The Tale of SAHABABAD

One

Chapter one

 The cars sped through the cervices of the old wincing stone path which directly led to the colossal structure of the tall building and entered inside the driveway of the royal palace that loomed proudly behind the strong iron gates, flanked by the trees, planted systematically in rows. It wasn’t a glass building or appeared to be technically equipped. It looked ancient and screamed power. There was a unique aura in the atmosphere as though telling the stories of the palace that has witnessed it from the ages— and for a layman; it would hardly appear to be a place resembling as the ‘headquarters’ of some cruel Mafia. 

Contrary, it looked like an Arabian palace at first glance, with the same architectural designs as was observed in mid-ninety in the Middle East, built using unfired mud-brick and wooden beams. The mansion’s architectural designs were based on the cultural and traditional aspects of Islam. The mansion stood tall in the middle surrounded by lawn and a central courtyard at the front. It was pure white in colour with grey highlights at pillars and frames of windows. The smoothness of walls, covering any column within it, made it difficult to decipher the size of the mansion from the outside and the number of floors it had embraced, but one could easily tell the number must exceed ten. Then there were brown lamps on either side of each window with yellow blubs, which gave the whole mansion a royal look. The fences at the roof were made of iron railings with curves and design justifying its entire look to be a royal one. The word ‘ERGA’ was twinkling with a bright light at the top front and overall, the mansion was exquisite and screamed the status of the man owning it. 

The parking space at the right was uncovered and a barbeque could be seen from the main entrance where the guards of the mansion were enjoying their supper, sitting in groups around the barbeque. A peculiar group of man and woman was hanging on the edge of the swimming pool, differentiating themselves among the ‘ordinary’ ones. The men were all dressed in white thobe while the women had worn Abaya. They were guffawing at something someone among them had said, enjoying the smoothness of the melodious song playing in the background but the laughter instantly dried down when the cars sauntered through the driveway, in a row and halted at the main gate. The black SUV was parked at the exact front while the other cars were parked behind it.  

Suri was the first one to step out of the car, followed by Abdullah from the driver’s seat. The strong aroma of freshly cooked kebabs hit his and Sari’s nostril, making them let out a long sigh as they relaxed and stretched their body at weird angles, feeling them at home. 

They exchanged a look and smiled. 

‘Are you calling him?’ Abdullah asked as he looked back and forth between Suri and the phone clutched in his head. Suri nodded his head in reply and dismissed him on which he and the other men in the cars joined their colleagues. 

‘How was India?’ Suri heard a man question Abdullah but didn’t hear Abdullah’s reply as his concentration was drawn by the person who picked the call. 

‘Iblis, My Royal Sheikh come out! I am at the main door and as promised; I have brought her here with me. We are here with your…’ Suri paused as he glanced at the girl lying unconscious in the back seat and felt triumphant. His heart swelled in pride when he took in her dishevelled state, her red face and crimson nose. ‘Possession, I guess.’ He finished with a wicked smirk only to be greeted with Goosebumps awakening silence from the other end and he was about to hang up the call when he heard Iblis’s deep voice.

‘Junoon!’ (Madness) Iblis whispered and disconnected the call. 

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‘Yodhya, get up! You will be late for college. It's twenty past nine already. You will miss the test, get up! Your brother will be so angry if he knows that you are prioritizing sleep over your career. Suniye Ji, why don’t you say something to her. She is getting ill-mannered with each passing day. It isn’t acceptable for a girl to wake up this late. God knows who will bear her tantrums after marriage. I’m telling you, I am done with this girl. She is becoming reckless and uncontrollable. You have provided her with too much freedom. This girl worries me so much.’ She overheard her mother yelling from downstairs and snuggled more in the blanket, intentionally ignoring her yelling, and knowing exactly well what might be happening on the floor below hers.

Her mother, an overweight old lady and a patient of the thyroid was in her mid-forties and might be yelling at everyone, giving an angry eye to the one who 'dares' to come in her sight while setting up the table for breakfast. She could even guess what her mother might have cooked in breakfast; Poha and Dhokla with fried green chilli, a combination she couldn’t understand, nevertheless, she never complained as it was the most delicious meal she could begin her day with. 

She never touched the chillies on the table as she loathed the burning sensation it left afterwards, but the Poha was among her favourite snacks. It was the pride of her city and she loved it. 

Being a strict vegetarian, she hadn’t explored many varieties in food, only those her mother managed to cook at home were her regular meals which weren’t several in numbers, but were ambrosial. She wasn’t outgoing, therefore, eating out was less an option, only a couple of times, as a ‘rescue’ from the boring lectures amidst the college, in a month were her honest visits to the restaurants or cafés.  

The visits to other places that had top places in the bucket-list of her classmates were less frequent as well. Partially, because she hated to waste money on dispensable things and partially because she had no time to waste on making visits to the unnecessary places when she could be doing multitudinous things, like reading books, studying the human activity of material cultures and observing architectural facts.  

Then there was her father, an old man of the age fifty with the grey beard (almost turning white) and grey hairs at some places on his bald forehead, who might be reading the Danik Bhaskar and hadn’t bothered raising his head from the newspaper he was reading to respond to the complaint of his wife. It was her usual life. The bickering, chatting, teasing, yelling, fighting and pampering everything was usual that happens in an ordinary middle-class family.

Yodhya had an ordinary and simple life where she was loved by her elder ones, adored by the people of her age and admired by those younger to her. She snuggled more into the soft comforter as she peeped at the wall clock and smiled. She still had half an hour before she had to rush to her college, plenty of time to doze off for another fifteen minutes before that horrifying test takes place. Yodhya thought and closed her eyes, but opened it again when her ears perked upon hearing the sound of bells ringing, echoing in the room at the farthest corner of her home. 

The melodious voice of her Bhabhi singing Aarti reached her ears and she woke up with a jolt, comprehending if her brother has woken up with her Bhabhi. Suddenly, she wasn’t feeling as lazy as she was before and was ready to go through her books once again. It was an important exam for her career, scores of which could earn her visit to Pakistan and the Middle East in the student exchange program her brother had enrolled her into. She knew it; however, she wasn’t taking it seriously. 

Walking towards the bathroom, she heard her elder brother, Aryan’s sharp voice. 

 ‘Why do you want to control her, Ma? She isn’t a kid. She can take care of herself and you.’ Yodhya overheard her brother’s reply to her mother and ran to the bathroom with a jolt. She knew the consequence if she wouldn’t be available at the table within ten minutes—a bitter scolding by her brother who was very specific about her career. 

Her brother, Aryan, was a respectable man in his mid-thirties and was married to Sanjana, a woman who used to work as a leading journalist in national news channel whereas he, himself, was the content head at a local newspaper published in the state in a vernacular language. They had a son of the age of seven years and adored Yodhya as their child. 

Aryan was a person of rigid ethics and unique mindset. He respected women like no other and took part in all the activities involving the elimination of gender discrimination. His persistence was the foundation of Yodhya’s overall personality; her confidence, courage, intelligence and her ability to deal with the fatal circumstance was a gift given by her brother whereas her big brown eyes, long butt length hairs, fair complexion and hourglass figure was genetically gifted by her mother. 

Yodhya was beautiful and she knew it. Although she was grateful of the fact that she looked presentable and wasn’t conscious of the way she was, it never mattered to her, what stood out for her was never her look, but her achievements and It was all her brother’s efforts that she had won the state fencing championship at the age of sixteen. 

He was the one who had enrolled her name in a taekwondo class when she was barely seven and registered her name for the student exchange program for cultural literacy. 

‘Oh, Ma, you worry way too much. I can handle everything.’ Yodhya said as she jumped down the stairs, chirping happily. She was still wearing the cotton shots and crop top from the night while her long hairs were tied up in a messy bun. She wrapped her hands around her mother’s neck like an infant and pecked her cheeks lightly, making her mother smile at her tactics. 

‘I am a mother and I am supposed to worry over my child. Your brother is sending you to an unknown country. How am I supposed to react?’ Maithili, her mother said, glancing at her son who was helping his son with the breakfast. 

‘It’s just for six months, Ma. Three in Saudi and three in Pakistan and then I’ll be back in India in no time.’ Yodhya shrugged off nonchalantly as she took her designed chair at the table. 

‘My instincts are telling me something, Yodhya. I do not want you to go to that place. It doesn’t belong to us. It is different. The people are different. I don’t think it is that great idea.’ Her mother whispered while serving her daughter. 

‘Ma, it’s a great opportunity for Yodhya to explore. She will learn a lot of things from their culture. You needn’t be worried. Besides we will remain in contact. Right?’ Aryan bolstered as he took a spoon full of Poha in his mouth.

‘Right!’ Yodhya smiled at her mother, assuring her with eyes. ‘I will behave, Ma. I promise. I will be back within six months all safe, sound, happy and healthy.’ She promised her mother, still trying to convince her. But the frown her mother’s forehead never relaxed. 

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Her mother’s words of alarm rang in her ears as soon as Yodhya regained consciousness. The reminiscent of the face of her mother made her feel even worse. She regretted not taking her mother’s advice seriously. She hated herself for brushing off her mother’s screaming instinct when her own had denied appearing, but then regretting over the past was of no use. It wouldn’t help her. It wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t erase what had happened in the past. It wouldn’t take her away from that criminal; her captor. 

‘Did you wake up, Her Royal Highness? Will you come out yourself or you want me to help you out with it?’ The familiar deep voice brought her back at the present as her head snapped in the direction of the source to come face to face with the man she dreaded the most.

‘And here we meet again! Welcome back, Zawjah.’ He smirked; making a shiver of fear ran down her spine.