Faraz Parvez

  🕯️ The House That Remembers+2 By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) I. The Arrival Lahore in July was a furnace. The air stood still, thick with dust and humidity, and even the shadows seemed to sweat. Ali stood before the rusting iron gates of the old haveli his late uncle had left him. It loomed like a forgotten monument in the narrow lanes of Androon Lahore , its walls bruised by time, its windows covered in thick lattices that concealed whatever secrets lay within. Ali was thirty-two, a journalist by profession, cynical by training, and a man of facts. He had returned from Karachi not out of affection for his uncle, whom he barely knew, but because the lawyer’s call had been blunt: “You are the sole heir. The property is yours. Do as you please.” The property. That word clanged in Ali’s mind. He saw not bricks and mortar but opportunity—maybe he wo...

The House That Remembers By Faraz Parvez Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA (Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal) 1. The Bargain When Sajjad and Nargis first saw the colonial-era bungalow in Lahore’s Gulberg area, it felt like a blessing. White walls with moss creeping up the corners, thick wooden doors carved with faded floral patterns, high ceilings with slow-spinning fans — it looked like something out of an old film. The rent was absurdly low for its location. Sajjad’s friend Ahmed, who arranged the deal, only shrugged. "The owner lives abroad. He just wants someone in the house. It’s been empty for years." They moved in with their two children — Hamza, twelve, and little Sana, six. For the first week, everything was perfect. The house smelled faintly of sandalwood, the kind of scent you couldn’t buy anymore. The floors were cool underfoot, and the garden bloomed wildly with hibiscus and marigol...