In Red, Lives Power – A story

In Red, Lives Power – A story

Maria Bukhari – 12th June, 2024, 7:10 pm

I live for this.

The smell of paint, thick with iron, the rich pigment slashing through the face of a canvas, it’s breathtaking. Ethereal. Divine.

I look at the sheep tottering in their high heels and gaudy perfumes. They hem and they haw. They speak of “composition” and “movement,” parroting words they heard at dinner parties, pretending they know what it means to create. They admire my work.

Pathetic creatures.

Today is one of those days; when I have to pretend.

I am good at it.

“Ghazala Auntie, what a lovely surprise to see you here,” I say, smile impeccable. Of course, she’s not really my aunt—just one of those weekly tea-drinking hens my mother insists on entertaining.

“Oh, Maria, your work is stunning as always! So bold, so red! Stunning!” she gushes.

Red, she says. It makes me want to gouge out those tacky plastic-covered buttons that she calls eyes. As if my pieces could be encapsulated in such a mundane word. Red doesn’t come close to describing my work. It’s not a color—it’s a process. A birth. A sacrifice.

“Oh, no, auntie, I fear I am becoming a bit too predictable, maybe I should switch to some other colour next time?” I feign humility. I would never change my process of course, after all, the red is half the fun of my art.

“Nonsense, Maria! Oh I have known you since you were a babe in swaddle. I always knew you were destined for great things!”

Her lacquered claws pat my head. I don’t flinch. It’s all part of the performance.

We are at yet another of Tayyab’s endless electoral campaign parties—an exhausting carousel of back-pats and polite applause. A necessary nuisance.

But that’s the arrangement we have. He lets me live as I please, and I fund his charming little projects.

A fair trade, all things considered.

“Ami!” A darling voice calls, and a broad smile appears on my painted lips.

I turn, my arms already opening to receive my daughter.

“My darling, Aisha!”

She is standing in the doorway, waving, dressed in a lovely Burberry set I bought when she went off to boarding school. She runs into my arms, with a charming pealing giggle, making my heart flutter in adoration.

“Oh, so as soon as the princess is back, I become a second-rate citizen! Woe is me!” my husband teases from behind her, Aisha’s coat slung on his arm. A rakish grin pulls at his moustached lip.

I pay him no mind.

My mind is occupied by my daughter, who is chattering non-stop, about some party that she had during the term.

“Thank you for bringing her home early, Tayyab,” I murmur, truly grateful.

Tayyab and I are not a love match, our parents set us up. One of those grand dynasty mergers. I didn’t mind. He was good-looking, rich and left me to my own devices most of the time. Exactly what I wanted. He serves his purpose. That’s enough.

Aisha is my true love.

I don’t think I could bear it if anything happened to her, and God knows I can’t say that about anyone else.

I take her hand and lead her around the room, smoothing her wild curls. “I’m so very proud of this collection. I think it’s some of my finest work yet. What do you think of this one, Aisha? I led her to a large painting of a rose, it’s done in shades of red and rusty brown, with black smeared in the shadows.

Aisha looks awed. “It’s so pretty, Ami-jaan!“

“I named this one after you, you know. I call it ‘The breath of Aisha’.”  I tell her.

She beams. I live for her joy.

But then—crash.

A maid, new and clumsy, collides with my daughter as she is twirling around a pillar. Juice spills down Aisha’s white shoes.

My fingers clench.

I stay calm.

“Akhter!” My voice rings with authority. “Take her away. I will deal with her later.”

Aisha opens her mouth—likely to defend the girl—but before she can, another hen swoops in.

“Maria! I didn’t know Aisha was home!” interrupts one of the guests.

I grit my teeth. “This is Zarah Rabbani, jaanu—you remember her?” Now that Aisha is at boarding school full-time, I hardly get any time with her as it is.

“Yes, Ami, Assalamualaikum, Zarah Auntie! How is Saad?” My well-mannered daughter is pulled into conversation with her, as I seethe in the background.

I take a deep breath and resume my mask.

That night, after we had seen off all the guests and Tayyab wandered off with his latest conquest, I tucked in my daughter.

“Is it lonely at Westminster, my darling? Are you happy to be home?” I asked her as I fluffed her pillow.

“I love it there, Ami! But I do miss you, of course.” Aisha replied.

“That’s great, my love. I’m happy you like the school. I will visit you on the weekend then, so my jannu isn’t lonely?” I kiss her forehead and turn off the light.

As soon as the light is off, a scowl disfigures my face. Why did Tayyab, that wretched beast, have to send her so far?! I can’t even visit her that often because I can’t paint there!

I need to let off some steam.

I stormed to my studio. I toss my thirty-thousand-rupee shawl and my Louboutins on the floor. The room is ready for my arrival. The lights are already on. I move to the freezer in the corner.

It’s time to make a new batch of paint.

I summon Akhter.

“Bring the halfwit who spilt juice on my daughter’s shoes.”

Sarah Naseer – 12^th June, 2024, 5:00 am

My day started at five.

I woke up on the thin mat I share with my younger brother, my back stiff from the uneven floorboards. The room was still dark, the single bulb in the hallway dead again. I groped around for the matchbox to light the emergency candle we’d melted into a teacup.

I went around our small, broken-down rental home with the broom. I wrapped a dupatta around my hair and began sweeping, careful not to stir too much dust from the cracked concrete floor. I needed to finish all the chores before I left.

I picked up Abba’s stained undershirt, trying not to winkle my nose. He’d been sick lately, and the smell clung to everything. I put it in the laundry pail by the washroom to deal with later. I moved in practiced silence.

We live on the upper floor in Ichhra, a very cramped area of Lahore. Our home is right above Mina Jee’s Dehi Shop.  The walls here are thin, the noise constant. You can hear arguments from the next flat, babies crying through the night, the call to prayer echoing over tangled wires and faded paint.

We rent two rooms for five people. The roof leaks from two places, and there is a draft from the broken window, but we make do. My two younger siblings work when they can, but now that I’m seventeen and dropped out of school, I can do more.

Today was important. My first day at work.

I was lucky. Extremely lucky.

Aunty Saira, who sells vegetables near the bus stop, had a cousin who worked at the Bukhari house—the one with the white gates and mirrored porch in Defence. When one of their maids left suddenly, she put in a word for me. I still don’t know why they picked me.

The pay – it was fifty-thousand a month. Fifty. When I first heard, I had to pinch myself. That’s more than twice what Abba made, even when he could still drive the rickshaw.

Fifty thousand could change everything.

Maybe we could fix the roof. Maybe I could buy proper schoolbooks for my brother. Maybe—just maybe—I could get us out of here.

I finally finished the cleaning and rushed into the kitchen. Ever since that cold took Ami, I made sure to cook for them all before I left. I made five rotis on the small gas stove, thankful that the gas was still coming; there was usually load shedding after nine, but sometimes it was unpredictable. We didn’t have any salan. My paycheck from Umar, the tailor, wasn’t here yet, but I made do with the yogurt Mian Jee let us have for free last night.

Finally done, I checked the time, it was ten minutes past six. I was running late, the Bukhari van will be here at six thirty.

I changed quickly into my nicer clothes, the ones Abba bought me last Eid. I brushed my hair and pinned my dupatta. I packed my uniform in my bag.

I shook my brother awake. “I’m off, Haris. Make sure to look after everyone while I’m gone.”

A horn.

I ran down the stairs.

“Allah Hafiz! Sarah baji!” I heard Haris call behind me. 

“Allah Hafiz!” I yelled back.

There was a white van waiting for me outside the street, “Jaldi, Jaldi, bibi. We have to go!” the driver yelled.

I ran and got in.

The journey was long. We went around town collecting a number of the other Bukhari employees. They were all junior employees. Senior employees I’d hear lived in the servant quarter or in nearby houses. That was my goal: to become a senior employee and be allotted a home nearby.

When we reached Bukhari house on the outskirts of DHA, it was another world. The driveway was never-ending; it must have been half a mile long!

The house was huge and imposing. All marble facades and carved pillars. I had been there only once before during my interview, and it was still just as intimidating. It sprawled over 4 kanals. A gigantic mansion full of rooms. We pulled around to the back, and all of us got in line to wait for instructions.

Through the kitchen doors came Akhter, the head butler.

He was dressed in a suit! How fancy. He inspected us, and taking a list out of his pocket, he ordered: “Amna, Qurat ul Ain and Fareha, you are on kitchen duty today. The madam is expecting some guests this evening. Sarah, Faisal, you are new and will be following the head maid and the gardener. Follow me!”

Without another word, he swept inside, and I rushed after him. “Umara, this is the new girl. Get her settled.” He ordered a uniformed maid standing in the kitchen hallway.

“Yes, sir.” She responded simply.

The day was long — I spent it trailing Umara, absorbing rules faster than I could count the rooms.

I was dreading being on my own, as there were so many rooms! I was assigned to the upstairs left wing, I had to clean the hallway early in the morning, then the rooms in the afternoon, while the owners were away. I was not to be seen. Or heard. At all.

Umara was nice, though strict. I got a lunch break at one and was served in the servant’s dining hall next to the kitchen. The meal was divine. Chicken karahi and butter naan. I was in heaven.

So far, so good — the job was easy. Familiar. I had cleaned homes before, shadowed Amma more times than I could count. But this house was bigger, colder, and I was still afraid to breathe too loudly.

It was in the evening that the trouble began.

Crash.

A clang sounded in the kitchen. Curses and screaming followed. Startled, I peered through the door.

A pot lay on the floor, its steaming contents spilling across the tiles in a pool of dark brown. The rich scent of over-spiced gravy clung to the air, thick and choking. Around it were Amna and Fareha, both their aprons covered and their faces splashed.

The chaos was punctuated by the chef’s barked orders, “Get the emergency kit! Hurry, girl!” He yelled at Qurat Ul Ain, who stood shellshocked in a corner.

Qurat ul Ain jolted from her stupor and bolted past me, nearly knocking over a tray of cutlery. Her shoes squealed against the slick floor as she disappeared around the corner.

“This is a disaster!” the chef roared again. “Asim! Mop this up—fast! I need a substitute dish on the table in thirty minutes!”

He whirled toward me, sweat gleaming at his temples. “You! Find Akhter. Now!”

I didn’t wait. I spun around and darted down the corridor, heart slamming in my chest, the sounds of the kitchen still ringing in my ears—barking voices, clattering pans, someone crying softly. My slippers slapped against the marble floor as I raced toward the butler’s office, dodging a cart piled with linen.

 This was my first day. And already, it felt like a war zone.

Thankfully, Akhter was an ocean of calm.

Sitting at his desk, he was noting something in the ledgers when I knocked. His grey hair was neat and his tie knotted to perfection. When he saw me, he raised an eyebrow, stood up, straightened his lapels and said simply, “Lead me to the problem.”

I turned and, without another word, took him to the kitchen.

When he arrived, it was as if he brought quiet with him. The kitchen staff stilled in their franic pace, Amna’s sobbing petered off, and the chef sighed, “Finally.”

Akhter surveyed the kitchen with a cool gaze. His eye lingered on the brown stain and the bandaged girls. “Sarah will serve instead of Amna and Fareha. She can keep to the drinks. Those are simpler. Substitute the gravy in the fountain with that frozen one Mrs. Arshad sent over yesterday. Miss likes her food.”

Then, without another word, he led me to one of the older maids. “Teach her to carry glasses.”

He left, and the frenzy resumed.

Soon, I was stationed at the drinks table. I was nervous, I had never done this before. A tray was placed in my hands, with twelve of those fancy crystal glasses I had only ever seen on TV. The glasses were filled to the brim with a variety of colourful drinks with fancy names.

Ahmed was the drink coordinator, and he was brusque, “Walk around the room, keep an eye out for empty glasses and make sure everyone has a drink. Come back when you run out. And for God’s sake, don’t drop anything!”

And we were off.

Qurut Ul Ain and I were the servers.  We entered the main hall.

My breath caught.

I forced my jaw shut before anyone noticed, but it was too late — the awe had settled in my eyes.

It was the most magnificent place I’d ever seen. Chandeliers the size of buffaloes glittered overhead, their crystals casting stars across the marble. The walls were painted with gold-edged murals of things I couldn’t name — gods, maybe, or kings.

The carpet beneath my feet was a deep, regal crimson, with patterns so elaborate they seemed to move.

And the people.

Gorgeous women floated through the room, dripping in diamonds, their laughter as delicate as wind chimes. The men looked like movie stars — sharp suits, polished shoes, effortless grace. Everything about them gleamed.

I tightened my grip on the tray. I didn’t belong here. But I was here.

And I had a job to do.

I walked through the room, my back straight and my hands stiff. I kept a polite smile plastered on my face and was ignored by everyone for the most part.

Half an hour later, as I picked up a tray of refills, I finally felt like I had gotten the hang of it. Walk around. Smile. Serve.

I picked my tray and walked off, only to feel something tugging at my shoe. I looked down.

A ribbon — satin, long, and looping — had somehow wrapped around my ankle. Probably from one of the gift baskets stacked in the corner. I bent slightly, trying not to jostle the glasses.

I turned to set the tray aside –

Smash!

A sickening crash split the air. The tray tilted. Crystal exploded around me in a shatter of sound — liquid flying in arcs, splashing the walls, the floor, and worst of all… someone.

I stood frozen.

My eyes darted up. A little girl stood before me, thankfully, only her white shoes had been splashed. I didn’t recognize her, but the way the room quieted told me he was important.

But before I could open my mouth to apologize, I heard a cold, stern, feminine, voice proclaim, “Akhter! Take her away. I will deal with her later.”

He seemed to materialize out of thin air. A frown on his face.

I opened my mouth to apologize again, but he cut me off with a harsh wave of his hand. He snapped his finger and turned. Clearly expecting me to follow.

I did. Silent. Shaking. Shame burning my cheeks.

As we walked, I felt a panic rising in my breast. Those words. This ominous silence. It said nothing good about my prospects.

“I’ll deal with her later.”

Those words echoed in my head.

I couldn’t lose this job.

We arrived in Akhter’s office.

We entered Akhter’s office, a quiet, neat room with dark wood furniture and the scent of old paper lingering in the air. He didn’t say a word to me. Instead, he walked calmly to his desk and pressed a small brass bell.

Moments later, Umara appeared at the door, another maid just behind her.

“Bring her some juice. And something to eat,” he said.

I blinked. “What—?” My voice cracked, unsure, confused.

He didn’t answer.

Akhter just waved his hand again, sighed, and said, “Sit!”

I sat. Stupefied. Silent. We waited.

Umara returned with a tray, and for half an hour, they both sat with me, eating and chatting about random things, and the atmosphere relaxed.

They talked casually, about the weather, about the new security guard who had fainted during his first shift. Umara even joked about how she once spilled hot tea on a guest’s coat and survived to tell the tale.

But I couldn’t eat. I sat there tense, every bite of food feeling like a betrayal of the dread curling in my stomach.

Finally, I couldn’t take it.

“Please,” I burst out, voice rising with desperation, “just tell me what’s going to happen! Are they going to fire me? Cut my wages? What?! I can’t sit here and pretend this is normal!”

An easy quiet fell in the room.  Umara got up, the tray clenched in her hands, her knuckles white, and a look of stress on her face. She left.

Akhter let out a quiet breath. He looked at me, not unkindly.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “It all depends on Miss Maria’s mood.”

I stared at him. That was worse than a yes or no.

“All we can do now is wait. And pray,” he continued. “Everyone makes mistakes. It happens. There’s no point in my berating you. After all, the mistress is much worse than I.”

He stood and buttoned his coat. “Sit here, rest. It will all be fine, by the will of Allah. Ask one of the others if you need something. I must get back to work.”

And with that, he left—leaving me alone in the quiet room, my untouched meal still steaming beside me.

I sat there till well into the night. I heard the others leave without me, growing ever more anxious by the hour. My heart was thumping wildly, a faint tremble going through my body every few minutes. Wild thoughts raced through my head. At one point, I got up, determined to fight for my rights. But my father’s illness stayed my hand. My brother’s chance to make a better life.

Finally, Akhter reappeared.

His face was ashen.

His hands shook.

“M-m-miss is calling y-you, S-sar-rah,” he choked out.

I felt numb. All the fear had drained me, and there was nothing left.

I followed his haltering gait, noticing a dark shadow behind both of us. I turned my head–

YANK.

Pain jolted through my arm.

“Don’t look!” Akhter rasped, his voice hoarse, frantic. “Keep moving!”

A jolt of cold terror shot through me. This wasn’t just fear anymore. It was something darker. Something evil.

Abruptly. Cold terror awoke in my veins. I was yanked the rest of the way. The hallways were dark and sinister. Each shadow seemed to have a face. “Qul-l  aoozu-b-b-i…” Akhter was mumbling prayers, even as he mercilessly pulled me along.

We reached a pair of ornate, dark red wooden double doors. On a black plaque next to them inscribed in gold were the words:“In red, lives power.”

Akhter stooped and took a deep breath. His complexion remained ashen. But he forcibly calmed his trembling.

“Don’t argue, stay quiet,” he ordered.

The man who was following us stepped out of the shadows and opened the door. His face was covered in a black bandana.

Inside was… stunning.

The room was bright and lovely. My fright lessened. The woman from before was sitting in a chair, drinking something from a fine crystal glass.

The studio was bright. Too bright. Canvases lined the walls, their colors vivid—crimson, rust, the deep brown of dried earth. She held a paintbrush in her hand, swiping it delicately on a crimson painting of a house.

It was both haunting and mesmerizing, with dark gashes sweeping through pools of red. She didn’t turn.

She put the glass down and stood.

“Akhter, you are dismissed.”

She turned and smiled, and my breath caught. She was gorgeous. Long black hair, kohl-lined, almond eyes, smooth creamy skin. She was wearing huge rubies on her neck and wrists.

If it was possible, Akhter blanched even more. “P-please mi–“

“Karim.” Her voice was calm, cool.

The man outside came in and took Akhter by the arm, leading him out.

The click of the latch was the last sound I heard before the silence swallowed me whole.

“Sit,” she gestured to the chair, “I want to teach you something.”

Her smile was warm. Her eyes were not.

I obeyed, legs shaking. The chair looked comfortable. It wasn’t.

The woman picked up the brush again.

In her hand, the brush dripped.

“Do you know why my work is special, Sarah?” Her voice was soft, almost kind. “It’s because I understand sacrifice.”

Sarah’s breath hitched. On the table beside Maria lay a knife—not a weapon, just a tool, its edge flecked with dried paint. Or something else.

“You’ll help me perfect my next piece.”

A flick of her wrist. Karim stepped forward, a syringe in his hand. I tried to back away, but my legs struck something—a stool, a bucket, I didn’t know. My mouth opened to plead— “W-who are you?! Why –“

Maria leaned down, her breath sweet with cardamom. “Shh, my pretty dove.” Her fingers brushed my cheek, leaving a smear of pigment. “Let’s see the color, shall we?”

Karim bin Abdullah – 12^th June, 11:21 pm

The studio door shut.

Outside, I pressed my back to the wall. I always need somethin’ to distract meself in these situations. Lighting a cigarette, I counted seconds. Then minutes.

Somewhere, a brush clattered into a jar. A gasp, choked off.

And then—singing. Miss Maria’s voice, sweet and off-key, weaving through the house like a nursery rhyme.

I finished my cigarette and then opened the hall closet. It was stocked with everything I’d need. Plastic bags. Bleach, disposable towels, turpentine. Whole damn kit.

It was gonna be a long sh*tting night.

5:31 am

Sun was up. I hadn’t slept a wink. Didn’t even bother going home.

I was dead tired. It often took all night to clean up after Miss Maria’s episodes.

The missus would be pissed, but I did what I had to put food on the table.

Now, I’m sittin’ in the kitchen with that chamcha Akhter, always acting so high and mighty, though he was a rich lady’s shit-cleaner, just like the rest of ‘em.

“Oi, Akhter, gimme another cup of chai.”

The chamcha looked at him down the bridge of his nose, fiddling with some of tha’ fancy china these rich people love so much. I oughta get the missus some o’ that, maybe she’ll be less stubborn with a gift.

“Very, well, Mr. Karim, Sir.” Akhter sniffed.

“I ain’t no sir. Ya know that ya chamchay! And get me sometin’ to eat will ya!” I growled at him.I lit up my last Goldflake, the smoke steadyin’ my nerves.

“What a nasty habit, and please refrain from calling me names,” the git snapped and flounced off. He flounced off like some angrez butler. Always been like that. A sniveling coward in front of the Malik, a harami to the rest. Thinks he’s better than us.

He came back with a sandwich, and I wolfed it down with the chai.

I looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly six. Mr. Tayyab had called me to his office early.

I got up, putting my cigarette out on the fancy blue plate. Let ‘em scold me for it. What’re they gonna do, fire me?

I strode to Mr. Tayyab’s office. My leg was actin’ up again—ever since that fall in ’03, it gave a little jerk every few steps, like the damn thing forgot how to walk straight.

The big white doors were cracked open. I slowed, maskin’ my face. Blank. Professional. Inside, I heard them—arguin’.

“How many times is this, Maria?! And you do this right after I brought Aisha back! If you can’t behave, I’ll make sure you don’t see her again. The elections are almost here, dammit!”

Mr. Tayyab’s urgent and annoyed voice was heard in the corridor.

A maid turned the corner. I waved her off.

“My company’s money pays for those,” Maria interrupted with a smile. She plucked an imaginary thread from her sleeve, her ruby rings catching the light like fresh bloodstains. “Or shall I tell the board to reconsider their donations?”

Tayyab’s laugh was too loud, too late. He reached for her, but Maria arched away, her spine rigid. Only when he murmured “Aisha“ did she still.

“I know, darling,” Mr. Tayyab wrapped her in his arms, running his hands up and down her back, his voice turning conciliatory. “I’m just concerned for Aisha, think of what she would feel if she got wind of this. It would devastate her, you know that,” he cajoled.

I heard a pause. A beat of silence.

“You think I’d let her see?” Maria’s voice dropped to a whisper. The kohl around her eyes had smudged, making her gaze look fever-bright. “I’m not a monster.”

“Oh, of course not, my darling.” He stroked her back in slow, soothing circles. “I will make sure nothing is out of place. Just promise me, now that this one’s done, you won’t cause any more problems. Then, after the elections in a month, we’ll take a holiday to Barbados, you like Barbados, don’t you?” he crooned.

Maria exhaled through her nose. For a heartbeat, I thought she might pull free. Then her shoulders softened in that practiced way, her body going pliant against his chest. “I’ll wake her for breakfast,” she murmured into his collar. “Tell her I’m finishing her portrait.”

“I won’t make any more trouble,” she murmured, as she flounced off.

As she swept past me, I caught the scent of turpentine and bergamot—and beneath it, the metallic tang no perfume could mask.

“Come in, Karim,” Mr. Tayyab called.

“That woman will drive me nuts, someday.” He muttered as he loosened his tie and poured himself some brandy from a fancy crystal decanter. “You want some, Karim?”

“No, sir. I don’t drink, sir. I’m a God-fearin’ man, I am.” I answered.

Mr. Tayyab roared with laughter, clutching his belly with one hand and wiping tears from his eyes. “Oh, Karim, you are always a hoot! A god-fearing man, he says.”

I didn’t show it, but I was pissed. I am a God-fearin’ man. Ain’t none of my concern what these rich manafiqs do behind closed doors. I just clean up after ‘em.

“Oh, don’t look so offended, it’s all in good fun,” Mr. Tayyab said, “Now, I hope you know what to do.”

“Yes, sir. Should I set up a lifelong pension for the girl’s family? Or just the lump sum? Sahiwal might be best. Quiet place. We got people there who’ll keep an eye on ‘em.”

Jus’ cause it’s dirty work, don’t mean I ain’t good at it.

“Efficient as always, Karim. Yes, move the girl’s family to Sahiwal, give them a lump sum, arrange a house and a pension, it’s the least we can do for those poor bastards,” Mr. Tayyab sipped his drink.

“Very well, sir,” Karim bowed and turned to leave.

“Oh—and Karim?”

I stopped cold.

“Next time you take my wife’s money without tellin’ me…”
His voice changed. Cold. Sharp enough to cut.
“I’ll make sure you end up worse than that poor girl.”

I gulped, “Yes, sir.”

I baked out quickly, setting off to do my tasks.

As I stepped outside, I told myself—for the hundredth time— Soon as I’ve saved enough, I’m leavin’ this shit-show behind.

Iftikhar Sajid –  8th February 2025, 6:00 pm

The Bukhari’s are such a perfect family.

The gorgeous wife. She glittered, a soft smile on her face as she shook hands with women and handed out gifts to the crowds.

The handsome, suave, successful husband. He walked around, laughing, jolly and kind, shaking hands, slapping backs, hand in hand with his little girl.

And the lovely princess of a daughter—wide-eyed, delicate, dressed in a pastel pink frock with tiny golden bangles that jingled with every wave.

They have it all. Wealth. Fame. Success. And now, triumph.

I watched them enviously as they handed out sweets. Tayyab Bukhari won by a landslide and was now a part of the winning party. Most likely to be named minister of Punjab.

I wanted to be near them, to have even the reflection of their shine fall upon me. But, I just toted the journalist’s camera, as he ran around, trying to get near the man of the hour.

The equipment was heavy as always, my brow sweating heavily, and my pits stained.

Finally, my boss reached him.

Bukhari’s assistant whispered something to him, and he smiled at us, his teeth blinding. “Ah, Asad Ullah, is it, from GEO News? It’s a pleasure to have you here!  And who is this with you?” he gestured to me. “Thank you for joining our humble celebration!”

“Oh, he’s just Iftikhar, my camera boy,” my boss said dismissively. Then he added, “Bukhari Sahab, congratulations on your win! Would you mind if I asked you a few quick questions?”

“Sure, why not? What does the public want to know?” Tayyab grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He winked directly at the camera.

I gasped—actually gasped—overwhelmed by his charm.

“You, boy, set up the camera,” my boss barked, snapping me out of my daydreaming.

“Oh, there’s no need to be so harsh on the boy, he must be overwhelmed at all these people! Take your time!” he smiled kindly at me.

“Y-yes.” I stuttered and set up my equipment in no time. After two years, I was one of the fastest camera boys in Lahore.

My boos then held up his mike and addressed, Tayyab Bukhari, “Assalamualaikum, Nazareen, this is Tayyab Bukhari, the winner of this election. Congratulations, Bukhari Sahab. What are your plans now that you have won?”

The crowd erupted into cheers as Tayyab Bukhari took the mic. A thousand hands shot up, waving green‑and‑white party flags.

“Just call me Tayyab,” he said, his grin wide enough to light up the plaza. “As for my plans—”

He paused as a roar swept through the plaza. Behind him, fireworks burst in scarlet and gold, painting the night sky in triumphal arcs.

I lifted the camera higher, sweat stinging my eyes. The lens caught women in brightly embroidered shalwar kameez, their laughter tinkling like bells, and men beating dhol drums in wild bhangra steps. Sweets—laddus and jalebi—were passed down the front row, then flung into the crowd in a sticky, joyous shower.

Tayyab’s voice crackled over the speakers:

“We’ll repair every road in Lahore, make healthcare affordable, and start the Karyala Road project today! Together, we’ll build a Punjab that works for all of us.”

He swept an arm toward the crowd; cameras flashed. His wife, Maria, glided beside him, flawless in pearls and rubies. Her smile held steady, but her eyes—sharp, distant—kept scanning the crowd like she was waiting for something.

Their daughter, Aisha, waved shyly, the picture of innocence.

My boss called out, “Sounds excellent, Tayyab Sahab—any final words for GEO News viewers?”

He turned back to the camera with the confidence of a man born for it.

“Thank you, Asad Ullah. Remember—this victory belongs to you, the people. Let’s get to work.”

The moment stretched, and then the crowd surged forward, clapping and chanting his name. I lowered the camera and wiped my brow.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a suspicious scruffy man come up to Maria Bukhari. At first, I thought he was a security risk—he wore a mask, and his clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed in days. He walked with a slight limp, like one leg always lagged behind.

I was about to step forward in concern, but then she turned and waved at the scruffy masked man to join her.

Rather than push him away, she formed a huddle with him. A strange, self-satisfied smile stretched across her face. It curled slowly, like a secret she’d been dying to let out. It somehow seemed more authentic than anything I’d seen from her all night.

And then it was over. She turned back, rejoining her husband with the same polished grace. The crowd didn’t notice a thing.

Afterward, Tayyab Bukhari’s assistant came toward me. Mr. Tayyab wanted you to have this; he handed me a box and walked away.

Astonished, I lifted the lid, Inside was a signed picture of the Bukhari family and an envelope. I was shocked to open it and find 10,000 Rs.

There was a note, written in neat black ink:

“A tip for a hardworking man. Thank you for your service.” – Tayyab Bukhari

I was speechless. My throat tightened.

Someday, I vowed, I would work for him. What a great man.

Urdu-English Glossary

Author’s Note: A bit more gory than my other work, but I enjoyed writing this. Let me know what you think of the story In Red Lives Power.

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