Chapter Seventeen

The room was crowded and packed; the four walls had once been too large but the front door was left open now to fit everyone. Walid had not yet begun speaking, as the lighthearted chatter of the seekers of knowledge (as Walid liked to call them) filled the room.

Amidst the shared reflections that kindled faith in the hearts of those that had gathered, a hand raised.

Walid's gaze fell upon a teenager; his forehead creased and his eyes a dwelling of grief. "I- I had a question," Ali cleared his throat.

Walid's gentle nod encouraged him to go on.

"How come it is the Muslims who are suffering all over the globe, Walid bhai?" He paused for breath, "I mean, yes, we may have faults, but at least we are on haqq. We worship Allah, we don't do shirk. We were the ones who spread Islam throughout the globe — we were the ones who eradicated slavery. We carried the message from Arabia to all ends of the globe; all for the sake of Allah. And yet... we are the ones who are suffering the most now, whereas the Jews and the Christians are those with power and success. They disobey Allah the most, they spread the most anarchy, then how come, Walid bhai?"

Walid observed Ali. "Have you read shikwa and jawab-e-shikwa by Iqbal, Ali?"

Ali shook his head.

Walid picked up his qulyat, "A few years ago, Iqbal wrote a poem by the name of Shikwa*; where he penned a complaint to Allah. Your question reminded me of it; I'll read out a few stanzas to you."

The sound of the flipping pages filled the room till Walid had found what he was looking for.

"اے خدا! شکوۂ اربابِ وفا بھی سُن لے
خوگرِ حمد سے تھوڑا سا گِله بھی سُن لے
Oh Allah! Listen too to the complaints of your followers,
From those accustomed to only your praise, please listen to a small complaint!

ہم سے پہلے تھا عجب تیرے جہان کا منظر
کہیں مسجود تھے پتّھر،کہیں معبود شجر

Before we came, how strange the sight of your world was to us,
In some places, stones were worshiped, while in other places, trees were made gods,

پر ترے نام پہ تلوار اُٹھائی کس نے
بات جو بگڑی ہوئی تھی،وہ بنائی کس نے
But who was it that raised their swords to fight in your name?
That which had become corrupted, who was it that set it right?

نقش توحید کاہر دِل پہ بٹھایا ہم نے
زیرِ خنجر بھی یہ پیغام سُنایا ہم نے
The imprint of Tauheed, we seated in every heart,
Even under the blades of daggers we preached this message!

صفحۂ دہر سے باطل سے کومٹایا ہم نے
نوعِ انساں کو غلامی سے چھڑایا ہم نے
From the pages of time, we erased falsehoods,
We unchained mankind from the clutches of slavery,

رحمتیں ہیں تری اغیار کے کاشنوں پر
برق گرتی ہے تو بیچارے مسلمانوں پر
Yet your mercies rain on the roofs of others,
But if a thunder-bolt would strike, it would be on the poor Muslims!"

Ali stared; in the awe of a listener realizing that his exact thoughts and feelings had been penned years before and that he wasn't alone in how he felt. "I have the exact same question, Walid bhai," he said, "The exact same complaint."

Walid nodded understandably, "When Allama Iqbal wrote shikwa, he was labeled a kafir by many religious figures. Two years later, he published Jawab-e-shika, in which he wrote the answer to the very complaint he put forth in Shikwa from the perspective of God."

He flipped the pages.

آئی آواز غم انگیز ہے افسانہ ترا
اشک بیتاب سے لبریز ہے پیمانہ ترا

Then spoke a Voice Compassionate: "Your tale enkindles pain,
Your cup is brimming full with tears which you could not contain

ہم تو مائل بہ کرم ہیں کوئی سائل ہی نہیں
راہ دکھلائیں کسے رہرو منزل ہی نہیں
Behold, my hands are full of gifts, but who comes seeking here?
Whom can we show the way ? There is no wayfarer to the destination

تھے تو آبا وہ تمہارے ہی مگر تم کیا ہو
ہاتھ پر ہاتھ دھرے منتظر فردا ہو
Indeed those people were your ancestors, but are you like them?
You are passing your days in idleness while waiting for another morrow.

کس کی آنکھوں میں سمایا ہے شعار اغیار
ہو گئی کس کی نگہ طرز سلف سے بے زار
To whom now other customs seem far nobler than their own?
By whom your great forefathers' ways once followed, are forsworn?

وضع میں تم ہو نصاریٰ تو تمدن میں ہنود
یہ مسلماں ہیں جنہیں دیکھ کے شرمائیں یہود

From Christians you have learnt your style, your culture is from Hindus;
How can a race as Muslims pass who shame even the Jews?

یوں تو سید بھی ہو مرزا بھی ہو افغان بھی ہو
تم سبھی کچھ ہو بتاؤ تو مسلمان بھی ہو
You identify yourselves as Syed, or Mirza or Afghan;
But can you truly claim as well the name of Mussalman?"

The heaviness of the phrases he had recited echoed within his heart. Sometimes, Walid realized that silence was the greatest speech. In Ali's eyes, he saw the realization beginning to dawn.

"I understand why you grieve, Ali. I understand the feeling of helplessness that comes upon us when we look at the situation of Muslims today — and then compare it to the grandness of our history. But if you compare the external Ali; and see the vast difference — you will also have to compare the internal and realize that there is a greater difference there. We are hollow," he hit his chest, "Empty inside.

We have lost the iman, brotherhood, kindness, and character, that led our ancestors to their success. We have separated ourselves into casts, and nations, carrying hatred for each other and not the least bit of empathy. Our differences have become large oceans; and the one similarity that should have been enough to bind us — our faith in One God, has faded.

We are ashamed of our deen; compromising it for the sake of other people's approval. We have no faith in Allah — no tawakkul in Him. Not only are we nothing like our ancestors, Ali, but we are also clueless about them. How many of us have read the Seerah? How many of us have read of Abu Bakr, Umar, Ali, Uthman — of the great personalities that came before us? And yet, we complain that we cannot claim their inheritance?"

Ali's eyes glazed. His fists clenched upon his lap, head lowering in shame.

Walid sensed his emotions, and his voice lowered as he read out another stanza of the poem:

"رنگ گردوں کا ذرا دیکھ تو عنابی ہے
یہ نکلتے ہوئے سورج کی افق تابی ہے
But look! a hint of russet hue, Brightening the eastern skies,
The glow on yon horizon's brow, Heralds a new sunrise."

Ali's head snapped up, meeting Walid's glinting eyes. "Where does change begin, Ali? With you; with me, and with every single person here. Our Rabb is still Ever-Giving; the Most-Merciful.

کوئی قابل ہو تو ہم شان کئی دیتے ہیں
ڈھونڈنے والوں کو دنیا بھی نئی دیتے ہیں
We confer the brightest diadem on those are deserving
We confer even a whole new world on those who go seeking!"

The ends of Walid's lips tilted, "Let us make ourselves capable and deserving of His treasures, hmm?"

It had purely been accidental.

Aleena had not intended to see, but when she caught Mahrosh crying in the early hours of dawn when she had thought she was the only one out in the bramda, Aleena could not bring herself to look away.

Aleena had seen Mahrosh cry. More times than she could count.

But when she saw her then, the final pages of Rahmatul-lil-Aaalameen open before her, her tears dripping down her chin, Aleena realized the pain in Mahrosh' eyes was unlike any she had witnessed before.

When the final page ended, drenched by her tears, Mahrosh buried her face in her arms and wept, the book held close to her heart.

Aleena watched from afar, her eyes glazing.

She had returned to her room, searching for the book Walid had gifted her weeks ago. It was in one of her boxes, new and untouched. When Walid had given it to her, Aleena had accepted it with a distracted smile and put it away; but the image of Mahrosh' tears caused the book to weigh heavy in her hands.

So she began reading; and with every paragraph, every page that she read, Aleena understood.

She understood why Mahrosh had cried.

She understood why Mahrosh found it hard to talk about anything else – why she had asked her every single day before they had fought. "Have you read it yet, Aleena?"

She understood the emotions that flickered in Walid's eyes when he saw her with the book — the smile that crept to his face as he ruffled her hair.

She understood. And she hated herself a little bit more everyday.

Once, Aleena's life was only an echo of all of the afflictions life had thrown her way. Mother dying while giving birth to her. Born disabled, unable to ever walk properly. Her biggest dream once was to be able to run. But she couldn't. Her brother went away to study – and her father died. Alone at the funeral; miles away from Walid —

But these dark clouds that refused to leave her, thundered and slowly collapsed with every struggle she read of Rasulullah ﷺ.

His father died before he was born. His mother passed away when he was six. He moved in with his grandfather who passed away when he was eight. And the persecution he faced when he began to preach — his shoes turning red with his blood in the valley of taif as crowds stoned him. Lost his uncle, his first wife, buried all of his children except one in his lifetime  –

Aleena's fingers would caress the pages.

And yet, he was the most smiling man to have ever walked the earth. The most grateful. The one with the most beautiful character.

The change in her did not go unnoticed. Walid observed her as she sat one day, looking out of the window; her straying gaze flickering often to Mahrosh' bedroom door.

"You miss her."

Aleena pulled her gaze away, not denying it.

"Such friends are not easy to find, Aleena. They're a blessing from Allah."

"I know." Aleena's heart clenched. "But the damage is done now. She will never forgive me."

Her gaze met Walid's and a lump came up to her throat. "I said something really hurtful to her, Walid."

Aleena dreaded him asking her what she had said, her words coming back at her like arrows piercing her: I should have known you wouldn't make a good wife.

She dreaded seeing the anger or the hatred flash in her brother's eyes – anger at how she had hurt someone who made him happier than she had ever seen him before.

But Walid did not ask. He brushed her tears away, his eyes softening. "Apologize, Aleena. This is our Mahrosh. You know her just as well as I do. She will forgive you."

When Mahrosh received the newspaper, she wasn't alone. Her hands gripped it, eyes glazing at the smudged print. Her happiness was boundless; like little fireworks dancing and beating against the walls of her chest.

She felt Walid peer over her shoulder again; reading the text for perhaps the hundredth time. When her gaze met his, she saw the way his eyes crinkled by the sides. "Allahumma Barik," he whispered, "May Allah accept from you, Mahrosh."

"Ameen," Mahrosh whispered. In her heart, she added: And may He accept from you, Walid. May every deed of mine become sadaqah jariyah for you; if it weren't for you, I do not know how far I would have been from my purpose. 

She cut out the article and pasted it carefully inside her diary. Anything she had written for the newspaper before seemed silly now; simple poetry and descriptions of nature. It was devoid of the very essence of life itself, of the reason behind the beat of every heart.

A new era began in her writing; one where she wrote relentlessly, with greater passion and greater zeal. Her articles now called for more research; and the times she struggled, Walid appeared as a knight in shining armor.

"Walid, Walid —" Mahrosh ran down the stairs, nearly tripping in her steps. A relieved breath escaped her lips when she saw Walid had not yet left for the masjid. "Remember that Hadith book you lent to me a few days ago?" She smiled sheepishly, "I need it again."

Amusement flickered in Walid's eyes. "It's in my book box," he said as he lowered his sleeves, "Will you be able to find it or should I help?"

"I'll find it. Don't want you to get late," Mahrosh beamed, waving at his retreating figure. "Make dua for me!"

She heard him chuckle. "Don't I always?"

Mahrosh grinned as he closed the door behind him.

Walid's room was almost as tidy as he was. There were books on the study desk; books on the side table, and even books piled up in cartons. Mahrosh fed her curiosity by reading the titles of as many as she could; making a mental list of the ones she would borrow.

Finding a book in the large cardboard box was like finding a needle in a haystack. Mahrosh sat cross-legged on the floor; carefully taking out each book and putting it to the side. Some of the books were old and had loose papers; and she had to be extra careful with how she handled them.

As she took out a larger leather-bound book; a couple of pages fell from within it. Oops. Mahrosh was quick to gather them up. She smoothed out the pages, beginning to fold them into half again when something caught her eye —

Dear Mahrosh,

She froze. Letters?

Walid's handwriting filled the pages, and Mahrosh' heart lurched when her gaze fell upon the date at the address at the top of the page.

19th February 1931
Lauren Cove, London

shikwa - the complaint
jawab-e-shikwa - the answer to the complaint

السلام عليكم ورحمة الله وبركاته

*gasp gasp* walid was writing letters to mahrosh in england?! who would have thought?

on a side note - shikwa and jawab e shikwa are very close to my heart; my parents used to read them out and explain them to my sisters and I when we were younger. i only included a slice; they're very deep works and I can't possibly do the entire poems justice.

ah and aleena's journey has begun. lmk what you thought about her feelings!

this chapter is dedicated to _Windsofspring_ and Royalty_Reserved. Jzk for your never-ending support ^^