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Safiya's POV

I breathed out a sigh of relief as I stepped out of the courtroom, even though the familiar chaos of the court hit me instantly. People bustled around me, files clutched under their arms, worry lines etched deep into their foreheads. Every colleague who passed by offered a nod or a smile. I had just bagged another case-this time against one of the most experienced and ruthless lawyers, Mr. Ansari.

I knew my face screamed exhaustion. Fatigue clung to me like a second skin, my dark circles, a testament to sleepless nights. The perfectly tied hair from the morning now looked like it had weathered a violent storm.

Yet my steps didn't falter, even as another storm approached-

The media.

Flash! Flash! Flash!

"Miss Shah, aap ek aur case jeet gayi... Aapko kaisa mehsoos ho raha hai?" (Miss Safiya you have won another case... How are you feeling after this win? )

Yes, I felt like saying, ‘Marne ka man kar raha hai, hat saamne se bewakoof.’ (I feel like dying... move out of the way, stupid.)

That's what I wanted to say. But unfortunately, I didn't want today's headlines accusing me of arrogance.

"Miss Shah, what do you have to say about this?" Another mic was shoved into my face as I pushed through the crowd. Just one more step and I'd be in my car. One more push and-

I somehow managed to trudge through the sea of bodies only to find my car blocked by yet another reporter and a group of women with protest hoardings.

"Aapko sharam nahi aati ek masoom ladki ke against case ladte hue? Paiso ke liye bik chuki hain aap." (Aren't you ashamed of fighting against that innocent girl who was framed by those malicious men? You've been bought too, Safiya Shah.)

The woman's scorn was unmistakable. She was the same social worker who had been breathing down my neck ever since I'd taken up the case.

"Miss Shah, if he confesses tomorrow, will you still be proud of this case?"

"Someone had to fight this case, Miss Maya. But I fail to understand how you can question my integrity when you yourself bailed out your brother-if I recall correctly, he was jailed for allegations of sexually harassing a young girl."

I shot her a glare before brushing past and sliding into my car. This wasn't just another case. It was a storm.

I had been the target of relentless criticism for defending a man accused by a powerful socialite's daughter-one who was not only deeply involved in the dark web but had also sexually harassed and planned the murder of a man.

"Chachu, mujhe ghar drop kar dein, phir aap bhi ghar chale jaiye, aur kal aane ki koi zarurat nahi hai." (Uncle, please drop me home, then head back. There's no need for you to come tomorrow.)

I rested my head against the seat, my eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

"Lekin Safi beta..." (But Safi, dear...)

My uncle tried to protest-dutiful as ever, reluctant to miss work even at his age.

"Bas, isse aage mein aur kuch nahi sunna chahti. Junaid aapko kal hospital le jaayega." (Enough. I don't want to hear another word. Junaid will take you to the hospital tomorrow.)

I scrolled through the latest headlines. Ironically, the media had latched onto this case to distract the public from the latest political scandal.

"Apni health ka khayal rakhiye." (Please take care of your health.)

I switched off my phone, ready for a long break and some much-needed peace.

"Mene aapse kitni baar kaha hai, aapko mere liye darwaza kholne ki koi zarurat nahi hai, chachu. Aap meri baat kabhi nahi sunte." (I've told you so many times-there's no need to open the door for me, Uncle. You never listen.)

He gave me a sheepish smile, the same one that always softened my heart. He had worked with our family since I was in preschool-driving me to school, college, university, and now to court.

"Junaid, chachu ko ghar chhod aao." (Junaid, please drop Uncle home.)

I instructed before waving a goodbye and stepping into the mansion.

"Jii Ma'am." (Sure, Ma'am.)

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.
.
.

The heavenly aroma hit me like a wave, and my stomach grumbled in response. I was finally home after days of being imprisoned in my office, surrounded by scattered files and towering stacks of paperwork. Dozens of tea cups had been my lifeline, keeping me just sane enough to survive the storm.

[Hamari Safiya chai lover hain, coffee lovers jaldi waha se hato ☕
( Our safiya is a chai lover, coffee lovers sorry not sorry... )

Achcha woh star button peh chai ka cup phek ke maro ya coffee ka sachet, click kar dena 😗

Please vote guys, those who have done already, thank you 😌 ]

"Assalamualaikum, Baba..." I side-hugged my father, who beamed at me with pride.

"Walikum-assalam, beta. Hamari beti phir se jeet gayi." (Walikum-assalam, my child. Our daughter has triumphed once again.)

He gestured for me to take a seat on his right and immediately began piling food onto my plate. His obsession with feeding me hadn't changed one bit.

"Thanks, Dad. Yeh sab aap logon ki dua aur Allah ki rehmat hai." (Thank you, Dad. It's all because of your prayers and Allah's mercy.)

"Woh sab theek hai, lekin ab main Neelo ka kya karun? Haath dhoke mere peeche pad gayi hai woh." (That's all well and good, but what do I do about Neelo now? She's chasing after me like a woman on a mission.)

Mom met our amused stares with a scornful expression. Neelo Aunty was a nightmare wrapped in flashy fabric-a walking marriage bureau.

Unfortunately, I was her next target. And the worst part? The boy she wanted me to marry was none other than her own son. When Neelo Aunty set her sights on someone, she went to lengths most couldn't even dream of.

She'd already scared off several eligible bachelors, as Mom often reminded us. But I didn't mind. In fact, I welcomed her interference. She was saving me the trouble of doing the dirty work myself. There was no way I'd marry some snobbish boy with a sky-high ego who thought the entire solar system revolved around him.

I still remembered the drama she'd orchestrated to drive away a doctor. The poor guy had been traumatized, but did I feel bad? Not at all. I'd happily rewatch that scene from my balcony, popcorn in hand. It was pure entertainment.

"Baaji~~" (Sis~~)

That overly sweet tone made Mom visibly flinch. She scrunched her nose and shot Dad a glare as he dared to flash her a teasing smile.

"Lein aa gayi aapki favourite person." (Look who's here-your favorite person in the whole world.)

I muttered, digging into the biryani on my plate. Mom could handle her.
"Naam liya, musibat haazir." (Speak of the devil, and here she comes.)

Dad shook his head in defeat.

"Assalamualaikum, Rabia Bhabi. Assalamualaikum, Bhai-sahab." She strutted her way to the dining table and took the seat beside Mom, who tried her best to return the greeting with a polite smile.

"Assalamualaikum, Auntie. Aaj hamare ghar kaise aana hua?" (Assalamualaikum, Auntie. What brings you to our home today?)

The tension in the room was suddenly palpable.

"Allah ka shukr hai aaj tum mili mujhe. Main kitne dino se chakkar laga rahi hoon lekin tum toh kisi case mein hi uljhi rahi." (Walikum-assalam. Thank God I finally caught you-I've been circling this place for days, but you've been lost in some legal whirlwind.)

She flashed me that overly cheerful smile, her honey-drenched tone practically blinding.

"I heard you won this case too. Congratulations!"

"Yes, thank you..." I replied curtly, throwing Mom a look that clearly screamed Do something!

"Waise meri baat maano beta, yahi sahi umar hoti hai. Iss umar mein haath peele na ho toh log baatein banate hain." (But listen to me, dear-this is the right age. If your hands aren't adorned with henna by now, people start to talk.)

And there it was-her marriage bureau agenda in full swing. From the corner of my eye, I saw Dad stiffened. He knew what was coming.

"Law-shaw toh hoti rahegi. Iss umar mein in-laws zyada important hone chahiye." (This law career can wait-at this age, in-laws matter more than laws.)

Dad placed a reassuring hand over mine, signaling me to let Mom handle Neelo Aunty. But Neelo wasn't the type to be silenced easily.

"Ajeeb zamana aa gaya hai... Ladkiyaan bhi ab court-kachehri jaake mardon ke saath din bhar case ladti hain. Hamare zamane mein toh ladkiyan ghar sambhalti thi. Ab career ke chakkar mein rishton ka toh naam hi nahi raha." (It's a strange world now... Girls lock horns with men in courtrooms all day. In our time, women ran homes, not legal battles. Careers have wiped out the concept of relationships.)

Her sigh was long and dramatic, her disappointment hanging heavy in the air.

"Tum itni padhi likhi ho... par kya faida? Koi bhi accha rishta aata hi nahi. Log sochte hain, aisi ladkiyan ghar banayegi ya courtroom?" (You're so well-educated, but what's the point if good proposals never show up? People wonder if girls like you will build a home or just keep conquering courtrooms.)

She laughed at her own joke, completely unaware of how unwelcome her words were.

Neelo Aunty then stood up and rounded the table to sit beside me. She placed a firm hand on my shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze.

"Lekin tum chinta mat karo. Mera beta Nosherwan hai na? Hum bade hee khandani log hain aur waqt ke saath chalna bhi jaante hain." (But don't worry-I have a son, Nosherwan. We come from a noble family and know how to walk with time.)

She caressed her extravagant gold necklace like it was some kind of family emblem.

"Woh toh Rabia Bhabi tumse pehle baat karna chahti thi... Lekin mujhe pata hai tum mana nahi karogi..." (Rabia Bhabi wanted to talk to you first... but I know you won't say no.)

Before I could even react, she nearly shoved her phone into my face, making me jolt backward in alarm.

"Dekhe Rabia bhabi kese sharma rahi hain Safiya... mere bete ka naam sunte hee laal hogyi..." (Look at Rabia bhabi blushing, Safiya... She turned red the moment I said my son's name.)

"Safiya di sharm se nahi... gusse se laal hogyi hain..." (Safiya di isn't red because she's shy... She's red in anger.) I caught a glimpse of Bano giggling from the corner of my eyes.

"Take a look at this photo, Auntie..." I handed her my phone, and the gasp she let out was nothing short of ear-piercing.

"Auntie, mujhe abhi shaadi mein koi interest nahi hain. Aur aapke nasheri bete mein touh bilkul hi nahi. Jo Fajar ke samay apne jaahil doston ke saath sadkon par awaragardi karta hain aur Isha ke samay ladkiyo ko chedta hain." (Auntie, I have no interest in marriage right now. And certainly not with your druggie son-who roams the streets at dawn with his good-for-nothing friends and harasses girls after dark.) I replied calmly, my gaze still focused on the plate in front of me as I resumed eating. Slowly, I turned my head to meet her glare-her face red with rage, her eyes boring into me like daggers.

Oops!

I guess I'd stepped on the dog's tail.

"Usse sudhar jaane ko boliye, nahi touh pata chala kuch hi dino mein mein uske against case lar rahi hongi." (Better get him in line, or you might find me litigating a case against him soon.)

I flashed her a polite smile before getting up to leave the table, but the words she spat next struck like a live wire.

"Badtameez ladki, mene iss nakchari ladki ko apne bete ke liye pasand kiya tha, lekin Allah ka shukr hain jo iski asliyat pata chal gayi." (What an insolent girl-I thought she'd be a good match for my son, but thank God her true colors came out.)

Deep breaths, Safiya....

"Esi court kacheri karne wali ladki se koi shaadi nahi karega." (No one will marry a girl who lives in courtrooms.) she bellowed, fumbling with her purse and phone as she shoved the chair back with a screech that echoed across the marble floor.

"Aur aise drug addict ke saath bhi shaadi koi nahi karega." (And no one will marry a drug addict either.) I shot back coldly, completely done with her nonsense.

"Tauba hain, jaisa shakal waisa muh." (Heavens! Her mouth is as nasty as her face.)

She stared at me, dumbfounded and shaken. Clearly, she hadn't expected such sharp retaliation. Well, someone had to put her in her place-and I was more than happy to take that job.

"Jaanti hu aunty, behad hi khoobsurat, aapse ekdum opposite. Nai?" (Yes, Auntie. That's because I'm stunning-your complete opposite, aren't I?) Dad nearly choked on his water trying to suppress his laughter. To most people, I would've come across as rude, spoiled, and arrogant. But to anyone who had endured her daily monologues about her precious son, I was a hero.

For God's sake, the guy was uneducated, a loafer, and a pervert. Yet she marched into our house like a one-woman parade every week, singing his praises like a broken record.

"Apne bete ki shaadi ka sabse pehla laddu aapko hi khilaungi, bhabi jaan!" (Don't worry, sister-in-law! You'll get the first sweet when your son finally finds someone.) Neelo aunty made a dramatic exit, her loud steps echoing behind her as she slammed the door for good measure.

Relief washed over me like a cool breeze on a sweltering day.

‘Bhaad mein jaaye! Meri jaan chhuti!’

But even before I could relish the victory, I felt the weight of someone's gaze. The tension in the room thickened when I met Mom's eyes-her disapproval was unmistakable. She narrowed her eyes at me while I gave her an awkward, sheepish smile.

‘Oh no!’

"Kya zarurat thi itni badtameezi karne ki? Kuch galat touh nahi kaha unhone. Shaadi ki umar ho gayi hain tumhari." (Why did you have to be so rude? She didn't say anything wrong. You're of marriageable age.) Mom scolded, collecting the plates before Dad or I could protest. We weren't even done eating.

Dad caught my pout from the corner of his eye and, the moment Mom turned away, he sneakily pulled out another plate and served me more biryani. Ruffling my hair with a chuckle, he said, "Jaldi khao beta. Tumhari mummy ko manane ke liye bohot papad belne parenge ab." (Eat quickly, beta. Winning your mother's approval now will be no less than moving mountains.)

"Touh kuch sahi bhi nahi kaha. Jab bhi aati hain shaadi ka raag alapna shuru. Arey, khud ki shaadi tudwa ke baithi hain, lekin meri shaadi ki behad fikr hain unhe." (But she didn't say anything right either. Every time she visits, it's about marriage. Hers didn't work out, but mine is somehow her biggest concern.)

Mom shot me a sharp look before walking over to the sofa. She sat down with her face in her hands, clearly overwhelmed. Dad and I exchanged a quick glance before trailing behind her to pacify the storm.

"Abhi woh pata nahi kya kya kehti firegi. Main jaanti hoon beta, tumhe pasand nahi ki koi tumhare liye decisions lein. Lekin woh galat nahi thi. Hamari society ki soch waisi hi hain." (Now she'll go around spreading who knows what. I know, dear, you don't like others deciding for you, but she wasn't wrong either-our society still thinks that way.) Mom's voice trembled with frustration. Her concern was valid. Neelo aunty was the reigning queen of gossip; if there was a gold medal for spreading rumors, she'd win with flying colors.

"Main apne Baba ki beti hoon, aur mere Baba ne mujhe kisi ke aage jhukna nahi sikhaya." (I'm my father's daughter-and he never taught me to bow before anyone.)

"Tum sahi ho beta, magar..." (You're right, child, but still...) Mom nodded, but her heart remained unsettled. Being the soft-spoken woman she was, rudeness never sat well with her, no matter the provocation.

"Rabia bas, ab aur meri beti ko mat satao..." (Rabia, that's enough. Stop hounding my daughter.) Dad interjected, putting an end to the discussion. Mom huffed and walked away from the table.

"Meri beti kabhi kuch galat nahi kehti, nahi karti hain. Meri tarbiyat itni kamzor nahi hain. Right?" (My daughter never says or does anything wrong. My upbringing isn't that weak. Right?) he asked, looking at me with warmth. I nodded instantly, the sincerity in my expression clear.

Dad had always stood by me, through every trial and every triumph-except that one time when I was sixteen and demanded a solo trip to Murree. He had laughed in my face and shut it down on the spot.

"Aap aur aapki beti... Allah khair karein!" (You and your daughter... May Allah have mercy!)

But they didn't know-no one really did-that I wasn't the kind to be steered. I was my own compass, and I had no intention of letting anyone else draw the map.

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Note : Here's a breakdown of how she became a famous lawyer at 27 ( it's not impossible ) -
Age 18-23 (5 years): Join a 5-year integrated law course like BA LL.B right after 12th
Age 23 (Immediately after graduation): Enroll with a State Bar Council and clear the AIBE to be eligible to practice. Start working under a senior criminal lawyer or in a criminal law firm.
Age 24-27: Gradually start taking your own small criminal cases.

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Total words - 3101

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