He was fast asleep when his mobile phone rang. Sleep was disturbed. He tapped his hand on the side table with his eyes closed and grabbed the phone. As he was sleeping, he was having trouble seeing and when he saw some suddenly bright screens, he completely closed his eyes. Constable Nazir’s sticky letters shocked him. As he received the phone, he slightly raised his elbow.
“I can’t find my head. Now the time has come.” Nazir’s distressed voice was picked up on the other line. Mujtabi walked to Meena’s side.
“Nazir sir! Did you ask anyone back and forth?” Nazir Ahmed, fifty-five years old, was a sophisticated, gentle person. He was outgoing, cheerful, and a soft-spoken gentleman.
“I have asked everyone. I went for tuition when I talked on the phone, but when I came back, she was not at home. Mujtaba realized the urgency of the situation. He went to school on time.
“You have courage. Be brave. I may come myself.” He couldn’t find the words to encourage them. He removed the cloak.
One hour later, he was standing for the first time in Nazir Ahmed’s small, two-room house with a paved courtyard, dressed in his uniform jeans shirt. The still-wearing Nistable Nazir Ahmad Bichi sat on the four legs of the courtyard, head in hands, helpless, mourning the calamity that had become a palace in the yellow light burning in the courtyard. On the next four pies placed in front of him, his elder brother Bashir Ahmed sat. Several people in his neighborhood stood distantly on one side with angry eyes, including his nephew.
