EP 6 | IZZAT : The Name of My Cage | Bint-e-Azhar

"Where is Adn?"

I slumped onto the dastarkhwan, my knee brushing Amma's.

"You’ve been asking for someone every time, Ramal Jaan." Amma smiled behind her teacup. Not a trace of last night’s vulnerability lingered on her face.

"He’s burning with fever." Her shrug was too light. "Pata nahi kya ho gaya bachhe ko."

My fingers froze around the cup.

Could it be... because of what I told him?

Iman’s brow arched. I shook my head quickly and reached for a cup to make Iman's coffee—less milk, extra caramel—but my hands trembled.

The caramel swirled like the guilt in my gut.

"Where’s Adn's room, Amma Jaan?" Iman’s voice broke my reverie.

"Pari will guide you." Amma waved to a maid hovering nearby.

---

The room reeked of tiger balm and sweat. Even the curtain couldn’t block the noon sun’s glare.

As I entered behind Pari, my gaze fell on the wreck wrapped in sheets on a charpoy. His face burned a rich scarlet, his dark lips chapped. Adn.

My chest twisted.

Still, I leaned against the doorframe with a smirk.

"You got so scared of my boxer husband that you faked a fever, Adn? Tsk tsk."

He didn’t reply. His black orbs stayed fixed on Iman, who was reciting the Muawwizatain over him. 

When Iman finished, he gently blew on Adn’s forehead.

"Are you a molvi?" Adn croaked.

Iman's face stilled. A shadow flickered across his features. But he lifted a shoulder. "No, dude. I’m just a normal Muslim."

He wiped his face and sighed. "Though I wanted to be an Alim."

I mouthed an It’s okay to him, too aware of how painful this talk was for him. He nodded.

"I like you, Iman." Adn blurted.

Iman fake-gasped. "Hey, hey. I’m not a girl."

"I really like you, Iman Bhai." Adn said, unfazed.

A warm, unseen fist clenched my heart. Bhai?

"I’m honored." Iman smiled. "But what’s the cause of this newfound crush, Adn Bhai?"

Adn sighed and glanced at the ceiling fan. "You love my sister. You’re a pious man. And because..."—his Adam’s apple bobbled—"you’re a better protector than I am."

Knots coiled tighter in my stomach.

"It’s okay, Adn," Iman said gently. "At least you’re a better repenter, aren’t you?"

"I should not have done what I did." Adn whispered, still not meeting my eyes.

His guilt hung like fog in the room—heavy and unshakable.

Part of me ached to wrap him in a bone-crushing hug and squeeze off all his guilt. Yet the other part blistered, bled—reminding me of the 800 days. And the 800 nights.

I didn’t have the courage to forgive him yet.

But I could lighten the tension in the room. So I did.

"Last night, your wife asked me the meaning of your name," I said, sinking into the sofa beside his charpoy.

A fly landed on his nose. "What?" He blinked. The fly flew.

"Yeah. She was curious."

"Why would she be?" He shifted up on his elbows. "I don’t even know her name."

"Ahem ahem. Someone’s curious, Mr. Ali," I teased.

"Don’t tease the poor boy, Ramal. We’re all curious about our wives’ names," Iman added with a soft chuckle.

I wasn’t done. "Her name is Mahnoor. The light of the moon. She deserves the name, right, Addu?"

I watched as Adn shifted uncomfortably. I was enjoying every bit of his awkwardness.

"I don’t know. I’ve only seen her passing once or twice. She’s a vani."

"I know. But you better not disrespect her, Adn Chaudhary. Or her elder sister will scrape off that tattoo of yours."

He narrowed his eyes, growling, "Who the hell is her elder sister?"

"Language, please! Ramal Chaudhary is her elder sister." I batted my lashes. "We tied a new relationship last night."

"What?" He leaned in, a vein throbbing beneath the dragon tattoo. "When I was busy tending to the lip you tore, you were adopting sisters? Making ties?"

"No. First I made ties. Then I smacked your lips bloody." I shrugged, smirking.

Adn gritted his teeth, visibly torn between slapping me or behaving in front of Iman.

"You have a thing for protecting girls, haven’t you, Ramal?" Iman chuckled. "Sometimes I wonder if you’re a secret feminist."

"Feminist? Ew. Just... ew." I wrinkled my nose. "I’m a Muslimah empowered 1400 years ago. Alhamdulillah."

"You’re so bossy, Ramal. How does your husband survive you?" Adn groaned, flopping back onto the charpoy.

Iman jutted out his lower lip as if to say: Exactly.

"So you two are siding against me now?" I crossed my arms.

"Yes," they chorused.

"I’m going to my partner then." I stood up, adjusting my dupatta. "And Adn?"

"Yes, bossy?"

"I’ll make your life hell. I’ll tell your wife all your stupid stories." I winked.

"No, wait!" He lunged forward, but I darted away. "You won't RAM-"

"-Try me." I blew him a kiss as I exited the room.

"Ramal, one thing—"

Adn’s voice cut through, laced with urgency.

But before I could ask, Mahnoor appeared at the hallway entrance and tugged at my arm.

I glanced back— Adn's mouth agape -

Whatever it was... would have to wait.

~•~•~

"I’m about to share some secret recipes to make your hubby’s life a living hell," I grinned at Mahnoor. "You could compile them later as A Good Girl’s Guide to Ruining Hubbies."

I waited for the girl with green eyes to laugh. But she didn’t.

She stared at her feet, twisting her dupatta tightly between her fingers.

"Mahnoor? What’s wrong?"

"Api… can you, erm..."

"Can I what?"

Her lips trembled. "Can you go back? To your home? Your in-laws?" She burst out. "When will you go?"

Her tone muddled my mind. "Why, Mahi? Am I bothering you, sweetheart?"

"No... it’s just..."

And then she broke down.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clutched my hands.

"You should go back, Api. They’re going to hurt you. I don’t know how, but they’re up to something. I swear."

"Who told you that?" I raised her chin with my finger. 

"No one."

"Then how do you know?" 

She heaved a sigh. "Your Taya. I saw him. On the phone with someone—furious. He kept repeating your name. And your husband’s. Iman’s."

"Iman?"

She nodded, sniffling.

"I’ll help you run. Whatever you need."

"Why, Mahnoor?"

"I’ve always helped sisters."

I raised a brow.

"Technically, it was my elder sister who was supposed to be your brother’s vani. But I volunteered."

My breath caught. It was like watching a real-life Katniss. A real-life Hunger Games.

"How old are you, Mahnoor?" I whispered.

"Seventeen."

My heart dropped to my knees. 

~ ~

"Breathe, Mahi." I drew circles on her back, whispering against her hair. "I’m not going to run. Not this time. I’ll bring back justice—even if I have to punch the entire Jirga bloody."

"They’re too many, Ramal Api. You’re alone." She broke the hug, her emerald eyes glazed. "Nothing has changed here. They still twist laws, twist Islam, twist everything."

"They won’t. Not anymore. You can count on that." I leaned in, jaw clenched. "Plus, I’ve got a secret bomb for my lovely Taya. You’ll get justice. I’ll get justice. And—"

I exhaled. 

"Naail will get justice."

She stared. Then hugged me.

"I like you."

I smirked into her shoulder. "You and Adn really need to stop confessing your love to strangers."

That finally drew a chuckle out of her.

`~`~`~`

As Mahnoor clung to me, I replayed my mission in my mind.

Two oppressors.

Taya.

And his son, Naail.

The real beghairat.

The real beizzat.

Men who strutted in their sherwanis, heavy with pride.

While I—

I, who had done nothing—

was labeled bad kirdar. Beizzat.

Because in our system, izzat had a gender.

A man—even the filthiest of them—could walk away, head high, ego intact. Flick his collar and still be called Chaudhary.

Just like Naail Chaudhary.

But a woman?

Even if she’s the one robbed of her izzat?

Even if she’s the one begging for justice?

She’s reduced to a name they no longer utter.

Just like Ramal Chaudhary.

Even religion isn’t spared. They twist it. Weaponize it. Until truth becomes unrecognizable.

But not anymore.

Because Ramal Iman Ali had returned.

To bring back justice.

~ • ~ • ~

Later in my room, I took out my phone and began dialing a number. Working on my plan.

My plan was simple:

Step One: Let Iman out of this hell.

Step Two: Burn the Devils.

For step one, I needed a convincing motive.

So I called my mother-in-law.

The phone rang. Clicked.

"Assalamualaikum, kesi hai mere bachhe," the voice on the other end chirped.

I had to swallow the lump forming in my throat.

Did what I was about to do… mean betrayal?

"Walaikumussalam warahmatullahi wabarakatuh, Ammi," I forced a sweet tone despite the ache swelling in my chest.

"Fantastic, Alhamdulillah."

"How’s your Amma, Abba, everyone?"

"They’re good. Very good." I whispered.

"Give them some time, bachhe. They might not be great at expressing their love, but they love you.

Ye hum sab boorhe logon ka masla hai—hum bachon se jazbat ka izhaar nahi kar paate," she said.

I closed my eyes and drank in her saccharine words.

But I had to be fast.

I nodded and asked.

"How’s he?"

"He’s good."

We both knew who we were talking about.

But I was the one keeping it from my family.

"Amma, can you—" I hesitated. "Can you do me a favor? A weird one?"

There was a pause. Then, a whisper.

"Like very very weird?" I could hear the smile in her voice.

"Consider it done."

I exhaled.

"I want you to call Iman Sahab and ask him to come back. Tell him someone’s unwell. Maybe you. But please... ask him not to bring me yet."

There was silence.

I knew it was a weird request.

Somewhere, a grandfather clock was ticking.

I could hear my own breath’s rhythm.

"Ramal, you're homesick, bache? Is Iman not letting you say?"

"Um..." I bit the inside of my cheek. "Something like that."

"I’ll do it. Actually, I’ve been having pain in my legs since you left."

"I’m sorry, Ammi. I’ll return in just two days, I promise. And we’ll go together to therapy."

"Oh nonsense. It’s your home. I’m not going anywhere. Stay a few more days and enjoy. Just tell me if—" she hesitated. "If you’re safe?"

"Yes." I said it with more force than needed.

"Yes, I am safe."

"Okay then. Eat your meds on time. Say my salam to Amma."

"InshaAllah. And I’m booking your therapy session for two days later, Ammi. We’ll go together. Pakka wala promise."

She laughed. "Okay, boss."

The call ended.

And the tension in my shoulders loosened.

I heaved a sigh—and waited for Iman to come and tell me he was leaving.

~ • ~

I made wudhu and prayed Zuhr salah.

As I turned my head after the salam of the fourth fardh rakat, I spotted Iman walking toward me— a groggy Adn trailing behind him.

"I have to go," he said.

"Why?" I made my best surprised face.

"He’s sick."

"Who?" Adn chimed in.

Iman looked at me, unsure whether we should tell him.

I shook my head.

"No one you know," I said to Adn.

"Shall I pack our bags?" I asked Iman, all innocence.

"No. You’re not going."

"Really?" I widened my eyes, exaggeratedly surprised. My jaw dropped in mock shock.

"Yeah. Ammi said not to bring you yet," Iman replied with a poker face.

"I think you should go," a firm voice cut through.

My head snapped up.

Adn.

That douchebag. That stupid traitor.

"No, it’s okay. I’ll pick her up in two, three days—"

"I think she should go. NOW," Adn insisted, folding his arms like a dictator.

"And I think you should wear skirts, do catwalk on the rooftop," I said.

"And dance to the Sheela song."

Iman burst out laughing, face flushed.

"Oh my God, Ramal!" he said, shaking his head.

"I’m gonna miss your sass."

Adn’s nostrils flared.

What a great sight.

But did I care?

No.

I bid farewell to Iman and marched straight to the dining room.

Ready to face the devil himself—Taya.

"Ramal. You shouldn’t talk to Taya, Ramal!"

Adn tried to call me back.

But I didn’t give him a damn.

I was ready to call war.

End of Act I

...to be continued

© Bint-e-Azhar ✒️ 

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The next chapter (ACT II) is 

"Roar of the Lioness" 

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