Cimmerian Storms and Wailing Winds

The bright sunlight penetrated the hallways, illuminating the whole Haveli to let the people bask in its regal glory. The ivory-golden marble, the kulfi cream walls, the majestic chandeliers witnessed everyone and everything. The Fritz Hansen vase upheld the soft pink hydrangeas, adding more character to the deserted corridor. The stillness added more to the charm and the sweet muzzy scent danced in the humid summer air. Aadhilabad's summer was here.

The soft peach scent now dominated the tranquility from the far corner. Heels cracked on the marble, while her salmon dupatta trailed behind her. Her soft golden curls, which contrasted with her caramel base, were tucked behind her left ear, allowing the silver mirror hoops to dangle to repel those blazing rays. Rabail pushed a few treacherous strands that escaped. Her left wrist was hugged by a Tiffany wristwatch and a thin bar bracelet housing 10 tiny delicate pieces of Australian pink diamond. Only one was there of its kind, just like her. She never took it off. The elegant ornament not only was valuable to its monetary worth, but equally priceless to the sentiments it single-handedly carried along.

Entering the dining parlor, a smile embraced her heart-shaped lips when her eyes took in her Grandma's back. Though times have been hard on them, even brutal, Khadija Rehman Khan, the former Khanum (Female-ruler) of Aadhilabad, stood tall like a pillar for the family, especially for Rabail when hope was a distant tale. Her gray tresses spoke for the cumulative years that she spent, her wrinkled face bore the lines of expressions she pulled out through times and her keen, steady eyes urged you to open yourself in front of her.

Tiptoeing slowly, Rabail planned her steps. Putting her caramel Coach bag on her dining seat, she put her index finger in front of her full lips, colored in her favorite coral nude shade.

Salma, on seeing her, with a knowing smile, shook her head while resuming to arrange the table for morning hustle. Seeing the girl reminded her of the faint past in those three decades that spent in this palatial place: a jovial girl radiated the whole house with her soft smiles, witty words, and glittering orbs. The girl is there, and the smile is there, but the radiance of those hazel eyes has faded. Deep down, she prayed for that light to return, even though that was a far-fetched wish to ask for. Nonetheless, the foolish pounding organ still hoped. After all, hope is what keeps everything alive.

"Nazzakat, tell Salman to get the car. Otherwise, Rabe would simply run off without eating a morsel" her Grandma's gentle, yet authoritative voice boomed through the magnanimous parlor. Her granddaughter’s antics sometimes put her in great distress. She was a responsible child, subsequently failing to be one when it comes to herself. Shaking her head, as she mulled on what next to reprimand her favorite granddaughter about, a pair of hands encircled her from behind.

"Grandma, this much anger?" Rabail questioned as a smile braced her face, knowing her sweet Grandma, a list of "worrisome" traits of hers were surely being jotted down.

"Good Morning" putting a hand on her Noor's cheek as she turned to greet her. "Good morning. Let's have breakfast, shall we?", holding the frail, lined hands, she tugged her Grandma towards the long dining table.

The granite marble was adorned with a plain cream silk central mat and sequins around the edges, creating a stately ambiance. Round plates, placed on their designated silk table clothes, had their thick navy edges embellished with Persian craftworks. Copper cutlery was arranged in a parade- tall to short, perfectly spaced, and in a perfectly straight line. Various delicacies were assorted as per the tastes of the natives of the Haveli.

Making her Grandma seat at the head of the table, Rabail grabbed the breakfast for them. Their plates were filled with piping parathas (flatbreads), vegetable curry, and a half-boiled egg. Pouring the citric orange juice for them both, Rabail took a seat adjacent to her Grandma. They both took a bite, not forgetting to thank their Almighty before for this meal that He graced them.

"So, what are you up to today, Rabe?" Grandma voiced out as a soft smile, enveloped with warmth, was directed to the concerned. Rabe- a name that those close to her called. A name her father had spoken with utmost adoration, once upon a time. It has been a while since he was gone, yet the absence still left a prickle deep down in her heart. Perhaps the comfort and protection that voice provided were what she craved in this tangled world filled with thorns. However, what Rabail needed was not the reminder of those thorns, but of those roses which still bloomed amid the green needles.

A soft chuckle echoed along with the moving cutleries in their hands.

"Well, for starters, the elections season is here, and like always, people remember their Khanum (Female ruler). Only then" The statement, though it was said lightly, held the whole gravity of the situation. Things were going out of hand. The Khan Haveli- or locally known as Laal Haveli, never tangled with politics. Through times, even when the country reformed, broke, battered, its shadow was away from the swamps of the human chessboard. Nevertheless, they never backed out to help their people. The citizens of Aadilabad considered the Laal Haveli their lord, their holders of justice.

"Power is a dark and sketchy sensation, Rabe. If one gets to know that you hold it, they oppose you; while given to their very hands, they call you spineless for not handling it and push it back."

The words were one of those daily doses of Rabail, what molded her to what she was. Her father, Ibrahim Khan, was the second-in-line to being the Ohda Daar (Male Ruler) of Aadhilabad. Upon Rabail's birth, he gave that right to her, along with her younger uncle, Ismail Khan. They both loved her to bits, pieces, and in between. Something triggered them to do so, a power that was enveloped in her hazel eyes. Ismail Uncle called it the "glint of the Khanum (Female Ruler)'', whenever he narrated that tale.

Frowning, the elderly woman said, "Sometimes I am relieved to have escaped from these duties"

Hearing her grandmother, Rabail's hand stopped mid-air holding the sparkling juice glass. Confusion swirled in her head as the words entered her mind. Her grandmother loved her duties.

"Now, Grandma, you are being very contradictory to yourself," smirking she replied and bringing the rim of the glass to her plump lips.

A mischievous glint placed in those light grey eyes steadied themselves on the confused hazel ones.

"Well, the perk of being retired is that my brain cells get to live a little longer. Trust me, darling, when they open their mouths, my poor brain cells die. Just die, not a second wasted." With this, Rabail turned into a coughing mess, her Grandma was a woman of few words, yet whenever she did speak, she left people speechless. And here we are with a victim, itself.

Salma quickly grabbed a napkin as soon as she heard the sound. Coming close, she patted the poor girl's back, knowing fully Grandma was one behind this spectacle.

"Oh God, Grandma! Please check your words, will you?" Rabail answered her with a raspy voice courtesy of painful coughs. Salma nodded her head. At least someone could keep a check on the previous Khanum (Female Ruler). Not that the elder needed it, for she was a wise woman who chose her words carefully and dominated her reign. However, sometimes, she spoke too valiantly, letting the jaws touch the polished floors.

Shrugging her shoulder with a slight pout on her thin lips, the accused simply went back to eating seeing her granddaughter being so dry about the joke.

"You need to stand corrected, for when did they even close their mouths? It's always, always blabbering." Rabail added, sarcasm dripping like honey in every word.

With this, the parlor lit up with the chuckles of Khadija and the sighing of Salma. Like Grandma, like granddaughter. They are hopeless!

Ifran entered the parlor with a light smile. It's been a while since such a scene took place in Haveli. Way too long and he had it captured in the reels of his mind.

"Having fun, Mesdemoiselles (Ladies)?" Ifran interjected their laugh as he took his place. Salma went out to serve him, while the conversation flowed.

"Well... well, Iffy, what are we going to talk about with my dear pumpkin-headed Naim Bakht?" Rabail muttered as soon as Ifran took his seat. Naim Bakht was, is, and always will be a pain in the..... Head. I was going to say HEAD. She complained inside her mind.

Naim Bakht is a prominent political figure in Aadhilabad. Born as a commoner, he rose through the ladders buttering people. His lips were only to sing your praise, his praise, and again his praise. If he weren't an MNA, then surely he would have been a very good advertiser. He knew whom to go and speak what words to please him. Yet, nothing productive as a suggestion, plan, a statement could be expected from him. A hopeless case, as Grandma calls him.

"Well, your dear pumpkin-head is now, as we speak, pacing your favorite Persian carpet with his polished shoes, awaiting your presence, Khanum" Ifran, holding the smirk threatening to spill as he said so. Oh, how Rabe hates when he uses the pronoun "your" when linked with that headless man.

Clicking her tongue, Rabail spoke with much more seriousness. "Wasn't Mr. Bakht supposed to come in, half an hour?" Raising her thick arched brows as she read the time on her wristwatch, she threw the question.

"He was too anxious to discuss the upcoming elections. Said something about a new force bridging in the opposition." Ifran replied. The reply was enough to let Rabail know of the upcoming storm. Short replies regarding work were their rule, if outside the study. Even the slight breeze carried the news.

Nodding to his words, the wheels in her mind turned. Grandma and Ifran continued conversing in their rhythm. If something could make Bakht float around her Persian carpet like Headless Nick, then surely something was wrong. Very wrong. Bakht was a man who handled things, by buttering or bribing or even pleading, he got work done. If he couldn't handle something and come to Rabail, then the very thing was concerning. Something was amiss. Like a lacuna in the script.

Sparing a few more moments, she stood up to leave for the office.

Pecking her Grandma's elegant contours, waving at Iffy, she made her way to the door. Thinking of all the possible outcomes, listing from bad to worse.

"The winds are going to change its course, Rabail"

Taking a pause, she lifted the served lavender tea. It helped her calm down the building nerves. Rabail's jaws clenched, palms were sweltering. Preceding Khanum said "Rabail". Things were serious.

Bringing the rim of the delicate porcelain teacup, she spoke in a voice, one channeling her days as the ruler. "You will hear the thunder, catch the cimmerian sight of the storm on the horizon. But remember, not all storms come for disruption, some come to clear your path." saying her side, Grandma calmly took a sip of the tea. Elegance was dripping in every posture and gesture in the spotlight rays of the summer sun.

The weather of diplomacy is changing, she could feel it. Once again.

Use it.

Getting the unsaid words of the matriarch, Rabail exited the parlor without a backward glance.

Her heels clicked on the marble, again. Her shadow kissed the ivory cream. The air shifted. In the silence, the far ends of the waging battle were heard.

And she was ready to bring out the monsters.

Monsters that will dwell in their heads as long as they breathe, crumble, shatter, crack... and perish.