The Scissor’s Whisper. Part 1

In the Khan household, the morning was a flurry of activity. The air buzzed with the urgency of the day as the wives of seven brothers moved like shadows through the dimly lit corridors, their black veils fluttering as they rushed from room to room. The clatter of pots and pans mingled with the faint sounds of morning prayers, creating a symphony of domestic life.

Each woman, adorned in her heavy veil, was a picture of devotion and duty. They scurried about, ensuring their husbands were well-prepared for the day ahead. The scent of spiced tea wafted through the house, mingling with the more subtle aromas of breakfast—a hearty mix of parathas and lentils.

Sana, the youngest of the wives, found herself in the heart of the chaos. At just twenty-two, she was still finding her footing in this world of strict traditions and unyielding expectations. Her long, dark hair was neatly braided and pinned under her scarf, a symbol of modesty in a household where appearances were paramount.

“Make sure the children are ready!” Amina, the matriarch, called out, her voice carrying authority as she bustled by. Her sharp gaze surveyed the scene, making sure no detail was overlooked. The older wives nodded, their expressions serious, each one well aware of the weight of their responsibilities.

Sana darted into the children’s room, where her two young nieces were still tangled in their blankets. “Come on, you two! Time to wake up!” she urged gently, her voice a soft contrast to the bustle around them. As they groggily emerged, she quickly dressed them, brushing their hair with deft fingers.

The younger girls giggled, their innocent laughter cutting through the morning tension. “Aunt Sana, why do we have to be so covered?” one of them asked, her head tilting in curiosity.

Sana paused, her heart heavy with the knowledge of their reality. “It’s our way of honoring our family and our faith,” she replied, forcing a smile. “One day, you’ll understand.”

As the clock ticked closer to the hour, the commotion intensified. Amina stood in the main hall, barking orders like a general preparing for battle. “Razia, bring the tea! Fatima, where are the parathas? And Zainab, make sure your husband has everything he needs!”

The pressure mounted as the men began to trickle into the room, their presence commanding immediate respect and attention. The wives quickly fell silent, their veils hiding any sign of frustration or fatigue. Each woman adjusted her scarf, straightened her posture, and put on the mask of submission that was expected of them.

But beneath the surface, the current of tension flowed, simmering just below the laughter and chatter. Amina had grown weary of the constant shedding of hair that littered the house, remnants of the women’s lives, and today, she intended to put an end to it.

“After the husbands leave, we will gather for a meeting,” Amina announced, her voice cutting through the clamor. “It is time to address the issue of hair.”

Sana’s heart raced at the ominous tone. The thought of what that could entail sent shivers down her spine. She exchanged wary glances with her sister-in-laws, their eyes reflecting the unspoken fears they all shared. They had all heard the whispers of Amina’s plans, but none dared to question her authority.

As the last husband departed, leaving behind a charged silence, Amina wasted no time. “Gather everyone in the main room,” she commanded. “We need to discuss how to bring order back to this household.”

Sana felt a knot tighten in her stomach. The laughter that had filled the air moments ago was now replaced with a heavy tension as they assembled. The older women took their places, while the younger ones shuffled nervously, exchanging uncertain glances.

“Today, we will cut our hair,” Amina declared, her eyes glinting with determination. “No more long hair to fall everywhere and create chaos. It is time for change.”

Gasps filled the room, a mixture of disbelief and fear rippling through the gathered women. “But Amina, our hair—” one of the older wives began, only to be silenced by a sharp glare.

“Silence!” Amina’s voice echoed, firm and unwavering. “You will obey. We will no longer live in disarray. Each of you will have your hair cut short, and some of you may even be shaved.”

The room fell into stunned silence, the weight of her words pressing down on them. Sana felt her heart race, a mix of dread and resignation swirling within her. She understood all too well what it meant to be the youngest—caught in the currents of tradition, with no voice to protest.

And as the reality of their fate loomed closer, the shadows of their former selves began to blur, leaving only the promise of a new beginning forged in loss.

The room erupted in a chorus of murmurs and hushed protests as Amina’s command hung in the air.

“This is ridiculous,” muttered Zainab, pulling her veil tighter around herself. “We keep our heads covered. How could it possibly be our hair?”

“Yes! We are always veiled,” Razia added, a slight tremor in her voice. “How can it be blamed on us?”

One by one, the wives voiced their objections, each trying to distance herself from the nuisance that had ignited Amina’s wrath. Sana kept her eyes lowered, listening as her sisters-in-law pointed fingers and murmured in defense. She knew better than to speak out in front of Amina.

But Amina’s patience had worn thin. She raised a hand, silencing them all with a single sharp gesture. “Enough!” she declared, her tone cutting through the arguments. “It does not matter whose hair it is, nor whose fault it might be. From today, there will be no more long hair left in this household.”

A stunned silence fell over the room, each woman exchanging a look of shock and disbelief.

“But…Amina, surely this isn’t necessary—” Fatima started, her words faltering as she met Amina’s steely gaze.

Amina’s eyes narrowed. “I have already made my decision. And anyone who dares argue or refuse will find her hair cut even shorter. I will not repeat myself.” She reached for the phone, her fingers swift as she dialed. The wives exchanged glances, a mixture of dread and resignation filling their eyes.

Amina spoke briefly, her tone cold and clipped as she arranged for a stylist to come from the nearby beauty parlor. “Soon someone will arrive to handle this,” she announced, hanging up the phone with a finality that left no room for question. “Now, each of you will prepare yourselves. Go to your rooms, wash and dry your hair. The stylist will come to cut it—nothing more.”

Sana’s heart raced as she rose with the others, each step feeling heavier than the last. The weight of Amina’s command pressed down on them, the reality sinking in as they retreated to their rooms. In the hushed silence, the tension thickened, each woman alone with her thoughts as they began to prepare for what lay ahead.

Sana stood alone in her small bathroom, the quiet broken only by the soft, steady patter of water as it streamed through her fingers. She lowered her gaze, watching as her ankle-length hair glistened under the dim light, its dark, silken strands a testament to years of care and patience. Tears spilled down her cheeks, mingling with the water. Her heart ached at the thought of losing what had become a part of her identity, a silent emblem of beauty and modesty.

But in this household, questioning an elder was out of the question. She swallowed back a sob, running her fingers through her hair, feeling its familiar weight, and steeling herself with each stroke. The water coursed down, lathering and rinsing away, as Sana savored this last chance to feel the full length of her hair beneath her hands. As the strands fell back over her shoulders, she pressed her lips together, vowing to herself to accept her fate with as much grace as she could muster.

Once her hair was washed and dried, she took a long breath and stepped out of the bathroom, hoping for a moment of solitude. But the quiet was short-lived.

“Sana!” came a call from down the hall. She turned to see her sister-in-law, Razia, peeking out from her room, her own damp hair wrapped in a towel. Razia gave her a stern look, one eyebrow arched. “Go and wash Naima’s hair. I’m going to wash mine now, and it can’t wait.”

Sana felt the familiar pang of deference tighten in her chest. “Of course,” she replied softly, nodding as she made her way down the hall. She found little Naima, Razia’s daughter, with her dark curls tangled and unruly, waiting expectantly.

Sana guided her into the bathroom, her hands gentle but her heart weighed down. As she washed Naima’s hair, the child babbled on innocently, blissfully unaware of the change that awaited them all. In the other rooms, she could hear the sound of water running and quiet murmurs, the other women preparing themselves as best they could for the inevitable.

With each passing moment, the house grew quieter, filled with an unspoken understanding—a shared resignation. Amina’s decree loomed over them all, binding them in silent anticipation as they prepared, each woman stealing one last moment with her own hair before the inevitable.

The air was thick with anticipation as Sana quietly approached the room Amina had chosen for the haircuts. She had barely a moment to catch her breath from washing her hair, yet here she was, readying the room as instructed. Her long, damp hair clung to her back beneath her veil, a constant reminder of what was soon to be taken.

She carefully dusted the small, plain room, its quiet simplicity starkly contrasting the impending ordeal. Sana moved a small table to the center and placed a single, worn stool beside it. She could almost feel the weight of her own head as she imagined herself sitting there under Amina’s unyielding gaze, watching each precious strand fall to the floor.

“Sana!” Amina’s voice echoed from the hall, snapping her out of her thoughts. She straightened immediately, knowing the next command was about to come. Amina entered the room, her posture as severe as her gaze.

“Once the hairdresser arrives, I want you to look after the young ones,” Amina instructed, her voice sharp but controlled. “Especially the daughters—they’ll need to be kept in line. It is your duty today to ensure there are no disruptions.”

Sana felt a pang of worry but only nodded respectfully. Three young girls—each with their own soft, childlike innocence—would soon be made to sit on this very stool and have their hair cut, just like the rest of them. Sana knew it would be no easy task; each of the girls would likely cry and protest. The image tugged at her heart, but she knew Amina’s decision was absolute. Arguing or resisting would only make things worse for herself and everyone else.

“Yes, Ammi,” Sana said softly, bowing her head. “I will make sure they stay calm.”

Amina gave a slight nod of approval, her sharp eyes not missing the strain in Sana’s voice. “Good. I don’t want any fuss. You’ll keep them steady, or I’ll make sure they get the shortest cuts of all.”

With a final glance around, Amina turned and left the room, her footsteps receding into the hallway. Sana closed her eyes briefly, steeling herself for the task at hand. She had always cared for her young nieces with a gentle hand, but today, she would need to be both their comfort and their strength.

After a long breath, she went to find the girls.

At the sound of the doorbell, Sana adjusted her veil, covering her face fully before moving to the door. She opened it slowly, her eyes meeting those of a similarly veiled woman standing on the doorstep. The woman’s gaze was steady, her voice firm as she introduced herself. “I’m the stylist.”

Sana nodded, her voice soft and respectful. “Please, come in,” she said, stepping back to let her inside. She guided the woman through the modest entryway into the lounge and gestured to a chair. “Would you like anything to drink?” she asked politely.

The stylist gave a curt nod, her eyes scanning the room. “Tea would be nice.”

Sana nodded again. “Please wait here. I’ll call Ammi,” she replied, keeping her gaze down as she left to inform Amina.

Once she relayed the message to Amina, Sana made her way to the kitchen, setting the kettle to boil and arranging a tray with teacups and a small plate of biscuits. When the tea was ready, she carefully carried the tray to the lounge, setting it down before the two women who had already begun their conversation.

The stylist had removed her veil, revealing a stern face lined with experience. Her expression was composed yet firm, with an air that suggested she was not one to be crossed. Amina greeted her with warmth but kept her own demeanor serious, discussing the details of what was expected, her voice low but commanding.

Sana served them each a cup of tea, carefully placing a few biscuits on a plate within reach. She moved with quiet efficiency, keeping her presence subdued and respectful. Amina didn’t waste any time, glancing up at Sana as she sipped her tea. “Go now and gather everyone in the room. Tell them we’ll be there shortly.”

Sana nodded, bowing her head before leaving the lounge. Her heart pounded as she made her way through the house, calling each sister-in-law by name and instructing the young girls to gather as well. One by one, they emerged, their faces pale and solemn as they gathered in the designated room. The tension was palpable, and though she said nothing, Sana’s heart went out to each of them as they waited, bracing themselves for what was to come.

Thank you for clarifying! I’ll rewind to start the scene exactly as you guided, with Amina and the stylist entering the room and setting the atmosphere. Here’s how it unfolds:

—

As Amina entered the room with the stylist following close behind, the soft murmurs among the women and children faded, leaving only silence. Each of the daughters-in-law, veiled and seated close together on the floor, turned their attention toward the small stool that Sana had carefully set up in the center. All eyes were on the stylist as she made her way to the stool, placing a sturdy black box on the small table next to it. With a calm, focused expression, she opened the box, revealing an array of neatly arranged tools—scissors, combs, and crisp, folded capes ready for use.

Amina stepped forward and asked the stylist if she needed anything to begin. The stylist responded with a firm, polite tone, “Yes, I would need someone to fill my spray bottle with water and another to sweep the floor after each cut. I prefer to work in a clean space.”

Without a pause, Amina looked directly at Sana and called her name. “Sana,” she said with quiet authority.

Sana, who had been sitting on the floor behind little Naima, playfully hugging her from behind, felt her back straighten as she heard her name. She released Naima and rose promptly, replying with deference, “Yes, Ammi. I’ll take care of it.”

Keeping her head lowered, Sana modestly stepped away from the group, taking the spray bottle from the stylist with both hands. She took a moment to fix her hijab and niqab, ensuring everything was in place, then walked briskly out of the room to fill the bottle. The stylist, meanwhile, pulled out a neatly folded, crisp white cape, smoothing it across her arm in preparation.

Turning back to the group, Amina’s gaze settled on Razia, the eldest daughter-in-law. “We’ll begin with the oldest,” she announced, her voice steady and final. Her eyes held Razia’s, a silent reminder of the expectations that had long been established in the household.

Razia, well-acquainted with the household rules and knowing it was useless to argue, met Amina’s gaze with a resigned, calm expression. She gave a small, respectful nod and rose to her feet, her movements dignified. With a practiced calm, Razia reached up and unfastened her niqab, pulling it back to reveal her face. Despite her poised demeanor, a touch of sadness flickered across her expression as she walked toward the stool and greeted the stylist politely before sitting down.

With care, Razia pulled off her hijab, unveiling a thick, dark ponytail that reached her waist, interspersed with streaks of gray that bore witness to her years in the household. Her hair was a symbol of her maturity and quiet resilience, and now, she sat ready to part with it.

The stylist, meanwhile, unfolded the cape with a swift, practiced motion and draped it over Razia, securing it around her neck. The heavy fabric enveloped her from neck to floor, a solemn reminder of the task at hand.

Just then, Sana re-entered the room with the spray bottle now filled, her footsteps soft as she approached the stylist and respectfully handed it over. She stepped back to the side, a small broom now in her hand, ready for her task as instructed.

The stylist took the spray bottle, adjusting the nozzle with an efficient twist, and began lightly misting Razia’s hair. Each spritz brought a fresh sheen to the dark strands, making them glisten under the room’s soft lighting. She picked up a comb, her movements precise and gentle as she worked through Razia’s hair, preparing for the first cut.

The stylist continued, her movements swift and deliberate, each *snip* cutting away years of length and familiarity. Razia’s long strands fell steadily to the floor, collecting into a small, solemn pile. Each lock that dropped was a tangible reminder of the life she had nurtured within the household, a life of tradition and silent resilience.

As the stylist worked, she occasionally glanced toward Amina to ensure she was following instructions precisely. Razia’s once waist-length hair was now transforming into a sleek bob that framed her face, ending just above her shoulders. With each section of hair that was clipped away, her features seemed to take on a different air—subdued, yet dignified.

When the final snip was made, the stylist stepped back to observe her work, adjusting a few remaining strands to even the cut. Razia sat still, her eyes downcast, though her posture remained proud. The stylist ran her hands over Razia’s freshly cut hair one last time to smooth it, the ends brushing softly against her neck. The stark contrast between her former length and her current bob was striking, a visual reminder of the authority that reigned in the household.

Satisfied, the stylist reached behind Razia’s neck to untie the cape. She lifted it gently, taking care not to disturb Razia’s poise, and set the cape aside. Razia sat for a brief moment, as if absorbing the feeling of her shorter hair before standing up. She smoothed a hand over the new length, her fingers brushing just beneath her chin. With a final nod of acknowledgment to Amina, she returned to her place among the group, a quiet strength evident in her demeanor.

Amina’s gaze moved to the next daughter-in-law, her expression unyielding. “Nadia,” she called, her voice unwavering.

Razia, now seated back with the other women, quietly began to fix her hijab, fingers brushing through the unfamiliar, shorter ends of her hair as she re-covered her head. Meanwhile, Nadia’s heart raced. Behind her veil, her face had gone pale, and a tremor in her hands betrayed her fear. Hearing her name, she instinctively looked to Amina, her gaze pleading, as though hoping for an exception. But with a simple, unwavering nod, Amina made her expectation clear.

Nadia’s legs felt heavy, like they would give way beneath her as she stood. Slowly, she walked toward the stool, her heart thudding in her chest. With trembling hands, she reached up, removing her niqab and carefully unpinning her hijab. It slipped down onto her shoulders, revealing her deep, ebony hair that cascaded down to her hips. She took a deep breath, her eyes lowered as she waited.

The stylist returned to her position behind Nadia, gathering her tools again. However, as she stepped behind the stool, her calm expression shifted to one of visible annoyance. Her eyes flicked down to the floor, where strands of Razia’s hair lay scattered around the stool, unchecked and unswept.

Amina immediately noticed the stylist’s irritation and asked, “What’s the problem?”

The stylist pointed with a curt motion at the floor, where the remnants of Razia’s cut hair lay. “I don’t work in a messy space,” she replied tersely, her patience evidently wearing thin.

Amina’s expression shifted to one of disappointment, and her gaze turned sharply toward Sana, who was still standing nearby with the broom in hand. Lost in the shock of what she had just witnessed with Razia, Sana hadn’t moved, her mind still absorbing the weight of the transformation.

Realizing that Sana wasn’t even looking her way, Amina stepped forward and, with a quick motion, slapped the back of Sana’s head firmly. “Sana!” she said, her voice carrying a scolding edge. “Are you forgetting something?”

Sana jolted, immediately lowering her gaze in shame. “I’m sorry, Ammi,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She stepped forward hurriedly, her hands shaking as she bent down to sweep the dark pile of hair, the soft swishing of the broom filling the room as she cleared the floor.

The stylist’s expression relaxed once more as she watched the space cleared to her satisfaction, and she prepared to begin. Nadia sat quietly on the stool, gripping the edge tightly as her ebony hair fell loose around her, awaiting the inevitable first cut.

As the stylist moved around the stool, preparing Nadia for the cut, Amina’s eyes remained fixed on Sana, who was working diligently, sweeping the last strands of Razia’s hair toward the back of the room. When Sana finally finished and took her place once again, Amina’s gaze lingered, an unspoken expectation weighing in her look.

“I think you should stay down, Sana,” Amina said, her tone calm yet commanding. “It will help you concentrate on your work.”

Sana’s heart sank, but she kept her face impassive. She knew better than to protest; with a quiet nod, she sank to her knees and prepared herself to wait, eyes lowered, the broom resting on the floor beside her. She would be ready to sweep the moment Nadia’s hair was cut, but her gaze drifted upward, despite herself, to watch the transformation about to unfold.

The stylist, meanwhile, draped the pristine white cape around Nadia, flicking it with a practiced motion so it settled neatly over her shoulders and down to the floor. She carefully drew out Nadia’s long, ebony hair from beneath her abaya and let it fall over the cape, the strands almost reaching the ground. Nadia’s fingers tensed beneath the cape, her breaths shallow and nervous, though she kept her gaze lowered in acceptance.

Once the cape was secured, the stylist turned to Amina for direction. “How would you like her hair to be cut?”

Amina glanced thoughtfully at Nadia for a moment. “Chin length will be suitable,” she decided, her tone firm but composed.

The stylist nodded, without needing further instruction. She picked up a spray bottle, misting Nadia’s long, dark hair until it gleamed with dampness. She combed through it in swift, fluid strokes, ensuring every strand was perfectly smooth and prepared. Nadia sat still, her eyes closed, as the stylist positioned herself, lifting the first thick section between her fingers. With a sharp *snip*, the scissors sliced through the long hair, and the severed locks tumbled down, collecting near the edge of the cape and touching the floor near Sana.

Sana’s fingers clenched around the broom handle as she watched Nadia’s hip-length hair fall in sections, each snip echoing in the silent room. She leaned forward slightly, ready to sweep the fresh pile of hair, but her attention remained fixed on Nadia’s transformation, an undeniable mixture of awe and apprehension filling her gaze as she took in the cut unfolding before her.

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