Chapter: 3 : Threads of Memory
1971
Karachi, Pakistan
"Paak sarzameen had baad,
Kishvari haseen had baad,
Too nishaani azmi aalee shaan,
Arzi Paakistaan!
Markazi yaqeen had baad…"
The anthem echoed through the air, resonating with the pride and fervor of a nation that was still finding its footing, still grappling with its identity.
"This Independence Day, let’s take pride in being Pakistani. Let’s acknowledge the sacrifice of our soldiers and our martyrs. Whatever we have right now is because of them, because of the sacrifices they made for this nation," the speaker proclaimed. "The Indian forces are trying to separate our East Pakistan, but we won’t let it happen…"
All of us, unified in our voices, shouted in unison, "Zindabad." The energy on campus surged as the entire crowd chanted "Pakistan Zindabad," filling the air with the anthem of our struggle and hope.
I, too, joined in, shouting with as much passion as I could muster. "Pakistan Zindabad!" The sense of unity, of belonging to something larger than myself, washed over me. The ceremony ended, and as the crowd dispersed, I began walking toward the gates of the college, my mind still reeling from the emotional rush.
“Amir…” A voice called out from behind me.
I turned around to see Mustafa jogging toward me, a slight grin on his face.
“Hey, Mustafa, what’s going on?” I greeted him, the energy of the ceremony still alive in my voice.
“Nothing much. Are you going to join us for practice?” Mustafa asked, his tone casual but with an undertone of expectation.
“Practice?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“One army personnel has come,” he explained. “He’s going to train us for army practice.”
I frowned. "Army? Dude, don’t you think the army is interrupting everywhere these days?"
Mustafa's expression hardened slightly. "But it's required, right?"
“Required for what?” I countered. "We fought and earned our independence from both India and Britain. Why do we need to be trained for something we’ve already won?"
“We’re in a state of war, Amir,” Mustafa said, his voice becoming more serious. “We need to be prepared for the worst situations.”
I shook my head. “I really don’t want to be a part of it. Sorry, but I’ve got some work to do.”
Mustafa’s eyes narrowed, his frustration evident. “I get it. Going after that Muhajira, huh?”
I felt my jaw tighten at the mention of her, but I couldn’t let it show. “It’s not about her. And I don’t really care if she’s a Muhajira or not.”
Mustafa, however, wasn’t done. "You need to understand something, Amir. Even if they’re living here now, she’s still from an enemy nation.”
I stared at him, stunned for a moment, before responding. “So are we. Isn’t it? We were all part of another country. What’s the difference?”
He shot me a look of disdain. “She might still have loyalty to her old country. You can’t be too sure about her.”
The words stung, but I held my ground. “That’s a narrow way to see things. People come here for a better life, not to be judged by their past.”
Amir: “Grow up, Mustafa… I can’t believe the nonsense you’re spouting. You can go ahead with your army practice.”
Mustafa: “Okay, okay. Best of luck. I hope one day you’ll understand.”
Amir: “I’m hoping the same for you, my friend.”
Mustafa: “We’ll see… Meanwhile, enjoy your time with the Muhajira.”
Amir: “Shut up…”
Amir rolled his eyes and turned to walk away, but his eyes caught Mahira approaching. He couldn’t help but smile.
Amir: “Hey Mahira…”
Mahira: “Oh, hey… Is that your friend?”
Amir: “Well, kind of. He’s a friend… but not really. You know how it is.”
Mahira: “He’s your ‘kind of’ friend? What does that mean?”
Amir: “I mean, we get along... but not the type of friends who share their deepest secrets or fight over who gets the last samosa.”
Mahira: “Ah, so you’re saying you both think alike, but you just don’t talk about it much?”
Amir: “Exactly. It’s like being stuck in an elevator with someone you don’t know, but not hating it. Not besties, but we’re tolerable.”
Mahira: “Hmm… Tolerable. I see, so, does that mean you agree with everything he says?”
Amir: “Well, that’s the thing, I don’t. If I agreed with everything, he’d probably be the one getting the last samosa and I’d be stuck with the leftover biryani.”
Mahira: “Ah, classic Amir—always thinking ahead. But seriously, we’re not strangers here. We sing Quommy Taran with you guys. We’re not aliens... yet.”
Amir: “Exactly. I’m trying to make him get that, but it’s like trying to convince a cat to take a bath. Useless.”
Mahira: “I feel you. Some people are just stuck in their ways. But, hey, one day he’ll come around.”
Amir: “If he doesn’t, I might just show up at his house with a ‘How to Be a Decent Human’ guide.”
Mahira: “Hah, love it. You should totally do that. Or just start handing out samosas to everyone.”
Amir: “Samosas for world peace? I’m in. Speaking of peace, that Firni you made yesterday was so good, I might start a fan club for it.”
Mahira: “Oh yeah? You liked it that much?”
Amir: “Liked it? It was like a hug for my soul. Honestly, I’m considering coming over just for the Firni.”
Mahira: “Well, if you want, you can join me at my place sometime. I promise, more Firni and fewer awkward silences.”
Amir: “I’ll hold you to that. Just don’t make me bring the samosas this time.”
Mahira: “Deal. No samosas. I’ll save you some Firni... and maybe a few extra laughs.”
Amir: “Oh, I’ll take you up on that. See you tonight?”
Mahira: “Definitely. Unless you plan on ditching me for a better snack.”
Amir: “Ha! As if. I’d never abandon a good Firni. See you tonight.”
Mahira: “Looking forward to it. Just don't bring Mustafa... unless he’s bringing samosas.”
At home,
Amir bursts through the door, dramatically announcing: “I’m home, mom!”
Mom (without looking up from her papers): “Food’s on the table. Your father and I are in a meeting. Don’t disturb us for a couple of hours.”
Amir (leaning against the doorframe with a mischievous grin): “Can I ask you something?”
Mom (still focused on her work): “Yes, dear, but make it quick.”
Amir (grinning): “When will you join me for dinner?”
Mom (glancing up with a sigh): “I understand, dear. But you know how the Ministry works.”
Amir (raising an eyebrow, walking toward the kitchen): “The Ministry, huh? More like the ‘Endless Meeting Club.’ It shuts down at 6, but you guys always manage to work overtime. No overtime pay, though, right?”
Mom (seriously): “Sometimes, we have to go the extra mile for the nation.”
Amir (mocking): “Extra mile? Oh, you mean the nation held together by the Army, where people are still judging a girl for attending college and, gasp, living in India? You know Mahira, right?”
Dad (slamming his fist on the table): “Don’t you dare say a word against the Army!”
Mom (holding up her hand): “Jamal, calm down. He’s still figuring things out.”
Dad (turning to Amir, eyebrows furrowed): “And what exactly are you figuring out, young man?”
Amir (smirking): “Oh, I’m figuring out how you’re not serving the Army, Dad—you’re practically working for them. Slaving away, as usual.”
Dad (looking like he’s about to combust): “What did you just say?”
Mom (sternly): “Amir! Shut it. Eat your food, and then go to bed.”
Amir (leaning casually against the table): “Nah, it’s cool. I’m stepping out for a bit.”
Mom (frustrated but resigned): “Amir… you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Amir (winking, grabbing his jacket): “Don’t worry, mom. I’m just off to do more important things than sitting around listening to your ‘work-for-the-nation’ speech.”
Dad (muttering to himself): “One day, that kid’s gonna put me in an early grave…”
Amir (smiling cheekily): “Probably not before you retire, dad. You’ve got a few more years to go, right?”
Mom (exasperated, shaking her head): “Just don’t get yourself into trouble, Amir. For once.”
Amir (as he heads out the door): “Trouble is my middle name. It’s practically a family tradition.”
As Amir steps out, his dad continues to grumble about “rebellious youth,” while mom just looks at him and sighs, already planning for the day she’ll have to bail him out of yet another mess.
Amir and Mahira sat on the rooftop, the full moon casting a soft glow over the city. They were both enjoying bowls of Firni, the sweet, creamy dessert that was clearly made with love. The night was peaceful, with only the occasional breeze rustling the leaves.
Amir (grinning mischievously): "You know, you guys should seriously open a sweet shop."
Mahira (raising an eyebrow): "Oh really? Why’s that?"
Amir (with a playful smirk): "So I can get Firni whenever I want. No need to beg for an invitation to your house."
Mahira (laughing): "Oh, so you want to become a Firni regular, huh? That’ll cost you."
Amir (winking): "For this Firni? Worth every penny."
Mahira (smiling): "I’ll think about it, but don’t get too comfortable."
Amir set his empty bowl aside and leaned back, looking up at the stars. The moment felt perfect, and he wanted to break the silence with something interesting.
Amir (mischievously): "Can I ask you something?"
Mahira (teasing): "Aha, still asking for permission?"
Amir (grinning): "Nah, I just figured you might want a moment to mentally prepare for my next profound question."
Mahira (laughing): "Oh, now I’m intrigued. Go ahead."
Amir (smiling): "Do you like full moon nights or eclipses more?"
Mahira (thoughtful): "Hmm… I’ve never really thought about it like that."
Amir (playfully): "Alright, let me clarify. You know how sometimes, there’s that peaceful moment inside you, like everything’s perfect, and you don’t need anything? It's like when all the kids have gone to bed and the only ones awake are the owls. That quiet, still moment when the world feels... just right. Do you ever feel like one of those owls?"
Mahira (grinning): "Oh wow, philosophical Amir has entered the chat."
Amir (laughing): "Thanks, I’m working on my deep thinking skills. But seriously, do you ever get that feeling?"
Mahira (grinning): "Okay, okay. I think I get what you mean. But I’ve never thought about it that way."
Amir (with a wink): "Wanna try it? I’ll be your guide."
Mahira (raising an eyebrow): "Hmm, I’m listening. But I hope you’re not about to eat me like one of your Firni bowls."
Amir (laughing): "Don’t worry, I’m not that kind of guy."
Mahira (smiling): "Good, because I’m not on the menu."
Amir (teasing): "Just stretch out a bit, relax, and look at the moon."
They both leaned back, feeling the cool breeze on their faces. The quiet of the night wrapped around them like a soft blanket, and for a moment, it felt like the world had stopped moving. The only sound was the faint rustling of leaves and the occasional distant car.
Amir (pointing to the sky): "Can you see that star, right next to the moon?"
Mahira (nodding): "Yeah, I see it."
Amir (with a playful tone): "It looks like it used to be part of the moon, but broke off for some reason. Maybe it had a falling out."
Mahira (laughing): "A falling out? Like a cosmic breakup?"
Amir (grinning): "Exactly! The moon and the star were like, 'I need some space,' and now they're just trying to figure things out."
Mahira (laughing harder): "That’s one way to explain it. So what, the moon’s sitting there all lonely now?"
Amir (seriously): "Well, maybe. But sometimes, distance makes things clearer. Maybe they needed that break."
Mahira (playfully): "A cosmic therapy session. Got it."
Amir (laughing): "Exactly. Now, do you know what the word 'Muhajir' really means?"
Mahira (smirking): "You mean the people who migrated from India during partition?"
Amir (nodding): "Yeah, that’s the textbook answer. But I have a feeling you have a different take on it."
Mahira (looking thoughtful): "Well, sure. That’s the bookish definition, but let me give you my version."
Amir (with a grin): "I’m all ears."
Mahira (gesturing to the sky): "Look at the moon and the stars. Sometimes, we’re marked as 'different' by others—not because of who we are, but because of their own insecurities. Imagine those less shiny stars, grouped together around the moon. They form their little cluster, all while trying to make themselves seem brighter by pushing away the shiny stars. They create a whole new identity for themselves, calling it the 'moon.' And slowly, the world starts hailing the 'moon,' while the bright stars lose their individuality, their strength, and sometimes even their dignity. Those bright stars? They're the Muhajirs."
Amir (reflecting for a moment): "So basically, everyone’s trying to fit into a box. The moon’s a group project, and the stars are getting left out."
Mahira (smiling): "Exactly. We all try to fit into something, but the real trick is staying true to who you are. The 'moon' is just a name, a label. But the stars—well, they’ve got their own shine. They just need to stop letting the moon dim their light."
Amir (grinning): "So you’re saying I should stop letting my inner moon take over and just let my star shine?"
Mahira (teasing): "Exactly. Let that star of yours shine bright, Amir. But no pressure."
Amir (laughing): "Well, with all this moon talk, I’m feeling pretty stellar right now."
They both burst into laughter, the sound carrying into the night, mixing with the breeze. It was a moment of simple joy, filled with warmth, humor, and a bit of cosmic wisdom. The world around them felt just a little bit more magical under the full moon.
Mahira (smiling): "You know, you make the moon sound like a drama series."
Amir (grinning): "Hey, every good story needs a little drama."
They both relaxed, their laughter fading into the peaceful silence of the night, with only the stars and the moon watching over them.
Mahira:
“Koi dil k to koi jajhbato k liye muhajir,
Koi apno k liye to koi apna dhundhne ko Muhajir,
Safar sab krte hain kisi aur ki zamin par,
Nasibwale hain kuch, jo hain sirf rasto k Muhajir,
Zamin dusri hain dard to hoga, maa thodi hain ki sab sambhal legi,
Kankad fekegi, Pathar fekegi, Kuch jalti hui talware fekegi,
Purzore kosis hogi ki tera zhara zhara jal jaye,
Tujhe khakh main badlne ki puri taiyari hogi,
Jab tu khakh banke mitti se milega,
tab wo zamin tujhe apna manegi. ”
Mahira: “We can only breathe. This free air might restore some of our individuality.”
Amir: [Smiling thoughtfully] “Then let’s close our eyes and breathe. Not for the world—for ourselves.”
[Both close their eyes and take a deep, deliberate breath. The night was still, but faint, unidentified sounds floated in the air, weaving a mysterious rhythm. They opened their eyes slowly, as if waking from a dream. For a while, they sat in silence, letting every thought, every emotion, drift freely in their minds. A fleeting sense of serenity passed through them.]
Suddenly, Mahira’s hand brushed against Amir’s. Startled, both turned to look at each other, their eyes locking in a moment heavy with unspoken words.
Mahira’s Mom: [Calling from downstairs] “Mahira!”
[The spell broke. Amir rubbed his face awkwardly, while Mahira placed her hand on her chest, smiling shyly as if to steady her racing heart.]
Mahira’s Mom: “Mahira! It’s getting late! You should sleep, and Amir, you should head home—it’s almost midnight!”
Amir: [Nods] “Ya, Aunty. Sure.”
Mahira: [Smiling, her cheeks glowing with shyness] “So…”
Amir: [Matching her smile] “Ya… I should get going.”
Mahira: “Ya… Go safely.”
Amir: “I will. See you tomorrow.”
Mahira: [Softly] “Sure…”
[Amir walked toward the stairs, glancing back once before descending.]
Amir: “Goodnight, Aunty. Thanks for having me.”
Mahira’s Mom: “Goodnight, Amir. Walk safely!”
Amir: [Playfully] “I’ll try.”
[Mahira watched him from the rooftop, her heart swelling with an unnamed emotion. As Amir reached the street, he turned around one last time, catching her gaze. A knowing smile passed between them, and she felt warmth flood her chest.]
From the Diary:
“The streets were silent, but the strings of my heart played a loud, beautiful melody—an orchestration of emotions I’d never known. Every beat, every note, felt crafted with care, pulling me into a world of blissful illusion.
An innocent smile lingered on my face, one I never wanted to fade.
When your soul connects so deeply with another that the world feels less fragmented, you know you’ve met your soulmate. This was my moment of realization—Mahira was that person for me.
With this profound feeling came a cascade of strange changes:
I was happy for no reason at all.
I started loving even those who didn’t deserve it.
I found myself lost in illusions most would dismiss as unreal.
I became overwhelmingly kind—even to the point of startling myself.
And yet, I couldn’t call it love. Was it love? Or just a fleeting moment of connection? Neither of us were confident enough to name it.”
Present Day:
Shabad sat in the dimly lit room, his face a mask of irritation, but his mind was anything but calm. Thoughts churned in his head like a relentless storm, each question louder and more pressing than the last.
"A love story?" he thought, his jaw tightening. "Seriously? I didn’t take the risk of setting off a bomb in my own country for… this. After all this, all I get is ‘My dad’s love affairs?’ What kind of twisted joke is this?"
He leaned back in the chair, staring at the cracked ceiling, but the answers he sought weren’t up there—they were buried in the chaos his father had created.
"One thing’s clear: my father has no loyalty to India. Why would he? He’s Pakistani." The thought cut deeper than he expected. "That’s the first point. The second? He’s anti-national by default. Not just because he’s from across the border—because of why he’s here. There’s no way he came to India for something innocent."
Shabad’s fingers drummed against the edge of the table as his mind sharpened, focusing on the questions that refused to leave him alone. "So, what’s his purpose? ISI? Pakistani Army? Taliban? Where does he fit in this puzzle?"
His gaze drifted to the photograph he’d found—an image so mundane yet so loaded with implications that it made his stomach churn every time he looked at it. A man in a uniform, standing stiff and formal. But it wasn’t just any uniform.
"Was that… the Pakistani Army? Or am I overthinking this? I don’t know anymore." Shabad leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, but the questions only grew louder in the darkness of his mind.
"Why here? Why now? How did he even manage to stay under the radar? People like him don’t just slip through the cracks without help. Someone’s protecting him. Someone powerful. Is he working alone, or is there a bigger network? And if there’s a network, who else is involved? How far does this go?"
The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of a ceiling fan. But in Shabad’s mind, the noise was deafening. His thoughts leaped from one possibility to another, connecting dots that might not even exist.
"And then there’s that bomb." The memory sent a cold shiver down his spine. "Was it a diversion? A warning? Or is this just the beginning? If my father’s involved, what else is he planning? And where do I fit into all of this?"
A newspaper cutting was attached to the diary. Shabad went to the page and read it.
“IT’S NOW ALL OUT WAR”
[The clock struck midnight. Suddenly, a deafening explosion shook the silence of the street. Glass shattered, lights flickered, and the once peaceful night was engulfed in chaos.]
Things changed from October 1971…
The drums of war between India and Pakistan started buzzing louder every day, their echoes reaching even the quiet corners of our lives. Tensions were palpable everywhere—on the streets, in the markets, and especially in our home. My parents, both in government service, were under tremendous pressure. Late-night discussions behind closed doors, the sharp ring of the telephone, and the constant exchange of worried glances—it all created an atmosphere heavy with unease.
But amidst the chaos, I found a pocket of peace—a sanctuary, really—with Mahira.
Our story was unfolding like a delicate melody, each note drawing us closer. It wasn’t the kind of love that swept in with dramatic declarations or grand gestures. No, ours was quieter, more understated. It was in the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, or the way our conversations lingered even after we’d run out of things to say.
We never said the word "love," but it was there, unspoken, growing stronger with every shared moment.
Even the mundane felt magical when she was around. Stolen glances in the marketplace, our hands accidentally brushing against each other’s as we reached for the same cup of chai, or the comfortable silence we shared as we walked through the old streets of our town—each moment felt like a page in a story only we could understand.
As the war drums beat louder, life around us became more chaotic. Curfews were imposed, blackouts became routine, and rumors of infiltration and spies crept into every conversation. But Mahira and I remained untouched by it all, wrapped in our little world.
I looked at the river, its surface reflecting the last hues of the sunset, and then back at Mahira, who was absentmindedly tracing patterns in the dirt with a stick. The silence between us was comforting, yet the world beyond felt heavy, like the calm before a storm.
I finally broke the quiet. “Do you think things will ever go back to normal?”
Mahira paused mid-pattern, the stick hovering above the ground. She turned her gaze to me, her dark eyes catching the fading light. “Normal?” she repeated, her voice soft but tinged with something—curiosity, maybe, or disbelief.
She tilted her head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever known what that is.”
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What do you mean?”
She leaned back against the tree, dropping the stick, and clasped her hands loosely in her lap. “Think about it,” she said, looking out at the water. “What is ‘normal,’ really? Is it something that stays the same every day? Something predictable? Because if that’s the case, then I don’t think my life has ever been normal.”
I frowned slightly. “But surely there were times when things felt… I don’t know, stable? Familiar?”
She chuckled, a low, melodic sound. “Stable, yes. Familiar, sometimes. But predictable? Never. Growing up, there was always something changing—new people, new problems, new challenges. I think I just learned to accept that normal isn’t a fixed thing. It’s…” She paused, searching for the right word. “It’s fleeting. It’s whatever we make of it in the moment.”
I looked at her thoughtfully, her words stirring something inside me. “So, you’re saying normal isn’t something we can get back to? It’s just… whatever we decide it is now?”
She nodded, her smile widening slightly. “Exactly. Think about it. Even before all this—before the war drums, the curfews, the blackouts—was life ever truly ‘normal’? Or were we just used to the way things were, until they changed?”
I let her words sink in. “That’s… a little depressing,” I said, half-smiling.
She laughed softly, her eyes sparkling. “Is it? Or is it freeing? If normal isn’t some fixed point we’re supposed to chase, then maybe we don’t have to feel so lost when things change. Maybe we can just… adapt.”
I leaned back, letting out a deep breath. “I guess I’ve never thought of it that way. I’ve always looked at change as something disruptive, something that throws life off balance. But maybe you’re right. Maybe normal is just what we make of it.”
She looked at me then, her expression soft but serious. “And what’s your normal, right now?”
The question caught me off guard. I hesitated, my gaze drifting to the river as I thought. “Right now?” I said finally. “I guess it’s this—being here with you. Talking like this. Forgetting, just for a little while, that the world out there is falling apart.”
Her smile softened, and she turned her gaze back to the river. “Then maybe that’s enough,” she said quietly. “Maybe this is our normal, for now.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of her words settling between us. The world beyond the riverbank felt far away, its chaos muted by the gentle rustling of the leaves and the rhythmic sound of the water.
Finally, she spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. “You know, sometimes I wish I could freeze moments like this. Just… hold onto them forever.”
I looked at her, her profile illuminated by the last light of day. “Me too,” I said. “But maybe that’s what makes them special. They don’t last, so we have to cherish them while they’re here.”
She turned to me, her eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, the weight of the world truly disappeared.
“Maybe,” she said, her voice warm, “you’re right.”
We laughed softly, a sound that felt like a fragile bridge between us and the uncertain future
I sat there, watching her as she looked out at the river, the soft evening breeze playing with her hair. My mind was racing, a thousand thoughts tangling and untangling, each one colliding with the next.
Should I say it? Or wait?
The question gnawed at me, and I couldn’t shake it off. I glanced at her again, trying to read her expression, to find some clue that she might be thinking the same thing. But Mahira was always hard to read, her thoughts often veiled behind that quiet, knowing smile of hers.
Will this be the right time?
The moment felt perfect in so many ways. The sun dipping below the horizon, the stillness of the evening, the way our silences fit together so seamlessly. And yet, there was a part of me that hesitated—a nagging doubt, a voice whispering that I should wait.
Let me wait, I thought, convincing myself with the ease of someone who’s afraid to take the leap. I’ll say it when Pakistan wins against India.
The idea settled in my mind, absurd and strangely comforting at the same time. A part of me laughed at how ridiculous it sounded. Linking something as personal and intimate as my feelings to the outcome of a cricket match—or worse, the outcome of a war—was almost comical.
But maybe that’s the perfect time, I reasoned. When the world feels victorious, when the air is thick with celebration and triumph, maybe then I’ll have the courage to say those magical words.
I stole another glance at her, and my chest tightened. How could she sit there so calmly, so unaware of the storm she was stirring inside me?
“Yes,” I whispered to myself, almost inaudibly. “That’s true.”
For now, I would wait. I would hold onto the words, let them simmer in the unspoken space between us. And maybe, just maybe, when the stars aligned—when Pakistan celebrated a victory and the world felt just a little brighter—I’d finally say them out loud.
“BANGLADESH LIBERATED”
Pakistan loses the war. It didn’t just lose; East Pakistan will now become a new country named “Bangladesh.” Reports confirm a brutal surrender of Pakistani forces—93,000 soldiers taken captive.
The news struck like a thunderclap. My country had lost, and the sense of defeat reverberated deep within me. Yet, beneath the weight of this national tragedy, there was something else gnawing at me—something more personal, more painful.
Damn. Should I tell her now? I mean, it was supposed to be simple, right? Wait for Pakistan to win the war, and then tell Mahira how I feel. Simple as that. But no. Of course, Pakistan decided to lose the war and break my heart in ways I didn’t even think were possible.
So now, here I am, standing like an idiot with the weight of a crushed nation on my shoulders and the weight of my feelings for Mahira even heavier. She was sitting there, looking as beautiful as ever, completely unaware that the entire future of my life was hanging by a thread—and not a good one.
I couldn't help but think back to the brilliant plan I had, when I was convinced that once Pakistan beat India, I would confidently march up to Mahira and say, “Hey, you know, with the world finally in order, I think it’s time for us to be together.” Nice, right? Dramatic, but nice.
But now? Now Pakistan had lost. Lost the war, lost East Pakistan, and for all I knew, might be losing the entire plot. And what was I left with? A country in ruins and me, standing here like an emotional wreck, trying to figure out how to win her heart. Because, you know, winning the love of your life is clearly harder than winning a war.
I looked at Mahira again. She’s so perfect, so calm. Does she even know what I’m going through right now? She was probably out here just enjoying the day, unaware that my entire future hinged on whether I could somehow pull off the most awkward confession in the history of awkward confessions.
So here’s the question: Should I say it? Or should I just keep pretending like everything’s fine? The entire world’s falling apart, and I’m here, overthinking whether to say “I love you” to a girl who probably doesn’t even realize I’m alive beyond being her weird, overthinking friend.
“Should I just tell her?” I whispered to myself. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? She says no, we both awkwardly laugh it off, and I retreat to my corner of shame, where I belong?”
That wasn’t exactly reassuring. Okay, so what’s the better option? Wait until Pakistan wins next time? Yeah, great plan. Maybe in 10 years when Pakistan and India are fighting over the last piece of land left in the world.
“Yeah,” I muttered under my breath, pacing in a circle. “I’ll just... wait for that, then. And maybe next time, when I’m old and gray, I’ll get the courage to say, ‘Hey, Mahira, I was in love with you in my prime, but now I’ve got a good pension plan.’”
But no. I couldn’t wait. My heart was telling me now was the time. But every step toward her felt like walking toward a battlefield where I didn’t even know the rules. Was there a “How to Tell Her You Love Her After a National Disaster” manual I missed?
“Okay,” I told myself. “Time to do this. Time to be brave. If Pakistan can lose a war and still survive as country, I can survive being rejected by the one person I want most.”
With a deep breath, I walked up to Mahira, who was sitting with her arms crossed, casually looking at the sunset.
“Hey,” I said, my voice way too high-pitched, like I was trying to audition for a voiceover in a cartoon.
She looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Well,” I began, trying to sound casual, but my heart was racing. Why does confessing feelings feel like diving into a pool of lava? “So, uh, I was thinking… you know, with the world being a mess right now and all, maybe we should take a chance… together?”
She tilted her head, clearly puzzled. “A chance? On what exactly, Amir?”
Oh no. What do I mean by ‘take a chance’? This is turning into a disaster. Abort mission! Abort mission!
“Like, you know,” I stammered, “On… on us. Not us against the world or anything dramatic, but like… you and me. Together. As a thing. You know, as in more than friends.”
She blinked at me for a moment. And then, a smile slowly crept onto her face, like she was trying to hold back a laugh. “Wait,” she said, “So you’re saying you want to... be more than friends? Like, officially?
And you chose now, when the whole world is falling apart, to tell me this?”
I nodded, trying to look confident but probably resembling a deer caught in headlights. “Yeah, because... well, if the world’s going to hell, we might as well take some chances, right?”
Mahira laughed. Laughed!
“You’re something else, Amir,” she said, her smile widening. “ Hmm... It’s crucial decision Amir. Can i get some time to think?
Ah, the dreaded “I need time to think” moment. Every guy’s worst nightmare after pouring his heart out. Amir was standing there, trying to look calm, but his insides were flipping like a pancake on a hot griddle.
Time to think? Was she giving him the classic brush-off? Or was this just a polite way of saying, “I like you, but let me process this so I don’t look like a weirdo if I say yes right away”? Either way, Amir’s brain immediately started running a marathon, jumping from one worst-case scenario to another.
He looked at Mahira, trying to stay cool, but inside, his mind was anything but calm. Is this how it ends? Was it the war? Did I choose the wrong moment? He could already imagine the headlines: "Amir, the guy who tried to confess during the worst time in history." Great.
“I… I understand,” Amir finally said, trying to sound casual, though his voice cracked just a little. Nice. Super smooth, Amir. You sound like a nervous wreck. He took a deep breath, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. "Take your time. I mean, I’ll just be over here, trying not to overthink this whole thing. You know, casually contemplating how I just ruined our friendship forever. No big deal."
Mahira chuckled at his self-deprecating tone, which only made Amir feel more awkward. Why was she laughing? This is supposed to be serious!
“You’re being dramatic again,” she said, shaking her head with a smile. "I just need to think, okay? I’m not rejecting you, Amir. It’s just... well, this is a big deal, right? No need to rush into anything.”
Amir blinked. She’s not rejecting me? This was a relief... but at the same time, his mind was racing in a hundred different directions. She needs time. Should he play it cool or keep overthinking? Is she secretly deciding if I’m worth the emotional investment?
“Yeah, of course,” he replied, nodding like a bobblehead. “Take your time. I’ll just... sit here and pretend like everything’s fine, but secretly panic inside. Totally normal.”
Mahira raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re fine with this? Because you’re not acting fine.”
“Nope, totally fine,” Amir replied, giving a thumbs-up that looked more like he was trying to signal a distress call. “I mean, I’ll just be here... waiting... peacefully...”
Mahira giggled, clearly enjoying the awkwardness that Amir was trying to hide. “You’re something else, Amir. You know that?”
“Well, it’s my charm,” Amir said with an exaggerated wink. “I’m like a broken Compass—constantly rerouting and confusing everyone, including myself.”
“Seriously, though, give me a bit to think it through,” she said, her tone softening. “It’s not every day you get a confession during a national crisis.”
“Yeah, well... I'm a unique guy,” Amir responded, trying to recover. “I like to keep things interesting.”
“You sure do,” Mahira said, rolling her eyes with a smile. “But no pressure, okay? I’ll let you know what I decide.”
Amir nodded, feeling a mix of relief and nerves swirling inside him. This wasn’t a rejection, but it wasn’t a yes either. At least she hadn’t laughed in his face, which, given the circumstances, felt like a small victory.
As he walked away, trying to act cool, he couldn’t help but wonder: Was this the right time after all? Or had he just created a whole new level of awkward?
Either way, he was pretty sure he’d be overthinking every minute of the next few hours, but hey, at least Mahira wasn’t running for the hills—that had to count for something, right?
It will turn out well. I hope so and i am sure she love me. I will tell her i love you at last.
