NAMAL

The air in the courtroom was thick with an unnatural silence, heavy with the oppressive heat of the day. Sunlight, sharp and hot, streamed through the high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stillness. On the benches, the prosecution and defense sat in tense anticipation, a palpable quiet hanging between them. The judge's voice, a measured drone, echoed as he read out a lengthy verdict, every word absorbed by the hushed crowd.

Amidst this solemnity, on the defense bench, sat a man in a white kurta, his dark hair pulled back into a tight pony. He seemed oblivious to the proceedings, stretching his neck from side to side in exercise, cracking his knuckles, occasionally massaging his earlobe, or absently plucking at the light stubble on his chin. He was clearly bored, even chewing on something. His lawyer, Khilji Sahab, would glance at him periodically. Catching his gaze, the man would offer a faint smile before turning his face away, his expression flat and unreadable. Khilji Sahab would sigh, a familiar frustration. Faris Ghazi often tried his patience this way.

“The court, in the case of the State versus Faris Ghazi, has meticulously studied all statements from witnesses, police, and the family of the deceased, along with other evidence. We have also given careful attention to the forensic and post-mortem reports, and the police investigation.” The judge’s voice resonated through the room. Faris leaned towards Khilji Sahab, whispering, “How much longer will he speak?”

Khilji Sahab shot him an exasperated look. “Ghazi, have some patience. This is the most important day of your life. You’ve been imprisoned for four years. Today, you will either be released or face the gallows. So, for now, pray.”

“Alright,” Faris nodded obediently. “But how much longer will he speak?”

Khilji Sahab took a deep breath. “However long he speaks, you will have to listen.” Faris sighed deeply and leaned back.