A/N: No one guessed what Meerab wanted to tell Murtasim! But you can find out below! Thank you for all the love for the last chapter! 

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While making rounds of the village over the next weeks, Murtasim noticed the way Meerab tried to fit into the village. Children swarmed around her, laughing and playing, some were called away by their mothers, with looks of suspicion shot towards her. Other women exchanged stories and shared laughter with her, some of the elderly women seemed particularly fond of her, patting her head, while others looked at her like she was a strange alien walking amongst them. The sight of her surrounded by at least some conversation was comforting, but he knew that the villagers often looked towards outsiders with concern.

Murtasim caught snippets of conversations about her friends from Karachi visiting her before they had arrived in the village. Two of them, both seemingly older than Meerab. That had initially caught him off guard upon their arrival, but on observing them, he'd noticed the respectful way they carried themselves and interacted with the village folk and deemed them trustworthy.

He'd rather she had company, it kept her away from him, he wished he could say it kept her out of sight and out of mind, but it seemed that Meerab had found a permanent home in his mind no matter how hard he tried to push her out. He tried his best to keep himself occupied though.

With his attention primarily occupied by the new warehouse's logistics and introducing modern farming equipment to the villagers, he'd been amply distracted. Areeb was away visiting his mother so there was no one around to bother or tease him about Meerab, for which he was grateful. Bhaktu was engrossed in assisting him with the new endeavours, so no one told him what Meerab was up to. It was easy to assume she was just enjoying her vacation, far removed from any mischief, that everything was calm.

But his assumption and the tranquility of the haveli was abruptly shattered one evening. Men from the village stormed in, at least thirty of them, their expressions a mix of anger, confusion, and apprehension. The air was thick with tension, and their voices, raised in anger, echoed through the corridors of the haveli. Murtasim hurriedly approached the gathering, his protective instincts on high alert, trying to find familiar faces in the crowd for a hint of what was happening.

He felt his heart racing, Murtasim had seen these men riled up before during village meetings, but never like this. The sheer intensity of their collective emotion was palpable, making the atmosphere electric. He began to pick out words and phrases as he approached them, trying to piece together the cause of their sudden outburst. As he approached the gathering, the commotion grew louder, and snippets of conversation reached his ears.

"My wife won't listen to me anymore!" one man exclaimed.

"She's behind this! I know it!" one man spat, his voice dripping with rage.

"She's teaching them to work, to earn!" another said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"These women have forgotten their place!" another one growled.

Determined to mediate, Murtasim stepped in, trying to catch their attention, his hand raised for silence. But just as he did, the delicate sound of tiny bells reached him. Without turning, he knew it was Meerab; her footsteps were accompanied by the occasional tinkle of the bells tied around their goat's neck, who was her shadow. Murtasim's protective instinct surged as he realized that Meerab, the she these men were speaking of, was in their direct line of sight. He instinctively positioned himself between Meerab and the mob, shielding her from the accusatory glares that turned towards her.

"What's going on?" he asked, trying to understand the root of the issue.

A broad-shouldered man, visibly angered, stepped forward. "Her!" He said pointing to Meerab. "She's filling our wives' and daughters' heads with nonsense! They're working now, doing embroidery, tailoring, even pottery!"

Murtasim could feel Meerab's slight frame trembling behind him, Murtasimbakri let out a soft bleat as if sensing the tension.

The accusations and complaints from the men were relentless, each one adding fuel to the already blazing fire.

Another, his face flushed, added, "By teaching our women these things, they'll start to defy us, thinking they know better!"

"They already have!" Another chimed in.

An elder, looking genuinely concerned, chimed in, "If our women start earning, they'll think they don't need us. What happens to the family structure then?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.

Murtasim's brow furrowed.

As if the complaints weren't enough, another man stepped forward, tears in his eyes. "My wife, Shabana, she left me. Took all our children. She has given her ideas above her station!" Murtasim didn't particularly sympathize with the man, knowing his history of violence towards his family, but it was a situation that needed addressing nonetheless.

One man, his eyes darting around as if expecting spies, whispered, "This reeks of foreign influence. We've heard stories of villages where such ideas ruined their way of life."

And just when Murtasim thought things couldn't escalate any further, a couple of the men angrily presented condoms, the plastic wrappers glinting in the sunlight. "Look at this! Our wives suddenly have them. They say they don't want more children."

A father of six, with a mix of confusion and indignation on his face, spoke up, "Family planning? Are you suggesting we deny the blessings? Children are our wealth. She's trying to ruin our families!"

Murtasim took a deep breath, realizing the gravity of the situation. Meerab's intentions, while apparently noble, had stirred a hornet's nest. In just over a month, how had Meerab managed to do so much? Murtasim's thoughts raced as he remembered the fleeting introductions she'd made when her friends from the city had visited. One was a doctor, and the other was a distributor of some sort.

The pieces started falling into place in his mind.

That particular evening when she had stormed into the study came flashing back, Meerab had approached him wanting to discuss something important. But he had avoided the conversation because of the feelings she evoked in him, because he knew Meerab was the last person who should've had such an effect on him. So, he had sidestepped her attempts to talk, drowning himself in other responsibilities.

He should have listened.

Because Meerab, with her indomitable spirit, had found a way without his help. Without anyone realizing the depth of her commitment, she seemed to have become a champion for the women of the village. He finally understood what he had seen as he made rounds of the village – she had been well-received by some, but the women that called away their children when she was near and the elders that glared at her were clearly not on board.

It made sense when he realized that they were likely threatened by the same ideas the men were shouting. It seemed that Meerab had set up vocational training for the women of the village. They were apparently learning or honing skills, skills that they were already putting to use, making money and even standing up to their husbands from the sounds of it.

Meerab was brilliant, her intelligence shining through her actions. But now, the consequence of her brilliance left Murtasim torn. On one hand, he admired her audacity. But on the other, the fury of the men was a force to reckon with. They saw their age-old authority being threatened, their control slipping away, and he knew that it wouldn't bode well. Change wasn't meant to be so sudden and implemented so haphazardly. Especially a change that threatened the way of life in the village.

Murtasim glanced at Meerab. The courage in her eyes was unwavering even though the mob's gaze was chilling. They looked at her with such intensity, it seemed they would kill her if they could. It seemed that even Murtasimbakri sensed the anger, because she stood defiantly in front of Meerab, her angry bleats and glares aimed at the men.

Their yells were deafening, the combined voices of anger and resentment. Murtasim knew he had to act, even though Meerab had been wrong to spring this on the village without thinking, he had to defend her, he was partially at fault for letting it happen under his watch, or lack of. He should have known what she was up to, he should have stopped her.

Stepping forward, he projected his voice, "That's enough!" The authority in his tone was unmistakable, and a hush fell over the crowd. The very air seemed to hold its breath.

"I understand your concerns," he began, looking each man in the eye, "and I respect the traditions of this village. But we must remember that sometimes traditions need to change with time."

One of the eldest in the group, his face a roadmap of wrinkles and wisdom, stepped forward, his expression stern. "Our traditions have been the same for generations. Who is she to come and challenge them? And now even you support this?" The murmurs of agreement rumbled again.

Murtasim raised his hand for silence, drawing upon all the authority his position commanded. "I know it feels like she has overstepped, and I agree that these changes require time. But Meerab's heart is in the right place. We must realize that many of our women are struggling. They need skills to support themselves, especially if unforeseen circumstances arise. It's for the betterment-"

But before he could finish, a man scoffed, stepping forward, his mouth open to challenge.

Murtasim's sharp, pointed look halted him mid-step. The weight of his gaze was clear: he wasn't done speaking. He felt Murtasimbakri rubbing her head affectionately against his leg, as if to reassure him.

The man cowered, sinking back into the crowd.

Murtasim continued, "As I was saying, it is for the betterment of our families. Meerab saw suffering and tried to help. Wouldn't we all want to help those in need? Imagine the growth our village could see if both our men and women had the skills to contribute."

Silence continued to dominate the space, allowing Murtasim's voice to echo clearly. "This doesn't mean we forget our values or traditions," he began with resolution in his voice, "It's about adapting to ensure our women don't suffer in silence."

"Our women aren't suffering!" A man yelled. "They're completely fine, they have been!"

Murtasim stood firm. "If that was the case, then no one would have supported Meerab's actions." He said simply. "Let's face the harsh truth - some men in our village don't treat their wives, daughters, sisters, and mothers with the respect they deserve. And that is a sin. Don't we want them to have security, respect, and happiness?"

The silence was quickly broken by a voice full of disappointment and disbelief. One of the prominent members of the community, his face marked with disapproval, spoke up, "We looked up to your father, Khan. He would've never allowed such a thing. Is this the direction you're taking us in?"

Another man, his voice tinged with worry, chimed in, "What will the neighboring villages say? That we're letting our women run wild due to an outsider's influence?"

The questions continued, each louder and more aggressive than the last.

"My wife's place is at home, looking after our children. Not learning trades and crafts like a man!" One man yelled.

Murtasimbakri responded with an equally loud and grating 'baah', as if in protest, for some reason it made him want to chuckle despite the tension in the air. The usually playful goat now took on the role of a protector. Her stance was stiff, her tail twitched in annoyance, and she frequently stomped a hoof, signaling her displeasure when one of the men spoke too loudly.

"Our ancestors lived by these traditions. Why should we be the ones to change them?" Another man yelled.

"We have survived and thrived all these years with our ways. Why do we need this change now?"

"What happens if the women start earning more than us? Will they then turn their backs on us and our families?"

Murtasimbakri seemed to have had enough. She trotted in a small circle around him and Meerab, as if marking a protective boundary of sorts, her eyes darting from one man to the next as they spoke.

"If my wife starts attending these classes, what would the other men think of me? That I can't provide for my family?"

As Meerab tried to step forward, her face set with determination to defend her actions, Murtasim instinctively reached out and his fingers encased her hand. The moment they touched, a sudden warmth surged through him, as if every part of him that was cold and distant suddenly thawed and came to life.

There was an urgency, a silent plea in his grip.In his mind, a voice whispered, imploring him to never let go of her hand, to just hold on.

He whispered a low "Don't" under his breath, knowing that her speaking would just make things worse in that moment.

Meerab hesitated, then slowly retracted, understanding the gravity of the moment.

Murtasimbakri stepped in between their legs, nuzzling Meerab gently, offering her brand of comfort amidst the chaos as Murtasim turned back around.

With his gaze, piercing and unwavering, Murtasim spoke. "My father," he began, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of emotion, "did what he believed was best for this community during his time." As Murtasim continued, his voice resonated with an authority he rarely ever felt. "And while I respect his decisions, the world is changing, and we must evolve with it. Do you want our village to be left behind while the world moves forward? My father also taught me the importance of progress and well-being for all. And that's the direction I intend to take, the direction I have taken. For the betterment of everyone here, not just a few."

His words seemed to hang in the air, and as he finished, there was a moment where time itself seemed to halt. The wind stilled, the rustle of leaves ceased, and all that remained was the profound silence, echoing the gravity of his message, the finality of his words.

Murtasim's mind raced as he surveyed the scene before him. He was all too familiar with the politics of the village and the weight traditions held. His thoughts were with the village head and the Maliks, powerful families with deep roots and influence. Their disposition towards change could set the course for the entire village. He had a gnawing suspicion that the clash of values was far from over, that a tide would turn, perhaps not in his favour.

Beside him, Meerab stood still. Her posture was straight, chin slightly raised, exuding a quiet confidence. She had been the catalyst for this confrontation, and yet, her demeanor was one of someone who had no regrets. Her intentions had been pure, but the timing had perhaps been too precipitous, he didn't have a strong enough hold on his people yet, there were some who still didn't trust him and thought him too young to be a feudal lord.

As the men began to disperse, their conversations were hushed but intense. Murtasim caught snatches of their talk. "This is madness," whispered one. "Maybe he has a point," mused another. The cacophony of murmurs was like a distant storm, signaling that the tempest was far from over.

Murtasim's eyes trailed the men as they left. He could discern the clenched jaws, the tightness around the eyes, the stiffness of their strides. Their exit was a mix of acceptance, resistance, and resentment. The dusty ground crunched underfoot as the last of the village men took their leave, their footsteps echoing the tension that had gripped the courtyard.

The weight of the situation hung heavily, the silence amplifying the sense of unease between Murtasim and Meerab.

Turning slowly, Murtasim's gaze settled on Meerab. The contrast between her delicate frame and the defiant stance she adopted was striking. She stood tall, regal in her own right, but there was a vulnerability in her eyes—a vulnerability that he seldom saw.

She hesitated, her lips parting ever so slightly as if gathering her thoughts. "Thank you," she finally whispered. The words, simple yet profound, held an ocean of gratitude. Her eyes were gentle, the fiery spirit that he was so used to seeing momentarily subdued. "I didn't think you'd take my side in all of this."

Murtasim's emotions churned within him. The sharp angularity of his jawline was evident as he clenched it, his face contorted with a mix of anger and confusion. The intensity of his emotions made his voice sharp, almost biting. "It's not about taking sides," he responded tersely.

Meerab flinched slightly at his tone. She retreated a step, her initial gratitude giving way to disbelief. He sighed as Murtasimbakri nipped at his shoe, as if reminding him that his tone wasn't appreciated.

But the reality of the situation gnawed at him, the potential ramifications of their actions creating a tight coil of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. "What you did... it could go very badly for us." He could almost envision the council meetings, the piercing gazes of the village head and Maliks, and the thick cloud of disapproval looming over them. His enemies would use this to try to turn the tide in their favour, and the angry villagers would capitulate.

Meerab lifted her chin defiantly, her voice tinged with frustration. "I did it because it was the right thing to do. I tried to tell you, but you didn't listen, and then I thought if I told you, you wouldn't understand or you'd stop me, so I stopped trying."

Watching her, Murtasim felt a pang of guilt. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, feeling the burden of leadership and responsibility pressing down on him. "This isn't just about what you did but how you went about it. Tumhe andaaza bhi hai tumne kya kiya hai? You jeopardized our position in the village. Phir bhi sabke saamne maine tumhari izzat rakhi."

Her eyes flashed, a hint of the fiery spirit returning. "I knew you would react like this! You wouldn't have listened to me even if I told you then," she asserted, her voice a blend of frustration and sadness.

Murtasim's gaze deepened, his eyes almost black in the dimming light. "That's where you're wrong. I would have listened. Maybe not agreed to your ways, but I would have listened."

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped Meerab's lips. "And all those times I told you I needed to talk to you? When I begged you for a minute of your time?" The hurt was evident in her voice, a subtle tremor betraying the depth of her emotions.

He opened his mouth to respond, but words eluded him. Confronted with the rawness of their situation, Murtasim stood motionless, grappling with his feelings. The silence between them was thick, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the village, the rustling leaves, and Murtasimbakri's soft sounds.

The softness of her sigh cut through the tension, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. "Just as well, it's not like you would have trusted my intentions, you've changed again," she whispered. Her eyes, dark and shimmering with a mixture of hurt and defiance, darted between his, probing, seeking something that seemed to remain elusive.

Murtasim felt a pang in his chest. Her words were like a puzzle. He searched his mind, trying to piece together what she meant, but the picture remained blurred.

Her voice, low and soft, cut through his thoughts again. "Except last summer...when have you ever listened to anything I've had to say? I was dumb to think that things had changed. You never trust my intentions."

His heart ached at her words. He could sense the hurt, the disappointment in her tone. Taking a step closer, the contours of his face hardened. "This isn't about not trusting your intentions, Meerab," he murmured, each word carrying the weight of his emotions. "This is about the method, the approach. We could've done this slowly, maybe even involve the men in some way to ensure they didn't feel threatened or rebel."

But Meerab was having none of it. She threw her hands up, the gesture a clear sign of her exasperation. "You always talk about slowly. The problem is, slowly usually means never. It's always the same story. Those who have power don't challenge the system because doing so means jeopardizing their own position. The status quo benefits them; why would they want to change it? But just because something has been done a certain way for generations doesn't mean it's right. These women can't wait forever." She stepped closer, her finger finding his way to his chest, poking him with each word. "They need help now."

His eyes flared with restrained anger, his voice sharp yet controlled. "Yes, they do. But if we lose the trust of the men in the village, it makes things even more difficult for those women. If we had taken the time, figured out a plan, worked together, we could've found a way that was beneficial for everyone." He snapped.

Her voice trembled, the weight of the past month evident in her tone. "Acha? When were we going to work together? This is the first time you've said anything except 'leave' or 'I am busy' to me in over a month, Murtasim." Her face was flushed, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The vulnerability in her gaze caught him off guard. His heart raced, struggling to process the whirlwind of emotions playing out between them.

Murtasim watched Meerab, the intensity of their conversation causing him to really see her, possibly for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The sunlight danced on her face, and her skin seemed to glow with a golden hue. But as mesmerizing as she was, the dampness in her eyes drew him in and twisted his heart in knots. He loved her brave and fierce side, but this vulnerable side – it broke him.

He was no stranger to the sight of her tears, but every drop felt like a personal failing. A pang of regret shot through him. A heaviness settled in his chest, a combination of guilt and longing. As he drank in her features – the curve of her lips, the tilt of her nose, the arch of her brow – it dawned on him how much he had missed just looking at her. Every line and curve was familiar yet new, like revisiting a favorite book after years.

"I am sorry," he finally whispered, regret dripping from every syllable. His voice, raw and genuine, carried the weight of all the moments he wished he could take back.

"Why?" she shot back, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes searching his face, seeking an answer.

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. He struggled, grasping for words, trying to discern which among the myriad reasons she was seeking.

"Murtasim." She whispered.

She said his name.

Just his name, simple and direct, but it resonated in his ears, reminding him of all the times she had called out to him.

The sound stirred something deep within him, a yearning he had suppressed, barricaded behind walls of duty and responsibility. It took every ounce of his restraint not to pull her into an embrace.

His chest tightened as Meerab's voice, filled with a mix of hope and desperation, reached his ears. "Why didn't you want to talk to me?" Her tone was sincere, her eyes searching his for an answer.

In the recesses of his mind, a storm raged. Memories of stolen glances, of moments where the space between them felt like an abyss and times when it felt like a hair's breadth - they all played in rapid succession. Because I am trying to stop whatever it is that keeps pulling me to you, his inner voice admitted. Those words echoed inside, a painful acknowledgment of the emotional tug-of-war he constantly felt around her.

Yet when he looked at her, the weight of that admission paralyzed his vocal cords. All he could do was swallow hard, the lump in his throat making words impossible. The raw vulnerability in her gaze was too much; it threatened to break down the walls he had painstakingly built around his heart.

And so, in an effort to protect them, he sought refuge in deflection. "What I am saying is that we could have worked with those men and – "

Her immediate scoff snapped him back to the present. "Worked together? With some of those men? The men that see their wives as slaves, puppets, and incubators for their children? The men who beat their wives and even their children? Who force their wives to have unwanted children, to further trap them? The men that continue to harm them because they know they're powerless?" The incredulity in her tone was palpable. She was like a tempest, her righteous anger and conviction evident in every word, every gesture. "Those men would never agree to what I was doing. Never! We would've ended up having endless meetings and discussions, with no real change."

He took a deep breath, the scent of the surrounding vegetation grounding him. "That's where you're wrong. Change is always possible, but it has to come from within. We could've found allies among those men, people who see the benefits of what you were trying to do. Not all of them are like that." As he spoke, he stepped closer to her, each footfall heavy with purpose. "But instead, you went behind their backs and now, we have a bigger mess on our hands."

Meerab's gaze locked onto his, a fire burning behind those eyes. "It's always about appeasing people with you, isn't it? But what about the women of this village? When will it be their turn?" Her words, though accusatory, carried a plea, a yearning for understanding.

Murtasim's defenses rose, but so did the emotions he had been suppressing. "It's not about appeasing anyone," he began, his voice quivering with the weight of his feelings. "It's about ensuring that the change we want to see is sustainable. That it lasts. That it doesn't just become another flash in the pan that dies out as soon as we're not holding it up."

With each word, the space between them shrank. Their bodies were now inches apart. Murtasim could feel the warmth emanating from her, hear the tremble in her voice. "I couldn't stand by and watch any longer, Murtasim. Maybe you're right, maybe there was another way. But I did what I thought was right."

Tears glistened in her eyes, and that sight alone tore at Murtasim. Every instinct in him yearned to comfort her, to bridge the chasm that had grown between them. But for now, words were all he had.

Murtasim exhaled, trying to steady himself. "Do you understand the dynamics of this village, Meerab?" The timbre of his voice softened, reflecting the weight of his concern.

His eyes met hers, searching for comprehension. "These men, they've held power for generations. They've been conditioned to think that their authority is the only thing that keeps their families and village running. And now, you've threatened that."

She stiffened, her posture defiant yet vulnerable. "I gave those women hope. I gave them tools and knowledge to better their lives," she shot back, the conviction in her voice unwavering.

A reluctant nod from Murtasim acknowledged her sentiments. "And for that, I commend you. But..." he paused, trying to find the right words, "...you've done it in such a way that these men now feel cornered. And do you know what a threatened animal does when cornered? It lashes out."

The tension in the air was palpable, almost like a magnetic pull drawing them in, even amidst their disagreements. Every time they locked horns, Murtasim would find himself, unknowingly, stepping closer, breaching that invisible barrier between them. Their fiery discussions made him remember a similar confrontation from the previous summer - how she was just inches away from him, so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his face. He remembered the wild urge he had felt then, and one he had thought about for months, to lean in and capture her lips with his.

Now, as his gaze involuntarily slid to her lips, plump and slightly parted, the realization hit him with a jolt. The desire was still there, unchanged from last summer, if not intensified. He yearned to pull her into an embrace, to drown in the sensation of her against him, to lose himself in the comfort and chaos she brought into his life. But he had to resist. He mentally scolded himself, forcing his gaze upwards, away from the tempting allure of her mouth.

Shadows played on his face as his voice dropping to a heartfelt whisper, "Violence will increase. Those men will try to exert their power in whatever way they can, just to prove a point. To prove they're still in control. And the very women you tried to help will bear the brunt of that anger."

Silence settled around them, punctuated only by the faint sounds Murtasimbakri made as she sat curled up at their feet. The gravity of his words reflected in Meerab's eyes, their depth revealing the storm of realization and regret brewing within. The color drained from her face, her lips quivering. "I... I didn't think of it that way."

He couldn't help himself. Reaching out hesitantly, Murtasim gently cradled her face, his fingers brushing away the stray strands of hair that had fallen across her cheek.

"You acted from a place of compassion and that's commendable," he whispered, his voice tinged with emotion, "But you also acted without thinking about the larger picture, about the fallout. I – I should have listened...this could have gone better."

Murtasim, feeling the warmth of Meerab's skin under his fingertips, swiftly withdrew his hand. A pang of guilt, mixed with a suppressed longing, churned within him. That fleeting touch was an unspoken confession, an admission of the feelings he had tried so hard to bury. He couldn't fathom how something so simple could hold such profound meaning.

She stood there, rooted in place, a juxtaposition of vulnerability and strength. The fact that she hadn't recoiled or rebuffed his gesture spoke volumes. But her voice, soft as the whisper of wind through the trees, broke the silence, "Now what?"

He felt a rush of emotions – anguish, regret, and the weight of responsibility. Without uttering a word, he sank onto the nearby outdoor chaise on the porch. The old fabric cushion exhaled a musty scent as he clutched his head, trying to find some semblance of clarity amid the turmoil.

"We have to fix this," he finally managed to say, lifting his gaze to lock onto Meerab's deep-set eyes. They were like windows to a soul that held so much passion, determination, and at that moment, apprehension. "We need to get the men on board."

Meerab, her face a palette of emotions, echoed the collective sentiment, "But how?" Her voice trembled.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Murtasim tried to compose himself. "It'll be much harder now. Their egos are bruised, and they'll be resistant to any changes we propose," he began, each word carefully chosen, "We'll need to approach this with a lot of tact and diplomacy. But it's the only way. We need to make them see the benefits of empowering women, and make them realize that they're not losing their place in the village but rather strengthening the community as a whole."

Her posture straightened, determination washing over her face. The shadows accentuating the contours of her visage as she nodded slowly, seeking direction. "How?"

Murtasim, now fully immersed in the strategy, responded, "We start small, with allies within the village, those who already see the vision. And then, slowly, using both their testimonies and proven results, we aim to change the narrative."

Murtasim, lost in thought, leaned back into the chaise, its old wooden legs creaking beneath him. "First," he started, running a hand through his hair, a gesture of contemplation, "we need to identify those among the men who might be more open to our cause, even if just slightly. There must be some who have seen the benefits of what you started."

"Do you?" She whispered as she sat on the table in front of him, bringing her to eye-level again.

Murtasim's gaze met hers, and for a split second, the world around him ceased to exist. There was a problem with her eyes – a significant one. Every time he looked into their depths, he found himself momentarily disarmed, as if the world had muted its sounds and paused its actions. Words, thoughts, intentions; all seemed to evaporate, leaving only an overwhelming awareness of those captivating orbs. It was as though they held a universe of their own, drawing him in, making him momentarily forget how to construct a sentence, to process a thought, even to take a breath. How was it possible for someone's eyes to possess such a mesmerizing power?

"Do you?" She repeated again, her eyes flickering between his, filled with hope and fear.

"Meerab," he began, his voice sounding unusually gentle, "I see what you want to do, and a part of me - the part that has seen the world outside of this village - believes in it. But," he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "you're trying to change a system that has been in place for generations. You're challenging norms, traditions, even beliefs."

She took a deep breath, her gaze steady on him, searching for understanding in his eyes as she spoke. "All I want is for every woman here to know that they have the right to live their life peacefully, the right to dream, to put themselves first, to realize that they can want more than just being a wife or a mother if they want."

He nodded slowly. "I get it. But the village... it's like a closed ecosystem. People here have lived their whole lives believing in a certain way of life. And you're introducing a new idea, something they've never encountered before."

She clenched her fists, frustration evident on her face. "So, you're saying I should just give up?"

He shook his head. "No, that's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is, change takes time. And we have to...be careful. Revolutions start with a spark, that spark can light up the world, or it can consume everything in its path. We just have to hope we don't get burned."

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Murtasim found himself in the grand sitting room of the village head's house days later, sitting in the intricately carved wooden chairs on a beautiful embroidered carpet that covered most of the floor. The room was lit with soft yellow light emanating from traditional lanterns hung on the walls. The aroma of rich Pakistani cuisine wafted from the adjoining dining room, causing Murtasim's stomach to grumble in anticipation of the dinner he had been invited to.

Rahim Baig, a man in his fifties with a full beard, the sarpanch, leaned back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "You make an interesting point, Khan. But our traditions and ways have stood the test of time. How can we be sure this change won't bring more harm than good?"

Murtasim looked straight into Rahim's eyes, "I understand your apprehensions, Baig Sahab. But your daughter, Farida, studies in the city, doesn't she? Clearly, you thought it would benefit her, she's a testament to what women can achieve when given a chance, and I think it's about time all women of our village are given a chance."

The village head nodded, admitting the point. "Yes. But the city is not the village. People here have their beliefs. They're deeply rooted. You must tread carefully, Khan, I don't see this going well."

Their conversation deepened, the room's ambiance thickening with the weight of the words exchanged. Murtasim was wary, for he had always suspected that Rahim Baig was the kind of man to switch loyalties based on the wind's direction, always siding with those he deemed to be winning.

"The Maliks will oppose this," Rahim began, his gaze sharp and assessing. "You're a Khan after all, and with the recent...incident with their man, they'll stand against you even more. The village will be divided; it could even turn violent."

"I had to defend our honor," Murtasim replied, steel evident in his voice. "He had the audacity to touch a woman of my house."

Rahim raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Tread carefully, young man. The village won't accept someone like Meerab."

Caught off guard, Murtasim's eyes widened. How was the man so perceptive? Was he really that transparent?

Seeing his reaction, Rahim chuckled softly. "You might think you're inscrutable, but I've seen enough in my days to know when a man is being driven by someone else's convictions."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Murtasim responded, attempting to sound dismissive.

Rahim leaned in, fixing Murtasim with an unwavering gaze. "Tell me, would you have ever considered this change if she hadn't started it?"

Murtasim fell silent, the truth heavy on his tongue. He wouldn't have. He knew that.

Sighing, Rahim leaned back. "Many will resent her, blame her for any discord that arises. Send her back to the city when you get the chance, Murtasim. It's for the best."

Murtasim simply nodded, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat. The mere thought of parting with Meerab ached, but he couldn't deny Rahim's logic.

As the conversation winded down, they both rose and headed towards the dining table. The spread was magnificent: a variety of curries, naan, and salads were laid out. The help moved efficiently around the table, serving each dish with practiced ease. Meerab took the seat beside him, and as she settled, he caught the familiar scent of roses and vanilla wafting from her. She was adorned in a soft pink suit that complemented her complexion, her hair cascading in gentle curls, framing her face. When he had first caught sight of her that evening, he had momentarily been rendered breathless.

Being seated beside her elicited similar feelings, it was both a boon and a challenge. On one hand, he didn't have to restrain himself from openly staring at her, as he would have if she was seated across. But the proximity was also its own form of torture. Her mere presence, the soft hum of her voice, the faint warmth emanating from her was like an ember by his side. Every now and then, their arms would brush against each other, sending a jolt up his spine.

Farida sat across from Meerab, and the two women were deeply engrossed in conversation, it seemed that Rahim's wife, Samina Begum, liked Meerab, for she kept asking her question after question. He listened to the answers closely, learning more about what Meerab did at school and what she hoped to do in the future then than he ever had directly from her.

Just as Murtasim started eating, Meerab abruptly stood up. "Murtasim, don't eat that! It has fish in it!" Her voice held a note of sharp urgency. He choked on the morsel in his mouth due to the surprise, coughs racked his body, she swiftly moved closer. Her fingers, warm and slightly trembling, framed his face, thumbs brushing against the rough stubble on his cheeks while her palms rested firmly against his jaw, tilting his face up. The sensation of her touch, even in that fraught moment, was unexpectedly comforting.

She shifted to his side, her other hand now patting and then rubbing his back in steady, soothing circles. The motion was calming, the warmth from her hand seeping through the fabric of his shirt, as he drank a few sips of water to dislodge the food. Her touch grounded him amidst the chaos of his own body's reaction. Every touch conveyed a depth of concern, something he wasn't used to feeling from someone else in such an unguarded manner.

Keeping one hand on his back, she turned towards Farida, her voice quivering but determined, "He's allergic to fish. Can we figure out what doesn't have fish in it? And do you have any allergy medicine just in case?"

Without hesitation, Farida was on her feet, guiding servants and fetching the necessary medication.

Still coughing, Murtasim managed to wheeze out, "It's okay, it was just a bite."

"No, you swallowed it! You need to throw it up," Meerab's tone was stern, indicating she wasn't up for any argument.

"I can't just... throw up," Murtasim protested weakly.

Without another word, Meerab grabbed a spoon from the table, urging him, "Shove this down your throat, quickly."

Taken aback by the concern, he whispered, "It's not a big deal. Why are you so worried?"

Meerab hesitated for a split second before replying, "You're my ride home and partner in this endeavour." Without waiting for a reaction, she gently pushed him towards the bathroom.

Murtasim's eyes watered as he forced himself to throw up, the acrid taste of bile and the remnants of the meal burning the back of his throat. As much as the act revolted him, he knew the discomfort was temporary and far better than the adverse effects of a severe allergic reaction.

Emerging from the bathroom, he found Meerab standing just outside the door, her stance conveying both concern and a touch of impatience. She arched an eyebrow, her eyes scanning his face for any sign of distress. "Okay?"

He nodded, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "Yes, thank you."

She fell into step beside him as they returned to the dining table where their hosts waited. "Sorry about that," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the spread of dishes. "I didn't realize there was fish in it."

Samina Begum offered a sympathetic smile, her hand fluttering to her chest. "Not at all, dear. I am sorry. We should have asked about allergies."

Murtasim noticed Rahim giving him a pointed look, the older man's eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and understanding. "It's a good thing Meerab noticed," Rahim commented, his tone slightly teasing.

Meerab simply handed Murtasim an allergy pill, her fingers brushing against his as she did so. A cool glass of water was pushed towards him, and he accepted it.

Murtasim slowly picked at his food, the earlier scare still fresh in his mind. But it wasn't just that. Every bite he took, he felt the weight of Meerab's watchful gaze. There was no hiding from it; he was trapped under the intensity of her concern. It wasn't merely the kind of attention one gave to a family member. It was deeper, more intimate. A kind of concern he hadn't felt before.

As dinner concluded, Meerab insisted on driving them back to the house. Despite his protests that he was perfectly fine, she was adamant. Her stubbornness was both infuriating and endearing. The ride home was silent, the tension palpable. Once inside, she lingered, her worry evident in the lines of her face and the way she fidgeted.

A complex mix of emotions bubbled inside Murtasim. He loved the concern she showed; it was a warm embrace, a comfort. Yet, simultaneously, it was a stinging reminder of his vulnerability. No one else had ever made him feel this way, caught between the joy of being cared for and the sting of realizing his own weakness.

In his heart, he yearned to sit beside her, to lay his head on her lap, letting her fingers trace the contours of his face, providing him the solace he so desperately sought. He imagined wrapping his arms around her, drawing her close, whispering words of gratitude. But he didn't. He couldn't. He knew the boundaries that society, tradition, and their own circumstances had set for them.

Retiring to his room, he tried to put the day behind him. But sleep was elusive. The walls seemed to close in on him with the weight of the emotions he tried to bury. And when he felt her presence in the middle of the night, her cool fingers brushing against his forehead, her fingers hovering over his moustache, checking his breathing, it was almost too much to bear.

Pretending to be asleep, he fought back the frustration that welled up inside him. The soft rustle of her dress, the faint scent of roses and vanilla, and the lingering touch of her fingers on his face haunted him. Each passing moment was a battle against his own emotions, struggling to keep them at bay, to not give in to the tidal wave of feelings threatening to overwhelm him.

She left quickly but he spent the night in turmoil, wrestling with the pain of having to deny what he truly felt.

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A/N: Soooooooo, what do you think? I love how you were all like "is she getting married" and here I was writing this chapter. What do you think will happen next? Hehehehe.