Madawa

8

The Ahmed residence was radiant, glowing in yellow, covered in fairy lights and bulbs of all sizes. The Ahmed's gleamed with happiness. After all it was their only daughter's wedding today. The bride was at the salon to get ready for her big day.

Maher, as excited as he was until yesterday, wasn't in the mood to go now and his headache made it even worse. He was awoken by his phone vibrating. With sleepy eyes, he checked the time. It was 1 in the afternoon. The wedding was at 6 pm. He opened his call log to see who had called. It was Shahid. He was about to call him when he called him again.

"I was just calling to check ke tum kahin mar war toh nahi gaye yahan ka paani peekar," Shahid said as soon as Maher picked up the phone.

"Abhi tak toh nahi," Maher spoke in a heavy voice.

"Acha darwaza kholo, waiter nashta le kar baahar khada hai," Shahid said and Maher groaned. He got up and opened the door to see what he expected. Shahid stood there holding a bag. "I got you your favorite absolutely disgusting Smoked Salmon Omelette and somewhat okay Hazelnut Frappe from Xander's," he grinned and Maher laughed. He opened the door wider and Shahid walked in.

Shahid settled down cross-legged, at the sofa by the window and set out the breakfast on the coffee table in front of him. One smoked salmon omelette, one hazelnut frappe (for Maher) and one khageena paratha (for him). He had already had his tea on his way here.

"You should try the Khageena Paratha—it's out of this world!" Shahid said as Maher sat across from him.

"Hm," was all he said, unwrapping his meal.

Shahid looked at him puzzled. He had no idea what had happened in one day. He was about to ask him what was going on when his eyes laid on the nightstand. An ashtray—full to the brim—and countless cigarette butts lay on it, alongside a bottle of Tylenol. He blankly stared at the nightstand for a minute. It took him a minute to process that one person could smoke so many cigarettes. He looked back at Maher, who was quietly eating his breakfast.

"Dude, you okay?" Shahid asked him before his gaze returned to the nightstand. Maher paused to look at him—his brows furrowed. "Hmm?" He asked. He followed the direction he was looking in and his brows eased looking at the bottle of painkillers. "Oh, yea. Jet lag is finally catching up, I guess," Maher nonchalantly replied.

"You smoke like a dealer when jet lag hits you?" Shahid retorted. "Afzal ka paan wala bhi isse kam peeta hoga—what's wrong with you??" He added and Maher let out a laugh.

"Wait a minute—what are you doing at your driver's paan wala's?" He joked. "Aren't you like a tobacco virgin?" He added, sure that this would make Shahid laugh and forget about the decor on his nightstand. He was wrong. Shahid sat there with a straight face.

"You know that stuff's poison, right?" He asked him. Shahid comes from a family of oncologists and pulmonologists. Seeing the pile of cigarette butts shook him to his core. He had seen what smoking does to people. Ever since he was a teenager, he volunteered at his mother's clinic every Summer and many of her patients he'd seen were alive but looked more like a corpse. That state was enough for him to vow to never even touch a cigarette and he made that very clear in his friend circle. He had no idea when Maher started smoking.

Maher didn't reply. As close as he and Shahid were, he couldn't tell him that his father murdered a family so that he wouldn't be defeated. He couldn't tell him that smoking, and consequently hurting himself, made the burden he was carrying with him feel a little lighter. He couldn't tell him that hurting himself felt like he was somehow paying for his father's sins.

"I'm trying to quit," was all Maher said without making eye contact with him. It seemed like the perfect response, one that guaranteed Shahid wouldn't say anything more about it.