Chapter 13

13th June 1933

Summer has returned again and so have the mangoes. The sweaters and shawls are boarded and packed up, but I do not mind. I love the winters but I can find enough love in my heart for the sweltering month of June as well.

The heat makes it a little tiring but the days are long and I have more time. More time to read the books Walid has given me. Ammi says my reading is getting tiring - she says that there is more to do than sit with your nose in a book. But how can I tell her that it is not simple words I am reading? How can I tell her that with every page that I read of the seerah of Rasulullah ﷺ I fall deeper and deeper in love with him till I wonder to myself what took me so much time to read of his life.

The diary Walid gave me is half-filled already. I note down every word he says and sometimes, when I come home, I write a few words of my own too. There are splotches of tears on the pages and my handwriting is terrible - but I do not mind the mess.

I feel a little like a lone daffodil on a windy day; the winds rush past me and I walk down paths that are strange and a journey that is rocky. But the beauty of the world around me grips my heart and how can I not say SubhanAllah? The contentment lies deep within me; for I have tawakkul in Allah.

And with all this, how can I not be grateful? -

Mahrosh' thoughtful eyes stared at the pair of shoes whose ends peeked out from her chaddar. The intricate pattern on the khussa turned and formed patterns, in the depths of which Mahrosh let her thoughts wander and twist, all till another pair of dark sandals came under her line of sight.

She raised her head, prepared to brag about finally beating him at being the first to arrive when her gaze met a melting kulfi. Walid held it out to her, smiling as he said his salam. "It's melting-"

Mahrosh took it from him, the creamy cold delight tasting sweeter than any kulfi she had tasted before. Her truimph of being the first to arrive was diminished by the reasoning of Walid stopping to buy her kulfi but was replaced by greater happiness and gratitude.

Mahrosh decided that she did not mind the summers at all; not with the taste of the cold kulfi racing against her in its attempts to melt; with Walid walking by her side, sharing her kulfi every time she stretched it out to him, and the excitement of a lesson to be learned.

Walid's halaqas had grown more comfortable with the passing of each day. He would give time to each person who wished to speak, taking their questions and enabling an environment where none felt unheard.

On that particular day, a discussion began on a recently published poem of Iqbal's: Iblis ki majlis-e-shura; The Devil's Conference. From the ideas of imperialism in the West and the separation of religiosity from the state; till not only to Iblis but to the Western powers that were determined to keep a hold on its superiority over the majority of the Eastern world - Islam in its truest sense was a big threat; the poem discussed within a conversation between Iblis and his councilors. They reached a verse from the poem, in which Iblis was saying:

خال خال اس قوم ميں اب تک نظر آتے ہيں وہ
کرتے ہيں اشک سحر گاہي سے جو ظالم وضو
The only menace I anticipate may come that community:
Who go so far as to perform their ablutions with the tears of pre‐morning hours.

Walid had only read this out when he was interrupted. "If they fear Islam - why do they let us follow it?" It was a young man who spoke; his eyes narrowed in the stubbornness of his beliefs and ideas. "I mean, why are the masjids still open? You've said this before as well, that those that set out to enslave us fear the man who is firm on Tauhid. And yet we can freely follow our religion here?"

The sudden question and the manner in which it was asked had been abrupt, but it did not alter the calmness upon Walid's face. His head tilted, and from where she sat, Mahrosh saw a heaviness set upon his brows; the question hanging in the air for several seconds.

"They fear Islam, they do not fear the masjids," he said eventually, his gaze lowered, "Rather they fear Islam getting out of the masjid and into the daily life of man."

No one said a word, and Walid continued, raising his head, "They fear the Islam that will make them lose their power. Our sujood does not scare them - a sujood where our minds are elsewhere entirely, a sujood along which we prostrate to a hundred other cultural practices and seek the pleasure of people; rather what they fear is that we prostrate only to God alone; that our life becomes an embodiment of how He has willed us to live.

They fear Islam because it will make them lose their power. Because a momin's eyes will never linger on their wealth and desire it - rather, our true goal would be so high their vision would not even be able to grasp it. They fear that we will find God and free ourselves from their shackles of slavery.

They fear Islam- and the tragedy is not their fear of it, but that we do not know what Islam even is. We're living as they want us to live-" his voice grew heavy, "They do not fear the masjids because they know our Islam is limited to the four walls of the masjid. Namaz, roza, hajj- our culture would deem this Musalman as ideal, but hear to what Iqbal says next in this poem:

الحذر! آئين پيغمبر سے سو بار الحذر
حافظ ناموس زن، مرد آزما، مرد آفريں

Beware, a hundred times beware, of the Law of the Prophet!-
The protector of women's honour, the tester of men's capacities, the rearer of worthy men!

موت کا پيغام ہر نوع غلامي کے ليے
نے کوئي فغفور و خاقاں، نے فقير رہ نشيں

The message of death to any kind of slavery!
No sovereigns and no monarchs, no mendicants begging!

اس سے بڑھ کر اور کيا فکر و عمل کا انقلاب
پادشاہوں کي نہيں، اللہ کي ہے يہ زميں

What greater revolution in thought and action will there be:
Not to the crowned heads, but to God alone does this Earth belong!

This is Islam! A religion that formed one of the greatest civilizations in Madinah! Where the women who were once treated as property and buried alive as babies, got their rights; rights to inheritance, rights to property, rights to protection of safety , life, and security. Where slaves were treated as equals - the first of the civilizations to have completely ended racism! Where the Caliphs were called to court - and one's status mattered none in the face of justice. Where the poor and the rich had no distinction; and the Caliph walked by the side of the camel his slave was sitting on- towards a startled crowd awaiting what they supposed was a King in front of Jerusalem; but in his eyes he was a servant of Allah and nothing more."

Mahrosh' heart trembled. The pen remained gripped in her hands, as in front of her eyes she envisioned Madinah. She envisioned the grand caliphate of Abu Bakar, and Umar R.A - Walid's voice echoing within the depths of her heart. This is Islam!

"You're right," Walid's voice lowered, his gaze meeting the young man's, "They do not withhold the masjids from us so we can show up for our jumah salah and think our obligation over. They do not withhold the Quran from us so we can recite a few verses after Fajr for sawab* without understanding what we are saying, and then put the Book away to collect dust - why would they fear a nation that is asleep?"

In the poem, Iblis continued:

ہر نفس ڈرتا ہوں اس امت کي بيداري سے ميں
ہے حقيقت جس کے ديں کي احتساب کائنات

Every moment do I dread the awakening of this community
Whose religion is, in reality, nothing short of taking account of the universe

Walid spoke a lot; and yet, there was a lot that was unsaid. In the candle that burned within his eyes, a plea; wake up! Wake up!

In the tremor of his voice that was noticeable only to those who knew him well, a desire to grab his fellow Muslims by the shoulders. You have forgotten who you are!

And in the darkness of the nights where his shoulders shook and his hands raised in dua; a whisper of the heart. Let the Ummah awaken, Ya Rabb.

And even when he said nothing of this to Mahrosh, she understood. She understood because her heart beat to a melody and a rhythm not different from his; and in the footnote of the pages of her diary, she wrote;

Those who were supposed to spread the message of Islam throughout the world have forgotten it themselves.

Aleena heard their voices first. The paintbrush in her hand stilled as the familiar voices reached her ears and she could envision the pair that stood outside the gate. Her knuckles turned white. Their voices were distant and yet, she noted that the formality and the nerves that had once laced Mahrosh' voice when she spoke to Walid had been replaced by bubbliness and excitement. "And I almost finished reading-", "- loved every moment," "- to ask you -" she caught only simple fragments of their conversation till the painting in front of her eyes began to look to her as the worst thing she had ever painted.

Aleena's jaw locked when she heard the sound of the gate opening and Walid and Mahrosh stepped inside, calling out their salams. Walid asked her about her day, and Mahrosh came over to see her painting, and yet neither noticed her clipped response.

The first time Aleena had realized that the two of them had returned from somewhere together, she had let it slide, expecting an explanation. But it happened again, and again, and not a word was said to her.

Asking Mahrosh to wait so he could do his wudu and drop her off on his way to the masjid, Walid retreated to his room. Aleena waited for the door to close behind him before her gaze flickered towards Mahrosh who sat on the charpai, her thoughtful gaze fixed on the diary that lay in her lap.

She seemed worlds away; and a little peek into the mind would hint upon sandy dunes fourteen hundred years ago, till she felt Aleena's gaze. Her head raised and her cheeks dimpled. "Have you read Rahmatul-lil-Alameen yet?"

Aleena shook her head, barely thinking about the book on her side table that Walid had given her.

Oh. Mahrosh' eyes dimmed but her smile did not waver, "It's really good, Lina. Tell me when you start reading it."

"Mhmm, I will," Aleena said distractedly. A pause. "You've gotten close to Walid." Her gaze remained fixed on her palette as she pretended to mix the colors.

Mahrosh blinked. She opened her mouth and then closed it shut again, unaware of how to respond; was this a question or an observation? When Aleena's gaze met hers, Mahrosh felt the heat crawl to her face. "Maybe?"

Aleena remained silent, the air between them thickening. Mahrosh pulled at the hem of her sleeves, confused at the sudden tension that had risen between them. Walid walked out and she fought a sight of releif, quickly rising to her feet.

Before either of them could make their way to the door, a loud knock beat them to it. Mahrosh watched from over his shoulders as Walid stepped forward, greeting the two men who stood outside, files in their hands and their attire formal. "Can I help you?"

"Are you Mr -" the man in front peered down at the papers he held in his hands, "Mr. Sarjot Singh's tenant?"

Walid's eyebrows drew together. "No."

The man peered at him from under his glasses. "Does this house not belong to Mr. Sarjot Singh?"

"No," Walid repeated, "It belonged to my late father, Ibrahim Parvez."

Aleena rolled her wheelchair over, standing by Mahrosh, "What's going on?"

The man looked at his papers again before he pointed towards the house number written by the gate. "House 72... this house is under the property of Mr. Surjot Singh."

Walid stepped outside, "No, it is not. There must have been some misunderstanding -"

"And it has just been sold to us. We want you to clear this house by tomorrow."

sawab - reward

assalamualaikum

anddd we're backkk الحمدللہ! i hope you had a wonderful eid, looked absolutely amazing and had loads of fun with your families :)

i missed you all so much but this break was much needed ^^ look at us maturing - discussing entire poems instead of single verses of iqbal's now xD though I hope the topic discussed was not too heavy

thoughts on aleena's feelings?

this chapter is dedicated to lodiraisa for buying shoes like mahrosh' ^^ thank you for making my day