Scene 1 – Event-Day Dawn
The first light slid over the Margalla Hills, painting Islamabad in a pale gold that promised a pleasant evening. By 8 a.m., the rooftop of Amana Superstore was already alive with clatter and voices: steel trusses thudded into place, fairy lights spilled like silver rivers from open cartons, and a floral team unboxed white lilies and baby's breath that smelled of a quiet garden after rain.
Rimsha stood with a clipboard in hand, dupatta pinned neatly against a crisp kurta. "Bhai, backdrop center se two feet left," she told a decorator, pointing to the arch where the cake table would be placed. "Aur please—balloons ka palette pastel hi rakhna. It's Irfan's pehli saalgirah, not a circus."
A helper chuckled and nodded, adjusting the arch. Two store staffers—Sohail and Hina—came up the service stairwell with crates of glassware.
"Rimsha baji, yeh kahan rakhna hai?" Hina asked, slightly out of breath.
"Drinks station, us corner mein," Rimsha replied, marking a box on her checklist. "Cold drinks ke saath coffee counter ko separate rakhna. Evening breeze hogi; we don't want spills."
Across the rooftop, Imran paced with his phone pressed to his ear. Dressed in work jeans and a half-sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled, he looked equal parts tired and determined.
"Han ji, sound check sharp six baje," he said into the phone. "No feedback noise. Aur haan, kid-friendly playlist ready rakhein—no blaring beats. Family event hai."
He ended the call and turned to a lighting tech. "Those fairy strings—spiral them around the columns, not straight lines. We want movement in the light."
The tech nodded, climbing back onto a ladder. A light breeze shuffled Rimsha's notes; she pinned the pages with her palm and exhaled. "It'll come together," she murmured to herself.
Imran came over, offering a quick, warm smile. "Team's on pace. Caterer ke vans three baje tak aa jayenge. I've told them the buffet opens at eleven sharp."
"Perfect," Rimsha said. "I'll confirm the floral runners once the tables are skirted."
Downstairs, the store kept to its gentle hum—trolleys rattling, greetings exchanged, price scanners chirping. Some members of the floor staff stole glances upward through the atrium, proud that their workplace would glow tonight.
Scene 2 – Noon into Haste
By 1 p.m., Islamabad's sunlight turned bright and clean, but on the rooftop, canopies softened the glare. Round tables dressed in ivory cloth circled an open dance of space: a central stage draped in cream and dusky-rose fabric, a curved dessert island shimmering with glass domes, and a corner fenced off as the kids' play zone with a small projector, a stack of board games, and a video-game console.
"Backdrop complete, baji," called the decorator. The arch now wore a garland of lilies and eucalyptus, delicate and elegant.
Rimsha walked the perimeter with Sohail. "Safety check—cable covers?" she asked.
"Ho gaye, baji. Edges taped, no tripping hazards," he said, lifting the corner of a rubber mat to show the gaffer tape underneath.
Down the service lift came two more staffers with crates stamped Amana. Inside: porcelain plates, coffee cups, cutlery polished to a mellow shine.
Imran checked the clock again. "Caterer?" he asked a runner.
"On Kashmir Highway, sir. Twenty minutes."
"Good. Unload straight to prep area. Starters set by eight-thirty."
A sudden gust flirted with the table runners. Rimsha held the edge, laughing. "Islamabad ke mausam ko bhi pata hai aaj hamein breeze chahiye."
Imran grinned. "Bas baarish ka plan cancel rakhe."
They shared a small, professional smile—the kind that comes from working side by side for months, knowing the other will handle what you miss.
Scene 3 – Five O'Clock Divide
At precisely 5 p.m., the main structures gleamed: lights threaded, sound checks ticking, floral work complete, the buffet islands sketched in silver chafers that waited to be filled. The rooftop looked like a lull before music.
"Main ghar ja rahi hoon," Rimsha said, finally allowing her shoulders to drop. "I'll be back by seven. If anything slips—"
"I'll call," Imran finished. "Tum tension na lo. It's coming together."
She nodded, offered a quick salaam to the staff, and disappeared into the service stairwell. Imran watched her go, then clapped his hands once to rally the team. "Final sweep by six-thirty. Phir main bhi ready hone jaunga. Everyone hydrate. It's a long night."
He headed home at 6:15. In his apartment, five-year-old Khadija darted out from her room at the sound of the key.
"Papa! Party?" she beamed, showing him her tiny silver bangles.
"Party," Imran smiled, picking her up. "Aaj Amana Superstore ki second birthday bhi hai, aur baby Irfan ki first birthday bhi."
"Do birthday?" she gasped, eyes wide.
"Do khushi," he corrected softly.
In the quiet of the bedroom, he laid out her dress—a soft lilac frock with a satin ribbon—and knelt to slip on her shoes. He smoothed her hair and pinned a clip with a tiny pearl flower.
"Pretty?" she asked, turning her chin up.
"Bilkul," he said, his voice gentle. For a breath, memory threaded through him—Zara's laughter, the way she'd stood at a mirror fussing over a hairpin that never sat right, the way she'd insisted Khadija would always wear soft colors. The ache was there, familiar yet tender.
He kissed the top of Khadija's head. "Ready, meri jaan?"
"Ready," she chirped. "Balloon!"
"Lots of balloons," he promised, and together they left for the store.
Scene 4 – Seven O'Clock Gatherings
Evening laid a lavender veil over the city. By 7 p.m., the rooftop lanterns glowed to life, lines of warm bulbs making a constellation overhead. The air was kind: cool enough for shawls, soft enough for conversation. From the street below drifted the faint music of a vendor's flute; up here, the speakers carried a gentle instrumental playlist—oud and guitar weaving through the breeze.
Maryam arrived with Haroon and their boys. Ubaid rushed ahead first, sneakers pattering, already peeking at the kids' zone. Maryam came a step slower, the year's tenderness still in her gait, a pale-blue dupatta draped over a soft, celebratory dress. In her arms, Irfan blinked at the lights, cheeks flushed, tiny hands opening and closing like the rhythm of a new song.
"SubhanAllah… look at this place," Maryam breathed.
Haroon let out a low whistle. "Rooftop ka kamaal. Bohat khoobsurat."
Rimsha greeted them near the arch, now changed into a rich maroon outfit, hair braided with a thread of gold. "Aapi," she said, hugging Maryam carefully so as not to jostle Irfan. "You look lovely."
"You look like you built this with your hands," Maryam teased. "Mashallah."
Imran stepped in with Khadija, who squealed when she spotted Ubaid. "Ubaid!" She pointed to the kids' corner. "Game!"
"Race!" Ubaid whooped, and they darted off together, immediately negotiating whose turn it was and which level.
Imran shook Haroon's hand. "Inspector sahib, shukriya for coming on time. The guest list is long."
Haroon smiled. "Family se pehle duty—lekin aaj duty se pehle family."
They laughed softly. Staff members from the store began to arrive too—managers in pressed shirts, cashiers with delicate bangles, stock boys transformed by crisp collars. It felt right that they were here. They were part of the backbone that kept Amana steady.
Scene 5 – Eight O'Clock Switch-On
At 8 p.m., the emcee's voice rose clear and warm. "Assalam o alaikum, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to a very special evening. Tonight we celebrate two milestones: Amana Superstore's two years of trust with you—and little Irfan's very first birthday. Aaj ki raat—do khushiyan."
Applause spilled like beads. Irfan blinked, then laughed in Maryam's arms as if he understood.
The photographer began his rounds. First: a soft, romantic shoot for Haroon and Maryam near the fairy-lit arch. Haroon, out of uniform and in a charcoal suit, looked oddly shy.
"Thoda pass," the photographer coaxed, smiling.
Maryam lowered her eyes and then looked up, warmth gathered like light. Haroon's hand went to her shoulder, quiet and sure. The shutter clicked, catching the gentleness that had weathered their storms: the first nights with Irfan, Ubaid's new protectiveness, the thousand small acts of care.
"Perfect," the photographer murmured.
Then came a set of family photographs: Maryam with both boys, Haroon joining in; Ubaid insisting on holding a balloon while Irfan tried to eat his own bowtie.
"Ab Amana team ke saath," the emcee called, ushering in the staff. Laughter, waved hands, awkward heights arranged in tidy rows—pride in eyes that had scanned prices, loaded shelves, soothed customers.
"Imran sahib, aap aur Khadija please," the photographer gestured.
Imran stood by the arch with his daughter perched proudly on his hip. She pressed her cheek to his. Rimsha joined them—but a step to the side, a colleague and family-friend, careful and respectful. The frame captured exactly what it was: a manager with his little girl, and a sister-figure of the family who had helped bring this night to life. No more, no less. It was warm—true in the way honest pictures are.
Scene 6 – Speeches and a Small Prayer
Imran took the mic for a few minutes. "Doston," he began, voice steady. "Do saal pehle, humne yahan sirf aagaz ki tayyari ki thi. Aaj yeh rooftop itna roshan is liye hai ke aap sab ne Amana pe yaqeen rakha. Thank you to our customers, our staff, and our family."
He looked toward Maryam and Rimsha. "In dono behnon ne iss jagah ko sirf business nahi banaya—ghar banaya. Jahan izzat, mehnat, aur sach bolne ki rasm hai."
Haroon stood with his hands loosely clasped, a small smile there and gone.
Imran glanced briefly at the night, a breath catching at the edge of memory. "Aur… aaj ki raat personally bhi meri beti ke liye khaas hai. Khadija ko aisi raaten pasand hongi—lights, balloons, aur family. Zara… tumhari yaad aati hai. But your gift is here, laughing."
It was soft enough that only those closest caught Zara's name—Maryam's eyes softened, Rimsha's jaw tightened then eased. The emcee stepped forward gently with a "Mashallah" and invited everyone to the cake table.
Scene 7 – Cakes, Candles, and Children
Two cakes sat like cousins: one, a two-tiered white confection with tiny shopping-cart motifs and Amana – 2 Years piped in elegant lettering; the other, a sky-blue round cake dotted with little stars and Irfan – 1 perched on top.
"Ready?" the emcee asked.
Maryam held Irfan near the blue cake; Haroon stood beside her, Ubaid at the front with his cheeks puffed as if he'd steal the candle's job. Rimsha counted softly, "One… two… three…" and together, the candle gave a small surrendering flame. Cheers, confetti poppers, squeals from Khadija and Ubaid—who immediately negotiated slices as if they were brokering peace.
For the Amana cake, Rimsha and Imran posed with the staff, a long knife held together for the first cut. "To two more years," someone shouted. "To many more," Rimsha answered, grinning.
Scene 8 – Children and Breeze
As the night settled into its best self, the breeze deepened—cool and kind, a reward for the day's labor. The city below glimmered. On the kids' side, Ubaid taught Khadija a racing game trick.
"Press yeh button before the bend," he advised, grave with the authority of his experience.
Khadija's car skidded on-screen, recovered, and flew. "I did it!"
From the edge of the playing area, Imran watched, hands in pockets, a small smile that belonged to fathers who memorize small victories. Rimsha drifted by with paper cups of juice.
"Refill?" she asked.
"Refill," the kids chanted, not taking their eyes off the screen.
"Slow down, champ," Haroon told Ubaid, ruffling his hair. "Share the controller."
"Sharing!" Ubaid promised, then actually did, which earned him a raised eyebrow from his amused mother.
Scene 9 – Eleven O'Clock Buffet
At 11 p.m., warm lids lifted and aromas wrote their own speech in the air. The buffet ran in a quiet, gleaming line—seven dishes, each worthy of a second plate:
1. Chicken Biryani – saffron-kissed, each grain separate, steam rising like a hymn.
2. Mutton Karahi – tender cubes lacquered in tomatoes and green chilies, a whisper of dhania.
3. Grilled Fish Fillets – lemon-butter glaze, edges just crisp, center flaking.
4. Chicken Handi – creamy and fragrant, fenugreek soft in the finish.
5. Mixed Vegetable Curry – bright with carrots, peas, and bell peppers in a gentle spice.
6. Fresh Salad Bar – cucumber ribbons, cherry tomatoes, olives, citrus vinaigrette.
7. Sweets – Gulab Jamun warm in syrup, and cool Firni set in little clay bowls dusted with pistachios.
Cold drinks tinkled over ice; at the far end, a coffee counter hissed softly, cups lined like a promise for those who loved the night.
"Haroon, try the fish," Maryam suggested. "It's melting."
"Inspector's recommendation: Karahi first," Haroon countered, carving out a piece with a satisfied nod.
Imran moved through the line with Khadija, helping her choose. "One gulab jamun or two?"
She looked at him like he had asked the silliest question in the world. "Two."
Rimsha refilled the firni bowls with the caterer, then finally allowed herself a plate. When she reached the end, Maryam touched her elbow.
"You've been on your feet all day," Maryam whispered. "Ab betho. Eat."
Rimsha exhaled and smiled. "Aap pehle."
"We sit together," Maryam insisted, and they did.
Scene 10 – Midnight Threads
By midnight, some guests had taken their leave, hugs and waves lifted under the canopy of lights. The music thinned to gentle instrumentals. On the far side, a cluster of store staff shared coffee and soft jokes, shoulders loosened by a sense of belonging.
Haroon and Maryam took a slow turn along the rooftop's edge—two cups of coffee between them, Irfan drowsing against Maryam's shoulder. "You look happy," he said.
"I am," she answered, watching Ubaid and Khadija attempt to count lights—giving up, then claiming a number anyway. "This year felt like a long prayer answered."
Haroon looked toward the arch, now almost breathing with the breeze. "And next year?"
"Next year we'll need more chairs," Maryam said, half-teasing, half-true.
Across the floor, Imran sat with Khadija nestled against him, her energy finally spent. He tucked her shawl closer, then glanced up as Rimsha approached with hot coffee.
"For you," she said. "Strong."
"Shukriya," he replied, accepting it. "You managed today's chaos like a pro."
"You kept the vendors in line like a general," she smiled lightly. "Team effort."
He nodded toward the staff table. "They're the real reason we're here."
"And the customers," she added. "And… a little bit of stubbornness."
"Good stubbornness," he said.
They sat in a companionable quiet—no labels, no crosswires—just a manager, a sister of the house, and a child dozing safely between the worlds they hold up together.
Scene 11 – One O'Clock, One Table
Near 1 a.m., when the music had softened to a memory and the fairy lights hummed like distant stars, the family gathered indoors at a long dining table set at the far end of the rooftop hall. The staff had eaten; the last trays were covered. This was the family's exhale.
Haroon took one end, Maryam beside him with Irfan, who had surrendered to sleep. Ubaid leaned against his mother's arm, eyes half-mast but still insisting he wasn't tired. Rimsha settled on the other side, and Imran slid in with Khadija curled on his shoulder, her eyelashes painting faint crescents.
Plates of what remained—biryani gleaming, handis cupped by the last of their gravy, a small army of gulab jamun—waited in the middle. Coffee steamed again, because endings deserve warmth.
Haroon lifted his cup. "To Amana," he said softly. "To two years done right."
Maryam added, "And to Irfan—may his years be many and his days be gentle."
Rimsha looked around the table—faces she knew like rooms in a house—and said, "To the people who stay late, carry boxes, count change, and still smile. Staff, family, friends—sab."
Imran swallowed, clearing his throat. "To the ones we miss," he finished simply. "They're here in the ways we take care of each other."
They ate, not because they were hungry but because sitting together made food taste like a story. Ubaid told Khadija—with great seriousness—how he had definitely beaten her by "one hundred points." Khadija, half-asleep, murmured, "Tomorrow, I win."
Maryam tucked Irfan's blanket higher. Haroon reached to pour coffee for Imran without a word. Rimsha gathered the last napkins, then left them, deciding the night could hold a little blessed mess.
Beyond the windows, the city glowed. Up here, the air carried lilies and strong coffee. It had been the kind of night that stitches a family tighter, that tells children the world is kind and tells grown-ups they can make it so.
At one in the morning, under the hush of soft lights and soft voices, they did the simplest, most important thing: they stayed at one table, together.