The room fell silent for a moment after Dad's revelation, the only sound the distant hum of traffic from Lahore's busy streets. I sat wide-eyed, my small hands still on his back, tracing the scars as if they were maps to a hidden treasure. Mom folded the last shirt with a soft sigh, her blush fading into a warm smile. "Your father always had a flair for drama," she said, joining us on the bed. But there was no denying the spark in her eyes—the same one that ignited whenever they reminisced about those days.
Dad leaned back, his shirtless form relaxed against the pillows, and continued the story with renewed vigor. "After that beating, I could barely walk straight. My face was a canvas of bruises—purple and blue like storm clouds over the Ravi River. But love, my dear, is a stubborn thing. It doesn't yield to pain or reason." I nodded solemnly, hanging on every word, my imagination painting vivid pictures of heroism and romance.
The next morning, he dragged himself to her college gates, propping against a wall to hide his limp. Students streamed out, chattering about lectures and exams, but his eyes scanned for her. When she appeared, her steps faltered at the sight of him—all battered yet unyielding. In that moment, something shifted. She approached hesitantly, her dupatta clutched tightly, whispering thanks and concern. "You shouldn't have," she said, but her voice trembled with unspoken admiration.
From there, their love blossomed in secrecy, much like the clandestine affairs in those classic Indian films where lovers defied societal chains. Think of "Mughal-e-Azam," where Anarkali and Salim met in shadowed palaces, or "Pakeezah," with its veiled glances and forbidden passions. In our conservative Punjab, love before marriage was akin to a crime—families guarded daughters like precious jewels, and honor killings loomed as dark threats in whispers.
Their first proper meeting was under the guise of a family visit. Mom's aunt lived near Dad's home, providing a perfect alibi. They'd slip away to the rooftop, where the city sprawled below like a tapestry of lights. Hiding from public eyes, they'd talk for hours—about dreams, poetry, and the future. Dad would bring stolen sweets from the halwai, feeding her jalebi with careful fingers, their laughter muffled to avoid detection. Once, a nosy neighbor nearly caught them; they ducked behind water tanks, hearts pounding, turning fear into exhilaration.
As weeks turned to months, their bond deepened through clever ruses. Dad would send messages via mutual friends—notes hidden in books or flowers delivered anonymously. Mom, bold in her own way, would respond with embroidered handkerchiefs, symbols of her affection. They'd meet at melas or weddings, blending into crowds, stealing dances during qawwali performances where the Sufi rhythms mirrored their racing pulses.
But challenges abounded. Mom's family was strict, her father a stern landlord from rural Punjab who viewed city boys with suspicion. Rumors swirled, forcing them to be ever vigilant. One evening, during a clandestine walk in Shalimar Gardens, they were spotted by a relative. Panic ensued—Dad ushering Mom into a hidden alcove, their breaths mingling as footsteps faded. "This is madness," she whispered, but her eyes said otherwise.
Back in our room, as Dad wrapped up this part, I begged for more. "What happened next, Abbu?" He glanced at Mom, who nodded indulgently. "Patience, beta. Love stories aren't rushed." But I could see the pride in his scars now—not marks of defeat, but badges of devotion.
That night, as I lay in bed, the story replayed in my mind. It made me delusional, dreaming of my own prince who'd fight dragons for me. Little did I know, this tale was just the beginning, a foundation for understanding the depth of their passion.
Our family life reflected this romance. Mornings began with Dad brewing tea, adding extra sugar for Mom, teasing her about her sweet tooth. She'd trick him by swapping his newspaper with old editions, laughing when he grumbled about "yesterday's news." Hugs were frequent—after prayers, before meals, or just because. In a society where public displays were taboo, their private world was a sanctuary of touch and tenderness.
I often joined their games, becoming the unwitting accomplice. Once, Mom hid Dad's spectacles, and we'd search together, her winking at me as he fumbled blindly. Their teasing extended to me too—Dad calling me "mini Fatima" for my stubborn streak, Mom hugging me tight after scoldings.
But beneath the playfulness lay a profound respect. Dad supported Mom's desire to learn stitching, turning a room into her workshop. She'd create beautiful outfits, gifting them to neighbors, her skills a quiet empowerment. Their love taught me that romance in Pakistan wasn't about extravagance but endurance—weathering family pressures, societal norms, and life's hardships together.