Scene 1 — Opening Bell at Amana Superstore
The glass doors of Amana Superstore slid open with a mechanical sigh as the morning crowd trickled in—office-goers grabbing snacks for later, a few parents hunting stationery, two elderly men comparing tea brands like expert tasters. Rimsha checked her watch, then the entrance, then her watch again. She pretended to focus on a new-display checklist, but her eyes kept drifting to the doors.
Rimsha (under her breath): "Late again?"
A gust of cooler air moved through the foyer as Imran stepped in, white shirt, grey trousers, sleeves already rolled to the perfect mid-forearm. He caught her looking and, without missing a beat, lifted the paper cup of chai he'd brought from the corner stall.
Imran (approaching, half-grin): "Traffic on 7th Avenue. Peace offering?"
Rimsha (accepting the cup, pretending indifference): "Traffic? Or someone woke up late?"
Imran: "Accusations, this early? I thought we were still colleagues till 10 a.m."
Rimsha (tiny smile): "We are. And I will write you up—later."
They walked the front aisle together in companionable silence, speaking in the language they had learned over the past months—half-tease, half-careful distance. Their steps matched; their schedules had begun to, too. If one was late, the other felt it like a skipped heartbeat no one else could hear.
Floor Associate (passing by, cheerful): "Assalam-o-Alaikum, ma'am. Morning, sir."
Imran & Rimsha (in unison): "Wa Alaikum Assalam."
A look. A shared laugh. And back to work.
---
Scene 2 — Lunch Break: The Table by the Window
At 1:25 p.m., the cafeteria hummed. Steam lifted from stainless pans; a TV murmured headlines no one listened to. Imran snagged the small window table they favored—partly hidden behind a potted plant. He laid down a tray: two plates (simple daal, a kebab split into two), two rotis, and chai.
Rimsha arrived with her lunchbox, but stopped, eyebrow raised.
Rimsha: "One day you'll order the whole menu and say it's teamwork."
Imran: "When that day comes, I'll still save you the softest piece of kebab. Fair?"
She sat, opening her lunch—home-packed chicken pulao, neat and fragrant.
Imran (soft): "You keep pretending this is a normal lunch. We both know we time our day for this."
Rimsha (eyes on the pulao, steady): "Says the man who checks the doorway every two minutes after 1:20."
Imran (laughs, then lets it fade): "Maybe I do."
They ate. They didn't talk about the thing both felt moving slowly, certainly, like a tide. They didn't need to. Everything from the way she folded a roti to the careful way he pushed the extra tissues closer said enough.
Imran (after a pause): "Rooftop later? Just five minutes. To breathe."
Rimsha: "If we're done with the shipment review."
Imran: "We will be."
They didn't promise. They didn't have to.
---
Scene 3 — Maryam's Morning, Boys' Pact
At home, Maryam zipped lunchbags, called out reminders, and intercepted a pillow-fight when Ubaid tried to smuggle a toy car into his uniform pocket.
Maryam (firm, loving): "No toy cars to school. And remember—no fights."
Ubaid (serious little face): "Promise, Ammi. No fights. I'll tell the teacher."
Irfan (piping in): "Promise!"
Maryam (kneeling to their level): "Being brave doesn't always mean punching. Sometimes it's telling the truth, sometimes it's walking away."
Ubaid: "I know. I promised."
She kissed both foreheads, straightened collars, and watched them march out like mini-soldiers, Ubaid's hand naturally finding Irfan's.
---
Scene 4 — Lunch Recess Blizzard
City School, Junior Section — Lunch Break
Bells, whistles, a hundred excited voices. Irfan sat on a bench under the neem tree, opening his tiffin. Ubaid tapped his shoulder.
Ubaid: "Washroom. Two minutes. Don't move. Eat."
Irfan (saluting): "Sir, yes sir."
Ubaid jogged off. Irfan took a bite—and a shadow fell across his lunch. Yaqoob. Taller, swaggering, the boy whose mouth was a slingshot.
Yaqoob (sing-song): "Where's your bodyguard? Big brother went to cry?"
Irfan kept eating, jaw tight.
Yaqoob (snatching the spoon): "Answer me when I talk to you."
Irfan (snatching it back): "Leave me."
Yaqoob (mocking whisper): "Or what? You'll call Ubaid? Call."
From the edge of the ground, Miss Erum, break-duty teacher, clocked the posture, the angle, the wrongness.
Miss Erum (approaching, firm): "Yaqoob, step away. Now."
He rolled his eyes. Smirked. Didn't move.
Miss Erum: "I said now. Hands to yourself."
Yaqoob (lip curled): "Why are you always taking his side?"
Miss Erum signaled: hands-on-ears, a standard punishment. He obeyed with exaggerated irritation. She turned to separate a scuffle near the swings, calling over her shoulder, "Stay there."
In the three breaths she spent intervening—one, two, three—Yaqoob dropped his hands and stalked back to Irfan.
Yaqoob (low, hot): "You got me punished. I'll show you."
He shoved Irfan's shoulder, then flicked his tiffin so the rice spilled like a little white comet onto the dust. Irfan stared at the mess, chest rising. Falling. Rising. He stood. He didn't see Miss Erum turning back yet. He didn't see the other kids' eyes. He saw red.
Irfan (steady, warning): "Stop."
Yaqoob (grinning): "Make me."
Irfan's fist came up—not wild, not flailing. One clean arc. A child's punch, but fueled by every day the bully's mouth had been a knife.
A thwack, a gasp; Yaqoob's nose bloomed red. He staggered back, hands up, stunned.
Miss Erum (arriving, taking in everything, decisive): "Enough! Both of you—to the principal's office. Now."
She didn't scold on the walk. She didn't ask questions. She put one palm lightly between Irfan's shoulder blades—steady, steady—and shepherded them in.
---
Scene 5 — Sick Bay Stop
They detoured to the nurse's room. Cotton, antiseptic, the careful tilt of a face.
School Nurse: "Hold still, beta."
Yaqoob flinched and hissed when the swab touched the bridge of his nose. Irfan looked at the floor, fists now unclenching, the adrenaline ebbing into a throb of oh-no.
Miss Erum (quiet to Irfan): "Breathe. You're coming with me to the principal. Tell the truth. Only the truth. I saw enough."
Irfan nodded, throat tight.
---
Scene 6 — Principal's Office (Mrs. Uzma Rashid)
The brass "PRINCIPAL" plate reflected a sliver of sunlight onto the opposite wall. Mrs. Uzma Rashid sat behind an oak desk, files aligned with geometric precision, a glass of water to one side, prayer beads resting near her pen-stand.
Mrs. Uzma (looking up, composed): "Bring them in, Miss Erum."
The boys stood on the carpet runner—two different storms. Irfan: pale resolve. Yaqoob: wounded pride wrapped in tissue.
Mrs. Uzma: "Sit."
They did.
Mrs. Uzma (to Miss Erum): "Tell me what you witnessed."
Miss Erum (clear, measured): "Multiple days of taunting by Yaqoob. Today, during my duty, he mocked Irfan, snatched his spoon, later shoved him and knocked his lunch. I punished Yaqoob once; he resumed misbehavior as soon as I turned to handle another incident. He also spoke rudely to me. Irfan struck back—one punch. I intervened immediately."
Mrs. Uzma (to Yaqoob): "Do you deny misbehaving with Irfan? Do you deny talking back to a teacher?"
Yaqoob (mumbling): "He hit me."
Mrs. Uzma: "That is not my question."
Silence. Yaqoob looked away.
Mrs. Uzma (to Irfan, gentler): "Did you punch him?"
Irfan (small voice, honest): "Yes, Madam. He wouldn't stop."
Mrs. Uzma (leaning back, then forward, voice even): "Violence is not acceptable. But neither is bullying. And never—never—do we permit disrespect toward a teacher. Miss Erum, thank you. Please return to the ground. I'll handle it from here."
Miss Erum (to Irfan, a tiny nod): "You'll be fine. Tell the truth."
She left.
Mrs. Uzma (pressing the intercom): "Please ask Yaqoob's parents to come today. Urgent meeting. 1 p.m. And have the security log note their arrival."
Assistant (over intercom): "Yes, Madam."
Mrs. Uzma (now to the boys): "Where was Ubaid?"
Irfan: "Washroom, Madam. He told me to sit and eat."
Mrs. Uzma (to herself, tapping a pen): "So the elder wasn't present. Good."
She set the pen down and looked at both boys, eyes kind but steady.
Mrs. Uzma: "Irfan, you will go to the waiting lounge for now. You will not return to class until I say so. I will speak to your mother later if needed. Yaqoob, you will remain outside my office. No talking. No dramatics. The nurse will recheck you before you go home."
Yaqoob (sullen): "Am I suspended?"
Mrs. Uzma (cool): "We will speak after I meet your parents."
He swallowed. The tissue trembled slightly in his hand.
---
Scene 7 — Corridor Echoes
On the bench outside, the hallway smelled faintly of disinfectant and chalk. Irfan swung his feet. He wasn't crying. He wasn't quite brave either. He was eight-year-old confused, which is its own weather.
Across from him, Yaqoob glared like he wanted to rebuild the scene with a different ending and didn't know how. Two Class IV boys whooped past and got shushed by the receptionist.
A few minutes later, Ubaid came around the corner, breathless, looking left-right-left until his gaze snagged Irfan.
Ubaid (rushing, whispers): "What happened? Why are you here?"
Irfan (guilt flooding): "Don't be mad. He pushed me. I—"
He made a little fist in the air, then unmade it.
Ubaid (quick glance at Yaqoob, then back to Irfan): "Did he start?"
Irfan: "Yes."
Ubaid (jaw tightening, then deliberately relaxing): "Okay. We don't talk. We wait. That's the rule now."
He sat beside his brother. Two pairs of shoes, heels knocking the bench rhythmically—thum, thum, thum—a private code that meant: together.
Receptionist (calling softly): "Bachay, principal madam said Irfan should wait in the lounge. Ubaid beta, you go back to class."
Ubaid (to Irfan, squeezing his shoulder): "I'll see you after school. Promise."
He left, every step a choice toward the promise he'd made to Maryam.
---
Scene 8 — Staff Room Ripple
In the staff room, the story told itself in fragments—someone had seen the blood, someone else had seen Miss Erum's firm hand, someone had walked by the principal's door and caught the tone of Mrs. Uzma's careful, clipped questions.
Teacher 1: "Yaqoob again?"
Teacher 2: "He's been warned. Parents think he's 'confident.'"
Teacher 3 (sighing): "Confident isn't cruel."
They went back to marking notebooks, but the room held a sense of waiting, the way a drum holds the echo of the last beat.
---
Scene 9 — Rooftop Minute
At 3:10 p.m., the superstore rooftop was a rectangle of sky and railings, with the city a soft murmur below. Imran and Rimsha stood two arm-lengths apart, each holding a paper cup of tea they weren't drinking.
Imran: "Shipment sorted. You were right about the missing sizes."
Rimsha (half-smile): "I usually am."
Imran (glancing sideways): "I waited in the lobby at nine-oh-five and again at one-twenty-six."
Rimsha (eyes on the skyline): "I saw you at nine-oh-six. I pretended to look for the sanitizer."
A gull cut the sky, then the moment.
Imran (quiet): "We keep pretending this is coincidence."
Rimsha (matching his quiet): "Maybe we're just careful."
Imran: "Careful isn't the same as blind."
She didn't answer—and she didn't move away either.
A floor buzzer sounded faintly from below, calling them back to earth. They turned toward the door together.
---
Scene 10 — The Call and the Clock
Back at the principal's office, the receptionist replaced the receiver.
Receptionist: "Madam, Yaqoob's parents confirmed. They'll be here at one."
Mrs. Uzma: "Thank you."
She opened a student conduct file, slid a green form into it, and wrote neat notes—dates, witnesses, pattern. Then she set down her pen, closed her eyes for a brief prayer, opened them with resolve.
On the bench, Irfan checked the wall clock so many times the minute hand felt like a friend. 12:52. 12:55. 12:58.
Security Guard (soft to receptionist): "Parents gated. Logging entry."
At 1:00 p.m., a woman and man entered, well-dressed, faces composed with that brittle calm that cracks when pressed. The receptionist gestured to the door.
Receptionist: "Principal is expecting you."
The door opened. Mrs. Uzma Rashid stood to receive them, her presence neither hostile nor yielding—just the steady beam children and adults both need.
Mrs. Uzma (cordial, firm): "Please come in."
The door clicked shut behind them. The hallway exhaled.
Irfan looked at the clock again. He didn't know what would happen next. He only knew he hadn't lied.
---
Scene 11 — Two Mothers, Two Afternoons
Across town, Maryam rinsed the last teacup and glanced at her phone, that sixth sense of mothers humming that she'd be needed soon, maybe not today, maybe tomorrow, but soon. She wiped her hands and checked the time for school pickup. Early, but she liked being early.
At the superstore, Rimsha sent a two-word text she wouldn't have dared six months ago.
Rimsha (text): "You okay?"
Imran (reply, almost at once): "Now, yes."
She hid the smile that rose like a secret.
---
Scene 12 — The Door, Half Open
The principal's door opened a few inches, then closed again—the kind of half-second that says nothing and everything. Voices inside: measured, escalated, cooled. A chair scraped. Paper rustled. A pen cap clicked. The clock advanced.
Irfan swung his feet less and folded his hands like he'd seen adults do when they wanted to show they were serious. He wasn't thinking about courage or justice. He was thinking about the rice on the ground and the look on Miss Erum's face when she said, Tell the truth.
The corridor kept its neutral promise: to hold a boy's waiting without judgment.
---
The outcome of Mrs. Uzma Rashid's urgent meeting with Yaqoob's parents—and what it means for Irfan, Ubaid, and the class—will unfold in the next chapter.
---
End of Chapter 77