T h i r t y  O n e
This one is for missy_symina
:)

"Know that Allah
never gets tired
of
giving and forgiving."

☆

Mashal

I finally got the time to ponder more on my heartbeat.
And guess what?
I was right.
Hearts don't make a pointless lub dub lub dub sound. They actually pronounce 'Allah'

When the whole world was asleep, silence and darkness surrounded me. In that state of self exploration, I finally knew why Allah said, "Verily in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest."

I let myself cry and weep in front of the most Merciful.
Every time I had hoped for Zeyara to come and save me from my problems, felt like I had done shirk.
It is Allah who saves us. People are sent by Him. They can't do anything on their own.

I had been so ignorant recently even though Allah kept on blessing me. He gave me Zeyara, he saved me from that terrorist attack, from that bomb blast, then He sent Sanan for my help and then as if that was not enough, He confirmed that Zeyara was alive.

And not only Zeyara, but my father was alive as well.
Instead of thanking Allah for all this, what I said was, "You are Ar-Rahman. How could you do this to me?"

It was the time for my repentance and so I did. I cried and I begged for mercy. I spent most of that night awake, praying on Zeyara's grey praying mat and reading his colour coded tajweed Quran.

I had figured that by pressing a certain red button on the map- which used to be the bed, everything shifts back to its normal position.
That huge screen disappeared, the bed turned back into its original form and all the machines and cameras hid away.

That's when I started praying. I could actually meet my father now If Allah wills. I could sit with him, talk like a normal daughter talks to her father. It would be so much fun but at the same time his last words on that video message scared me a bit. He told Zeyara that it was a wrong decision to marry me. Why would he say that? Maybe because he thought we won't get much time together?

Whatever the reason, those words were not good.

I decided to stay home that day and start college from the next day because I had a lot to do from shopping for clothes to bying a cell phone.
You can't just go to college without a cell phone.

Uncle Suleiman gave the fajr azan himself at almost 7 o' clock. That was one of the perks of living in Manchester, in the winter, we have fajr very late.

I did my wudu lazily, because of not getting enough sleep last night and inspected Zeyara's room one last time to make sure it looked normal.
After that I headed downstairs to the lounge where Uncle Suleiman and Marwa were already present. They looked fresh while I looked like I had been drinking the whole night.

I helped Marwa with her scarf, in which she looked beyond cute and then the three of us prayed together with Uncle Suleiman leading us.

After salah, I rushed over to the kitchen and locked the door announcing, "I'm gonna make breakfast uncle! I know if I open the door you'll not let me do that."

I heard him chuckle at this from behind the closed door. "Yes you're right. You look so tired. I wasn't going to let you cook alone."

"Now you just sit and wait. I'll make the best omelette ever!" I exclaimed with confidence.

But as soon as I started making it, I regretted my own words. The last time I made an omelette was for Ibrahim and I burnt it. This time, I didn't burn it Alhamdulillah but I forgot to add salt.

I groaned in silence and sprinkled some salt on top of it. I would never be able to make a perfect omelette.

After making the toasts and coffee, I opened the door and Marwa helped me to set the food and dishes on the table.

To be honest, Marwa didn't help me, rather I helped Marwa. To show me her karate skills she balanced the plates on her head, took the jug in one hand and the omelette in the other.
I was constantly ranting about how she would fall but she did it.

Forget Zeyara, I think I should get trained from Marwa.

Uncle Suleiman had a job in the post office and Marwa had to go to school. While we were having breakfast he asked me what I would do home alone.

"I want to go shopping" I told him because I couldn't keep on wearing an abaya at home to hide that I was wearing Zeyara's clothes.

He glanced up at me from his plate and I thought he was going to question me about the lack of salt on the omelette but instead he asked in a worried tone. "Is everything alright? it's seems like you didn't sleep last night."

I wish I could tell him.
"Yeah I think it's because of the climate and time change." I answered casually.

He wasn't convinced by my answer but he didn't ask anymore questions.

Very soon, Uncle Suleiman and Marwa left. I washed the dishes and put on my veil before locking the house and walking towards the bus stop.

It was the same bus stop and the same bus that me and Zeyara used to go to college. It brought back so many memories for me and loads of questions. I had seen two cars in the garage of Uncle Suleiman's house. When I asked him about it, he told me that one car belonged to him and the other one was Zeyara's.

So Zeyara had a car, he must also have a license since he wasn't seventeen but twenty one. Still, he chose to go to college on bus.
Why?

I got off at the Manchester City centre. It was crowded as always. Bustling with people who had come there for shopping, to find jobs or just to pass their time.

In the flowing river of people, one could spot kids yelling at their parents or the other way round, homeless people sitting on the footpaths with a piece of cloth spread in front of them, teenagers smoking e- cigarettes, smiling girls coming out of shopping centres with huge bags in their hands and lovers as well. Holding hands or stealing kisses.
This was the usual Manchester that I had grown in and loved.
No matter which country you live in, once you drink it's water, a strange bond forms between you and the country. You can never un- love your country no matter how bad the world thinks it is.

The first thing on my list was to buy a mobile phone so I went to the nearest and cheapest electric store that I could spot. I bought a used Samsung phone for £80 and a free sim card. I didn't want to waste Ibrahim's money.

After that, I walked into Primark, hoping to buy some decent clothes for me. I was just rummaging through the pile of tee shirts on the sale section, when I felt someone's hand on my shoulder.

(Muskaan: Comment here if you thought it was Zeyara. 😂)

Instinctively I turned around to face the person.

"That stupid, hot headed, egoistic brother of yours! How dare he keep you away from us for so long." Minahil frowned at me anxiously, crossing her arms in front of her and tapping her heel on the floor.

I couldn't help but chuckle at this. Ibrahim needs to hear this. They should have an argument some day. It would be so hilarious. Especially if Minahil wears heels at that time.

She was dressed the same; her long brown hair gracefully flowing on either side. Black skinny jeans and a grey sweater on top of her black high heels. Smoky eye make up, complementing her hazel eyes and an air of thick men's perfume around her.

"Hello to you too." I grinned.

"Seriously girl where have you been?" She asked, in between those weird sounds of her chewing gum.

I shook my head incredulously, "The last time I saw you, you hated me. And why do you use men's perfume?"

"I still do but I miss you as well." She pouted, popping her red lip stick. "Oh and women's perfumes are so light. I like strong scents. That's why." She winked.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. This girl was impossible.

Before I could answer her, she grabbed the tee shirt that I was inspecting from my hand and spread it out to see clearly. "Nah! This is boring. Let me help you with your shopping."

"Uh-"

"Come on!"

She grabbed my arm and dragged me away before I could start protesting.

《|°|•|●|•|°|》

Twenty minutes and half a dozen clothes later, we were at the till, waiting to pay for everything I had bought.

And I have to admit, Minahil has a great fashion sense indeed.

And also a great boyfriend because she had been ranting about him the whole time. Even after paying the cashier with Ibrahim's card and getting out of the shop, she still didn't stop blabbing about this guy, 'Zain' who treated her like a 'princess.'

"You know I'm so glad I got over Zeyara and found Zain. Zain is a thousand times more good looking that Zeyara." She tittered, unaware that she was talking about my husband.

When I remained silent and didn't reply, she continued speaking. "You do remember who Zeyara is right? He's that guy from your physics class."

I bit my bottom lip to stop myself from telling her that the guy in my physics class whom she once liked, is now my husband.

"Yeah I remember." I muttered instead.

We were walking in the Piccadilly garden, the grass of which had turned white with snow and a strong stench of cigarette smoke lingered in the air.

"Minahil you do know that this is wrong, right? All this girlfriend - boyfriend thing." I said with my head hanging low.

It pained me to see her like this. Not only her but other Muslim girls too. Having boyfriends was like insulting yourself, your father, your brother and your future husband as well.

"For once, stop being the haram police!" She scowled dismissively.

I stopped walking and faced her. "Do you love that boy more than you love Allah?"

This made her laugh hysterically and I watched her face in confusion. "Why are you laughing?"

"Who said I love him?" She rolled her eyes. "I'm just passing my time. I know he would never marry me. I just like the attention. I like being praised, being called beautiful by someone and being important for someone."

"Imagine what you would feel when your husband calls you beautiful? Nothing. You won't feel anything because by that time so many men would've already called you that, it would've become just a normal everyday statement for you." I huffed, before turning around towards the bus station and leaving her stunned.

The slow bus brought me home at around zuhr time so I threw my bags on the sofas in a hurry and prayed zuhr. After that, it was almost time for Marwa coming back home from school so I set to work in the kitchen making 'keema' which is basically minced meat with a lot of spices.

It is a South Asian dish mainly from Pakistan and India. I chose to cook it because it never goes wrong for me!
If I add less spices, I can serve it with chili sauce and if I add excessive spices, I can serve it with yogurt.
Genius much?
Thank you.

I knew Marwa was home when the main door opened with a bang and she screamed out. "Assalam o alaikum!" at the top of her lungs.

"Walaikum Salam! I'm in the kitchen!" I screamed back, as loudly as possible.

"You brought so many clothes?!" She exclaimed as she came running to the kitchen.
She was still dressed in her blue and black school uniform but had grabbed one of my shopping bags in her hand, inspecting it thoroughly.

"Yeah." I smiled, while turning off the stove.
The keema was done.

"Come on I'll show you everything." I offered, taking the bag from her.

She grinned at this and followed me out of the kitchen in the lounge.
We spent the next hour or so, going over my shopping. Marwa commented on how I had great fashion sense and I repressed the urge to tell her that it was Minahil's not mine.

By the time we had done praying asr and maghrib, managed my clothes in Zeyara's cupboard and set the dinber table, Uncle Suleiman came back home.

"Assalam o alaikum! How are my daughters?"

"Walaikum Salam! " We both replied in unison.

"Alhamdulillah we're good Uncle. We had so much fun together."

"Yep!" Marwa added happily.

"And I can smell some good food as well!" He remarked, taking in a deep breath.

"Yeah Metal made keema! It's an Asian dish." Marwa informed her father.

"Let's have dinner in the lounge today. I want to watch the news as well." Uncle Suleiman suggested.

I nodded happily and with Marwa's help set the dinner in the lounge while Uncle Suleiman got changed.

Then we had dinner sitting in front of the telivision screen.

I always found news boring. I never had an interest in it but this time, the news was more than intriguing.

"A recent terror attack on the Alnihayya troops in the mountains of Damascus, Syria martyred them. The Syrian police has been investigating and found that only one member of that squadron of Alnihayya survived, 'Ibrahim Naeem' who is recovering in the hospital." The newscaster kept on speaking, making me lose my apetite. The channel even showed Ibrahim in the hospital. He was in the same bed, in the same room I had last seen him in.

"These Alnihayya men are really good people. Fighting terrorism and ISIS." Uncle Suleiman commented, completely oblivious that it was my brother.

Little did he know that his own son was also a part of that. A senior leader of Alnihayya.

"Sources say that Alnihayya is trying to prevent ISIS and Al Qaeda from getting a mass destruction nuclear weapon." The newscaster added, making my heart lurch in my chest.

Dad's plan was working. He wanted everyone to start thinking of that weapon so that they all ignore his real mission.
His actual plan is something completely different. Something only he, Zeyara and a few other agents know.
Something I need to find out.

☆

Guys I think I'm gonna start writing Zeyara's book as well now!

Also, we are on chapter 31! I think the maximum this story would go is up to chapter 40 in sha Allah.
:)

JazakAllah khair for sticking by and giving this book a chance!

-Muskaan.