Gasps broke the silence.
Kaina looked at Ruhan. Not shocked — but in disbelief. She remembered the night he whispered he only wanted peace and sabr.
Tonight, humiliation had crossed all limits.
"Standing at the forefront," Alyna murmured suddenly, "or squandering at the forefront?"
Her quiet jab drew sharper gasps. Rubab stiffened beside her husband, her silks glittering as she snapped:
"Enough! My husband deserves what is his. He has given this family his years, his effort. You will not humiliate him before his children!"
Voices erupted. Zavian raised his own, backing Wajdan with calculated fervor. Sania nodded, adding coldly that the eldest child always inherited the throne — and as the eldest daughter, she too had claims. Alyna and Rayyan shouted back, begging them to stop tearing their father's house apart.
Through it all, Agha Jan sat frozen. His face paled, the noise battering his ears like waves against a crumbling shore. At last, he slammed his frail hand upon the table.
"Bas!" His voice cracked with age, yet it carried the authority of a lion. Silence fell.
"I gave you children everything so you would never fight over scraps of land and money. And today, on Eid, you shame me with this greed?"
His chest heaved. A cough wracked his body; he clutched at his chest. Chairs scraped back, servants rushed for water. Panic rippled through the room. But Wajdan stood unmoved, his jaw clenched — not with worry, but with frustration that the matter had been interrupted again.
Across the table, young Wali sat silently. Only thirteen, yet his eyes saw what the shouting adults could not. His father's voice trembled not with strength, but with greed.
And Agha Jan, the lion of their house, suddenly seemed small — his eyes dimmed with hurt.
Wali's spoon hovered above his plate, untouched. His heart pounded as he replayed his father's words. "It is my right… I am the eldest… everything exists because of me."
Something cracked inside him. For years he had admired Wajdan — the father who told stories at bedtime, who carried him on his shoulders, who filled the house with pride. But tonight, the man he saw was not the same. This was a man who humiliated his own brother, who made Agha Jan's hands tremble, who broke the silence of Eid with greed.
Wali lowered his eyes so no one would see the storm within them. If Abba can speak like this to Agha Jan… if he can wound him on Eid night… what will I become when I grow older? Will I too shame him? Will I too raise my voice against my family?
The thought chilled him. He swallowed hard, pushing the fear down, whispering to himself:
"No. Families don't collapse like this. Abba must come back to himself. He must."
But even as he tried to convince himself, the first seed of doubt took root. A seed that whispered: Maybe honor does not pass from father to son like blood. Maybe it can die in one generation.
That night, while half the haveli prayed for Agha Jan's health, the other half whispered in corridors, plotting futures on the bones of their father's empire.
In Agha Jan's room, peace held. Rayyan, Ruhan, and Alyna stayed at his side. Kaina came quietly to check if they needed anything. Sabiha and Kaina tended to the children, lulling them to uneasy sleep.
Later, near tahajjud, Agha Jan stirred. He rose softly, not waking those around him. Ruhan slept on the couch, Alyna dozed beside him, Rayyan curled at his feet. One by one, he drew blankets over them — first Alyna, then Rayyan, then his quiet son Ruhan.
As he moved toward wudhu, he saw Sabiha in prayer, Kaina asleep beside the children.
He laid his cane aside, sat on his prayer mat, and raised trembling hands. His tears spilled freely.
"Ya Allah… mujhe himmat de, hosla de… ke mai is azmaish se guzar sakoon."
That night, the patriarch of the Sikandar house cried not for his own frailty, but for the test placed upon his bloodline. Memories returned, sharp and merciless — the peak of his career, the empire he built from nothing, the betrayal of his younger brother who once stole it through manipulation of papers. He had rebuilt then, from the ashes. But tonight, his heart broke at a deeper wound.
This time it was not outsiders.
This time it was his own son.