A heavy cloak of chilly weather blanketed the dawn air. Huge grey clouds ransacked the sky, leaving almost no space for even a streak of sunshine to peep in. Thick fog enveloped the atmosphere, the melodious tweeting of the birds being the only sound in the still quietness of early Fajr. Fayha watched the spectacle unfold before her eyes with interest, silently reciting her morning adhkaar from memory. Years of repetition had cemented the ad'iyah in her mind, making it an inseparable part of her. The surroundings were still dark enough for it to be mistaken to be the last third of the night. A sudden flash of lightning told her rain was due.

Observing nature from the lawn of their house never disappointed her. She needed to do this often, she thought. A cold breeze ruffled the scarf she had loosely wrapped around her head out of habit; since the high walls of their compound and the deliberately grown plants on the railings, together provided the necessary privacy the niqaab observing women of the family wanted.

The biting cold would've probably made a stranger think it was winter, but Fayha knew otherwise. South Indian monsoons liked to throw in a cool climate to accompany its heavy downpours. Feeling its slight frostiness, Fayha involuntarily crossed her arms around herself as she stood watching the sight.

Love would be an understatement to describe her emotions toward monsoon. If Allah had given her an option to select one season for the rest of her life, she'd have chosen it without a blink. Her elder sister, Falah, on the other hand loved summer. Fayha wondered what speciality summer offered that made one like it. This was just one of the many differences between them though. In appearance too, they were poles apart; while her sister was pale with raven black hair and almond eyes, Fayha's complexion reflected clear honey, alongside sharp nose and a height that was quite above an average South Indian. Yet despite their huge gap of dissimilarity in everything from tastes to looks, there couldn't be a pair as connected and in-sync as them. If there was one thing in life Fayha was proud of, it was her sister. She was a jewel.

Thoughts of her sister made her reminisce their times together before the latter's marriage. A soft sigh escaped her lips. She missed her sister a little too much for a nineteen-year-old. Besides, Falah would be coming over this evening after a month or so. That recollection made her happy.

And as if in agreement with her, drops of rain splashed on her clear skin, intent on amplifying her joy. Within moments, it was drizzling. She stood there, relishing the feeling it brought. Recalling the fact that even Prophet Muhammad SA let the rain wet him, stating it was a mercy from the Lord of the heavens, made her cherish the experience fully, if not more. Fruits of seeking knowledge, she concluded happily.

Fayha had not enjoyed the rain for a full minute when she heard a faint voice call her name. She turned to the source of sound to find her mother ushering her in from their large kitchen window. With one last glance longingly at the sky, she walked inside, before stopping to wipe her bare soles on the mat in their patio.

"Wake Talhah." her mother instructed, taking out pans and pots from the kitchen cupboards in preparation for breakfast. "It's an hour past fajr and he's still not up."

Fayha glanced at the clock in their wall.

6.00 AM, the bright red numbers in the digital clock read.

"When will this boy improve.." she muttered under her breath as she crossed their dining and living room to ascend the stairs that led to his room.

"What?" asked Burhan, looking at her from where he sat on the couch with a book, "Did you say something?"

Fayha shook her head at her seven-year-old brother, "Nothing. Just going to wake Talhah." The little boy nodded in understanding.

Talhah heard the faint footsteps of his sister even before she creaked open his room's door. His father had tried waking him up in order to get him to join for the Fajr congregation an hour back; and it had only been fifteen minutes since his mother left after trying again to no avail. He wasn't looking forward to Fayha's arrival. She was brutal of the three.

He contemplated on whether or not he wanted to drag his sleepy form out of the bed so early. He was spared from making that conflicting decision when splashes of cold water mercilessly made contact with his skin.

With a jerk, he sat up hissing his sister's name under his breath. "Fayha!" he exclaimed, indignant, "What on earth was that!"

"Better than the consequences you have to pay for the missed obligation, don't you think?"

He squinted his one eye open while rubbing another, "I would pray eventually, just a bit late."

Fayha regarded him in annoyance, "If you've forgotten, one of the conditions for acceptance of Salaah is it being prayed on the specific appointed time."

"Fine, fine. Save the lecture." Talhah mumbled, pulling himself out of the bed that looked as inviting as ever. The comforter fell, which he picked up to place back. Then, with slow, heavy steps, he trudged to his bathroom.

After watching him enter, Fayha pivoted and descended back to the kitchen. Her father wouldn't be back from the masjid until after Ishraaq, so, she did not bother picking up the newspaper thrown on the patio by the local boy. At the moment, she had this important thing to focus on.

"Mama, he is getting out of hand." She declared, standing by her mother who meticulously sliced the peeled potatoes. "It's the fourth consecutive day and if this continues, he's going well beyond bounds."

Samina looked up to see her daughter's exasperation. She was concerned herself about the growing disregard of Fajr Salaah by her sixteen-year-old son. But she was just as helpless as her daughter. What could she do except hope that her son would revert back to his previous dutiful state where he did it willingly with vigour unlike how he seemed to do things now. He prayed his other four prayers regularly in his college's and local masjid, which was the comfort she held onto.

"I suppose we need to give him time." Samina said instead to her daughter, "Teenage boys go through a rebellious stage. He might eventually revert back to his previous self, In shaa Allah."

She drizzled some oil into the hot saucepan before dumping the sliced onions from the cutting board onto it to saute, "He's a heavy sleeper. So, maybe he's having a hard time reconciling his late-night habits with Fajr. Besides, he prays the other four well in congregation."

Fayha was silent. She knew her mother was consoling herself more than her. Samina was just as worried with his changes as she was.

Brushing off the topic, she looked around the counter, "What should I do?"

Samina pointed to a huge covered bowl on the side near the microwave, "That's the batter. Begin pouring dosas."

Acquiescing, Fayha set to work. She removed a pan, placing it on the stove to heat. Meanwhile, she stirred the fermented batter of lentils. Once the pan was hot, she drizzled a dash of oil and then poured a ladle full of the batter before carefully spreading it in a circular motion.

She turned to her mother as she waited for it to cook, "What time is Falah coming over today?"

"Evening. She has to visit the gynaecologist afternoon. So, she'll probably come after that."

Fayha checked the dosa. It was cooked, so, she ran the spatula over its sides before skilfully folding it into two. With practiced talent, she lifted the thin, crispy crepe and placed it onto a plate. Fayha then repeated the previous steps again.

"Will she be staying over this time?" Fayha asked, hopeful. It had been long since she leisurely spoke to her sister. Phone calls weren't convenient, since the only time Fayha could spare to talk was the time her sister was busy, making them restrict their conversations to just once every weekends.

"Yes. But she'll leave by noon tomorrow. There's some work with which Rushda needs some help."

Fayha's thoughts drifted to her sister's co-wife as she turned back to the dosas. Not every woman in polygyny were fortunate enough to have an amiable co-wife like her sister. The fact that Rushda also responded to that friendliness with acceptance spoke well of the woman's righteous character. Yet still, Fayha couldn't help but wonder over such a relationship. She had nothing against polygyny now unlike two years back when she had done everything in her power to stop her sister from what she conjectured to be a reckless move. But the thought of sharing a husband wasn't a pleasant one. It was a milestone only few could conquer. Her sister and her co-wife being one.

Fayha was still delving along those lines when she finally got down from her university bus and headed to the Islamic Institute, her second home.

The huge building stood proudly under the now slightly clear sky, boasting its three main sections. A sense of pride and warmth swelled in her heart as she watched the numerous hijab clad students walk in and out of the institute. The right section was empty since the ladies' batch always began after 9.00 to cater to the timing adjustment for married women, but the other two sections--girls bachelors degree and elementary school--were bustling with energy for the day ahead.

It was the only institute that provided a formal education alongside Islamic in the city and Fayha couldn't have been more happy to be a part of it. She had joined the institute at its inception as a teenager and consequently, watched it grow and spread its branches and fruits like a strong neem tree that had survived all the wind, storm and rain sent its way.

Every single day was a joy, as long as she could get such an opportunity to be among friends who were all gathered for the same purpose of nourishing their souls. What sent this experience a notch high was the friendship she was privileged to share with a variety of people on the basis of love for Allah's sake. It was something so pure, Fayha often felt like encasing it in a glass and storing it deep away in her heart's treasure chest. In a nutshell, the sheer comfort and serenity of such an experience was so beautiful that she wished every single person in this world got a taste of it atleast once in their life.

With such cheerful notions, she made way into her class on third floor when an unusual sight stopped her in her tracks. Instead of being scattered around the spacious class room in small group of two or three, all her classmates were huddled in the back to form a huge crowd. Curiously, she removed her niqaab, placing it on her student-chair along with the bag and ambled over to them.

"What's going on?" she asked Raawiyah who had entered the class along with her.

She shrugged, "I wouldn't join you if I knew."

Fayha looked around to catch someone's eye and ask, but no one paid her attention, which forced her to listen to what her lively classmate was saying.

"It's either on last week of November or first week of December..." Nibal said, adjusting her khimaar, "Although I doubt if we'll finish the portion by then. Nevertheless, we can hope as long as they give us atleast some concession for Usool al-Fiqh. It is not a subject you can mug up."

"Yes.." Qanitah, who was standing opposite to her agreed, "Ainul Haqq Sir isn't someone who likes to give his students leeway. So, if they expect us to put up with this unexpected change, they must provide some sort of compromise."

The others joined in, pitching in their input, muddling Fayha more.

"What's going on?" she at last asked Deema who was dispersing from the crowd.

"The management has decided to organise Souq al Khair this year. As a result, our exams might get postponed to November end. There might also be shift in some of our subjects due to the sudden inclusion of this event since it takes a lot of time for preparation." Deema made known, removing the textbooks from her seat in order to sit.

"Hmm. Did they announce it or something?" Fayha queried, certain that she hadn't heard it the day before. The only other medium for such a news was speakers which were turned on during assembly, but that was atleast ten minutes away.

Deema shook her head, "Of course not. I don't think they'd announce such a huge news on the speaker. It'll probably be spilled to us in Wednesday general assembly on the terrace."

"Then, how come Nibal knows?"

Deema grinned, "She's the class BBC, Fayha, if you aren't already aware." She leaned back on her stiff seat, "Apparently, she overheard it in Sunday School."

"I see." Fayha smiled at her, "Jazaakillah khair, Deema."

Deema dimpled, "Wa anti fa jazaakillah khair."

Fayha manoeuvred back to her chair. Collecting the dossier, Quraan and a big water bottle from her bag, she turned to exit the classroom.

"You going to hifdh centre?" She heard Deema ask from where she sat a few feet behind.

"Yeah."

"How far did you reach?"

"I'll begin my fifth dawr today. You?"

"Still in eighteenth juz. I hope I finish my hifdh soon enough to start ijaazah before I graduate from here." Deema responded with a small smile.

"You will, In shaa Allah." assured Fayha.

There were very few things in life Fayha sacrificed her sleep for. Quraan hifdh (memorisation) was one of them. She still struggled to describe her relationship with this incredible book. From where could she begin when it came to enumerating something so encompassing as Quraan with her limited, restricting vocabulary. Only its effect on her could be stated; that is, if she could even do it justice. The way it soothed her on days when nothing could abate the pain that gnawed at her heart, or the sheer comfort it provided like a baby shrouded in the softest blanket while being lullied to sleep. It carried her forward, at times when she could barely stand, let alone run. It offered her the courage to start anew, spreading out a new page when all her sins wanted to do was drown her in the ocean of misery. She could go on and on, for its effect was as timeless as its message.

Fayha protectively clutched the Quraan onto her bosom as she crossed the corridor to skip down the stairs.

There was seldom a time when stairs didn't remind Fayha of Shahar, her close friend. She was always going on about how the management had purposely designed the stairs to squeeze in some physical exercise onto the students who they complained were lacking in workout. It was unfair, she would declare with her eyes taut, that everyone had to pay for the consequences of what some did; especially, when people like her were trying or rather, struggling to put on some healthy weight.

Why she felt the need to gain weight, Fayha still couldn't comprehend. Slender figure and rosy complexion, long eyelashes which were defiantly stiff just like she was when stubborn. Shahar even had plump cheeks. Yet all this didn't stop the young maiden from trying out new weight-gaining recipes the rare times their heavy study load allowed it.

Fayha did not believe in coincidence. Rather, everything happened by Qadr; which is why when the very girl of her thoughts slammed right into her while taking a turn in the stairs, making her lose balance, she was calm. Her bottle though, tumbled down the remaining stairs and landed with a dramatic crash, spilling out all the water Fayha had filled earlier in the day.

"I'm so sorry!" Shahar blurted, staring at the bottle that slightly rolled on the corridor floor due to the wind, "I'll get it!"

She skipped the stairs and reached for the bottle before carrying it to the nearby sink to wash off the dirt that had clung to its wet surface. With a sigh, Fayha followed.

"Sorry." Shahar apologised, handing back the bottle to her friend after filling it with water, "In my haste to reach class on time, I rushed, only to ram right into you."

"You still have five minutes." Fayha remarked, glancing at her watch, "Why didn't you come in the bus, by the way?"

"I overslept and missed it." her friend confessed, "Then, I had to earnestly entreat my brother to drop me."

"Why didn't you ask your dad? Fathers are invariably way more generous."

"He had already left; and my brother wouldn't have minded if not for the horrible traffic in this part of the city. It is difficult to leave once you get into this maze."

Fayha could relate to that. It was always a nightmare to get stuck in the morning traffic. The one time she had missed the institute bus had been enough of a warning for her to never miss it again.

"The unpredictable rain schedule made it even stickier. I'm just glad I made it here on time, Alhamdulillah."

"Alhamdulillah."

Shahar leaned back on the railing and stared ahead. Inquisitive, Fayha followed her gaze to the entrance wall. An involuntary smile tugged her lips. The wall painting and caption never failed to enthral her no matter how many times she had seen or read it.

"Isn't it heart-warming?" Shahar asked from beside her.

"No doubt it is."

She glanced back at her friend, "How many minutes left, Fayha?"

"Three."

"I better lift myself up these gruesome steps then. Not in the mood to go through the prefect for being late. See you later. Salaam, Fayha!" she waved, clambering up the stairs.

Fayha pivoted and sauntered to the hifdh centre.

She removed her sandals, placing them on the nearby shoe-rack to enter the carpeted floor. Bright lights greeted her, illuminating the huge hall in its serene poise. Fayha stopped to think what made her describe the hall as serene when calmness was the last attribute in a place where students paced from one corner to the other either silently mumbling or vigorously revising the Quraan last minute before they were called in to recite. Girls were usually scattered across the room, some sitting on the neatly arranged cushions, some on the chair, while others crouched over the small quran table, involuntarily rocking back and forth while revising. Everyone was left to their own devices with no particular protocol. The fact that they had finished their quran hifdh was reason enough for the management to consider them disciplined to study on their own without anyone constantly keeping an eye on them. The only authority figure--other than the ustadhs in the chambers behind the curtains--was the female teacher in-charge who kept check of their hifdh records while overlooking the students' attendance.

Fayha rowed her eyes over the room from where she sat on the cushion. The place was definitely not quiet; in fact far from still. Yet what made it serene was the subject being learned and recited. It was a testimony to the hadith that stated "Whenever some people gather in one of Allah's houses to recite the book of Allah and study it among themselves – then calmness (tranquility) descends upon them, the angels surround them, mercy covers them, and Allah mentions them to those who are with him" (Muslim).

🔮

There were blessings in the day that started off with recitation and contemplation of Quraan. Fayha knew that, and attested to its truth every time she rang the house bell after a long day of classes, one after another. She wasn't in the mood to study after Asr Salaah like her customary schedule. So, instead of sitting down to catch up with her online studies, she wandered over to the patio where she was sure to find her mother learning, probably for her upcoming Quraan test since she attended the ladies' side of class in their institute.

Fayha sat on the couch adjacent to the one her mother was sitting on, observing the garden at the end of their modest lawn. It was raining; although not as heavily as it did at afternoon. Weeds seemed to stick out their head amidst the carefully reared rose and hyacinth plants. Well, gardening awaited her this weekend.

"Mama, can I bake a cake now?" interrupted Fayha.

Samina nodded, "On the condition that you clean and tidy the place to spick and span just the way it is now."

Fayha grinned guiltily. It happened sometimes. She would get so carried away in cooking, baking, cutting and folding that by the end of it, she'd be exhausted to clean up the mess or do the dishes. What was initially left to be tidied up later would be left for her mother to cover.

"I'll do it. Promise."

Samina smiled, "Go ahead."

"Didi, are you baking cake?" Fayha heard her little brother ask from behind as she sifted the dry ingredients into the batter.

"Yup. Want to join?" she asked, well aware of his intention behind the question.

In response, Burhan jumped to stand beside her, "Ok, so what should I do?"

"Line the tray with parchment paper."

He complied and the rest of the evening was spent with brother and sister working harmoniously in the kitchen. It was Maghrib by the time Falah arrived.

The ladies scuttled in the patio after dinner as was the norm to speak and catch up for the missed times. Soon, they drifted from one topic to another, partly to just keep the conversation going. The cool weather did nothing to calm the fire burning in Fayha's heart, though. She was glad none noticed how badly she was staring at her sister. Longing wasn't the right word to describe what she felt at the moment. It was a combination of love and sadness. A deep pull yet an unsaid barrier. Fayha couldn't help noticing how much she missed her sister.

People always told her she meticulously measured words when speaking. "You need to shed the formality and open up." her cousin, Alishba would often advise. However, Fayha never could. The nagging consciousness always prevailed. Not only was it due to the knowledge of repercussions that followed uninhibited talk, but it was also partly due to the fear of being misunderstood. Clearing the air for something someone had unintentionally misconceived from what she had said was the last thing in life she wanted to do. The only one with who she lowered the guard the slightest bit was her mother; and little more than that was her sister.

It was comforting to have someone to who you could dish out opinions and rants without having to weigh every syllable that tumbled off your tongue. It reminded her of the infamous words by George Elliott who said,

"Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away."

Later that night, Fayha snuggled into the lone swing that hung by the window with her beloved Reflection Journal. She flipped through the already filled pages, opening a brand new one. Uncapping her pen, she spilled the thoughts that whirled in her mind.

04.07.2012
Thursday

Dearest Allah,

Reminiscence is a strange companion.
It evokes a familiar melancholy and makes one wallow in dolefulness at memories, while letting a vague sense of solace settle on its predestination at the same time.

Fayha hovered her pen on the journal for some time as the cool breeze played with the locks of her hair. Some moments of silent contemplation elapsed before she went to bed.