Chapter Twenty-Five

A wind blew; and the seasons of the heart changed.

Some matters take time in being understood — and it is often the rawness and vulnerability of one's heart that helps one comprehend them. Aleena understood that night; in a way she never had before. The foundation of her fears melted as a newfound noor took its place.

Walid's dream was no longer his alone. Mahrosh' passions did not just belong to her anymore. Aleena joined them; and with such zeal and talent that the effects of her hard work were instantly shown. "There is always work to be done," Walid would say, "You just need to figure out what that is."

Just as Walid did not need to tell Mahrosh that she could write, he did not have to tell Aleena that her artistic skills could be used for dawah. Aleena visited his halaqah once and instantly decided on the lamp she would carry to partake in spreading the noor of Allah's deen. Walid's halaqat and talks were well thought of — but it was Aleena who designed reminder cards so the attendees could take that knowledge back to their families.

In a visit to a neighbor at the birth of their daughter, Mahrosh and Aleena realized something else too. Walid was educating the men in his halaqat but the need to educate women and bring them back towards the root of Islam was just as necessary. In a society such as theirs where women seldom left the comforts of their homes, a women halaqah was an ideal but not a workable solution. Instead the girls decided on another technique:

They would cook things for their neighbors, visit their homes and spare an hour longer to discuss matters with them of importance.

There were some who listened attentively; whose hearts opened to the haqq as soon as it was spoken. Others were polite but harder to move. And there were some who frowned upon these new ideas — especially when it collided with deep-rooted traditions and cultures. After some visits, Mahrosh and Aleena would return home with a serene heart full of gratitude and prayers of acceptance. Other times... their visits did not go that well.

"They hardly listened to a word you were saying Mahrosh-" Aleena was livid as she rolled her wheelchair inside. "You explained perfectly well why you did not bring any dowry with you! Is that something to look down upon? And to say your parents had no sense – Astaghfirullah."

Mahrosh closed the door behind her. The hurtful words, though they had weighed on her chest in her neighbor's house, did not linger in her own home. Aleena was not as used to such experiences as Mahrosh was, and the latter did not take it as bad as Aleena did.

"Asar Kuch Khawab Ka Ghunchon Mein Baqi Hai To Ae Bulbul !

"Nawa Ra Talakh Tar Mee Zan Choo Zauq-E-Nagma Kmyabi"

If there is still some trace of sleep left in the buds, my nightingale,

Then make your songs more plaintive, for you found their desire to hear your melody too little."

Aleena glanced at Mahrosh and the creases on her forehead eased. A smile crept up to her lips. "Can there be any response to Iqbal except nods of agreement?"

Mahrosh grinned as she loosened her shawl. "Y'know, Aleena, Nuh A.S preached to his nation for nine hundred and fifty years. Imagine. And they would treat him horribly and nurtured so much hatred for him. A boy so young his father carried him on his shoulders saw Nuh A.S cross the street once, and he asked his father to bend down so he could pick up a stone and throw it at him. And yet he did not give up. SubhanAllah."

She sat down on the charpai, her gaze lowering, "And Rasulullah ﷺ? He faced so much persecution simply because he wanted to bring people to the straight path. People aren't always going to be accepting towards haqq. And our purpose isn't even to guide them — only Allah can guide. We simply must not stop trying. So what if people are a little mean? We can counter their sourness with homemade gulab jamuns and a genuine heart. If they're opposed to topics that frown upon their cultural beliefs, then we can search for the topic that their heart recognises. Tauhid. Taqwa. Dua — their hearts only need to soften before they accept those things as well."

Aleena nodded slowly, her anger vanished and gone entirely. "You're right. I'll make a painting the next time we go to that house as a gift In shaa Allah —"

A knock on the door cut her off. It was Rahul, asking about Walid. Mahrosh told him he wasn't home and he left, asking her to inform Walid that he would come later. None of this surprised the girls, though it kindled a small flicker of hope.

Rahul had made some changes inhis life after Walid's injury as well. He stuck by Walid's side, insisting that he did so to act as Walid's unhired bodyguard. He would help carry boxes of books and the pamphlets the girls would make to the halaqah. But he never came inside.

He would wait outside till Walid was done and then walk home with him. It had become a routine; one in which Rahul asked no questions, and Walid did not push him to either.

Because Walid had seen Rahul's dark curls peeking through the open window, listening into every word that was said in the halaqah.

The voices rose in the living room. He tried to zone out from the shouts, tearing a piece of his roti.

Rahul's eldest sister had been rejected by the woman who had come to see her for her son's rishta. Again. And his parents were not pleased –

"If you had raised them better why would anyone have rejected them?" His father's voice boomed in the living room. Rahul's hand stilled.

"Because they look at the house and think we won't be able to give our daughters a good jahez! My daughters are very well raised." His mother's voice was not as loud but it was firm. Rahul knew that when his father would leave, she would scold his sister and point out every shortcoming and fault in her.

"Tto aur betiyan paida karo. Aur mein apni saari jaidad inke jahez ke liye bech deta hun —"*

The kitchen door opened. Rahul did not look up from his plate. His heartbeat sped up and he only wished to go unseen in this fight.

"Ya aisay betay-"

His head remained lowered. The flow of curses from his father's mouth stilled him in place.

Rahul felt sometimes that his father had used his rage to build the walls of his home. The walls that closed in on him in between the shouts, and the plate of his food that was thrown across the room. This rage came like a storm; breaking everything in its place.

His mother was still crying when his father left, but Rahul could not bear to stay in the house a minute longer. The longer he would sit, the more he would be blamed for things that had nothing to do with him.

He left, carrying the storm with him. What about him made him so unlikeable to his own parents? Was it because he was the youngest child; an additional burden to a middle-class couple who had nine children already? Or perhaps because he did not shine in his studies as his brothers had. Perhaps it was the color of his skin; darkest in his family who had prided themselves over their fair complexion —

Rahul's eyes burned. The chaos within him did not subside till he found himself in front of a familiar gate.

He knocked, his nails digging into his skin.

"Kon?"* A female voice spoke from the other side.

"It's me. Rahul. Is Walid-" the door clicked open before he was done. Walid's sister peeked out, on her wheelchair, fixing her dupatta.

"He is in the shower. You can wait inside."

Rahul nodded, following her inside. There was something about Walid's home that was lacking in his: Sakoon. The gentle rays of the sun peeked into the bramda as he took a seat on the charpai. Rahul tried to place where this peace came from — when his eyes fell on a canvas.

His breath got caught in his throat. It was a glorious painting, with the gentle colors of an aurora in the backdrop. The magnificence of the dark background was perfect against the golden Arabic calligraphy.

Rahul could not read the words. He did not know what they meant. And yet he recognised them.

The shuffle of the wheelchair snapped him from his daze. His gaze flickered towards Aleena as she put a glass of sharbat on the table for him, and despite himself, he noticed the paint stains on her hands.

His gaze flickered towards the painting again as the realization hit him. The mystery painter.

Aleena moved to leave again, but Rahul could not help it. "Can you-" She turned around. Rahul looked at the painting. "Can you tell me what that says?"

She looked at the painting. For a brief moment, she hesitated. Rahul felt he had made a mistake asking her, that there was something private about her painting and he had no right to look at it.

"Al-Hadi," Aleena said. "It is one of the ninety nine names of Allah."

Allah. God.

"What does it mean?"

Aleena stared at the painting. A smile crept up to her lips. "The One Who Guides."

The storm within him waged wild, but a distant lighthouse appeared through the fog. Rahul felt a lump come up to his throat.

Mahrosh passed a hand under the chiffon cloth, listening attentively to Ammi.

She had once struggled to find interest in her mother's shopping sprees, or the kind of material she brought to get new ghararas and kameezain stitched.

Now, she treasured any moment she had with her mother at home, making the most of her visits.

"What do you think?" Ammi beamed, and Mahrosh felt a tinge of guilt in her heart. Perhaps her mother would have found a friend in her sooner if she had paid more attention to her mother's interests before.

"They're gorgeous, Ammi. I personally like this color better," she picked up the magenta chiffon.

"Really? Chalo, I'll get you a new suit made as well."

"Oh, no need, Ammi. I have enough clothes, Alhamdulillah-" Mahrosh said even though she knew it was too late. Ammi jumped at any chance to get Mahrosh a gift now that she was married. It was a way in which she expressed her love when words did not aid her, and Mahrosh had grown to appreciate it.

As Ammi retreated to the kitchen to check up on something, Dadi walked out of her bedroom.

"I was thinking, Mahru," she said, taking a seat on the charpai. Mahrosh moved to sit next to her, resting her head on Dadi's shoulder. "Why don't you stay here for the night? I know you visit enough, but a sleepover has a different vibe to it altogether. Dher saari gup shup karain gai*."

Stay the night. Something crossed Mahrosh' features that Dadi noticed immediately, even though Mahrosh tried to cover it up. "I... I can. But I didn't ask Walid this time."

"I can talk to him when he comes."

Mahrosh fell silent, knowing that Walid would have no reason to say no. Just like she did not. At least no reasons that could be worded...

Dadi's laugh shattered her inner turmoil. Mahrosh' gaze snapped towards Dadi, noting the glint in her eyes. "You don't want to stay without him, do you? It's clear as day even if you don't say it."

Mahrosh felt her face heat up. "But of course I want to spend time with you, Dadi-"

"I know, I know, meri jaan. I understand your feelings perfectly well, I was once a newly wed as well. How strange and complex are human emotions though, Mahrosh. In the beginning, it's so hard to adjust to a new home so different from what you are used to, or a person you are supposed to spend the rest of your life with. And then you get so used to them, it's hard to define home without them."

Mahrosh nodded slowly. A memory flashed in her mind; one in which she was sitting on the same charpai with Dadi and was told that Walid was returning from England. She had felt the waves of dread and panic surge over her back then. Now... she could not imagine Walid going away from her.

"Mahrosh-" Dadi picked up the newspaper, suddenly remembering something. She flipped through the pages. "I meant to ask you, are the articles here by Walid Ibrahim, by our Walid?"

Mahrosh froze. Her face paled a little as Dadi skimmed to an article Mahrosh recognised all too well. Because she had penned it.

"They're so wonderfully written, Masha'Allah, but I did not take Walid to be a writer," Dadi continued, glancing her way. "Is this our Walid?"

In the next five seconds, Mahrosh' little secret would have been out in the open. She knew because her heartbeat quickened, her face flamed and the panic she felt displayed so clearly on her face as she tried to think of an answer. "Huh?" She stumbled with her words.

Dadi was a safe person to tell, wasn't she? No, but Dadi wasn't the best at secret keeping — what if she let it slip in front of Abbu? He would never accept —

There was a knock on the main gate.

Mahrosh shot to her feet so quickly it startled Dadi. "Walid's here! I've gotta go!"

Dadi blinked, watching Mahrosh rush through her greetings as if the train would leave the station — giving her a quick kiss on the head and rushing outside in such a flash, it made Dadi forget all about the newspaper.

"I knew she was eager to return to her husband but not that eager..." Dadi mumbled under her breath with a shake of her head. 

السلام عليكم ورحمة الله وبركاته

Is it just me or is 2024 starting out as an incredibly busy year? 🤔

Unless my characters decide otherwise, I beleive we are near the last quarter of the story. And it's been a year now since we began! SubhanAllah. How time flies. JazakAllah Khair for being a part of this journey, especially those who were with me from the beginning. ❤️