Family Ties

"All set?" The elderly asked his grandson.

"All good, Dada Jaan (Grandpa)." Sohaib Sikander answered with unrestrained arrogance emitting from his posture. The duo was seated in the study of the Sikander Haveli discussing the upcoming elections and their plan.

"Just like last time." Bade Sikander Sahib (Elder Master) scoffed as he said that. In his eyes, his grandson became incompetent since the last time they stood for election. The loss was too humiliating. 'After all, those done.'

Sohaib clenched his jaws holding on to the inferno stirring in him. It was an infamous fact that Chote Sahib (Young Master) had the shortest temper. Not a word could be uttered against him without the tongue being pulled out the very next second. The people feared the Sikanders. The history of their dominance was purely written by blood and tears.

"Not this time around, Dada Jaan."

Bade Sikander Sahib remained quiet. His mind mulled on the occurrence of the past and present. Everything was going as per their wish. The opposition- the National People's Party, was too engrossed with their campaign, taking their silence as their backstepping. 'If only they knew.' He smirked internally. Things were looking up for them. Hopefully, by the next time, history will mark a new change where Sikanders ruled Aadhilabad.

"Anyways, I asked her to come over to join us." a somewhat calm Sohaib informed. He never would have thought that there would be a time when they would even need her. For Sohaib, she was on the weaker side. Too frail, too fragile, docile, and many other adjectives. Yet, once again, Dada Jaan found something in her and she shouldn't make it pay them. Again.

Nodding his head, the elderly trailed his eyes to the study door. He waited for the arrival of the pawn, his pawn. The one that will go to the last box of the opposite side and change to whatever position the player wants. What Bade Sahib wants.

"Good evening, Dada Jaan" A dulcet tone of a woman greeted the man in the tobacco-infused room. The woman stood tall, yet her rounded shoulders and downcast eyes said another tale. This sight was common around Laiq Sikander. His wrinkled face and stony eyes left people to shudder in fear due to his past accounts filled with vengeance and blood.

Laiq Sikander's eyes studied his granddaughter's stiff form. With his hawk eyes, he kept his eyes on both of his grandchildren. One was too hot-headed while the other too docile.

"How is everything with the campaign, Maya?" he asked his granddaughter. No greetings, no pleasantries, not a word asked about her time in Toronto.

"The preparations are going well, Dada Jaan. We are currently working on the models regarding the voters, seats we have and aim to gain, party members and their influence." Pausing a bit, Maya clasped her hands together and bit the inside of her cheeks. Her voice was lost.

That was how the Sikander women felt whenever they were in this Haveli. Calling it home was far from it. It was anything but that. The men ruled and spoke. Only their voices echoed throughout the nooks and corners. The women... well they were just there. Just like the albums we keep in the drawers, piled in dust, and only take them out when we feel like seeing them.

And today Maya was needed. Once again.

"While we were working, something came to our notice." Maya stuttered out. Her mind was in a battle of its own- to reveal the review of her team or not. The election was crucial to her Dada Jaan and brother. She couldn't be the cause of ruination and face their wrath. She knows how brutish these men are and what happens when you stand in their way, intentionally or not. Often her ears had caught up on the accounts of the merciless side of her family toward the outsiders.

"The models are fine, but that is on paper. Our silence is adding fuel to the fire and it looks good. That is as for now."

She quickly ran her tongue over her lower lips. She was nervous. Her palms were sweating and her head was ringing due to sleepless nights and stress. From her aslant view, she saw Sohaib fisting his hands while her Dada Jaan's eyebrows were closer causing the distance between them to diminish with every word she spoke out.

"What are you trying to say?" Sohaib pushed each word out with increasing anger towards Maya.

"They are up to something. Just like us. I mean, they are campaigning with new leaders and just Bakht, who to be honest, doesn't deserve the position and this much grandeur. It seems as if Bakht is here on the field for display. The real man is out there. Think about it. They are Ahmeds and they are pre-"

And Maya was shut off, by the blazing glare of Dada Jaan. Bile rose up to her throat and her nose tickled at the sensation. Her eyes were about to brim with tears, yet she controlled them all as she bit her tongue hard. The metal taste of blood cooled the aroused bile, somewhat.

"What is that I hear, child?" The man probed while his lips gave a sinister smile to the frail woman. "I think you forgot as you were very far away from this field we venture upon, but as your elder, it is our duty to remind you after all.

This is the norm of elections. every cycle, every round, and every year, the Ahmeds blow their trumpets and by fluke get the seat. They never tasted the real essence of politics. But we, Sikander's, are very mindful of this fact and have taken upon ourselves to let them taste that very essence." His grin widened and soon Sohaib joined the old man.

"What this democratic mass wants is strong people. Symbols that carry them hide their flaws. So all these models, throw them. Waste of time.

Make use of yourself, at least once. Use that fancy political science degree that you got. Your brother is trying to achieve something, he and the party's future should be your priorities. Just jump into the speeches and campaign events."

Sealing the conversation, the men walked up to the heavy wooden doors of the study. Maya was still in her seat, catching up to her bearings as tears blinded her sight. She was a strong woman, on the outside that she is. Her career was impeccable with achievements and recognitions, which ceased its value in front of her family. This was a regular thing for her but still hurt the same. The air seemed too suffocating and her nails dug deeper into her soft palms as a means to calm herself. Nevertheless, the tears and whimpers were threatening to spill out.

"And anyways you are a Sikander and not Ahmed."

The doors closed with the words of Laiq Sikander stalling the air.

Same sentence but different contextual meaning looming, the hazy moon witnessed it all over again.