Chapter Sixteen

The room was crowded. At the front, Walid sat cross-legged; his encouraging eyes set on Shayan. Shyness enveloped the younger boy; his hands fiddling with the hem of his sleeves and his eyes gazing over at the men; all of whom were older than him. For a second, his throat clogged and the desire to return to his seat  was too strong. But then his gaze flickered towards Walid. He was smiling; just like he had when Shayan had first brought it up —

"How come the Quran always knows what I need, Walid Bhai?"

Walid had looked up from his book, noting Shayan's glazed eyes as he peered down at the verse of the Quran in front of him.

After a day of facing bullying at school; of being called yateem*- as if it were some abuse, and missing his father till it became unbearable, Shayan had felt more alone than ever.

Until he had opened the Quran.

By the forenoon.And by the night when it is still; Your Lord  has neither forsaken you nor is He displeased.And indeed the Hereafter is better for you than the present. And verily, your Lord will give you so that you shall be well-pleased.Did He not find you an orphan and gave you a refuge?

Tears streamed down his eyes. "How does it always know, Walid bhai?"

He had felt Walid's hand on his head. "Is Allah not closer to you than your jugular vein, Shayan?"

Shayan looked up.

Walid's smile did not falter; and in his calmness, Shayan found his strength. He took a deep breath and began reciting the surah that had begun his hidfh journey.

His voice echoed off the walls of the room; and Shayan kept his eyes lowered as he recited. He felt each word, trying his hardest to not let his voice break out of the intensity of emotions that crashed over him — and while he was in a world of his own, so was the man who sat at the front of the room.

He was in the narrow alleyways of London; collar torn and face bruised. His knuckles were red; he sat under a streetlamp, gaze lowered to the pages of a book. It was small; barely fitted his bruised hands; but he continued to stare at the page open before him. Birds left their nests, flying over him at the break of dawn. A teardrop fell on the open page — the boy broke down.

Later that day, Walid handed Shayan that hardcover book. Shayan turned it over with interest; before realizing that it was an English translation of the Quran. "I thought you'd like it. This is where my journey began," Walid said. Shayan couldn't keep his happiness in bounds, tiny hands gripping the book as if no treasure could beat it.

"And Shayan?" Walid said before he left, "The Surah that you started your journey with... it was the same surah that started mine."

The house was in an uproar.

To Mahrosh; this was not something out of the norm. Abbu had declared that he wished to host a dinner for a few friends and colleagues. His vast list consisted of names of people whose status made Ammi fret and worry as she went about, making sure every inch and corner of the house was clean and that the menu was perfect.

The flurry of the dinner caught up the inhabitants and the guests; and while the tension between Mahrosh and Aleena did not falter — the dinner preparations served as plentiful distractions. Ammi found Aleena a greater help than Mahrosh had ever been; and Aleena gladly offered her services — benefiting Mahrosh enough to escape the scrutinizing eyes of her mother and make do with the little chores and tasks she was assigned with.

She smoothed out the pieces of cloth on the stools and chairs in the bramda; before stepping back and regarding her work. The kitchen was in the loudest uproar — marked carefully as a place Mahrosh wished to avoid and so she took care of the seating arrangements outside.

Walid had not escaped the chores either; and yet — he somehow managed to fix the pedestal fans as he simultaneously held a familiar red diary in his other hand; gaze skimming over the content. When he wished to revise the contents covered in his halaqas, it was Mahrosh who lended him her notes — and in the midst, Walid sometimes got to read her reflections.

His skimming gaze paused on the words; hands stopping momentarily. Walid read the page over again — and again; and when he finally looked away, a thoughtfulness had grown root within his eyes. "Mahrosh?"

Mahrosh glanced his way from behind the stools she had just finished fixing; adding a cushion as a final accessory.

"I'm thinking... you should start writing again."

Mahrosh blinked, pulling herself to her feet and dusting her clothes. "I do still write..."

"No, I meant — for the newspaper. Start getting your writings published."

The idea came as a surprise to her, "But I thought-" her cheeks tinted red at the memories of the attempts she had made to hide her articles from Walid; only to discover that he had known all along. That was certainly a past that seemed centuries old. "How? They won't publish under a woman's name — I just know it."

Walid put the pedestal fan in place, rolling down his sleeves as he stepped back and glanced her way. "You can do it under mine if you wish."

Mahrosh stared at him, trying to hold onto the excitement that threatened to bubble forth. Surely, it could not be as easy as that- "You won't... you don't have any issues with that?" she asked carefully.

Walid shook his head, "Not really. Of course do it only if you wish to —"

"I wish to, I wish to, of course I wish to!" Mahrosh' eyes glimmered and she was unable to remain still, "Oh Walid, I have been thinking for such a long time of what I could do — how I could play a tiny little part in the mission of yours; and if I could possibly be from amongst those that Allah blesses with a chance to spread His noor. And I was making so much dua'a, but I was unsure of what I could do, you know? Maybe somewhere deep within I did think of writing but then I would bury that thought, making dua after every salah- Ya Allah, lead me to my purpose — and then today, you bring it up on your own. Surely, Allah is As-Samee, Walid. I'm so so blessed —"

She could have gone on and on forever; and Walid would have listened. His gaze did not leave hers, lips tilting at the glimmer in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks.

Another door opened on the pathway of their journey; and while they slipped inside with immense happiness, seeing nothing but the light of guidance — that very path curved somewhere in the future, where the lights dimmed and the skies thundered. 

The Irfan household was known for the grandness of its dawats.*

The lanterns and the string bulbs lit up the courtyard. The passersby — to whom the sight of a car brought great awe and interest — stopped by the streets and peered over at the cars parked outside.

And when the invitations were sent out, it was seldom that anyone of importance was left. The neighbors were always the first to arrive; and soon, the house filled up with guests — men dressed in waistcoats as they shook hands and sat outside, whereas the women gathered in the living room; not as loud but equally social.

Aleena and Mahrosh wore embroidered dresses hand-picked by Ammi; different only in their color. When their eyes first met; and the desire to compliment each other was forced to subside, their hearts whispered the confession that they missed each other more than they had admitted to themselves.

Walid tried to fill in the hole — but the complement of a brother and his suggestion over which necklace suited better was not much in comparison to the way a friend can gush over matching outfits and help in choosing the best jewelry. "Here-" Walid handed Aleena a gajra; and the small token of love was enough to return the smile to her face.

To Mahrosh, Walid's compliments came in the shadows of their brief interaction when they were in the absence of the watchful eyes of the curious guests. Mahrosh was handing him a plate of biryani to carry outside to the mens area when he grabbed her wrist; slipping the gajra that he had been carrying in his pocket. "You look-" his words were left incomplete as both their names were called out from opposite ends and they were quick to part, their hearts beating in unison.

Dinner was served and dessert was brought out; halwa, gulab jaman, gurr chawal. Walid passed through the guests that filled up their dishes and talked to each other over second helpings of halwa and kashmiri tea, stopping by Rahul's side.

Rahul was looking at a painting that could be seen through the open door of the drawing room. "You don't paint, right?"

"No."

"And Bhabi?"

Walid's eyebrows drew together, "No. Why?"

Rahul glanced briefly at the painting again, and Walid followed his gaze, instantly recognizing the painting as his sister's. "No, nevermind-" Rahul shook his head, before he pointed at the halwa, "This is so good. I had my third helping and I'm considering whether I should go for another."

Before Walid could respond; Irfan called for him from the other end of the yard, meeting a guest who had just arrived. "You're definitely the star tonight," Rahul grinned.

"Nawaz, meet my son-in-law," Irfan said as Walid appeared, smiling heartily at a middle-aged man dressed in a tailored suit. The man shook his hand; his eyebrows arching in interest when Irfan mentioned that he had studied from England. "Walid, this is Chaudhary Nawaz. He is a member of the Congress," Irfan informed Walid.

A politician.

This information did not create the impression on Walid as it had on the other guests — some got up from their seats to offer it to him, others gathered around him and listened intently to everything that he had to say. A politician entering the midst of a gathering was no small feat.

After another serving of chai; a discussion in Chaudhary Nawaz's circle caught Walid's ears. "I do not understand the headache us Muslims have brought upon ourselves with this idea of a seperate community. See us now — Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs. We're all gathered in the house of our dear friend and having a splendid time."

People murmured their agreements. "Is that why you refused to join the Muslim League, sir?" the question was asked and Nawaz smiled, leaning back on his seat.

"Why should Muslims have their own party? My position in the Congress is a depiction of my beliefs — first and foremost, I am a Hindustani. Yes, we must stand united against the British; because we are one."

There was sweetness in his tone. Walid had seen this before; people with words as sweet as honey; ones who had the ability to put people in awe of their words and ideas; no matter how hollow those ideas actually were inside.

"Musalman. Hindu. Sikh — let me ask you; before any of these, are we not Hindustani?" The murmurs of yes echoed amongst the guests; and as the support got louder, so did Chaudhary Nawaz's voice, "We are all born on the same land. Can we dare claim to be anything before the fact that we are Hindustani and we all want what is best for our dharti —"

"Yes."

The growing passion came to an abrupt stop. Nawaz's eyes snapped towards Walid. "Yes?" He was unable to cover up his surprise at being interrupted, "What do you mean?"

"That before all else, I am a Muslim," Walid's voice was devoid of any pretentious smiles. "My deen comes before anything else; my race, my caste, my nationality. It is what I believe that defines who I am — the code of life I follow; not the man-made boundary I was born into."

The energy Chaudhary Nawaz had built up began to deflate. He was quick to notice the confusion of the people around them so he pulled up a smile, feigning calmness. "Indeed; but that is the ideal Hindustan that the Congress is seeking to achieve. Where we can all practice our religion freely — the masjid and the temple can be side by side and we will all live in peace and harmony."

"Is it?" Walid's tone remained respectful; but not one of a man who doesn't know his politics; nor one who easily believes the false promises of the politicians. "Then why were the fourteen points of Jinnah not accepted?"

"Oh, Jinnah —" Chaudhary Nawaz lost all honey from his voice, "He is nothing but a man set out for his own career."

"I name him because he focused on the exact thing you preach here; muslim-hindu unity. He was against the two-nation theory — but any attempts he made for the muslims to get some representation were rejected by the Congress. I am not saying that you're wrong, Sir. The ideal Hindustan that you describe may be the dream of many, but can we close our eyes to reality? Can we let ourselves believe this dream when our eyes see something so vastly different?"

His words fell like bricks. The smiles amongst the guests fell and Chaudhary Nawaz's fists clenched — it was clear that he had not expected such a refutation; and the man who prided in his ability to speak, was temporarily at loss for words.

"And as for Muslims being a seperate community, Mr.Nawaz... we have damaged ourselves enough by the belief that we aren't, " Walid spoke slowly, "Yes, it is basic humanity to live in respect for each other and that is the ideal to be achieved — but when you say we are one, do you realize how this oneness has led us to mix practices within our religion that are in complete opposition of Islam? In this oneness — we have compromised our religion; we have taken up the practice of jahez* in our weddings and in practicing it, we have completely opposed the honor Islam gave to our women. We have begun to think it permissible to go to dargahs and seek blessings from the dead; commiting a grave shirk and weakening the very foundation of our faith; There is no God but Allah."

Walid paused, his voice lowering, "And what does our faith matter if it is in name only?"

The echo of his words entered some hearts and hardened others. Chaudhary Nawaz' face grew red, his hands fisting.

"That's enough, Walid," Irfan said, his voice sharp. He tried to change the subject but the damage was done; because even when conversation began again, the effect of Walid's words lingered. Especially to a pair of brown orbs that continued to stare at Walid.

Rahul realized that the person he had the honor of calling his best friend in their childhood was now a complete stranger to him. 

yateem – orphan
dawat – dinner
jahez – dowry

السلام عليكم ورحمة الله وبركاته!

an observation: there are people who speak very smoothly but the good they seem to preach is often hollow, empty and not the least bit beneficial so we must always be careful about those we give an ear to before we allow them to shape our thoughts

on that note, we took our first dip into the political side of things, and mahrosh is going to start writing again

oh and a flashback! lmk what you thought of that ^^

this chapter is dedicated to my dearest queenz3e, Nilu123496and tanjila_ferdousi_emayou are such jaans and ily