My story... started from the moment my mother and father fell in love with each other.

Till of course, they reached each other's parents in the dignified fashion and with both families coming together they got happily married.

With an evil sickening uncle who had a sick heart, brewed jealousy from the time of childhood with my father, to the extent he envied his marriage with a beautiful woman- compared to his own lanky one.

Ironic, right?

Okay. I know... sounds a bit too cliche. But human emotions are real.

Were all real. But it's how we react and allow those emotions to blind us to the extent we destroy others' lives is the questionable retake.

I arrived into the world four years after my sister.

Yep.

Born in a shop of hand made, painted China crockery and paintbrushes- I got to feel less of my mother since she passed away a week or, so later- after my birth.

Okay, now you might be wondering why am I even repeating all of this?

You know all of it don't you?

To be honest, I don't know why either. But since we're going for a proper review... we best go deep. Deep as the ocean till we see an angler fish.

___

Living with my cousins was short of a good time. It was like these years of being raised up in a barn of harsh and gruesome weather, with horses having ran away from the stables and nothing to cook nor book.

Traveling from one side of the country to another, I almost left writing letters to my sister because my Uncle said I wouldn't be able to.

A lot of things have happened... so far. Changed from one school times to another school... never quite fitted in. Everyone looked at me like this poor cousin of Bilal's, or, Karim's, or, Salih's.

No one looked at me like Musa, to the extent I wondered why did they keep my name as such?

____

My time in the mansion didn't remain as long as I imagined it to be. With bars of cold blocking your way, and sniffling nose till it turns red, your eyes remain ruby-rimmed.

It's a wonder how many horrors you could see in the phase of years littered time to time, till your heart turns to cold- because that's what they say.

Not to care.

Not to bother asking any questions.

Just study, get educated, earn money and build a lifestyle.

Lifestyle of what? Either I go all in fancy and sophisticated or, I just jumpstart in the bad boy's gang going about smoking and speeding up higher than sky's limit.

There was no balance and no 1,2,3, record in my Uncle's mansion. Nopes.

Either you go too robotic, or, too devilish. No one really had a sense of right direction.

Till of course.... I spent through my years getting in weird, flimsy companies and jumping from that choice of a company to... a quiet tea-time with my new English professor in college, Rashid Murhani.

___

He was different.

His vibe was.

When my eyes first landed on him... it seemed like as if I felt déjà vu. You know? As if maybe you met him sometime before, or, maybe you were just meant to meet him.

He seemed like the man with all the answers. The man with with piercing grey eyes that would look back at you kindly, or, defiantly of his own faith.

The man who would read, laugh, joke about- and even when he scolded- it was like a deep low melody to one's ears because his voice never did rise overboard.

It's funny, isn't it?

Of how seeing his beard did something to my heart... as if it reminded me of home... someone else's beard...

When my friends would call me out for some pick of cigarette back in the garage, I would especially find some time with Rashid Murhani... excusing myself with a deliberate attempt to get serious in my studies.

Oh, did I get good marks?

As if that defined me as a person.

Yea, I did.

But guess what?

I smoked too back then.

Did all sorts of crazy stuff.

Would you still love me?

Guess not.

Good grades never did finalize if one would receive love or hate.

____

Slowly, as time spent with Rashid Murhani increased I realized his presence in my life was like a waged war between my desires and the life Allah was planting on me....

I realized that if I was willing to pray again, I would be willing to confront my past of all those days as a child I did pray but in the end my uncle would beat me and thrash at me for it only reminded him of my father and we all know that sick hearted people just need a reminder to wound open their cuts and start bleeding again, now don't we?

But, strangely, I felt like I was willing to take the risk... not yet though, I was a coward... I wasn't fully brave like I pretended to be...

I needed life to push me forward.

And life surely pushed hard.

Enter: my sister, her crazy best friend, my nani, and my sister's husband.

Oh, yea, during these years of separation... she got married. Can you believe that she's already committed? Like what a blow on a brother's face who did not even get invited?!

____

Man.

Oh, man.

Piece of advice: run away from your captivity if ever your lost sibling returns to tell you that hey, I'm your sibling, we share the same blood.

If you want to be spared from a first heart break (either yours gets broken, or you break the other's) jump over the terrace railing, trust me, it helps- gives your head a good load of fresh air.

You might think I'm sounding crazy but seriously, it helps! Like once you do it, then don't join a gang because that will make your life hell.

Go to some wise teacher of yours who has a heart as warm as honey water, and make your life meaningful.

Also, don't mistake that teacher's daughter as a black-clad creature. You do not want to end up finding out she is your future spouse. Nopes.

____

We learn.

We turn.

We earn.

We yearn.

Yet life keeps throwing back at us all those hints that things still remain unanswered.

There are two different types of people in this world.

One. Those who just go on. Living life through a blissful stream of ignorance.

Two. Those who just can't go on. Living life knowing the fact that there's a whole mystery behind you of untackled tales and unfound secrets waiting to be grasped and opened and treasured.

Which type am I in?

Of course the second one!

I guess by now you know how impulsive I can be when it comes to puzzling tales.

Rashid Murhani laid to the bed, and his daughter's future laid in my hand and heart- yet, Allah is miraculous in His wondrous plannings, for I found out that all that happens always does have khair in it whether we realize it or not.

___

Tell me that my Uncle did not just give us the scroll.

Does that mean it's a happy ending?

Are we actually going for a happy ending?

You know I did foresee some suicidal incident in this story- like it was bound to happen, but things shouldn't at all be depressing, should they?

Because the heart still echoes for love and happy endings, huh?

_______

Heads up for an epilogue after the Ending Note soon!