Chương 6: History is Remembered, Not Repeated

“Good morning, Khanum. (Female ruler)”

The passageway to Rabail’s office resonated with the continuous greetings. Everyone stopped when she passed by. The aura was oppressive and demanded one’s attention, respect, and superiority; a stark contrast to the Rabail at home. However, there was a time when she passed small smiles as she walked past these very halls; nevertheless, times changed and she learned to change, the hardest lesson if one dared to say out loud.

Standing in front of the familiar frame glass doors of her office, she took a deep breath to silence the deafening pounding heartbeats. Naim Bakht was just across this very door, numerous times she has met him, yet today the atmosphere changed. Like clouds obscuring the view to the blue sky and painting your heart with a shade of mystery. And Rabail hated, no, loathed mystery. She liked things known and in her control.

Nodding her head to the doorman, he announced her presence to the attendees inside the room. Squaring her shoulders, chin up and stoic face drawn, her heels took her towards her table. The sun rays from the black French-styled windows were illuminating the magnanimous room, reducing the workload of the glimmering lamps stuck to the walls. The cream texture of the walls shined with the contrasting wooden mahogany chairs placed in front of them. The dark tangerine shades with cushion borders sitting on the chairs enhanced a regal characteristic to the room. Plants of various kinds, in antique brass pots, were scattered around its length letting the visitors know about the love the owner had toward their greenery. The Persian carpet was being stomped by the feet of the pistachio sofas.

Taking a seat on her mahogany chair, Rabail maintained her stoic face, one that left living souls unable to depict the turmoils bubbling within her. Only twice in her life, her mask fell. Only twice and that was going to be it.

“Morning, Mr. Bakht” her voice floated across to the rigid form of the mentioned man, breaking him from his train of thoughts. His head was bowed till now. On hearing the flatness of the tone, Bakht thought as if someone from the dead had called out to him.

“Add some life to your voice, Khanum (Female ruler), and have some pity on this man!”

Training his eyes, he took in the vision in front of him. A wise man said, “What is yours will truly be yours.” and surely the same could be said in this case. Rabail Noor Khan was the queen who didn’t wear the crown on her head, rather carried it high in her soul. Sitting behind the walnut textured, executive table, added more to that statement itself. The brass drawer handles itching to be touched, the chair holding the weight of her majesticness, the files demanding her attention- this was her territory. Once you enter it, you hand everything to her on a plate, almost like your whole being is hypnotized. Your words, your plans, your voice, even your breathes.

“Good morning, Khanum” Bakht thanked Allah in the head as he gave, or could, give out an answer; albeit a little brittle.

“How is everything at your end?” Nothing direct. She rather gave Bakht the time to gather and tune himself out.

“All is well. The preparations are going on. With the number of fundings, hopefully, we can gather a couple of seats in the southern sides and have a greater show than those opposition”

Rabail simply nodded to his words for it was not in the jurisdiction of the Aadhilabad’s Laal Haveli to have its shadow near politics. Long, long ago, while turning the golden pages of the history books, you would find them in the political courts of the Mughal Baadshah-s (Emperors). However, things changed when the predecessor, during the rule of Jahangir (Mughal Emperor), exempted himself from these dark shackles. Still, their governance, loyalty, service, and legacy had their name rolling from the tongues. The Khans did everything in extravagance. Be it for their Huzuur-s (Master), companions, family, or people.

“There is. Um.. well.” The poor man struggled with his words for the first time. Something was unnerving about this woman!

“I wish I could understand your language, but unfortunately, I don’t stumble.” Time was running out and so was her patience.

“Yes.” Clearing his throat, he thought of the wrath of Rabail which urged him to not blabber, but things were getting out of hand.

Desperate times called desperate measures, Naim. Just jump into it, Naim! Giving himself the prep talk, he opened his mouth.

“Something is stirring up, Khanum. The opposition is quiet. Although the silence is in our favor, there are movements in the background. As if there is a thin cover between us.”

As you know, we have our men stationed in the south. The inputs given suggest that a new force has joined them. Who, when, and how they are connected is the biggest question. The humor mills say that the Sikanders are close to that person. Almost like a family member. No one knows the name, face, stature, or voice of that person. It’s almost as if that man came out of thin air.

Even their campaigning is going slow. New seats are not snatched. No riots took place when our men went for campaigning in their area, rather they were welcomed and treated like guests!” Bakht’s eyes turned wide like saucers as he narrated the whole mess.

Hearing the man blabber his part, Rabail had a bored look on his face.

“Mr. Bakht. The opposition is quiet. Duly noted, yet it is rather a chance for you. Engage more campaigns and let the man speak your name with every breath he takes. The country is democratic and the people are its power and weakness at the same time when elections are regarded. And like every other year as the election nears, they are playing hide-and-seek. They are hiding to cause you to stress, keep you on your toes so that you make a blunder and they lunge straight at that.”

Shushing the upcoming interjection of Bakht with her palm raised, Rabail shifted to make herself more comfortable.

“About the force, you were talking about, you yourself have said that it is from the rumor mills. People gossip, Mr. Bakht. What catches is the juicy news and here for you, it was the bait of having a new addition to the upcoming election. They are yielding back, but that does not mean you would stop using your sword. You are still standing in the middle of the war. ”

“But there is surely something, Khanum (Female ruler)!” Bakht shrieked, causing Rabail to clench her eyes shut in annoyance.

“Adding more, my men said that Shoaib Sikander has shut the doors to his Haveli, saying that Badhe Sikander Sahib's health is not good. Whereas my men in the Haveli said that man is alive and kicking.”

Pausing to drink water served for him, he continued, “Rather closing the private wing for the family, he limited the movement of the whole place. Almost as if closing the entire bank instead of locking the vault.” There was surely a point in his statement, surprisingly.

Shoaib Sikander was a man indulging in popularity, fame, and name. A man oozing with confidence and arrogance, packed with shrewdness. People feared him and it worked fine for him. Power was his fuel. So him closing all doors was a depiction of an oxymoron. “Closed off” and Sohaib Sikander don't go in one sentence, one line, and breathe. For a man like him, he liked doing things with people talking continuously about it in the background.

Rabail let the news settle in her mind. Sinking into her chair, with her chin resting on her knuckles and elbows kissing the mahogany handle of the chair, her wheels turned, gathering their pacing. Jotting down the sequence of events, she was trying to find the answer to the mysteries. The south, the opposition, elections, stillness, movements. Everything was in front of her, yet completely blurry. She, herself, did not engage in politics. However, after that incident which snatched her family’s happiness, smiles, comfort, and most of all her everything; she kept up with the updates. They say, “Better late than sorry”. She was sorry once. Oh, how sorry she was! And trust me, she didn't want that familiar yet unwelcoming feeling to enter her doors again.

Seeing the reserved, stoic face, Bakht let out a sigh. Perhaps, she didn’t believe him. Nevertheless, he needed her. Desperately at that too. Like a toddler needing a mother.

“Huzuur (Master), if you allow me, I want to say something.”

No response. Silence waved through the regal office. Finally, with a drumming heart, sweaty palms, and wide eyes, he started his rant.

“The election is coming, Khanum (Female ruler). The party is pressuring me to come up with something. Anything. But this wretched stress is making me lose my senses. I do not know what to do. My men are campaigning but the silence from the other side is equally terrifying. Almost as if they are planning a funeral. If things keep going on like this, then our efforts will go to drain.

The inputs are almost as if history is repeating. Their silence, the Haveli being closed, our candidates passing through rounds. The south is waiting for us like predators, Huzuur (Master). We are going to lose and this time everything. Aadhilabad will be theirs. The north will be theirs. They are behaving just like they did three years back and we paid the pri-...” As soon as he started to talk about the buried history, he stopped.

For once, he got an expression out of the woman. Though the expression wanted to make him run to the abandoned caves where he could cry out his heart. His poor beating organ stopped pounding, his lungs collapsed when he saw the look of the Khanum.

Everyone knew, from far and beyond, to never open their mouths in front of her, especially about what occurred three years ago. The woman would, without a word, make you grovel at her feet for it. The horrifying tragedy of that day was the darkest hour for Aadhilabad and painted its terrifying shades on Rabail. No one spoke of it, yet none forgot it as well.

Before her mind could catch up with those embedded memories, Rabail clutched her hands tight. Her finely manicured nails dug deep into her palms to lessen the numbing pain of her heart.

Pain is the cure to pain- this rule was ignited in her like an inferno from that day onwards. Pain changes people. It shreds the heart to pieces, throws it at places, devoids the victim to feel anything but of its presence. Some righteous souls will say, you should forgive, forget and move on. But they fail to understand that pain is to be remembered when someone loses everything for just another's pleasure.

And Rabail is no saint. Because, well, it may have escaped through your mind, but life is unfair. Always was and always will be. So when someone harms you, that is when you hurt them in the same way. She learned it, she knew it and she followed it. Because one should get a taste of their own medicine, isn’t it? So screw the moral lessons for once!

“Send the inputs that you received in a file by tomorrow to my office. Mention the dates and the exact locations for the relevant ones. Furthermore, ask your men to be on their toes. Those who are near the Sikander Haveli or within can keep piling information until the coast is clear to deliver them to us. Also do not stop the campaigning. No matter what! They should not get an idea about what we are up to.” With the final words served out, Bakht hurriedly scuffed himself out of the office as if someone had called out a ghost.

Is she any less than that of a ghost! Surely that face of Rabail would haunt him for the leftover years he had. God, please do give the people some courage who come across this side of Huzuur (Master)! Little did he know how much his prayers were going to be needed for those unknown.

As soon as the sound of the doors closing echoed, Rabail twirled her chair to get the view presented through the wide windows. The world was in a peaceful, yet oblivious, bliss. The lush green lawn stretched throughout the corners of the Khan Durbar fort walls. As the name suggests, it was the place where people came to the rulers of Aadhilabad with their suggestions, plans, complaints, and distress. No one was unheard of. No one was unjustified. It was like “Mahakuma-e-Adalat” (Fountain of Justice) to some.

Deep in her musing, she suddenly felt a hand placed on her shoulder. The familiar smell of the piping hot caffeine entered her nostrils. If chai was her morning fuel, coffee was her lifeline. Chai (Tea) was a habit developed for someone, while her coffee habit grew on its own.

One carried sentiments while the other depicted her. Black coffee with two teaspoons of sugar. A sip would welcome the biting bitterness and dullness. However, the last flavor that lingers on the palate is the almost fading sweetness of the liquid as it enters the pipe. Just like to catch the sweetness you needed to be very keen and painstakingly patient, to uncover her layers and bask in her balmy presence you needed to be the very same. The ones who are hurt are overprotective; hence, the keen and patient ones can come closer knowing when to dig and when to stop doing so to let the other open up instead.

“A tough start?”

Hearing the voice, Rabail let her lips tug up to a smile sensing the warmth offered through that palm placed on her shoulder and the voice.

Turning her head, she took in the sight of the person standing beside her.

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