The days after Eid stretched like taut strings.
Every corridor of Barkat Mansion carried whispers—of Agha Jan's health, of hidden alliances, of a deal that promised to crown Wajdan's pride.
But in the boardrooms of Islamabad, a quieter game was unfolding.
Ruhan had already moved his hand. The Forex–Salex proposal, expected to be sealed within the week, was quietly delayed. Clauses were questioned, timelines pushed back, signatures withheld.
To outsiders it looked like revisions in the agreement.
To Ruhan, it was survival.
One more week, he thought. Just one more week to steady Abba before Wajdan throws this family into ruin.
At the hospital, the test results arrived. The doctor's tone was careful; his words were merciless.
"There are blockages. We recommend bypass surgery. It should not be delayed."
Ruhan's throat tightened.
Agha Jan sat silent, his dignity holding back fear. The man who had carried empires now seemed smaller, weighed down by invisible years.
"Abba," Ruhan said quietly, "we'll do it. I'll arrange the best surgeons. You just have to trust me."
He stepped aside to make a call.
"I need everything ready in two days. The best cardiac team—no matter the cost. This surgery cannot fail."
When he ended the call, he whispered under his breath,
"Ya Allah… Abba ko sehat aur tandurusti wali zindagi de. Unka saya hum sab ke sar par hamesha qaim rakhna."
He looked back at his father, voice firm but tender.
"Abba… trust me. You'll be fine."
Agha Jan's trembling hand found his son's arm.
"Trust," he murmured, "is the only wealth I have left."
Back at the haveli, peace shattered.
Wajdan stormed through the halls, mocking his brother before the family, before servants.
"You stopped Abba from signing these files—thinking you sealed my fate too. You think delaying this will save you? Once I close with Salex, I own the full rights. Everything will change. You can't even imagine the scale!"
Ruhan poured a glass of water, his calmness like a wall.
"Bhai," he said evenly, "ye jo tum Forex, Forex par itna uchal rahe ho… mujhe nahi lagta tum unke saath deal crack bhi kar paoge."
Laughter spilled from Wajdan, brittle and forced.
"Jealousy suits you poorly, little brother. You've always been in my shadow."
But the words faltered midway. Something in Ruhan's steady gaze unsettled him.
Unknown to Wajdan, the very signature he was boasting of—did not exist.
That evening, voices rose again. Ruhan finally snapped.
"Please," he said sharply, addressing both Wajdan and his wife, "stop these talks of rights and inheritance. Abba's condition is fragile. If you can't do this for him, then at least do it for yourself. Because as long as Abba lives, the power you crave stays in his hands. Then to you"
For a moment, even Wajdan hesitated—caught between anger and truth.
Then his pride surged back. He swept the glassware from the table; shards scattered like the sound of something breaking inside the family itself. He stormed off, slamming the door behind him.
That night, the mansion split in two.
Upstairs, Wajdan smoked late with Zavian, bragging about his soon-to-be victory.
Downstairs, outside Agha Jan's room, Ruhan spoke softly to Rayyan and Alyna.
"Abba must survive this surgery," he said. "If he falls… the house will not stand."
Rayyan's jaw clenched. "And Wajdan bhai? You know he'll do anything for that throne."
Ruhan's silence was his answer.
From the shadows, Wali listened—his young heart hammering.
To him, this was no longer a home but a battlefield of brothers, where loyalty and betrayal wore the same face.
And for the first time, he wondered whose son he truly wished to be.
Agha Jan's illness deepened. His steps grew slower; his voice fainter.
Death—once a distant shadow—now lingered in the corners of every room.
Wajdan's impatience became rage.
Surrounded by family one evening, he erupted.
"We can't delay this any longer! The businesses, the accounts—they need my authority now. I won't wait for old papers!"
Agha Jan's cane trembled in his grip.
"Beta," he said softly, "while I live, this matter will not be spoken of again. My honor is not yet in the grave."
"Honor?" Wajdan spat. "What honor is left in a man who cannot even stand without help?"
The words struck like a slap across generations.
Silence fell thick as dust.
Rayyan's fists clenched. Alyna hid her face. Even Zavian looked away.
The grandchildren stared, their ideals crumbling. Admiration turned to quiet rejection.
Among them, Wali whispered, almost to himself—
"Abba… why?"
That night, he wrote in his notebook:
Today I saw Babba raise his voice against Agha Jan.
I saw greed louder than love.
Maybe this is what makāfat is—the echo of every dishonor returning home.
One day, I'll be asked too: Did you honor your father? And what will I answer?
He hid the notebook beneath his pillow.
But later, Sarim—Zavian's thoughtful son—found it and read.
A chill passed through him.
The cycle has begun again, he thought. If sons dishonor fathers, will we too carry this curse forward?
That night, when all had fallen silent, Agha Jan rose.
He wrapped a shawl around his shoulders, gripping his cane. The house lay asleep, but his heart was restless.
The driver offered to accompany him, but Agha Jan waved him off.
"Nahi… main akela hi chala jaoonga. Iss duniya se bhi to akela hi jaana hai."
The road to the graveyard stretched long and cracked under the thin moon. The gates creaked open as though in mourning. The air smelled of damp earth, roses, and marigolds.
He walked between the graves—quiet witnesses of countless stories—until he reached hers.
A grave different from others, no marble, no stones,
Begum Hurrain Sikandar.
Her name shimmered faintly in her heart.
He sank to his knees, the earth cool beneath his palms.
"Begum," he whispered, "tum chali gayi… acha kiya. Warna aaj tum apne bete ko aise dekhti to shayad bardasht na karti."
He traced the soil with trembling fingers.
"Yaad hai, tum kehti thi izzat daaman ki tarah hoti hai—ek dafa chil jaye, to silne ke baad bhi daagh rehta hai. Main ne koshish ki, Begum. Bohat koshish. Lekin daagh badhte gaye."
The wind stirred softly, rustling the marigolds. It almost felt like she was listening.
"Tum hoti to Wajdan ko samjha leti… uske aankhon mein ab bhi bachpana hai, lekin us bachpene ka ghamand ban gaya hai. Usne mujhe nahi dekha, Begum—sirf meri kursi dekhi. Kursi bhi kya… sirf wo dolat jo duniya mei hi chhut jaati hai."
His voice broke into a cough. He steadied himself, whispering,
"Main sochta hoon, kya meri parvarish kam pad gayi? Ya mohabbat zyada thi?
Shayad tum sahi thi… jab kehti thi ke baap ka pyaar had se badh jaye to beta apne kadam bhool jaata hai."
He fell silent, tears glistening under the thin moonlight.
"Begum… mujhe darr lagta hai. Mere baad sab bikhar jaayega. Ye ghar, ye rishtay… sab kuch."
He lowered his head, resting it against the his legs.
"Ya Allah, tu sab dekh raha hai na? Main ne koshish ki, apne ghar ko bachane ki, lekin mere apne hi usay tod rahe hain."
The night grew colder. From somewhere beyond the walls, the fajr adhan began to echo—faint, haunting, pure.
Agha Sikandar rose slowly, adjusting his shawl, his breath visible in the chill air.
He turned once more toward her grave.
"Mujhe tumhari kami har saans mein mehsoos hoti hai, Hurrain."
Then, with a trembling but unbroken step, he walked back through the misty rows of graves.
Behind him, the first light of dawn crept over the horizon—thin, gray, and full of quiet promise.
The night had ended, but the curse of dishonor had just begun.