F o r t y  O n e
This one is for namiabakar111

:)

[Allah] said: Fear not. Indeed I am with you both; I hear and I see.

-Surah Taha, verse 46-

☆

Mashal

I had never punched anything before, so I wasn't surprised when my fist blazed up with pain everytime it landed on the hard leather punch bag.

I immediately pulled it back and shook my hand to easy off the pain. Zeyara had left after giving the instructions and since then all the women had been punching and kicking the bags tirelessly.
They had also been pointing at me and whispering in each others ears. The way they were laughing made it clear what they were talking about.

Zara was the only one who hadn't laughed at me even when Zeyara cracked that not so funny joke. She had come up to me and offered me her help but I had denied it politely, saying that I wanted to do it myself. After that I had moved away from the crowd to a quite corner to punch that heavy bag where I couldn't hear the mocking laughs.

I could see Zara from the corner of my eye. She was hitting the bag continously on one spot to put pressure there and cause it to tear up. This was her technique. My eyes raked around Khawlah to realise that this was not the only technique. The girls were using different angels, different jabs to just break it apart.

While I didn't know any technique other than reciting ayat Al kursi.

That's what we all do most of the time. It's okay to put your trust in Allah but Allah helps those who help themselves. Even if a person is not a Muslim and still he works hard, he will succeed as opposed to a person who is a hafiz but instead of working hard, just sits lazily.

I was frequently stealing glances at the clock, wanting this to end. We had been punching those bags for two hours, stopping only for water. Only ten minutes were left for the training time to end when I heard a loud smack followed by a "Yesssss!"

I diverted my eyes to the source of the sound and saw the girls clapping for Saddia as she wiped her sweat, standing in front of her burst bag.

She had done it and proved that she was worthy enough to be the trainer.

I felt that sinking feeling again when I resumed punching my bag. I wasn't made to do this. This was not my league. My bag wouldn't budge even when I applied all the force I had.

Five minutes later, another bag burst and this time it was Soha.

I watched in awe from a distance as the girls congratulated and hi fived her.

By the time there were three minutes left, I had stopped punching and sat down in the corner, knowing that it was beyond my power.

And then another bag was ripped apart by a girl who I had seen sitting in the cavern on Saddia's table.

Those three were probably the best amongst the women because no one else was able to do it till the end of the session.

I was the first one to run out as the clock struck one, not waiting for Zara or anyone else for that matter.

I ran and I ran. I didn't even care to take a cart.

I ran because my relationship with Zeyara was sinking to the ocean floor but I was too weak to pull up the heavy anchor.

I went to the mosque on the second floor and prayed zuhr in seclusion. I was well aware of my pleading cries as I begged for mercy and patience, reminding myself that I had been through worse and Allah had taken me out of it. He would take me out of this hardship too.
All I needed was a bit of tawwakul: Reliance on Allah.

Although it was lunch time and everyone else must have been eating in the cavern, I didn't feel like eating so I went straight to my room.

I was so exhausted that I couldn't even pray the nafl. Voluntary prayer.
I just prayed the fard.

When I opened my room door and stepped in, I was greeted by a loud, ear blasting bolywood song.
I sighed deeply, knowing it was Minahil's doing even before I saw her sitting on the bed, probably scrolling through her play list as there was no wi fi here for safety reasons. Poor girl couldn't even use snapchat.

When she noticed me frowning, Minahil stopped bobbing her head along the beat and paused the song.

I threw myself on the bed and closed my eyes which brought back the events of today.
The way Zeyara didn't seem like Zeyara, the way he didn't treat me like Mashal.

We two had started out good. We liked each other and that is why we got married. Still, we ended up so badly.

Ibrahim and Minahil don't even like each other...I guess. So if they get married I don't know what kind of havoc will be ensued.

I don't want them to destroy their lives.
Both of them matter a lot to me, especially Ibrahim.

"What's up with you my fake adoptive sister?"  Minahil said very lively.

I sighed, pulling up the blanket to soothe my aching muscles.
"You do know that Ibrahim doesn't like songs?"

My eyes were closed tight but I could hear her snort and imagine her shrugging. "He doesn't like anything I do. He would probably die if he sees me smoking but I'll still do it anyway."

Her attitude was beyond my understanding. I was confused as to why she would do that? Propose someone whom she knows she doesn't like and can't be like.

Wait......now I get it.
She is probably doing it for fun, for 'passing her time' as she was doing with Zain. I can't belive Minahil still hasn't learnt a lesson from what happened to her.

"Let's be serious Minahil." I opened my eyes and sat up. "He is my brother and I'm not letting you play with his life. Do you really like him or is this just another joke for you like that guy......" I struggled to take that name but I knew I had to. "Zain."

"I'm tired. Need to sleep." She muttered a reply and flipped over in the bed to the other side. Her smile was gone and I knew I shouldn't have taken that disgusting animal's name but I needed an answer. This wasn't a joke. It was my brother's life.
I know how desperate Ibrahim is to get married and maybe that is why he accepted to marry her.

"Minahil tell me!" My voice was louder now, much harsher. "Is it just another time pass for you? Do you just need Ibrahim's attention-"

She started coughing before I could finish my sentence, reminding me of her deadly disease.
Her hand flung to her mouth to muffle the sound.
I was about to get up to bring her some water when she recovered from her coughs and answered me in a low, coarse voice. "Do you think he is the type of boy a girl would want to pass her time with?"

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

She tried to chuckle but instead it caused her to cough again. I handed her a glass of water from the side table and she gulped it down before I could tell her to say 'Bismillah.'

"Time pass is for boys who have plenty of cash and waste it on girls. The ones who wink at you, complement you, want to sleep with you but never want to marry you-

"Say Alhamdulillah." I interrupted her.

She looked at me with her brow raised.

"You just drank water. Say Alhamdulillah."

"Alhamdulillah" she mumbled and then added "See that's the type of complements I would get if I tried to pass my time with Ibrahim. I mean who the fu-"

I gave her a glare before she could complete her f word.

"Fu- flower. Who the flower would want to date a walking mosque?" She rolled her eyes. "Just take a minute and imagine this Mashal. I wear a short red dress, let my hair flowing open, get the best make up from a professional make up artist, look fricking hot and then go and ask your brother how do I look babe. You know what he would say?"

I tried imagining the scene in my mind but It gave me weird shudders so I just shrugged. "What?"

Minahil cleared her throat and then tried mimicking Ibrahim's heavy masculine voice.  "Have you prayed fajr?"

It would've been inappropriate to laugh at that so I bit my tongue hard to prevent myself from laughing and faked a serious face while Minahil laughed at her own absurdity.

It was true though. That is what you would expect from someone like Ibrahim.
Then again, he might be different for his wife.

"Then why do you want to marry him when you don't even like him......or do you?"

"Define like." She shrugged.

"Erm...attraction?"

She threw her head back and cracked into laughter. "You are so goody good that you can't even ask if I find him sexy."

"I didn't mean that!"
I shifted in the bed uneasily. When it comes to words, Minahil is really blunt. I don't think I can use those words even with my husband while she uses them as if they are flowers.

"Yes you did." She smirked. "And the answer is a big fat no. I really don't 'like' Ibby. I mean I don't dream about him or think of him when I hear a love song. If I ever were to actually 'like' someone, he would be flipping hot like Zayn Malik, not a walking mosque like your brother."

"Then why are you doing this to my brother?" My tone was bitter now. I was hating Minahil's guts. Ibrahim didn't deserve someone who doesn't even find him interesting. It would break him to know that even though he is giving his whole to his wife, his wife prefers an overrated singer over him.
"Why do you want to ruin his life?"

"Because I know he won't ruin mine." She replied grimly, there was no humour in her voice anymore. "Running after those Zayn Maliks has already ruined my life. I'm sure running after a mosque won't ruin it."

Her metaphor was simply annoying. Comparing Ibrahim to a mosque. I sighed, "I don't understand you."

"No one does." She muttered and lay down again, closing her eyes as if the conversation was over.
It wasn't over from my side though, I wanted to know more. I wanted to know how Ibrahim knew him, how she knew Ibrahim and since when.

"Minahil." I whispered glancing at her peaceful form that made me want to shut up and not disturb her.

"Hm?" She grumbled without opening her eyes.

"When did you both first come across each other?"

She opened her eyes and blinked twice, staring at the ceiling overhead. "You went up to your room to take your belongings when you were shifting over to live at his house. Mama had noticed the smell of cigarettes in my room and before she could find them, I took the cigarette box out to throw it in the bin. He was standing outside, kneeling against his car, waiting for you. I ignored him and threw the box in the bin. He saw me doing that and said that smoking won't bring any good to me. I told him that having a long beard and wearing a thobe but still looking at a girl, won't bring him any good either. Then he said he had no interest in looking at me and if I wanted not to be seen then I should cover. Long story short, we kept on backfiring at each other. Words like 'rude, uncivilised girl' and 'proud self righteous extremist' were born, until he got fed up and went to sit in his car before saying that all he meant was smoking can lead me to cancer and I made a big deal out of his advice. I mocked him by saying that even if I got it he would be happy that a munafiq got cancer." Minahil chuckled and diverted her gaze to me. "See where I am now, with cancer."

°•••♡•••°

The next day, even though my whole body was rebelling against the idea of even getting up from the bed, I reminded myself of the promise I had made.

I won't back off.

I went to Khawlah right after breakfast, long before the others. I forced myself to do the 2 kilometers on the treadmill at a speed of 5.
With frequent breathers in between, I managed to do it. Then I set to work. I tried punching, the way Zara had done yesterday, but was failing miserably. My thumbs were hitting the bag at an angle causing them to ache. I was afraid I might even get a broken bone somewhere.

The women started coming at the appointed time and soon they also set to work. Soha, Saddia and the third girl who had been able to tear up the bag a day before, had gone to the hall Zanjabeel for their next level of training.

"Put your thumbs inside your fists, if only you don't want to break them of course."

I rotated my head sideways to glance at a fresh Zara with her signature smile. She was wearing a cream hijab today. It was as if she had a secret dislike of black hijabs.

"Thanks." I breathed out and did as she had instructed. I punched once again and this time it worked. My thumbs didn't get hurt.

"Yesterday you were avoiding me after my brother's rudeness. I just wanted to say sorry. He is weird like that." She said regretfully. "It's like he has two personalities. Some days he is as soft hearted as a feather and other days I feel I don't even know him."

She was genuine, hurt and seemed too innocent. I couldn't disagree with her on Zeyara's sudden change of personality.
The way she called Zeyara her brother also made me like her automatically. Especially when the other girls were swooning over him.

I told her she didn't need to apologise and that we were still and will remain friends. In sha Allah.

That day ten more girls did it. They tore off the bags and ran away to Zanjabeel to join the others. All I could do was reassure myself that if not today, then tomorrow in sha Allah.

But then tomorrow also came. Nearly half of the women were able to do it, including Zara. She squealed in excitement when it happened and stopped to hug me before she went to Zanjabeel.

Then another day passed by with  more girls finally tearing their bags and running off to Zanjabeel in excitement.

Then another, leaving me depressed knowing that only five women were left in Khawlah.

I met Ibrahim in the cavern during lunch that day.
Ramadan Kareem was arriving in less than two weeks and the cavern had been decorated with glowing crescent moons and stars hanging from the almost twenty metres high ceiling of tough mountainous rocks. Colourful Moroccan candle lamps on each table, a new nasheed being sung every day during dinner, teardrop shaped golden festoon lights on all the walls, tapestries quoting, 'Ramadan Mubarik',  along with a cheerful crowd. Every Friday a group of Alnihayya members, dressed like civilians would go out and help rebuild the mosques of Palestine, gift food packages for Ramadan to the needy, who unfortunately happened to be almost everyone.

Ibrahim asked me about Minahil hesitantly and I told him that she had started getting chemotherapy.
He nodded and somehow sensed my sorrow contrasting the rich environment around us. I told him that I couldn't tear a stupid bag, skipping the part where Zeyara had declared his hatred for me.

"Use your whole body." He advised. "Don't just punch with your fist. Move your whole body along with it."

I nodded and the next day, I tried to do exactly that but in vain.
The other girls did it however.

Soon, I was the only one left.

"Pffftt. Senior leader. More like senior looser!" The last girl had mocked before she left for Zanjabeel.

I curled up on the cold, grey floor.
"Don't cry" I kept whispering to myself over and over again. "You can't be ungrateful. You can't be-- scared."

I dug my head in my arms, away from any light source. Just darkness.
Just black.
Hoping that it would shut off my sulking but then I was reminded by my own self that 'black is his favourite colour.'

And I let myself cry.
I justified my crying by telling myself that I was scared and even prophets got scared. Even though people declare that 'We are not afraid of anyone but Allah' I wish that statement was true for me, but it isn't. 
And I'm not ashamed of that.
Even Moses. Moosa عليه السلام  got scared and Allah reassured him.

He told him and his brother عليه السلام that they shouldn't be scared because Allah is with them.

I did the same. Consoled myself, told myself that the most Merciful was with me.

But that slightest doubt, that tiniest root of unsurety that maybe I had done something wrong. Maybe I had been disrespectful to Zeyara, been ungrateful for him, maybe because of that my lord was unhappy with me. Maybe because Zeyara deserved better, way better.

Times like these, Shaytan would get the best of me. He would present all my sins in front of me, try to make me feel as if Allah hated me.
Sadly though, I always fell for his trap.
This time too.

I didn't go back to my room or anywhere else even when the training time ended. I didn't leave when thinking that there was no one inside, someone turned off the lights.
The only light left in Khawlah was the faint blue one, seeping in from the coridoor through the narrow slit between the door and the floor.

I was a huddled heap of black Alnihayya uniform and desolate sobbing in the dark empty hall.

I lost record of time then. I was there for an hour or more, almost drifting to a tired sleep. The door squeaked open, followed by the flooding light switched back on. I blinked my eyes, my retina adjusting to the sudden change in light and sat up to see who had entered.

Colour drained from my face, leaving me as white as the white ceiling I used to stare at, back home. I stood up slowly and edged backwards, my shaking hands clenching.
I was scared, disgusted at the same time. It felt that I would throw up, vomit on the grey floor of Khawlah.

The person's face was burnt.

Crumpled skin, the face deformed, bones exposed under the eyes, and the eyes.....one was wide, the other narrow, the skin around it purple. Or maybe it wasn't the skin, it was the flesh.

He was wearing an Alnihayya uniform but I had never seen him before. He took slow measured steps towards me and I backed off.

"What do you want? Who are you?!" I raged, hiding the fear and the rattling of my teeth.

"Have you forgotten me so soon? Do you not recognise me?"

I froze at that instant. That voice, those same words that I had said to Zeyara in the meeting room.

It can't be.
It can't be.
It just can't be.

The person wasn't smiling or maybe he was. You can't really tell the expression of someone who doesn't have a face.

"Why are you scared of me?" He asked.

It was my wedding day.

Zeyara moved in close, causing me to step back a bit. I kept telling myself that it was Zeyara and I had no reason to be scared but I couldn't help it.
I guess that happens naturally when your whole life you save yourself.

I watched as Zeyara's face fell. He looked disturbed as he broke the silence. "Why are you scared of me?"

"I- I don't know." I stuttered, feeling like a jelly under his gaze.

"Don't be." He said softly, taking another step forward. I felt myslef stiffen but I didn't move back this time.

I couldn't speak. I couldn't understand.
Fear was like a blindfold over my eyes, a gag in my mouth and plugs in my ears.

He took more steps towards me, decreasing the distance between us. I stood rigid, rooted to the ground until he was barely a foot away from me.

The bile rose in my throat when I saw that face up close. It was scary, frightening, the kind of face ghosts have in horror movies.
My hand flung to my face to prevent me from vomiting.

"So you want to vomit? That's how ugly I am, haina?"
His voice rose now, angry eyes bore into mine.

He had used an urdu word. My heart hammered in my chest begging me to run away from this reality.

"I knew it."
His fists curled and anger radiated from his skin. I backed away once more.

He rose his fist, pulled it back and then launched it forward with intense speed.
My eyse scrunched and hands covered my face to block away his punch but it never came.

Breathing heavily, I glanced sidewayd at my burst punch bag, sand drooling out of it.

"Go on! Say that you don't recognise me. Say that I'm ugly." He screamed, his voice echoing in the hall.

I flinched as he kept punching the burst bag and screamed again. "Say that you fell in love with that face, not me!"

Hiccups escaped my lips and tears rolled out of my eyes but I couldn't say anything. The smacking punches, painful hurt screams filled the air. I couldn't hear my heart pronounce Allah anymore, the noise outdid my senses.

He stopped punching when there was nothing left of the bag except shreds of leather and then moved in much closer to me.
I didn't flinch or move back, scared that this might aggravate him further.

His burning anger was similar, his height, I realised when he was up so close, was similar too.
His hair, those curls I couldn't mistake them. They were similar too.
The color of the eyes, similar.

Similar or same, was the question.

"Not scared anymore?" He demanded, fuming with anger.

I gulped and for the first time, replied in a firm voice, masking away all my emotions. "No."

"Liar." He spat grabbing my hand from where it was dangling by my side. "Why is your hand shaking then?"

I swallowed and made my hand stiff, rigid to prevent the shaking.
He let it slip out of his warm grasp.

"This is me! The real me without any veil. Without that face which belongs to someone else, the face you loved."

☆

One of the most important chapters in the book!
I hope it went well in sha Allah.

So now, with due respect, what do you think is Zeyara's story behind that face? 😂

-Muskaan.