Bound by Amir Hussain Qureshi

AI Generated

The afternoon sun of mid-September 2016 cast long shadows across Empress Road as Ali Raza stepped through the main gate of the National University of Modern Languages. The heat of Lahore still clung to the air, but autumn was beginning to whisper in the breeze that occasionally stirred the dust along the pavement. Ali, a nineteen-year-old from the small town of Behra, paused at the entrance of the Aiwan-e-Iqbal Complex, gazing up at the nine-story building that housed his dreams.

Behra. The name itself carried centuries of weight. Nestled near the Salt Range - that ancient geological formation that had witnessed the march of armies and the passing of empires - the town had watched history unfold. Alexander the Great had camped near those hills in 326 BCE, his soldiers resting before their descent into the plains of Punjab. Greek chroniclers wrote of the fierce resistance they faced in these parts, of tribes who defended their mountains with a courage that even the conqueror admired. In the centuries that followed, Behra remained a quiet sentinel as empires rose and fell—the Mughals came and went, the British drew their lines on maps, and Pakistan emerged from the partition of the subcontinent.

Ali came from a respectable family. His father, who had graduated in the 1990s and worked as a teacher at Government Boys High School in Behra, often spoke of the town's history with a mixture of pride and resignation. "We are people of the soil," he would tell his son. "We have seen conquerors come and go, but we remain." Ali's mother, though a housewife, had completed her education through middle school, which was a rare achievement for women of her generation in their town. This educational background made their family respected in Behra, and their modest home became a place where neighbours sought advice.

Ali had discovered his love for English literature in the dusty reading room of a library located beside the Sher Shah Suri Mosque. Built in the 16th century, the mosque stood as a testament to the region's layered history. The library next to it was owned by a renowned Bugvi religious scholar, a man whose long white beard and gentle demeanour belied his vast knowledge. The collection consisted primarily of theological works, including volumes of Tafsir, Hadith, and Fiqh arranged in careful rows, but there were also shelves dedicated to history and literature. It was here, among these books that smelled of aging paper and forgotten time, that Ali first encountered the worlds of great Urdu and English fiction writers.

During his years at Government Boys Degree College Behra had established his reputation as a young man with an unusual command of the English language. While his classmates struggled with grammar and vocabulary due to their limited exposure, Ali navigated complex texts with an ease that surprised his teachers. When he announced his dream of pursuing a Master's in English Literature at NUML Lahore, the entire college celebrated. His father sold a small plot of land to fund the endeavour. As Ali prepared to leave for Lahore, his mother carefully packed lunch for him, kissed his forehead, and relatives gathered to bid him farewell—a moment that saddened everyone.

Now, standing at the entrance of the Aiwan-e-Iqbal Complex, he felt the weight of that journey. The building was a microcosm of urban Pakistan—government and private offices coexisting under one roof, including NUML. The corridors were always crowded, mostly with students but occasionally with young people working in the call centre in the basement or job-seekers with anxious faces who worked in various commercial and government offices on the upper floors. NUML occupied the first and second floors, its presence announced by banners and the youthful energy of students who gathered at the entrance during breaks.

Ali chose the stairs over the elevator. This was a matter of principle, from childhood, he believed that machines have made men soft. In Behra, where electricity was intermittent and mechanical repairs required journeys to larger towns, self-reliance was a virtue. He climbed to the first floor, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. Entering the gallery, he found a green notice board encased in transparent glass, six flags on the left - among which he could only recognise the flags of Pakistan and Saudi Arabia - and an aquarium on the right with two fishes swimming through it. Then he emerged into the admission office.

The process was straightforward. A male admission officer, harried but helpful, explained the requirements and handed Ali a form. The fee challan would need to be submitted at the bank, and classes would begin the following Monday. Ali completed the paperwork with youthful efficiency, then descended to the street to find the designated bank branch.

It was upon his return, after climbing those same stairs with the stamped challan in his hand, that his world shifted. She stood at the admission desk, engaged in conversation with the same officer who had helped Ali earlier. From his position, Ali could see her—the slim silhouette, the cascade of dark hair falling freely down her back, the glint of a nose ring catching the fluorescent light. She wore light makeup, not the heavy application of wedding celebrations, but something subtle that enhanced rather than concealed her features. Her confidence was palpable even from a distance; she spoke with an assurance that suggested: she belonged in this world of concrete and glass, and Ali was still learning to fit in.

In Behra, such sights were rare. Women moved through public spaces in burqas, their faces hidden, their voices muted. At weddings, Ali had glimpsed women in their finery. He remembered his cousin's wedding, the way women would emerge in colourful suits, their hair adorned with flowers, their eyes lined with kohl. But there were always chaperones, always watchful eyes, and Ali, raised in a culture of modesty and restraint, had never allowed himself to look too long or too directly.

Here, in this stairwell of a commercial complex in Lahore, he was alone. The admission officer was occupied, the corridor momentarily empty. Ali found himself frozen before the counter, unable to move forward or retreat. She turned slightly, and their eyes met for a fraction of a second. Ali felt his face flush, and he quickly shifted his gaze to the mirror on the opposite wall, which served two purposes: it helped students see and correct themselves, and it allowed the admission officer to see who was coming or leaving through the gallery. He now looked at her reflection in the mirror, which made her appear even prettier than in reality. From the corner of his eye, he noticed other students seated nearby, and he realised with embarrassment that his staring had not gone unnoticed. He forced himself to focus on the papers before him, while his mind remained fixed on the image of the girl with the nose ring and the open hair.

When he finally submitted his challan, she had already gone. The corridor seemed emptier. Ali descended the stairs and stepped out into the Lahore afternoon, making his way to his cousin's quarters near the railway station. His cousin, a railway employee who had offered Ali accommodation for the duration of his studies, welcomed him with tea and questions about his first day in the city. Ali answered mechanically, his thoughts elsewhere. It was Thursday. His first class would not be until Monday. Three days stretched before him like an ocean of waiting.

That evening, sitting on the narrow bed in his cousin's spare room, Ali found himself unable to concentrate on the book he had brought from home. The girl's image kept intruding - the way her hair fell across her shoulder, the confidence in her stance, the brief moment when their eyes had met. He told himself it was foolishness, that he was here to study, that romantic distractions had no place in his plans.

On Friday, he walked through the old city. He visited the Masjid Wazir Khan and other historical buildings in the surrounding area. He wandered through the narrow streets of the Walled City, which reminded him of the past and the people who had lived there. Saturday brought him to Anarkali Bazaar, that labyrinth of commerce that had served Lahore for centuries. Named after the legendary courtesan who was buried alive for her love of Prince Salim, the market seemed an appropriate place for Ali's growing obsession. In the old book street, he found a treasure, a copy of Elif Shafak's The Forty Rules of Love. The price was reasonable, the pages were intact, and Ali purchased it. Sunday passed in a blur of anticipation. He ironed his white cotton suit, polished his black Peshawari sandals, and laid out his blue waistcoat for his first day of class.

Monday arrived with the clarity of autumn sunlight. Ali dressed with care, checked his reflection more times than he cared to admit, and made his way to NUML. The Aiwan-e-Iqbal Complex was already bustling when he arrived, students streaming through the entrance, the elevators working overtime, the stairs echoing with footsteps. He climbed to the first floor, following the directions he had received during admission, and found his classroom: Room 14.

It was a rectangular room with windows on one side, though they were covered by a concrete structure. Fifteen to twenty students were already seated, arranged in an informal segregation that would become familiar over the coming months: the girls on the right side of the room, the boys on the left. Ali found a seat in the third row, positioned so he could easily see the whiteboard and projector. He placed his bag on the chair's arm, extracted The Forty Rules of Love, and tried to appear absorbed in its pages.

The silence of strangers filled the room. Some students were on their silent mobile phones, scrolling through messages or checking social media. A group of girls on the right side whispered among themselves, their laughter occasionally interrupted the quiet. Ali turned a page he hadn't read, his heart beating an irregular rhythm against his chest.

The door opened.

She entered with the same confidence he had observed three days earlier, offering a general "Asalam-o-Alaikum" to the room. Some students responded; Ali's voice caught in his throat. She was even more beautiful than he remembered; the nose ring gleaming, her hair falling in dark waves, her eyes scanning the room for a seat. She moved to the third row on the right side, just across the aisle from where Ali sat, and arranged herself with the grace of someone accustomed to being watched.

Ali's hands trembled slightly as he held his book. From this proximity, he could observe details he had missed before; the black mole on her neck, barely visible beneath her hair; the traditional earrings that swung gently as she moved; the sunglasses she placed on the desk before her. She had a habit of touching her hair, running her fingers through it, arranging it over her shoulder, and each gesture sent a small shock through Ali's nervous system.

It was three o'clock when the teacher arrived. He was a middle-aged man with the comfortable build of someone who enjoyed his meals, his belly pressing slightly against the laptop he carried. His face was clean-shaven except for a precisely trimmed black moustache, and his straight hair was combed back with what appeared to be considerable care. He connected his laptop to the projector with practiced efficiency and turned to face the class.

"Good afternoon," he said, his voice carrying the authority of fifteen years in classrooms. "I am Gulraiz Qadir, and I will be your instructor for Phonetics and Phonology."

The subject meant nothing to Ali. He had chosen English Literature for his love of stories, of poetry, of the way words could create worlds. Phonetics and Phonology sounded like sciences, like mathematics—disciplines of cold precision rather than warm imagination. But as Mr. Qadir began to briefly explain the course, Ali found himself unable to focus on the content. His attention kept drifting to the girl across the aisle, to the way she took notes, to the mole on her neck that seemed to him like a mark of destiny.

"Let's begin with introductions," Mr. Qadir announced. "We'll go around the room. Tell us your name, your educational background, your hometown, and your interests."

The process started from the teacher's right side—the left side of the classroom, where the boys sat. Ali watched as his classmates offered brief autobiographies, their voices varying from confident to nervous, their stories ranging from the mundane to the slightly interesting. The third row approached with agonising slowness. When the boy directly in front of Ali finished his introduction, Ali realised with a start that he was next.

He stood, aware of the eyes upon him, intensely conscious of her presence just feet away.

"I am Ali Raza," he said, surprised by the steadiness of his voice. "I am from Behra, near the Salt Range. I completed my BA from Government Degree College Behra." He paused, considering what else to say that might be worthy of her attention. "I love reading books," he finished, and sat down quickly. Two more students followed—boys from Lahore, their educational credentials more impressive than his own. And then it was her turn.

She cleared her throat, a small, delicate sound, and Ali felt his heartbeat accelerate to a pace that seemed dangerous. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment of the revelation of her name, her story, the details that would allow him to fill the gaps of his one-sided obsession with the name of his Heer and other details worthy of remembrance.

"I am Samia Abbas," she said, and the name settled into Ali's consciousness like a stone into still water. "I live in Garhi Shahu, here in Lahore. I completed my graduation from Queen Mary College." A smile crossed her face, transforming her features into something even more beautiful. "And I love cooking." Ali's mother was an excellent cook. He imagined Samia in his mother's kitchen, the two women discussing recipes while he watched from the doorway.

After introductions, Mr. Gulraiz shared the contents, explained the purpose of the subject, briefed what he expects from students and how they can have a good time together. The class ended at 06pm and Ali went back to his cousin’s quarter.

On Tuesday, another teacher arrived, a young and beautiful woman named Sonia Shabbir, who was to teach Romantic poetry. Ali found it an interesting subject but waited for the students' introductions to begin, hoping to learn something new about Samia. On Wednesday, an elderly professor wearing glasses and a formal suit entered the classroom. He introduced himself as Shehzad Ahmed, a teacher of English Classic Drama. Ali remained curious but impatient throughout the class, as Samia was absent. On Thursday, another female teacher arrived, young, energetic, and attractive, with notes and an attendance file in her left hand. She introduced herself as Humaira Masud, a literature teacher who would be teaching a collection of short stories. Samia was present, but she revealed nothing new about herself. Friday was the last day of the week, when a middle-aged teacher named Zaheer Hussain, handsome, carrying a tablet and attendance file, arrived to teach Introduction to Linguistics. He asked everyone to also mention their hobbies in their introductions, which made Ali impatient as he really wanted to know something new about Samia. When it was her turn, she said, "I love photography, taking pictures of nature, especially of flowers." Ali thought that she herself was no less beautiful than a flower.

—-------- 

They spoke occasionally, brief exchanges about assignments, comments on lectures, the tentative connections of classmates becoming acquaintances. Ali learned to modulate his gaze, to look at her without staring, to appear interested without appearing obsessed. He observed her habits: her preference for tea over coffee, the way she organised her notes in colour-coded files, her habit of chewing on her pen when concentrating.

Three months passed. The mid-term examinations came and went, followed by the autumn semester finals. Ali prepared for his Shakespeare paper with particular intensity, sitting for hours on the lawn of the NUML campus, his copy of Hamlet annotated with notes and questions. The Danish prince's paralysis, his inability to act despite his certainty of wrongdoing, resonated with Ali in ways he could not fully articulate. Was he not similarly paralysed, watching Samia from a distance, unable to bridge the gap between admiration and connection?

It was on one of these study afternoons that she found him sitting on the lawn.

"Hamlet again?" she asked, settling onto the grass beside him without invitation.

Ali looked up, his heart performing its now-familiar acrobatics. "The examination is next month," he managed to say. "I can't make sense of his delay. Why doesn't he just kill Claudius?"

"Because he's thinking," Samia said, as if this were obvious. "Because action without understanding is mere violence. Because—" she paused, considering, "—because he's afraid that his certainty is actually doubt, and his doubt is actually certainty."

Ali stared at her. In three months of classes, of shared space and occasional conversation, he had never heard her speak with such philosophical depth. "You've read it before?"

"Yes, I've read a bit," she said, and there was no arrogance in the statement, merely fact. She paused, then added, "Would you like some tea? I was going to Aziz Bhai's canteen."

It was the first time they would share something beyond classroom proximity. Ali accepted with a nod that he hoped appeared casual, gathering his books with hands that were not quite steady. They walked together through the corridors of the first floor, past the administrative offices and computer labs, to the canteen that occupied a corner near the stairs.

Aziz Bhai, a middle-aged man who had served generations of NUML students, greeted them with the familiarity he showed to all regular customers. Samia ordered two cups of tea and paid before Ali could protest, carrying the steaming cups to a small table in the corner. They sat for twenty minutes. In Ali's life, this was unprecedented, twenty minutes alone with a girl who was not family, engaged in conversation that ranged from books to teachers to the peculiarities of their classmates. Samia spoke of her family with affection but also with a sense of constraint, of expectations that she navigated carefully. Ali found himself sharing more than he had intended, his father's sacrifices, his mother's quiet strength, his own sense of being an outsider in this vast city. Everything they discussed in the first meeting was rather a flash through the past, lacking depth.

It was around six thirty when they parted, returning to their separate lives with a new connection forged in tea and conversation. That night, lying on his narrow bed in his cousin's quarters, Ali replayed every moment of those twenty minutes, analysing her words, her expressions, the way she had smiled at certain things.

The autumn semester ended, results were announced, and Ali secured a CGPA of 3.42 - a respectable achievement that brought pride to his family in Behra. Samia had achieved a 3.0, and when he congratulated her, she smiled with genuine pleasure.

"I improved from my BA," she said. "That's what matters."

This time, it was Ali who invited her for tea. They returned to Aziz Bhai's canteen, to the table where they had sat before, and talked until class began. During the semester break that followed, they spoke on the phone, they had long conversations that stretched into the night, exploring ideas and sharing dreams with the intimacy of voices separated by distance but connected by growing affection.

Spring arrived in Lahore with its characteristic drama, the Bombax Ceiba trees exploding into red bloom, roses blooming across the university campus in pottery pots and at the corners of small green patches. Samia had mentioned, during one of their late-night calls, her love of flowers, her habit of photographing them, her desire to capture their fleeting beauty.

"I used to do some photography," Ali said, the words emerging before he could consider their implications.

"Really?" Samia's voice lifted with interest. "Would you take pictures of me? With the flowers? I've always wanted proper photos, but my family..." she trailed off, the constraint unspoken but understood.

Ali agreed immediately, enthusiastically, planning in his mind how he would fulfil this promise. His existing phone had an adequate camera, but for Samia, adequate was not enough. He saved money from his monthly allowance, supplemented by tutoring a neighbour's child in English, and purchased a new smartphone with a better camera. The specifications promised good-quality images.

When classes resumed for the spring semester, he showed her the phone with a pride that felt like a genuine achievement. She, in turn, revealed her own preparations; new suits purchased specifically for these photographic sessions, along with churian and earrings.

They began the following week. Every day, before classes, in broad daylight, they would make their way to the lawns and stairs surrounding the Aiwan-e-Iqbal Complex. Samia came each day in a different suit; pastel pinks and vibrant blues, traditional embroideries and modern cuts, each outfit carefully coordinated with accessories that caught the light. Her hair was always open, falling in dark waves; her ears displayed earrings that ranged from simple studs to elaborate traditional designs; her nose ring caught the sun in brief flashes of gold.

Ali photographed her obsessively. Dozens of images each day, hundreds over the weeks - Samia among the roses, Samia posing on stairs, Samia on the green carpeted lawn. Luckily, one day they found the fountain in the centre of the lawn spraying water, which spread freshness and mist across the grass. Ali learned to use the camera's manual settings, adjusting aperture and shutter speed to capture her in different lights, different moods, and different angles. The phone's storage filled rapidly; he purchased a memory card, unwilling to delete a single image.

Not once did he appear in the photographs. This was Samia's dream, and Ali wanted it to be completed. But at night, during their phone calls, they would review the day's images together, discussing composition and lighting, planning the next session. "You have a good eye," she told him one night, and the praise warmed him more than any academic achievement ever had.

They shared countless cups of tea during this time, their relationship deepening through these small rituals. They studied together for examinations, sitting in the library with their books open but their conversation frequently drifting to topics unrelated to academics. When Ali's birthday arrived in April, Samia presented him with a bottle of perfume - an expensive brand that he knew was beyond her usual budget.

"For the boy who captures beauty," she said, and he treasured the gift with an intensity that surprised him.

He, in turn, brought her books, volumes of poetry he discovered in Anarkali Bazaar, novels he thought she might enjoy. The exchange of gifts became a language between them, a way of expressing what they could not yet say directly.

The second semester ended with both of them achieving improved grades, Ali's CGPA rose to 3.53, while Samia reached 3.11. The improvement in her academic standing brought her particular joy, and Ali's happiness was amplified by hers. During the long vacation that followed, they maintained their connection through phone calls, their conversations stretching longer as their comfort with each other grew.

The third semester began in September, bringing new courses and new challenges. Ali, returning from a visit to Behra, had sought advice from his friend Sadiq, who was pursuing a Master's at Quaid-i-Azam University in Islamabad. Over a weekend visit, Ali had confessed his feelings, his confusion, his desire to move beyond friendship into something more defined.

"Ask her out," Sadiq had said, with the confidence of someone who had grown up in a more liberal environment. "A proper date. Dinner, perhaps. See how she responds."

Ali had saved money for this purpose, carefully saving his allowance and tutoring income. When he finally made the suggestion - dinner at a restaurant in Anarkali, perhaps, or a visit to the Lahore Museum, Samia's reaction was not what he had hoped for.

"I can't," she said, and her voice carried genuine regret. "My family... They're very traditional. They let me study because my father believes in education, but they watch me. If they knew I was meeting a boy alone, outside the campus..." She didn't finish the sentence, but Ali understood.

He felt the rejection sharply, but he also understood the constraints that shaped her life. Their relationship continued within the boundaries she defined, conversations on campus, phone calls at night, the occasional shared meal in the canteen. He noticed that when she spoke to him on the phone, she often positioned herself near her sister or mother, creating the impression of innocent conversation. Male family members were carefully excluded from knowledge of his existence.

The third semester brought them to a new achievement when Ali unintentionally ended up on the sixth floor, which exposed him to a very peaceful environment compared with the first and second floors. Ali also experienced an amazing view of Lahore from such a height, so he decided to bring Samia there. The next day, he invited her for a surprise. They bought two cups of tea from Aziz Bhai's canteen and went to the sixth floor. The experience and view made Samia so happy and calm that they remained there, sitting by the window for an hour. Samia enjoyed the view and introduced Ali to various parts of Lahore, especially some buildings in Garhi Shahu. While sitting there, for the first time, Ali desired to hold her hand and talk for hours. 

—---------

They worked together on presentations, their academic collaboration providing cover for their growing closeness. When they prepared for their joint presentation on Postcolonial Literature, the hours of research and rehearsal created opportunities for conversation that ranged far beyond their assigned topic.

The third semester ended with strong performances from both - Ali achieving 3.60 and Samia reaching at 3.24. As they parted for the winter vacation, there was a new depth to their connection, a sense of partnership that transcended the boundaries of friendship without quite crossing into the territory of romance.

But for Ali, the approaching end of their Master's program cast a shadow over every moment of happiness. During the vacation, sitting in his family's home in Behra, he confronted the reality that their time at NUML was finite. One more semester remained, and then... what? Would they return to their separate lives, their connection dissolving like morning mist?

He considered his options with the desperate logic of a man facing loss. Marriage? The thought emerged and was immediately complicated by reality. His family, while educated, maintained the conservative values of their town. They would expect him to marry within their social circle, to a woman who understood the rhythms of village life, maybe someone from his cousins. On the other hand, Samia, with her urban sophistication, her unveiled presence in classrooms, her photographs among flowers and she would be as alien to his family as he sometimes felt in Lahore.

And what of her feelings? Did she share the emotions that kept him awake at night, that made him reach for his phone to call her at hours when it was time to sleep? Or was he merely a pleasant companion, a study partner, a friend who happened to be male? The uncertainty tormented him, preventing the direct conversation that might have clarified everything.

The final semester began with the return of spring. Ali arrived in Lahore with a heart heavy with unspoken words, watching Samia with an intensity that he tried to mask with normalcy. They fell back into their patterns again, classes together, tea at Aziz Bhai's canteen, photographs among the blooming flowers but always beneath the surface, Ali's awareness of impending separation.

The final month arrived with cruel speed. Their last classes together. Their final examinations scheduled and then completed. On the day of their last paper, Ali walked out of the examination hall with a sense of ending that was almost physical in its weight.

Samia was waiting for him in the corridor. She smiled upon seeing him. "Tea?" she asked, and the single word contained volumes of shared past memories.

They went to Aziz Bhai's canteen for the last time. Ali paid, as had become his habit, and they carried their cups to the lawn behind the campus. The Bombax Ceiba trees were in full bloom outside the campus, and the lawn was filled with dozens of blossomed flowers.

They sat in silence for several minutes, the weight of unspoken words pressing against the boundaries of conversation. Ali watched other students taking photographs before saying their goodbyes. Ali hardly took a sip from his tea. Looking down, he was struggling to gather words to say something.

It was Samia who broke the silence. "Ali," she said, and her voice was different from its usual tone, more vulnerable. "What are your future plans? Do you want to continue your studies? I'm planning to do an MPhil as well."

Ali looked at her, trying to read the subtext of her question. Was she asking him to follow her? Or was she merely making conversation, sharing information that happened to overlap with his own ambitions?

He looked toward the sky, where clouds were gathering for the afternoon rain. He looked at her, at the face he had photographed a hundred times, at the eyes that held mysteries he had never solved, at the nose ring that had first captured his attention in a corridor two years ago.

Ali looked down, then at her face, and he smiled... for a moment only. The next thought made him sad again. His father's message, which he had received a day ago, informed him that there was a vacant position of English teacher at Behra's college, and his father had asked the principal to allow Ali to serve in the position.

About the Author:

Amir Hussain Qureshi hails from Urnian Saran, Azad Jammu and Kashmir, and now lives in Lahore, Pakistan. He holds an MPhil in English Literature from Riphah International University, Lahore, a Master's in English Literature from NUML Lahore, and Dars-e-Nizami from Jamia Naeemia, Lahore. With a decade of teaching experience across various institutes in Lahore and nearly equal time spent working with NGOs on peacebuilding, interfaith harmony, and inclusivity, Amir currently serves as a Visiting Faculty Member at the University of Education, Lahore, teaching Modern Poetry and the History of English Literature.