"If only you had listened to me, and actually worked on your cooking skills before-"

"I know, I know," Zara cut Nani off a bit sheepishly, eyeing her grandmother's resolute eyes in the video screen before her.

Her phone was set on the counter, standing horizontally against the kitchen wall. There was a large bowl set in front of her, a plastic chopping board, and the favorous vegetables that blessed one's eyes with tears, smacked down with the knife she so sloppily moved her hands with.

"Know what?" Nani Samira looked back at Zara questioningly.

Zara sniffed, lifting the back of her hand to keep her nose from running. "I just have three-times extra sensitivity in anything that has to do with the kitchen- I think I want to cry now."

Nani Samira was flustered. "Zara, get your horses tied!"

"I can't! My horses ran away!"

"Then get a grip of yourself!"

"I can't even grip a knife, Nani!"

"Zara, I'm going to call Dawood and then-"

"No." And this was where Zara's whining stopped, her voice striking Nani. "Don't- anything but tell Dawood. He'll make fun of me."

Nani Samira pursed her lips, her brows raised. "Make fun of you? That lad is such a gentle-"

Zara cackled lightly. "Oh no, no, Nani. He's such a gentleman towards you of course, such a polite grandson to you. But me? I need to prove to him that I can cut onions without even shedding a tear."

"Well, aren't we scoring on that?" Nani Samira muttered, and Zara knew what she was being sarcastic.

Zara might be looking like a mess right now. Her hair messily tied into a bun, the fringes falling on her forehead, her eyes teared up in volumes of water, as she so claimed to be three times sensitive to cooking, and she seemed feverish, and she knew it would be only about an hour or so, till Dawood would return from work, and see the mess of the kitchen with that goofy grin of his that would blush Zara as she would trigger in her embarrassment.

"Nani, you're supposed to be helping me, not dumping my mood down the pothole of uncertainty and cooking fever, for which I will blame Dawood Ali entirely in daring me to do this."

"Why on earth did you even accept this dare when you can't even do it?!" Nani snapped back.

"Because I just had to accept the dare, and I thought that's it- he wouldn't bring this dare up in the morning- but he did, Nani. And, now to uplift my...."

"Dignity? Honor? Pride?" Nani suggested the words casually.

Zara nodded satisfiably. "I like your choice of words, Nani. Yes, that's the thing. So to uplift my dignity, honor, and pride- I'm standing here alone in the kitchen, cutting these onions, and talking to you, while Dawood is out for work and you are-"

"-At my friend's place, Zara, you just called me up in the middle of such an important meeting. Can we talk later?"

"But nani-"

"Zara, this might just be a good lesson for you, that when you don't know something, it's best to just accept it instead of taking up a dare."

"I would accept it if Dawood wasn't so-"

"Got to go, Zara, Assalamualaikum!"

And with that the video call ended, and Zara was left with just the onions to listen to her whimpers. She rubbed away at her eyes, feeling this as her own fault, but knowing full well she had to do something about the kitchen otherwise, for it was a complete mess- and Dawood would be arriving back home from work anytime soon.

"Okay, Zara, gather yourself." Zara inhaled slowly, rubbing her hands as she stood upright. "There are moments in life when you have to be a little bit independent."

Zara washed her hands, and gave herself motivational lines which very much had to do with "C'mon, how hard can it be?" and "I've written many characters who were amazing chefs."

Until she would realize that: "Wait... but those characters actually did cook often unlike me, to whom a kitchen is another planet."

She decided that if she meant to do something, she would have to adjust her mood first. She looked around the kitchen one more time, trying to refocus on what she really wanted to make in order to 'wow' Dawood and Nani, and of course, increase her cooking skills if she had any.

Once again her sleeves folded till her elbows, she got to work. Now, with Zara work had quite a chaotic order in her life, she was more creative to details, then actually coming up with a solid base. Trying to bake some potatoes, with a light smile over her face, she got lost in placing it over the baking tray in the shape of a smiley face, thinking that it can brighten anyone's day, and amidst that she got another call on her phone; this time from Eshaal.

Zara clicked the speaker button with her clean pinky, before reordering the potatoes and deciding maybe, a heart would do to convey love.

"Assalamualaikum, my star flower!"

Zara was slightly taken aback, an amused smile that Eshaal could not see taking up her lips. "Waalaikumussalam, Eshie. How are you?"

"Goodie, great, fantastic, and amazing, are there any other words?"

"-marvellous, beautiful, awesome, exquisite. You know, for some reason, we're all lining up synonyms of words today. First, Nani, then you, and now me. What's the occasion?"

"What do you mean?" Eshaal's voice faltered, chuckling nervously.

Zara shrugged. "Well, you wouldn't be calling me and aiming such words at me if it weren't for the fact you won the fashion show- first prize for your line, I suppose?"

Eshaal gasped, and a chuckle escaped Zara's lips for she had guessed right.

"You really do have a sixth sense, don't you?"

"My gut feeling is just too active for my liking," Zara muttered, smiling thoughtfully.

"Yea, yea- same thing. Anyways, would you like to have some girl time tonight, so I can treat us both?"

"Oh I wish, Eshie, but the thing is I'm in a tight spot right now. I don't think I can be free by tonight. Why not tomorrow?"

"Why? What are you doing?"

Zara sucked in a breath, and laid it all out for her.

"Dawood dared me to cook when he was flaunting over that he can cook, while I don't even look the kitchen's way, but then I ardent that I can cook, but now that I'm here stuck in this ever so lonesome cage of calculated ingredients, mixtures, and volumes of edible substances that I think it was a lousy idea to take up nutrition subject after all."

There were cricket chirps on the other side of the call, and Zara wondered if Eshaal had cut off or, something.

"Hello? Eshie? You there-"

"Oh, yea I'm there- I mean, here. Just thinking through the third line of your long explanation. You know, you could have just said you got a dare to cook that you took, but now you realize you can't do it."

"When you say it like that, it sounds boring." Zara shook her head, picking up the baking tray after having filled the sausages inside the holes, and then opening up the pre-heated oven and slipping it inside. "I like to explain things, because I feel too much, and when I feel so much, it does injustice to my emotions if I just keep to another's level of understanding by using simple explanations. I don't mean for others to understand, pity, or, drop to my level to be able to feel what I feel. I just like to tell myself of what I truly feel, because it's like telling yourself about the book you've written, even though you already know what is written, yet you still take the time to talk about it to yourself, using another person as a source. Do you understand?"

"Er... yeah... I guess so? Is tomorrow final?" Eshaal was getting impatient.

Zara leaned back against the counter, taking off her baking gloves exhaustively. Her cheeks were splotched in pink, and her sights were wearily green, like the summer leaves that dry up when the dreariness of autumn hits- why bother even blooming with words, when at the end, they're taken as lifeless, mutters of nothingness by the other person?

"Yea, sure. Tomorrow is final, InshaAllah." Zara muttered, and Eshaal passed her salam ending the call.

Silence covered the scene, and Zara was once again in her own vicinity of where voices in her head, emotions in her heart, and the sloppy steps out of the kitchen, towards the living lounge, were her only aids.

Loneliness gripped at her like anything. She hugged herself tightly, and dropped on the red couch, peeking over at the clock on the wall that was ticking towards 4:30 pm. Just a bit more of her patience to use, and Dawood would surely be home soon and while he would change, and get comfortable, the sausage-potatoes would hopefully be baked by then.

She laid her head back on the couch's arm, and just watched the plain, lit ceiling. It had been only two years ago, when Dawood and Zara had their valima, and shifted into this new home, with Nani Samira, who at first, denied and wanted Zara to live and start a family in her own home- but Zara insisted that Nani was her family, and that even if she is going somewhere new, that was in no way to neglect her past relationships. Nani Samira had to give in with a fit of tears, enveloping Zara in a bracing hug, for it was a memory of her own daughter, Sara.

Then, Eshaal had gone full-on over designing modest abaya collections. She had opened up her first store ever since they came back from Islamabad- Eshaal had claimed that at her friend's nikkah she had gotten much support and funds, that Eshaal's business was booming and women were loving modest, Islamic dresses in a flexible, and yet pretty way, and still keeping the idea behind the brand image real. It was called the Purr Ee Kapray. Fairy Clothes.

The history behind that name is surely Eshaal's to ask.

Dawood was working great with his job as well. He was getting a promotion for interior designing, and yet kept his humility and stability intact. It was like he was happy to earn this time, not for himself, but for Zara as well. Ever since she had arrived in their little, but welcoming house, it was like she brought color and creativity in his life, more than he could ever imagine.

He would joke about it more than once that she should've become an architect instead. But Zara shook her head in response, declaring that he can realize the walls, and she'll just put the paintings and decorations up for him.

There were certainly more flowers holders outside every window, for Zara had a relishing love for gardening- but perhaps, Nani Samira had sneezed a lot on her bedroom's window when pulling up the window, that Zara had to take the bluebells away, and decided to gift them to Dawood to put it up on his office window. Dawood.... Of course, whether he liked it or, not- still did that.

Later on, he realized flowers do freshen up offices, giving another life to his workplace. Then, the kitchen would usually be Nani's station, or more often than not Dawood's.

While Zara had her writer's room consisting of a study table, a pot of peonies, a drawer of chocolate bits, typewriter, aesthetic ink pens, and the glasses she uses for the vibe of writer's mode.

And that's where she would block out everything else, and write for magazine articles, stories, and give storytelling and writing workshops to children both online, and sometimes in schools- once or, twice she was invited to universities to give a full on motivational speech to serve for repressive minds but she opened new doors by the will of Allah, that gave another sight to writing.

"I guess at times you can get lost in the world of the spotlight and wanting to show your work to the world but in that prospect, you forget to love your work for it being your work. And we all need that sometimes, we all need a break from showing to people, and just relax back and ponder over our talents, our work of art, our passions of decorating, because by the end and beginning of the day, our creativity is always coming from the Creator Himself. He is the One whose the Best Artist. Best Creator. Best Painter. Best Writer. And if you feel at a loss, at this downstage or having a block in your creative spur and just feel out of the mood for it- just do it for Allah.

"Do. It. For. Allah. And nobody else. For God's sake, you'll get a breath out of your heart and you'll realize you've been running with the wrong heartbeat, you need to run for Allah, work for Allah, do things small or big, just to please Allah! And, I promise you, the seeds you sow for whatever project, task, work- it'll bloom into the most beautiful flower, whether you see it in this world, or, not. Someone will benefit from this flower."

Nani Samira as well, joined forces with Eshaal to sell pure, essential oils of her own making though hard and rare, but worth the passion, and alongside kept giving lessons to children, though, now- instead of working at school, for she had left the job ages ago, when she thought it too tiring and waste of time, to bury student's heads with nothing more than paper-limited information, and dismissing other ideas of passions, confidence, love, loyalty and kind lessons with embedding Islamic values for the future of the generations.

First it was just Zara and Nani Samira working onto reform this small group of ladies, mothers as well as their children, and started to handle these meetings weekly giving small but meaningful tasks, and alongside encouraging the children to gain knowledge and develop skills like writing, gardening, painting, sciences and maths- and then, everyone including Eshaal and Dawood contributed in this one, and soon enough this community with only ten children, was blossoming, and perhaps, week by week there were new additions.

They called it the Hashim community.

As she thought over all that they've gone through to where they were now, she wondered about what was to come.

_____

_____

"

You can take the prayer mat from here," Ghazala Auntie said, casually lifting the brown-tasseled mat and handing it over to me.

I took it clumsily in my hands, the heavy pit in my stomach lightening. Ghazala Auntie's room was small, with only a maroon floral printed mattress bed that looked like coming from an old lady's taste, or, the only option there was. Then, again, I guessed Ghazala Auntie was an old lady- how was I supposed to know? I'm not that good at guessing ages.

I remember quite clearly that one day I called a fifteen year old girl 'Auntie', and was flitted at with a hit on the head. I was only eight! It's terrible, how girls are so sensitive about their ages.

But Ghazala Auntie didn't mind being called 'Auntie', she actually liked it- running a hand through my hair like I suppose some mama would, and helped me with straightening my prayer mat till it was directed to the direction of the kaaba. You see, ever since I had come here, it was a very strange place.

There were long passages that led to monstrous rooms, making a limpy-brained boy like me, to forget where the mansion began and where it ended. Worse of all, where were the washrooms even? But I guess it would take time for me to get used to things. I was shy to ask Bilal for help, because he was noisy, and asked loads of questions, and I didn't think in particular that he could be of much help. Then Karim was nice- but I had an immediate feeling that praying wasn't a norm around here.

Then, Salih bhai.... Well, where do I even start? No, wait, how can I even start when basically, he barely even looked my way.

Yep.

Oh, oh, let's blame my shyness for a while. That's the dominant reason why I couldn't ask anybody for a prayer mat, and for days, I was sitting still, a stranger to their on-front actions, quick responses, and vibrant attitudes.

A boy with a sloppy shirt, messy hair, baggy jeans much too big for his size, and a spider-man backpack as his only luggage for clothes.

I'm sorry, I know I repeat stuff a lot- but there isn't much to say, except that I repeat stuff a lot. I hope you know by now that my favorite superhero is spiderman, but you wouldn't care would you? You'd probably like dolls like Appa, or, I don't know, whatever girls do.

Anyways, I found Ghazala Auntie the warmest hearted of the lot, and it was a little bit easier for me to approach her, especially when I caught her praying for dhuhr in her room, when Karim had sent me to call her.

I took my chance, and I asked.

Seriously, asking is a true brave act- I don't know about you all, you might flaunt over the fact that you debated a hard topic and won the course, or, maybe, you went through the world's fastest roller coaster and came back alive, or, just you didn't allow your ice cream to fall which if I do say so myself, is pretty brave and heroic if we just jot down the little acts in life as something of value and importance.

We might just start loving ourselves a lot easier, you know.

But anyways, asking for something or someone- is just as heroic and brave, because you're allowing yourself to show the other person that you're needy, and you're wanting, you're curious, and you're keen. And now, it's up to the other to take your hand and guide, or, basically slap at you through words of 'keep to yourself, boy!'. And yes, I've experienced both types of responses.

Ghazala Auntie was taken aback slightly at my request. Maybe, she didn't expect a nine year old to come to her and ask her of something like a... prayer mat. But I was keen, I was resolute, I could not back my gaze away, even if her eyes would strangle to understand where I was coming from.

Just because I was young, didn't mean I didn't have Allah to pray to. And just because I was a boy, didn't mean I didn't care. And, just because I'm weak, limpy, scaredy- didn't mean I wasn't brave enough to pray.

But the fact of the matter was... that even when she did hesitantly give me a prayer mat, though, her lips softened in a brewing smile, there was something in her eyes- as if she cared so much for me, that she told me especially, that whenever I would want to pray, it was best I prayed in her room only. No where else. In front of nobody.

After prayer, I cupped my hands in front of my face like Baba would, and started speaking to Him. I told Him of the place, I told Him of its people, and like any child who couldn't understand... I complained to Him. I begged Him to take me out of these walls, to bring my sister, and my father back to me.

My spiritual moment was cut back, and stripped me back down to reality, where the voices around me made sense, and I felt a hand over my shoulder, freaking me out as I scrambled away, my eyes wide.

"What on earth-" I barely could relay my shock, for Bilal had cut me off, equally shocked on his own.

"What were you doing?" He asked, the tone he had used emphasized his amusement.

"Er.... praying?"

Wasn't that obvious?

Bilal blinked. "What's er... praying?"

Okay, if this boy was dumb, I think he was dumber now. I limply got to my feet, my brows drawn together. "Praying... Namaz... you don't know that?"

Bilal shook his head. "Nopes. You looked weird though, going down on the floor like that."

I looked weird? I had nothing to say to him, my lips zipped.

"So how do you do it?" Bilal asked, folding his arms as he eyed me down. I was surely feeling heated by the cheeks, although, I didn't like feeling this stiff.

Yet I couldn't find the words, sloppily lifting my hands beside my ears and then folding them on my chest as a lousy demonstration. "Like this?"

How could it be that Bilal wouldn't pray? Our fathers were brothers, and my father was very solid about prayer, and yet... Bilal was here, not even knowing what it was? Shocking.

It was slow but steady, but soon enough I was showing Bilal through the prayer movements when all of a sudden, the door of Ghazala Auntie's room opened and poked in Karim.

He was quick on what was going for sure.

And he didn't like it.

"What on earth are the two of you doing here?!" He snapped us out of our light laughs, for Bilal had fallen back when he was trying to go to sajdah.

"We're praying, bhai!" Bilal chortled, and I only smiled- there was so much more to prayer than just that, but Bilal was fun.

Karim took us by the shoulders, and steadied us up on our feet. "Praying? Wait until I tell baba about this. Bilal you should get to your tennis class already, and Musa-"

His eyes shot towards me, and even though I wished his eyes were a bit kinder, it was not. It was more like... blaming.

Yet for what? Praying?

I found out that day why Ghazala Auntie told me to pray inside her room only.

Praying was like a bottle of potion, that if you dare take a sip from it, you would be presumed an outcast.

Uncle Junaid held his hand, and clenched it into a fist, his vessel pulping. "Crying on the prayer mat like your father won't get you anywhere."

And... What did I do?

I nodded.

Asalamualaykum
Things.... are taking a turn surely

Anyways , we're nearer to so many secrets and happenings to well... happen, I suppose?

The past, present, and future are to be revealed :)

Just guess where could Musa be right now?

- e . a