"Kitna Mushkil Hai Mohabbat Se Mohabbat Ki Kahani Likhna,

Jaise Paani Se Paani Par Paani Likhna."

Seated beside a window in a quiet room was a young girl dressed in a simple white lehenga. Her eyes carried an ethereal glow, while a gentle smile rested upon her lips. Delicate jhumkas adorned her ears, a nath graced her nose, and a fragrant gajra was woven into her dark hair. A book lay open in one hand, a pen resting in the other.

She was Nayab Zohra. The name whispered across the entire city.

Poetry flowed through her veins as naturally as blood. Words obeyed her command, and emotions found refuge in her verses. Yet fate had been cruel in one regard. She had been born in the womb of a tawaif.

Her dreams stretched far beyond the walls that confined her. However, since childhood, her mother had taught her a harsh lesson:

"Dreams are meant to remain dreams. Women like us are only allowed to see them, never live them."

But Nayab Zohra refused to accept such a destiny.

She had never wished to become a tawaif. Despite everything, her eyes still dared to dream. Deep within her heart lived a simple longing ....a longing for a family of her own, for children whose laughter would fill her home, and for a husband who would love her wholeheartedly.

Raised within the walls of the kotha, she had never found beauty in that life. To her, it was a cage disguised as tradition. And for that very reason, she often stood against her mother's wishes, determined to carve a different path for herself.

While the world saw a tawaif's daughter, Nayab Zohra saw something else entirely a girl who still believed that even the most forbidden dreams deserved a chance to come true.

A voice suddenly pulled her out of her thoughts.

It belonged to her elder sister, Zainab Zohra.

Eight years older than Nayab, Zainab had always been more than just a sister to her. In many ways, she had been the mother Nayab needed. While their mother had given her life, it was Zainab who had showered her with warmth, care, and unconditional love. Perhaps that was why Nayab lovingly called her Ammi.

And Zainab, in return, cherished her like a daughter.

Once, Zainab too had dreamt of building a family of her own. She had envisioned a home filled with love, laughter, and a sense of belonging. But those dreams had withered within the confines of these four walls. Trapped by circumstances she never chose, she had become nothing more than a source of entertainment for the wealthy men who walked through the doors of the kotha.

Yet, despite her own shattered hopes, she refused to let the same fate befall Nayab.

She did not want her little sister to spend her life imprisoned within these walls, watching her dreams fade away one by one. Unlike herself, Nayab still had a chance.

And Zainab intended to protect that chance with everything she had.

For she knew better than anyone that this place was not merely a home. It was a swamp that swallowed dreams whole. And if there was even the slightest possibility of saving Nayab from it, Zainab would fight for her freedom, no matter the cost.

“Where do you keep losing yourself?” a familiar voice called out as Zainab stepped into the room.

“In my poetry, Ammi. Where else?” Nayab replied with a grin, closing her book before moving to sit beside her.

Zainab shook her head and gently flicked Nayab's forehead.

“All the other girls in the kotha are learning the skills they need, and here you are Her Majesty herself with no time for anything except poetry.”

“Ammi, you worry too much,” Nayab laughed. “It's not like I'm going to do what the other girls do.”

Her eyes sparkled with innocent hope.

“One day, my prince will come. He'll take me away from this dreadful place.”

She spoke as though it were an undeniable truth.

Resting her head in Zainab's lap, Nayab smiled dreamily. Zainab's fingers instinctively found their way into her hair, stroking it with affection. Leaning down, she pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Yes, my love,” she whispered softly. “I pray to Allah every day that your prince finds his way to you soon.”

A faint smile lingered on her lips before she added,

“Now come on, get up. It's time for namaz. And after that, there's a Mehfil-e-Ishrat tonight. I still have preparations to make.”

The smile vanished from Nayab's face.

She knew exactly what those gatherings were.

Behind the grandeur, the music, and the glittering lights stood men from noble families whose titles hid the darkness within their hearts. Every Mehfil-e-Ishrat brought more of them through these doors.

A shadow crossed her features.

Suddenly, she reached for Zainab's hand and held it tightly.

“I swear by Allah, Ammi,” she said, her voice firm despite her young age, “one day, both of us will leave this wretched place behind. Not just me....you too.”

For a moment, Zainab stared at her.

Then she smiled.

A sad, beautiful smile born from years of broken dreams.

Nayab still believed freedom was possible.

And perhaps that unwavering faith was the most precious thing she possessed.

.

.

.

.

As evening fell, the kotha buzzed with activity. The older women dressed in their finest clothes, adorned themselves with jewelry, and prepared to leave for the royal palace.

However, the younger girls those under nineteen were not allowed to attend. Nayab was among them.

Standing by the doorway, she watched as the carriages carried Zainab and the others away.

Soon, the kotha fell quiet.

And far away, beneath the glittering lights of the palace, the Mehfil-e-Ishrat was about to begin.

The Diwan-e-Khas was a masterpiece of royal grandeur. Carved from pristine marble and adorned with gold detailing, it reflected the wealth and power of the kingdom. Rich carpets covered the floor, while the royal throne stood majestically at the center. Elegant chairs had been arranged for the distinguished guests.

Tonight, however, the atmosphere carried an unusual excitement.

Word had spread that the Crown Prince himself would be attending the gathering.

PRINCE ARYAN SINGH RATHORE.

A man whom few had ever seen, yet whose name was known throughout the kingdom.

Stories about him traveled faster than the wind. Some called him fearless, while others called him ruthless. It was said that his heart was made of stone and that he never hesitated when it came to delivering punishment. Whether the tales were true or merely rumors, no one knew. But one thing was certain The moment Prince Aryan Singh entered the Diwan-e-Khas, every eye in the room would be fixed upon him.

.

.

Inside the royal chamber, two men were engaged in a heated discussion or rather, one was desperately trying to convince the other. They were none other than Prince Aryan Singh Rathore and his younger brother, Prince Aviraaj Singh Rathore."I'm not going, Aviraaj. How many times do I have to say it?" Aryan said firmly.

The twenty-five-year-old prince had never attended a single Mehfil-e-Ishrat in his life. He despised such gatherings and held little regard for the women associated with them. In his eyes, they were a part of a world he wanted nothing to do with.

"But Bhai, please... just this once," Aviraaj pleaded, flashing his best puppy eyes. Aryan remained unmoved.

Realizing he was losing the battle, Aviraaj resorted to his final weapon."You swear on Maa Sa."

Silence.

The moment those words left his mouth, Aviraaj knew he had won.

For Aryan Singh Rathore could ignore anyone's request...but never one connected to his mother.

Aryan closed his eyes in frustration before letting out a long sigh. "You are far too clever for your own good." A victorious grin spread across Aviraaj's face.

"Fine. We'll go."Then Aryan pointed a warning finger at him."But if those women start talking nonsense, don't expect me to be polite. There won't be a worse man in that hall than me."Aviraaj chuckled. At least his brother was coming. That alone felt like a miracle.

The moment Aryan Singh Rathore stepped into the Diwan-e-Khas, every conversation in the hall seemed to fade into silence. All eyes turned toward him. And for a brief moment, it felt as though the entire room had stopped breathing.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that he looked more like a warrior than a prince. Dressed in royal attire, he carried himself with the confidence of a man who had spent his life commanding respect rather than seeking it.

There was an unmistakable authority in his stride. Each step was measured, powerful, and unyielding. He walked as though the palace belonged to him. As though the hall belonged to him.As though every person present stood beneath his command. His sharp gaze swept across the room, and many lowered their eyes instinctively. Such was the presence of Aryan Singh Rathore. A man whose very silence demanded attention and whose mere arrival altered the atmosphere of the entire Diwan-e-Khas.

Aryan rose from his seat, clearly intending to leave the Diwan-e-Khas.The atmosphere grew tense as the prince began walking away.

But Alina refused to let the moment end."My prince..." she called after him.Sensing trouble, Zainab immediately stepped forward and grabbed Alina's wrist.

"Enough, Alina," she whispered urgently. "Don't do this."But Alina gently pulled her hand away.With a hopeful smile, she spoke once more."At least bless me with a single glance, my prince."

Aryan stopped.The hall fell silent.Slowly, he turned his head just enough for his voice to carry through the chamber.His expression remained cold and indifferent.

"Hum aap jaisi Bazari aurton ko muh Tak ni lgate dekhna to door ki baat hai"

("I do not even speak to women of your profession," he said flatly. "Looking at you is out of the question.")His words struck the hall like a thunderclap.

Several guests lowered their eyes, while others exchanged uneasy glances.Alina's smile froze on her lips.Beside her, Zainab closed her eyes briefly, already knowing how this would end.

Aryan, however, showed no remorse.Without another word, he turned and continued walking, leaving behind a silence far heavier than before.

Aryan was making his way through t,he palace corridors when someone suddenly rushed a round the corner.

Thud-

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