Fifteen hours later,
the Mirza brothers-Zohaib, Zaim, and Zamir-were settled into the living room of their London residence.
Since the family's business required frequent visits to the UK, they had long ago invested in local real estate, ensuring a permanent home away from home.
Wahaj, had ensured that the house was spotless before their arrival. After keeping their luggage in their rooms and freshening up, Zohaib summoned the twins to the lounge.
"Aapne bulaya, bhaijaan?" Zaim asked, his voice laced with exhaustion.
("Did you call us, brother?")
"Yes," Zohaib replied, his expression turning stern. "I know you're both exhausted but we need to establish the ground rules immediately."
The twins instinctively straightened their posture, recognizing his 'no-nonsense' tone.
"First rule: the kitchen is off-limits to you both," Zohaib declared. "If you're hungry, ask me or order takeout. But stay out of the kitchen."
The twins groaned in unison, but one look at Zohaib's face made them nod in reluctant agreement.
"Second: you must be home by 10:00 PM every night. Wherever you go, you inform me first." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"And don't even think about getting into trouble. If you get arrested for causing chaos in this city, don't expect me to bail you out."
Their eyes widened, but they remained silent.
"That's all for now. I'll order dinner, and since you still have a week before college starts, you'll both be joining me for grocery shopping tomorrow," he announced.
The dinner was peaceful. Zohaib had ordered Dal Makhani and Garlic Naan from the nearby Indian Restaurant. Three of them devoured their food silently, none of them had energy for their usual chaotic bickerings.
Once dinner was over, the house fell quiet as they all retired to their rooms for a much-needed rest.
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After offering his Fajr prayer, Zohaib headed out for his early morning run in the nearby park, the crisp morning air helping him clear his head.
Upon returning, he freshened up and entered the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
While Wahaj had arranged for the pantry to be stocked with essentials and had even insisted on hiring a private cook, Zohaib had firmly declined.
To him, cooking wasn't a chore; it was a form of meditation that brought him a rare sense of peace.
He kept the spread simple yet wholesome: toasted brown bread, fluffy omelettes, fresh fruits, and steaming tea. As the rich aroma wafted through the house, the twins appeared in the dining room almost instantly, drawn in by their brother's culinary handiwork.
Though Zohaib's busy life in India rarely afforded him the time to step into the kitchen, his skills were legendary. Every meal he prepared was highly praised.
"Finish up," Zohaib instructed as they ate. "Then get ready. We're heading out for the groceries."
True to his word, once the twins had changed, the three of them set off for the nearest supermarket to stock up for the week ahead.
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Inside the supermarket, Zohaib was in his element, carefully scanning labels to ensure every product was free of alcohol or animal-derived ingredients.
He moved with a practiced discipline, cross-referencing his list with the items in his basket.
Meanwhile, the twins were treating the outing like a heist. Their cart was rapidly disappearing under a mountain of chocolates, cold-drinks, and various bags of chips.
Zohaib shot them a sharp glare, but for once, the allure of British snacks was stronger than their fear of his disapproval; they simply offered him sheepish grins and kept browsing.
Realizing he had missed a few essentials, Zohaib went back towards a different aisle. He turned the corner in a hurry and collided with a young girl in a hijab, the impact sending the items she was carrying scattering across the floor.
"I am so sorry, I wasn't paying attention," Zohaib apologized immediately, kneeling to help her gather her things.
As she reached for a package, she looked up. For a fleeting second, her hazel eyes met his green ones. The air seemed to still.
Caught off guard by the intensity of the moment, both quickly averted their gaze, the silence suddenly heavy between them.
"Sorry, it was my fault as well," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "And thank you for the help."
Before he could respond, she turned and hurried away. Zohaib stood there for a moment, a strange, unfamiliar tug at his chest. He had never been the type to notice a stranger like this-let alone feel a physical reaction to it.
"Astagfirullah, Zohaib. You aren't supposed to let your thoughts wander like this" he reprimanded himself, shaking his head to clear the mental fog.
He had always been a man of discipline, keeping his gaze lowered and maintaining a respectful distance from women. This sudden lapse in his composure frustrated him.
He met the twins at the billing counter, where he sighed at the sheer volume of junk food they had accumulated.
After settling the bill, they loaded the car and headed to the mall. They still needed to purchase heavy winter gear; they knew all too well that London's biting cold was a far cry from the winters they were used to back in India.
---------------------------------------A week had passed, and the rhythms of London life were finally beginning to feel familiar. Today, however, marked a major milestone: the twins' first day at the London School of Economics (LSE).
Both Zaim and Zamir had earned their seats through sheer academic merit. Despite their reputation for mischief, they were consistent toppers-Zaim pursuing a BSc in International Business and Zamir a BSc in Management.
After a quick FaceTime call with their parents for a dose of motivation, the brothers were a mix of nerves and adrenaline. While Zamir was the cheerful, outgoing half of the duo, Zaim was more sensitive, his anxiety calmed a bit by the fact that he had his brothers by his side.
Zohaib drove them to the historic campus, giving each of them a firm hug and wishing a sincere "Good luck" before they parted ways and the twins went towards their respective departments.
Zaim adjusted the straps of his leather backpack, looking up at the LSE crest with a heavy breath. He checked his digital timetable; he was already running late for the orientation in the main auditorium.
Dodging a group of boisterous third-years, he rushed toward the steps of the Old Building, fumbling frantically with his ID card. In his panic, his foot caught on a step.
He braced for a painful fall, but before he could hit the ground, a pair of steady hands caught him.
He regained his balance and looked up, meeting a pair of concerned hazel eyes. It was a South Asian girl in a hijab, looking at him with genuine worry.
"Are you okay?" she asked, immediately stepping back to give him space.
"I am now. Thank you for saving me," Zaim replied, his heart still racing.
"Be careful," she said softly, turning to leave.
"Wait!" Zaim called out. "Do you know where the auditorium is?"
She nodded and gestured for him to follow.
As they walked, a British student nearby suddenly reached out, tugging the end of her hijab with a sneer.
"Hey, you freak!" he jeered, roughly pulling her hijab and grabbing her hand.
The girl didn't flinch-she exploded.
With a lightning-fast reflex, she turned and landed a sharp punch squarely in the boy's face.
"You're the real freak," she hissed, her voice ringing with authority.
"Touching a girl without her consent, trying to bully her-do you think that makes you look cool?"
Zaim stood frozen in shock. The transition was unbelievable: one moment she was a kind and gentle girl, and the next, she was a fierce protector.
"What did you think?" she continued, gesturing to her hijab. " Did you really think that wearing this makes me weak? Look how wrong you were! Don't you dare try to bully anyone ever again."
She turned back to Zaim and resumed walking as if nothing had happened.
"That was...incredible," Zaim breathed, his introverted nature left in awe of her confidence.
"It was nothing," she stated firmly. "If someone tries to bully you, you have to stop them. Never let them think you're a target for their entertainment."
Hearing her words, Zaim nodded.
As they reached the auditorium, a realization hit Zaim.
"Wait, are you in the same course? Why didn't you tell me you knew the way so well?"
She offered a small, knowing shrug.
"I'm a senior. I'm actually volunteering for the orientation today." With a final nod, she disappeared into a group of other volunteers, leaving Zaim to navigate the rest of his day with a newfound sense of courage.
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Zohaib was waiting by the car as the twins emerged from the campus gates. He had deliberately cleared his afternoon; he knew that despite their playful antics at home, his brothers were quiet introverts who often found major transitions-especially navigating a foreign academic environment-overwhelming.
"Bhaijaan, aapko aane ki zaroorat nahi thi apna kaam chodh kar, hum dono aajate," Zaim said sincerely after settling himself on the front seat, feeling a pang of guilt knowing Zohaib would likely stay up late to compensate for the lost hours.
("Brother, you didn't have to leave your work just to pick us up; we could have made our own way back.")
Zohaib raised a skeptical eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips.
"Kyu? Kya kaarnaama kiya pehle hi din?"
("Why? What stunt did you pull on your first day?")
Zaim pouted, looking slightly offended.
"Kya Bhaijaan! Humne kuch nahi kiya. Hum bas keh rahe hai aap apna kaam chodh kar aaye, ab aapko extra hours kaam karna padhega."
("What, Brother? We didn't do anything! I was just saying you shouldn't have left your work, because now you'll have to work extra hours.")
Zohaib laughed, reaching over to ruffle Zaim's hair affectionately.
"Itni fikar nah karo beta jii humaari, hum apne aap ko aur humaare schedule ko acche se manage kar sakte hai."
("Don't worry so much about me, little brother. I know how to manage myself and my schedule perfectly well.")
As they pulled out into London's traffic, Zohaib glanced at them through the rearview mirror.
"So, how was the first day?"
Zamir gave a non-committal shrug, muttering that it was "fine," but Zaim practically vibrated with excitement.
He straightened in his seat, his earlier exhaustion forgotten as he began to narrate the morning's events.
He told Zohaib about his near-fall, the girl who caught him, and the way she had stood her ground when the bully attacked.
"The look on that boy's face was priceless," Zaim exclaimed, his hands gesturing wildly.
"He never would have expected to get punched, let alone be called out publicly! Girls like her are so rare, Bhaijaan. She looked so soft and gentle with her hijab, but the moment that guy messed with her? The fire in her eyes was astonishing. It was clear he picked the wrong person."
Zohaib listened, his grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly. As Zaim described the hazel eyed girl- the fierce, protective spirit hidden beneath a calm exterior, a memory from the past resurfaced in his mind.
Flashback
Three-year-old Zubiya was a vision of innocence as she played with her brothers and Zohaib in the park near the Khan Haveli.
She was wearing a delicate dress adorned with tiny, hand-stitched flowers and matching stockings-a gift from Humera. With her grey eyes glowing with joy, she looked every bit like a little forest fairy.
The peace was broken by a group of older boys nearby.
"Look at that," one of them snickered, pointing a finger. "A walking garden!"
Zubiya's joy vanished, replaced by a spark of defiance. She marched toward them, her small chin held high.
"Humaali Hummi Chachi ne humein yeh dless di hai! Iski baale mein bula mat bolo, yeh bohat pletty hai!"
(My Hummi Chachi gave me this dress! Don't say bad things about it, it's very pretty!)
The boys erupted in a chorus of mocking laughter. One of them stepped forward and shoved her.
Zubiya tumbled onto the grass, the impact knocking the wind out of her.
"Look," the boy jeered, "the walking garden just wilted!"
Her brothers and Zohaib bolted toward her, faces pale with worry.
But before they could reach her, Zubiya was already back on her feet.
With a roar of toddler fury, she lunged at the boy's leg, unbalancing him. As he fell, she landed a sharp, tiny fist right against his eye.
The boy let out a shocked wail, clutching his face.
"You don't get to hurt others like this, you meanie people!" she yelled, her voice trembling but firm.
A heavy silence fell over the park.
No one had expected such ferocity from Zubiya-the same soft-hearted girl who usually flinched at loud voices.
Her brothers stood frozen, a mix of shock and immense pride washing over them. She hadn't waited for her "knights" to save her; she had ended the fight herself.
Despite being twice her size, the bullies scrambled back, terrified by the fire in the little girl's eyes.
As her brothers chased the boys off, Zohaib knelt beside her, checking her from head to toe.
"Aap thik ho, Zubi? Aapko kahi chot toh nahi lagi?"
(Are you okay, Zubi? Did you get hurt anywhere?)
Zubiya puffed out her chest, smoothing down her flowery dress.
"Hum thik hai, Zoh-Boh. Humein chot nahi lagi, pal unko lagi hai."
(I am fine, Zoh-Boh. I'm not hurt, but he is.) She pointed a tiny finger at the boy who was sobbing in the distance.
"He deserved it, Princess," Zohaib said softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"No one has the right to treat you like that. I thought you might cry, but you chose to fight instead. I am so proud of you."
Zubiya beamed, her grey eyes shimmering.
"Baba ne sikhaya tha," she stated with the gravity of a much older soul, "kisi ko hult nahi kalna chahiye, pal agal koi aapko hult kale toh chup bhi nahi lehna chahiye."
(Dad taught me that we shouldn't hurt anyone, but if someone tries to hurt us, we shouldn't stay silent either.)
"Bilkul sahi sikhaya hai Mehraj chachu ne" Zohaib smiled at her.
("Mehraj Uncle has taught you absolutely the right thing.")
Flashback Ends
Zohaib offered a small, sad smile and turned his focus back to the road.
The twins immediately sensed the shift in his energy-the way his gaze seemed to linger on a ghost only he could see.
They didn't call him out on it; instead, they launched into a series of jokes and harmless bickering, a practiced effort to pull him back from the shadows of the past.
They knew their brother's heart better than anyone.
He could be perfectly happy one moment, only for a stray thought or a familiar scent to remind him of everything he had lost.
The twins had been too young when she died to have concrete memories of their own, but they had found the fragments he kept. Tucked away in the back of Zohaib's closet were photos of their Zubi Appi.
(Appi= word lovingly used as a respect for elder sister)
Zubiya and Zuhair were only a year older than the twins, making them crime partners.
Together, the four of them had been a whirlwind of mischief, creating so much havoc that the elders had eventually passed a family "law": 'these four children were never to be left unsupervised.'
One particular photograph stood out in their minds.
In it, all four were caked in thick, dark mud from head to toe.
The pristine white marble tiles of the Khan Haveli were unrecognizable, ruined by a trail of muddy footprints and chaos.
In the background, the elders were captured mid-scold, glares fixed on the children, while Asad stood behind the camera, immortalizing the disaster with a mischievous click.
It was a frozen moment of a life that felt like a lifetime ago.
---------------------------------------Weeks bled into months as they settled into a steady routine.
Everything was moving smoothly until today, when they were set to attend a party hosted by his father's old business partner.
Zohaib and the twins were expected to attend on behalf of their parents. Though they dreaded the stiff formality of such events, duty called.
Upon arriving, they took their seats in a quiet corner to avoid unnecessary attention.
Zohaib, now well-regarded for his sharp business insights under his father's mentorship, navigated the room with professional ease.
While he was deep in conversation with a long-time client, a girl in a striking red dress approached.
Zohaib instinctively averted his eyes. It was his nature-always formal, always maintaining a respectful distance from women outside his inner circle.
"Meet my daughter, Suzanne, Mr. Mirza," the client introduced.
Zohaib offered a polite nod without looking her way, soon excusing himself to take a call in a secluded hallway.
Suzanne, however, was not easily deterred.
She saw Zohaib not as a man, but as the golden ticket to Mirza Corporation's luxury.
When Zohaib finished his call, she intercepted him, boldly grabbing his arm and touching him inappropriately.
Zohaib jerked back as if burned by the touch.
"Excuse me, Miss," he said, his voice cold and sharp with annoyance.
"I don't appreciate being touched. If you wish to speak, maintain a respectful distance."
"I like you, Zohaib," she said, batting her eyelashes in a desperate play for charm. "Just give me a chance."
"I am not interested in getting involved with anyone. Please, leave me alone." He replied not even sparing her a glance. She tried to speak but without giving her a chance, Zohaib turned to leave.
Humiliated and stinging from the rejection, Suzanne's desperation turned to malice.
She shoved him back and let out a piercing scream.
"He tried to touch me inappropriately! I told him to stop, but he started threatening me!"
A crowd gathered instantly, their gazes turning into daggers of disgust aimed at Zohaib.
He clenched his jaw, the weight of the false accusation suffocating him.
But before he could defend himself, a blur of pastel pink stepped forward.
"Really?"
A girl in a modest pink gown and a beige hijab stood there, her hazel eyes blazing with fury.
Zohaib felt a jolt of recognition-he had seen her somewhere before.
"Don't you feel ashamed, accusing an innocent man?" the girl demanded.
"I saw everything. How you were throwing yourself at him, and when he rejected you, you chose to destroy his image publicly. Shame on you! you touched him without his consent and yet you have the audacity to false accuse him. Harassment has no gender-what you did was just as vile."
She turned to the murmuring crowd. "If you're so quick to believe a lie, check the CCTV. Don't treat him like a criminal without proof."
At her command, the venue manager brought out the footage and played it on a nearby projector.
The truth was undeniable. The room fell silent as everyone watched Suzanne's desperate advances and Zohaib's clear rejection.
"Apologize to him," the hijabi girl commanded, her voice like steel. "You tried to humiliate him in public; you will apologize in front of the same people."
Suzanne's father, mortified by her deeds, stepped forward and forced her to her knees. After a tearful, humiliated apology, they fled the ballroom.
As the girl turned to leave, Zohaib stepped forward. "Thank you for clearing that up," he said, his voice sincere. "People are far too quick to believe in fake tears."
She turned back to him with a calm, grounded presence. "I just stood up for the truth, sir. She was willing to destroy a life to satisfy her ego. That isn't something I could watch in silence." She turned to leave.
"Wait-once again, thank you. May I know your name? I owe you for this"
A soft, genuine smile touched her lips. "You're welcome, sir. I am Inayat. Inayat Rahmani. And you don't owe me."
As she walked away, Zaim and Zamir rushed to their brother's side, hugging him tightly.
"Are you okay, Bhaijaan?" They both asked at the same time.
Zohaib nodded, his eyes still fixed on the doorway where Inayat had vanished.
"Wait!" Zaim exclaimed, his eyes widened with realization.
"Bhaijaan, that's her! That's the same girl who helped me on my first day at LSE-the one who punched that bully!"
Zohaib looked at his brother, stunned.
He was deeply moved.
Inayat wasn't just beautiful; she was fierce, principled, and possessed a kind of courage that reminded him of a spirit he thought he'd lost forever.
---------------------------------------How was the chapter?
Thoughts on Inayatπ€
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