When we Hold On

Bismihi Ta’ala

Hamzah

Part 92

Through our giants in history, the stories of the courageous men of the past which shaped me into the person I’d become since I’d started treading on a better path, if there’s one thing I learnt, it’s that we should never let ourselves sink into the pits of hopelessness.

A Muslim should not sit and accept defeat, as long as we have a Rabb who is the source of hope. Like the lion of Allah, Hadhrat Hamzah RA, we put on our best shield of imaan, and build our faith to fight the odds.

The thing is, we must always have faith. When we ask Allah Ta’ala for aid, know that He will send it, one way or the other.

And yes, I know it was ironic, because right then,  things weren’t looking good.

I had been fooled. Duped, in every possible way. Broken-hearted, in a way that felt like the organ in my chest was shattered.

Now, there was one more emotion I was dealing. I was so, so angry.

Rabia had overstepped. She had gone all out, broken rules, crossed boundaries too. She had befriended a man, and not just any man. Someone who I was sure had done this, had gotten close to her, just to make my life miserable.

And I knew how Faadil worked. Behind the scenes, in a way that could never be tracked, but he always worked with intent. And now, finally, it all made sense.

I knew what he was upset about. It had evaded me all this time… as I lived in the blissful ignorance that I was the only guy Mohsina had ever been committed enough to decide to marry. I knew that his coming to see her on our Nikah day was his sick way of trying to win the ‘prized goods’ back. I mean, there was no other reason.

After all, that’s all she was to him. Someone who would have pushed him to be better, earn better, and motivated for his position, who he could have kept as some kind of trophy.

Mohsina was determined and brilliant in her job, and he knew that her being able to back him was a sure way of moving even further up the corporate ladder, despite his lack of morals. I knew that the rejection that he’d probably suffered, whether her motivation was Zaid or not, probably hurt him deeper than he’d let on. Faadil didn’t take losing well, and experiencing that loss was something that he just could not digest.

I didn’t need Rabia to reply to me when I asked her if she’d seen Mohsina while I was away. I wanted her to be the one to show some remorse at least.

She looked me in the face and said that some things need to take its course. I didn’t know what she had told Faadil, but I knew that the fact that Faadil and her were speaking was right. I had given her a while to think about it, while I left for the ijtima, spent some time with Maulana Umar and came back with a clear head, knowing that I couldnt just let things hang in the air.

I knew what I needed to do. Maulana had encouraged me to try and patch things up, but the betrayal I still felt was unparalleled, and that’s why it took me so long.

Yes, it would take time to make things right, but the least I could do was speak to her in the meantime.

I needed to talk to my wife. She knew more than I did about what Rabia and Faadil actually were speaking about.

And so, knowing I had left it way too long, I decided to do it.

Despite all that was going on, standing under the threshold of the door of the flat I had shared with my wife, I was expecting to see Mos looking normal and unfazed when I knocked on the door.

Perhaps she would be standing there with a scowl on her face, spitting fire as she usually would, or just shooting daggers at me while offering the silent treatment… but nothing could prepared me for the guilt that hit like a punch in my stomach when I looked at my wife properly after all this time.

Yes, I had seen her on Eid day in passing when she came to leave Zaid, but now that I really looked at her, her face devoid of make up and her hair in a simple plait, I was literally taken aback.

Though still beautiful to me, Mos looked exhausted, and very un-Mohsina like. It wasn’t my guilt for not letting her explain, as I covertly scanned my wife’s form, her weight loss was evidently visible, that got me.

How was it even normal for people to visibly show weight loss in a month? And yea, I knew it was Ramadhaan, but how bad a toll did the last month take on her for that to happen? I won’t lie, I still blamed Mos for part of this mess.. but now that the blinding anger had worn off, and I realised that I may have also been wrong in what I had said, I could see the situation more rationally.

The thing is, as humans, we are very quick to hold others accountable, forgetting that we too are humans. People hurt us, even more so people we love, and even those of us with a forgiving nature have our limits. I never thought I’d ever be one of those people who could harbour a grudge, but here I was, standing at the door of my wife’s house, realising, that in nursing my grudge, I’d done an equal injustice to my wife leaving her to bear a burden alone that evidently wore even my unbeatable wife down.

I watched as my wife’s eyes widened, and then she closed the door. And then, with bated breath, I waited while I heard her unlatching the door, and I breathed out a sigh of relief. I could barely believe that I was actually holding my breath, after the way I had stormed out of our home those weeks ago.

She pulled the door open again and instantly moved further away, like she didn’t want to even stand in close proximity to me. Can’t say I blamed her. The words I said to her made me feel sick to my stomach.

“Let’s talk in the lounge.”

Her voice was cold and flat, and I went ahead of her to enter our open plan living area, looking around for any signs of what she had been up to these past weeks.

And what I saw, was a sure sign that Mohsina was very possibly mourning in her own way. She probably wasn’t even aware of it, but her new disregard for things to be on tip top condition was clearly evident.

Curtains were drawn, blankets were strewn over the couch, and in the middle of the coffee table was the only evidence of  life, with multiple coffee mugs and popcorn bowls.

I knew I was being nosy and presumptuous, but my heart was already feeling like there was a huge void in it, since I knew nothing about her life anymore.

It was so unlike Mohsina, who always made sure she was tidy to a fault, and accessorised with the latest trends because that’s what she did,

I suppose it came with her passion for Instagram. The nature of social media was to get people on trends, and she had always lived for that. These platforms shape us in more ways than we know, and sometimes we’re not even aware of the worldly obsessed messages they were sending us.

To be so simplistic and unbothered was extremely welcomed to me, but under the circumstances, it also made me a bit worried.

Even her dressing had become simpler. No fusses and frills. Plain and simple, with no brands.

It was as if something within her had been altered.

I didn’t have want to make any assumptions but it definitely made me think… How true was it that when the valuable things in life are threatened, then everything else in life loses value? How much is everything else worth when we don’t have peace?

All the fancy cushions, trendy curtains, ornamental pieces and matching throws, meant nothing now that Mohsina had been thrown into a corner where no one was really there for her.

And the Hadith this world is like a woman who is extremely attractive but has no morals or ethics whatsoever, came to mind. It bluffs people with its lister and leads people toward destruction.

It was narrated that Isa AS saw a very old and ugly woman who was full of makeup and jewelry.  He asked her: ‘How many times were you married?’

She replied ‘So many times that I can’t even remember.’

Isa AS said ‘What happened to your husbands, did they die or were you divorced?’

She replied ‘No, I killed them all.’

Isa AS stated ‘How unfortunate your current husband is, for he lives with you and is not cautious that you will do the same to him. (Fadhaail Sadaqaat)

This world. An empty promise, a great lie.

We think that the world can make us happy but when our world is rocked, we see the truth in what really matters.

I turned around as I reached the couch, watching her as she kept a careful distance behind me until I sat down, and then walked to the opposite side of the room, and perched herself on the barstool near the kitchen nook.

“How are you?”

It was all I could say to her, while she watched me back, a stoic expression on her face as she shrugged.

I waited a few minutes, for a response that never came.

“Can you talk to me, please?” I demanded, feeling edgy at how this whole day was turning out. “At least look at me.”

First Rabia and her tantrum about how I needed to be more of a man and stand up to my wife, just because she was feeling insecure about her lies, then the realisation that maybe Mohsina was right about Rabia and I needed to fix things.. and now the hard reality that it may all be harder than I thought.

“How do you think I am, Hamza?” The expression on her face was hard to decipher. A mixture of yearning, sadness, and anger. “Where’s my baby?”

If the guilt was packing a punch before this, now it was like a twisting a knife into my gut.

“I left him with my parents, so we could sort out this mess.”

The amount of responsiveness I was receiving was like I was talking to a wall.

I still couldn’t believe that we were at this place where we didn’t know how to be near each other without feeling angry.

Well, that’s what it looked like.

“I’ll bring him over as soon as we done talking if you want,” I added to soften her up, calming down and taking in a deep breath. “I’ll even grant you those overnight stays you wanted. I just want to talk.”

Her posture was firm and erect, as she sat in the stool, her hands placed on her lap.

“Wow, thanks, Hamzah, that’s so generous,” she said sarcastically, her gaze not wavering from me. “But I don’t see what there is to talk about a marriage that you only contracted out of a sense of duty anyway. Let’s face it, honey… We tried it out, realised we were a mistake, now you can rid yourself of me and my baggage.”

Her voice was dripping with venom, and I sucked my breath in because I knew that she was using my own words against me, and it sucked.

One time. The one time I’d let myself slip, I said something that broke us.

She had warned me. Told me I can’t take back the words, but I didn’t care.

I had messed up. Badly.

I remember hearing a lecture once where the shaykh said Shaytaan will use our good deeds to draw us to bad. Its such a strange statement, but then he went on to explain, the spouse who is tolerant to their respective other, or the daughter-in-law who tactfully deals with a critical mother-in-law, or a mother-in-law who patiently deals with a lazy daughter-in-law… all these people are following a path of goodness and gaining reward.

However, often, a day comes when something pushes you over your precipice, and in a moment of anger, you throw back your patience into that person’s face, or you express favour over them for you tolerance, or some words of gossip about how they’ve wronged you and how much you endure slips out and you badmouth the person… all those days and days of goodness and rewards can be wiped out by few moments of carelessness. This is Shaytaans ploy.

And damn, it was working well.

In anger, I had said things I never meant, but that’s the thing, we never do mean it. But words, once heard, cannot be erased, backspaced or deleted.

There’s a Ḥadīth Rabia had painted in really beautiful calligraphy before her first marriage, that truly deserved to be be written in gold, deserves to be written in gold.

Rasulullah ﷺ said, “Whoever stayed quiet, is saved.”

I wished that I had saved it myself as a daily reminder.

I got up, she following me with her eyes as I moved forward to a seat closer to her, because besides wanting to, it was ridiculous having a serious conversation from the opposite side of the room.

Immediately, her blank, flippant facade faded.

Instead, her entire expression morphed into some kind of aversive reaction.

“Just stay there, please,” she muttered, her voice sounding strained. “Don’t come closer to me.”

Really? Now she was going to punish me. Great.

“We’re still married Mos. Stop acting like we’re boardroom associates,” I rubbed my jaw in frustration, knowing that I’d hit a nerve with her by mentioning her second favourite place to be. At work. “If we’re going to solve anything, we need to have complete honesty, and we need to talk.”

“Fine,” she shot back, obviously not impressed by my references. “You want honesty? The truth is, I can’t stand you sitting nearer to me, because these past few weeks have seriously accelerated my anxiety level, and every time you come close to me, I can feel it shoot up even higher. Like literally. Right in my throat.”

“So now you’re using your anxiety levels as a hiding place?” I was holding back the urge to raise my voice, but I had forgotten how utterly frustrated an argument with my wife could make me. Mohsina had a way of pressing my most unfounded buttons.

“I’m serious, Hamzah,” she retorted, covering her mouth with her hand, almost as if that would shield her from me. “When you’re too close to me, I start feeling physically sick.. almost nauseous. Please. Just. Stop fighting with me on this.”

“Wha- Mos, what on earth are you even saying?”

No response. I moved to the chair closest to her and sat down. And much to my dismay, Mos jumped up and started walking away.

Feeling ridiculous, like some kind of puppy, I followed.

“Mos, can you be reasonable please?”

“STOP FOLLOWING ME.”

She wasn’t yelling, but she wasn’t far from it.

But my patience was dwindling. I had come here with a serious goal in mind. I didn’t expect to find the same grovelling Mohsina who I shut the door on, but this level of snubbing was just unreasonable.

We needed to talk.

I increased the lengths of my strides to catch up with her and grabbed her arm, just before she entered the bedroom.

“Let me go, Hamzah. Please, ” she begged, but I couldn’t.

“Mos, just listen, please.”

I was becoming desperate. The same way thaf she had become the day I had left her.

And while I was thinking of how ironic it was, nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for the succeeding response, as I spun her around to face me, and she immediately pushed me backwards with such a force that I was a little disoriented.

One minute I was speaking, hoping she could see sense and treat me like a human at least, and the very next, I was looking at my wife burst into tears, hold her mouth as she had done those weeks before, storm to her bedroom and lock the door, while I stood in shock in the passageway, wondering what on earth that was all about.

And that’s when I saw the trail of something that resembled… vomit on the floor.

“Mohsina,” I called, my voice a little less aggressive now because seeing her like this, unwell and in tears, was something I couldn’t take.

I could hear her coughing, gagging, and after some silence, soft sobs could heard from behind the door. I wanted to break that door down, take her in my arms, and tell her that I never wanted her to hurt again.

But I couldn’t. Not when I was the source of all her pain.

So instead, I grabbed some paper towels, cleaned up what I could and asked her if she wanted me to help her out.

There was still no reply.

“Mohsina,” I almost whispered, my head against the door when everything had become a little quieter. “Please. Open the door.”

”No.”

Her response was unwavering, despite her probable state.

“I’ll do anything,” I begged, my voice even more gentle. “I just need to talk.”

”Take off your kurta if you want me to come out of here.”

Her voice was stiff and completely formal, despite the connotation of the statement. I felt my ears redden slightly because I really didn’t expect that.

“Mohsina, I-” I started, but she didn’t let me finish.

“And your t-shirt,” her voice cut out again. “Actually, just have a shower. I’ll pass you some clothes. I can’t take that… whatever you’re wearing. That Oud scent you like so much.”

Now, it made sense.

Well, kind of. But it never bothered her before.

“I’m taking you to the doctor early tomorrow,” I said, not believing that she was unwell for so long and she actually never did a thing about it.

”You’re not,” she said, still from behind the door. “I’m perfectly fine. It’s only when I’m around you that I feel like this. Now are you going to scrub off that stench or not?”

She said it like I was stinking.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. At least Mohsina and her attitude was still intact.

”I will, but I want some time with you,” I said strategically. “And I am taking you to the doctor in the morning. Or I’ll call Nani and tell her exactly what’s going on with you. Including the Netflix.”

It was no secret. My wife had her weaknesses. Now and then, when I’d check her phone, I would see the app there. We all have our things that we do. We have to make tawbah, and ask for a way to pull ourselves out of our sins before then take over our hearts.

I could feel her shifting around behind the door, before she settled down again.

I figured that she was probably sitting against it.

And there was nothing else I could do besides slide down with my own back to the door as well, wishing I could see her face as I spoke.

“Rabia and I had a fight,” I said quietly, knowing that she could hear me, and needing to let her know why I was here. “A big one. She is speaking to Faadil. I don’t believe that they are just friends who met randomly and neither do I believe that she never shared things about you with him. I think she’s been very open with him for reasons unknown to me and you know how that makes me angry. I don’t trust him one bit. I don’t trust anything he says. I’m hoping you don’t either.”

There was silence from the other side of the door, but I knew she was listening because of the slight shuffling I could hear.

I wanted an answer but I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it. Maybe I didn’t deserve it.

”I feel like I don’t know who to trust,” I said, hanging my head and closing my eyes. “Every way I turn, there’s been some kind of obstacle. I do know that I owe you an apology for not believing you. I have to be honest. I was shocked and upset, but I know that I crossed a line.”

”Hamzah,” her voice sounded strained. “You don’t owe me anything. I understand that you were just doing what you needed to do, because Liyaket and you were best friends, I understand that you felt indebted to him because Zaid is his child and I was part of the package-“

”Mohsina.”

My voice dipped low as I warned her, hoping she would stop saying all those things that I had said to make me feel like we were nothing.

The thing is, she didn’t understand. We were anything but nothing. We were everything. But so much had happened and now the lines were just so blurry.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

It was all she said, and I didn’t know what else to tell her. My heart was aching for her, with her, but I couldn’t tell her everything on my mind because her and Faadil still happened and I still felt that betrayal. It was just that, right then, knowing that she was here with me now, and not with him… I didn’t feel it so much.

“Go and shower,” her voice said through the door. “I’m going to the lounge. I’ll leave your clothes on the bed. We can talk after.”

Her voice had lost its fire, and I got up slowly, peeling off my kurta and hanging it up in the front while I made my way to the bathroom.

I wasn’t sure what was up with Mohsina, but I made up my mind that I was going to get to the bottom of this. She wasn’t the type who was supposed to be so cut up and broken over a situation. Mohsina was an army. She was strong and feisty. Fierce and determined.

I missed that part of her.

I changed quickly, eager to get back to her and continue our conversation. Coming back to the lounge, I was surprised to see two toasted sandwiches on a plate, waiting for me.

A peace offering? I hoped so.

Maybe not the best outcome here. But it was progress. It was most certainly progress.

I had returned from the ijtima trip that same day, but was forced to storm off the table and come here when Rabia’s comments had become too much for me. In short, I was starving.

I took a seat and watched my wife come closer, half expecting her to retreat, but was pleasantly surprised when she didn’t.

“Cheese and tomato,” she said as she poured us both a glass of water, and I recited Bismillah before taking a sip. “Simple, but my new fave.”

I smiled as I tucked in, enjoying the chillies she had put into it as I ate, stealing glances at her as she nibbled on half a slice.

Something was definitely amiss, and I needed to get to the bottom of it, but I had full faith that it was still going to be okay.

“Sometimes the simple things are the best,” I commented, thinking of how we sometimes aim for big gestures and expensive gifts when peace was priceless. I watched her as she frowned slightly, almost as if she wanted to ask something, but decided to be quiet again.

For a moment, as we sat there, it felt as if no one could touch us. I didn’t want to think of what happened or what was to come. I just wanted to be there, with her, and enjoy the moment.

I didn’t know what was going to happen after.

“We have a lot to talk about,” I said, watching as a strand of hair fell over her face, and I was tempted to reach out and tuck it away. But I didn’t. “Can I bring Zaid tomorrow? He can be here for the night. I’m just hesitant to leave here until we talk this through.”

It was true. I felt that if I had to leave for Zaid, this entire thing would just get postponed. Something would happen that would prevent us from figuring things out. We needed to talk about what happened between us. About how she felt. About whether there was ever a possibility of us reconciling. About what we needed to do from here.

Even if it took the whole night.

Mohsina looked at me, and nodded slowly. She looked slightly deflated, but at least she wasn’t putting a fight up about this.

I already had the plan in my mind. I was going to somehow get us to have a normal grown up conversation. Figure out some things at least.

I was already planning to talk, stay there till the morning, even if it was on the couch, and then take her to the doctor to figure out exactly what was going on with her.

Tomorrow seemed worlds away. As much I wanted to speak about anything and everything, I knew that if we had to start arguing, I would have to leave, and that was the last thing I wanted.

I couldn’t even think about aborting this mission without feeling like scum.

From the blurry lines… now, everything was suddenly looking so much clearer. And maybe I was being overly optimistic, but I was quite certain that tomorrow everything would make sense. That the hope I had invested in us was not completely unfounded.

I reached out as Mohsina watched me, touching the top of her hand with mine, watching her look at me, as if she was startled.

Hold on, my eyes were telling hers.

I don’t know how to, hers were saying back.

Hope.

I didn’t have to say it. My eyes were full of it.

A beautiful analogy.

H.O.P.E.

Hold on.

Pain ends.

And it did end. Well, at least for now, it did. I held on to a sliver of hope, and my heart was already so much fuller.

Nothing was certain in this life, but all I knew was that for tonight, the pain had dulled, and it was going to be okay.

Tomorrow would be another day, and I was just ‘hoping’ that we would have enough hope to pull us through.

---

Sunnah of Entertaining guests

Hosting and entertaining guests is indeed a significant deed in Islam. The first man to entertain a guest was Nabi Ibrahim (‘alayhis salam).

This quality is directly linked to the level of one’s Iman.

As seen in the above narration, Rasulullah (sallallahu ‘alayhi wasallam) coupled honouring the guest with Belief in Allah and the Day of Qiyamah, which are two fundamental aspects of our Din.

Someone asked Ali (RA): “How much was the Sahaba’s love for the Prophet (Sallalahu Alaihi wa Sallam)”

He replied: “By Allah! To us The Prophet (Sallalahu Alaihi wa Sallam) was dearer to us than our riches our children and our mothers, and was more cherishable than a drink of water at the time of severest thirst.”

SubhaanAllah… what perfect imaan they had… May Allah enable us to practise..💕

#RevivetheSunnah

#RevivetheSunnahofbeingGrateful

#RevivetheSunnahofQur’aanTilaawat

#ReviveSunnahofDuaa

#SunnahofMaintainingTies

#RevivetheSunnahofSadaqah

#RevivetheSunnahofGivingGifts

#RevivetheSunnahofGoodAkhlaaq

#RevivetheSunnahbeforeSleeping

#RevivetheSunnahofGuardingtheGaze

#RevivetheSunnahofLickingtheFingers

#RevivetheSunnahofMiswaak

#RevivetheSunnahofEnteringtheToilet

#RevivetheSunnahofSpeakingGood

#RevivetheSunnahofUsingtheRighthand

When things Work Out

Bismihi Ta’ala

Mohsina

Part 91

Sometimes what didn’t work out for you, really worked out for you.

Okay. I know I sound looney. But when I looked at everything in my life, and how difficult it was to actually get hold of some things, I knew that I was right.

Nothing in this life is perfect. When I cry or lose or bruise, so long as I am still alive, nothing is ultimate. So long as there is still a tomorrow, a next moment, there is hope, there is change, and there is redemption.

What is lost is not lost forever.

So what I always wanted to know was – in answering the question of whether what is lost comes back, I recalled the most beautiful examples that I had read in the books of Islamic history.

Did Musaa AS return to his mother? Did Hajar (AS) return to Ibrahim (AS)? Did Yusuf (AS) return to his father? Did health, wealth and children return to Nabi Ayoub AS?

And yes. Yes, to all. From these examples we learn a powerful and beautiful lesson: what is taken by Allah Ta’ala is never lost.

Being able to say “Alhamdulillah for everything” and “It is what it is” was such a powerful mindset, that when you adapt it, there’s nothing more effective to get you through everything life has offered.

And while Ramadhaan had come as a cleansing, the month after had been a bitter battle of sorts between my nafs and every challenge that I had ever faced, and completely forgot the value of Allahs gifts to me.

The restlessness, the unease. Although my whole life, I was the lucky one, the one who had it together, the one who knew all the answers, the one who had peace.

There’s something wrong when we can’t perform good deeds anymore, due to our own silly hang ups. And that was where I was headed. It was a slow but steady road to destruction, and I couldn’t even seem to take the detour.

Earth to Mos. Are u stil alive and kicking? 

She had included Jameela in on the chat, and though my sister had been a little quiet the past few days, I expected it. She and Zubair had escaped to some villa with sea view and signal wasn’t always optimal when she was out.

I glared at the message from Maahira, feeling only a little annoyed that it wasn’t anything Hamzah related.

I typed out the message with only a tiny sardonic grin on my face.

Me: Pretty much alive. Unfortunately.

Jameela: ah Mos, we love you. You don’t need a man when you have us. *kissey smiley emoji*

I smiled, despite the aching in my chest.

Me: I don’t think Zubair will appreciate that. He might want to start using those weapons again (on me) if I threaten to steal back my sister.

Jameela: *rolling eyes emoji* you’re right. And I love him for that. We’re going to test the icy waters. Catch you guys later.

Jameela has left the chat.

Me: Ob. Sessed. 

Maahi: Duh. Mos, why don’t u come and visit me here? Bring your bro and take some time off. I’m waiting to spoil you with all the yummy treats you need to fatten you up and keep those blues away. I’m worried abt u. 

Enough pity-partying. Time to move on.

Me: Hows Mr Chunkster?

It was the only response I had for her that would shut her up and make her swoon instead.

Mr Chunkster, aka Chunks, whose actual name was Ismail, was Maahi’s Samoosa run that had gone very wrong and then very right. She didn’t like him at first because of superficial aspects. She found him a tad bit overweight and a lot but over bubbly, and judged him because of it. And then, she met him again at a work thing, and somehow, their bickering about the other had turned to some kind of conversation and she agreed that maybe there was something there.

Chunks is good, and completely pulling all the moves right now to get into my good books, how’s Mr Tiger?

I know you’ve been seeing him so it’s no use you hiding your shenanigans from me. I’m the only gal u have so spill, what in the world is going on with the 2 of u?

Not the response I was looking for. And wait, what?

I typed a response as quick as I can.

Faadil and I have a strictly professional working relationship. There are no hidden agendas. And what do you mean, Chunks is good? Are you guys like an it…

I’m wasn’t too sure how I felt about that. This was way too fast for me.

Maahira: honestly, Mos, 4 someone who passed their board exams the first time around, u r exceptionally dense. The man doesn’t want professional with u. He’s after you for the whole package and u cannot see it.

I sighed, knowing I had to differ in her opinion. Lesley (who was now Aaliya) had the same opinion, when I had met her the previous week, after she had messaged me about the situation at hand, wanting the full low down about what was going on. I had humoured her because I wanted to know what she knew and everything that was going on in her firm too. She had filled me in the office news and given me some hope too. To see the change in her after these months of marriage, after she had married Muslim guy from HR, and then started taking Qur’ān classes and learning so much about Deen, was something that made me feel like a fraud. It was like she was ten steps ahead of me.

Me: Im telling you that F does not have any ulterior motives. Not with me, at least. He’s being absolutely gentlemanly.

I wanted to add, unlike Hamzah; who acted like we never met before and he might have seen me on the underside of his running shoe.

I mean, also, I would know if Faadil was really pulling the moves. I had been to the office more than a dozen times in the past few weeks and if Faadil wanted to pull a move, I know he would have already.

He was most definitely not the slow type.

And I had just seen him a few days before. He had very politely stood outside the board room, his daunting figure hovering, watching me from a good distance while I filed away the last of the paperwork that dropped charges against me.

Even though he was no longer officially employed by Hammonds, somehow, he still found a way to frequent the place without anyone kicking him out. I wasn’t even sure what was going on. All I knew was that he had somehow convinced them that I was innocent and I was no longer guilty.

“Hey.”

His voice was  flat and unfamiliar. I hadn’t actually spoken to him since everything went down. Yes, I saw him every day, but it was in passing. Always by the way.

And that’s the way it should stay, I reminded myself. Keep your distance.

I mean, it was awkward because besides the fact that the last time he was down on his knees, asking me to marry him, but also, he was the sole reason for my marriage having fallen apart.

“Hey, everything okay?”

I nodded, hoping that he would turn and leave. Chatting to him felt disloyal to Hamzah, even though said husband wasn’t exactly grovelling at my feet, I didn’t want to give him reason not to.

“Mohsina, I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for all this has caused.”

I froze momentarily, a little shocked that an apology was actually coming out of Faadil’s mouth. I definitely didn’t expect that. Not today.

“What’s done is done,” I said flatly, still keeping my gaze down consciously. “I suppose now that my name is nearly cleared, we can move forward.”

I allowed myself a glance at him, seeing an assistant entering the room now, and the way he watched her walk, and taking some comfort in the fact that we weren’t alone, as he gave a curt nod, and then took a long look at her legs before looking back at me.

Could he be less of a perv at least? 

“I’m starting a company. Something small but well networked. It would be good-“

”Faadil,” I said, cutting him off mid sentence, knowing that he was offering me a job but not needing any handouts. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He nodded again, stuffing his hands in his pockets awkwardly, but getting the message. In his eyes, I saw something I never saw before, besides the obvious infatuation with Miss Long Legs.

Was it compassion? No. Understanding. He understood why I couldn’t. And he was okay with it.

And though I didn’t want to tell him this, I knew that I didn’t have to worry because it was just the week before that I got the message from another company telling me that they got my number from Lesley and they were looking for part time applicants to take on positions in their firm. It was an older firm with a new faculty, looking to employ part time CAs, and it seemed perfect for me.

I knew that I should thank Lesley at least, for hooking me up. She had good contacts and I didn’t realise that she would work so fast.

”How is the baby?”

I couldn’t believe that Faadil actually asked about a child.

Small talk. Faadil was never one for that. He was also not one for kids. He was always convinced that he would never really want one of his own, unless he was forced to get one for purposes of having someone to inherit his swindled fortune. I didn’t quite believe that he could be so business like even in those aspects of his life. I wasn’t sure why I had ever wanted to marry him.

He was ambling around, not quite knowing what to do after I rejected his offer. And of course I couldn’t.

“Not much of a baby anymore,” I said with a hint of a smile, still not meeting his gaze, thinking of Zaid and his new wobbles and uncharacteristic conversation. “Walking. Talking. I see him every day- literally cannot live without him.”

I could see Faadil’s posture tense up slightly as I spoke about Zaid and how he had taken over my life, and I assumed it had to do with the fact that him coming into my life had changed what we had, and made it what it was.  Still, I didn’t have any regrets.

And I knew that I was talking a bit too much but I had to make it clear that there was a reason why I couldn’t take a full time job. I didn’t want to miss out on all of that, even if I was missing out on a lot anyway. I wanted to take Zaid home for a night a week, but since Hamzah refused to budge from our arrangement, I knew it was futile to ask. He was being difficult and he seemed to enjoy it.

I loved Zaid more than anything in this world and leaving work for him was the best thing I did.

Leaving Faadil? Well. That too. Especially since it seemed like him and long legs had a thing. I just felt bad now that there was a 0.01 percent chance that he had gotten hurt in the process. It was obvious that when he came back to propose then he had some regrets. I wasn’t sure whether I could ever believe that he had loved me, even remotely.

Now, well… he seemed pretty much over it, and probably onto other things, or rather, people, and it gave me some relief.

Now that Zaid was growing up and I was probably venturing into unknown territories with Hamzah, I knew I might have to think of work again, but most definitely not with Faadil.

”If you need anything,” Faadil’s voice said, and I looked up to see him watching me intently, hands still in pocket, almost as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them, actually looking slightly edgy now. Maybe he was thinking of Long Legs. “Anything. You know you can still ask me right?”

I breathed in, immediately relieved that he didn’t hold any of our past against me. He was being friendly, which was not exactly good, but at least it was not suggestive, and I appreciated it. I gave him a tight smile, closing the folder I was holding and reaching for my bag to leave.

As always, I was there for necessity. Not there for a scandal or his comfort.

”Thanks.”

And that was it. No more small talk that was unnecessary. I was ready to head home. He had nodded, and turned and left, and I knew that Maahira was exaggerating because there was nothing remotely suggestive about the one real conversation we had. The only thing suggestive was the way he ogled the PA‘s legs.

And that’s when I realised that I still loved Hamzah. I know that it sounded sad and pathetic, but I did. He was a hard nut to crack, but in all fairness, maybe I should have tried again. Maybe I should have gone back to him, and begged him to take me back.

But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t bring myself to forget what he told me. I just couldn’t believe that he thought we were a mistake. The one person who I thought believed in me and loved me for me, was the one who had very blatantly said that our marriage was a sham and he only married me because it made sense for Zaid at the time.

That stung. It hurt a lot.

And the pain was something that pierced my soul to an extent that after I had seen Zaid, and got back to the flat, it was really hard to forget. Ramadhaan had gone by, and I took refuge in Duaa and Qur’ān while it lasted. Now that it was over, it wasn’t that easy. I was slipping. Badly.

It started with one movie, that I decided to watch on a whim, when I was missing Hamzah was too much for words, and then eased into one of those Korean series were my new obsession.

The thing with these types of traps is that from one thing, you just slide into another and another and the list doesn’t end.

We are repeatedly asked in the Quraan Majeed to ponder and reflect, as this is the means to recognize Allah Ta‘ala. However, the science and technology that man uses to bring pleasure and entertainment into his life, has unfortunately taken over his heart and switched off his mind, hence his ability to ponder and reflect becomes paralyzed.

I didn’t realise how these things sucked you in, until you were hooked. I didn’t even let myself think about how I was sitting and nurturing my smartphone instead of my son, who I should have been trying every effort to get more time with him.

I even ignored my phone for the hours that I sat on my laptop, snacking on popcorn and ignoring the familiar feeling of an unsettled tummy that sometimes annoyed me since Hamzah had left. I figured that it had to do with anxiety. The one time I had brought up my Eid breakfast was when Hamzah answered the door, and if that wasn’t enough to tip me off that it was all related to him and the hold that he had over me that made me increasingly edgy, well, I don’t know what was.

I sighed, hoping that Hamzah and his mother didn’t think anything else when I had to rush to the bathroom.

Oh, and damn that stupid stomach bug that didn’t want to leave. It had thrown me completely off course. Also, after fasting, Eid day had been one day when I had probably over-eaten, and I knew that my stomach was probably revolting because of it.

And now, yet again, it was probably revolting because I hadn’t put any real food into it. I just didn’t seem to have an appetite after everything. My body was feeling like a bus had ridden over it, and I knew it was exhaustion combined with intense anxiety and all I wanted to do was huddle up on the couch and sleep till I forgot all the problems of the world. I wanted to forget the past. The promises. The hope I had held onto only because the man I loved had convinced me that hope was never a mistake.

I fell off to sleep with those thoughts flooding my mind, wishing that I could forget it all.

When I woke up, scrambling to read Asr because there were literally 10 minutes before Maghrib salaah, I couldn’t quite believe that just a month ago I had been an almost perfect Muslimah. I made a rushed whudhu, an even more rushed salaah, and spent a good ten minutes kicking myself for my negligence.

Negligence. It was that sole factor. It led to sins, and I knew it – I had been so complacent, but I just couldn’t seem to help myself because I was slipping deeper and deeper into indifference. I made a firm intention to stop being also negligent. To focus more on Qur’ān. To be punctual and mindful of salaah. I had to start somewhere, but I was just feeling so low, all of a sudden.

It was a good half hour after I read maghrib, made myself a cheese and tomato sandwich (because it was the only thing I seemed to be able to keep down), and then checked my phone to see if the lawyer had messaged with any ho. That was when I saw the messages from Saaliha, which was what Jameela was telling me to reply to me a few days ago when I last spoke to her, and Nani, who was surprisingly still messaging me with a very obvious intention.

I was still sitting in half oblivion, diligently fighting my nafs, but also really wanting to use Netflix anymore to drown out that voice in my head that kept going over and over everything that had gone wrong.

I wanted to be good. I wanted to attend the taaleem that Nani had been nagging me to come back to.

I was relieved that she was still WhatsApping me, even if it was only to nag me about Taaleem and getting onto Zoom for the online course she and I had once started, but I figured that she would rather keep tabs on me than lose me altogether, and it kind of made sense.

I wanted to stay clean, and just avoid all distractions, but I just couldn’t seem to pull myself out of the hole I was in. I had sunken into a place that was difficult to crawl out of, so instead, I turned to social media to drown my sorrows, hoping that seeing everyone else enjoying their lives may give me some comfort.

I could almost picture Nani’s face as she screamed at me to stop being such a ‘pakka Shaytaan’. And on top of that, she kept sending me those typical inspiration like images that made you want to sit on your musalla the whole day and cry your eyes out. I mean, at least I wanted to. I never thought Nani would get what I was feeling, after all her telling me off, but somehow, she was the only one who did.

I missed her. I actually missed Nani.

She made me understand that these were tests. We always assume that all the tests and challenges we are faced with are because of Allah’s wrath….
Do we ever stop to think that perhaps it’s our Creator’s mercy upon us? That he’s trying to tell us something?
Often we miss the signs that Allah Ta’ala sends because we’re blinded by what is already distracting us.

And I didn’t even realise what I was doing as I flipped through previous messages that Nani first sent me, angry and upset as ever, and then calmed down slightly as the days went by and we kind of forgot how much I had messed up, but as my head jolted to the doorbell ringing, the tears that wet my cheeks felt a little more intrusive than normal. I had let everyone down.

I knew why she was doing this. All Nani had was hope to hold onto. At least she had that.

Hope, he had said, was never a mistake. I couldn’t help but feel that he had lied. I wanted to forget that last day. The love that I felt, whilst my heart was brimming over with it. I wanted to forget that there was someone who once stole so much of me, that now that he had left, I felt like a shell of a person who just existed.

I usually never cried. Never. But since Hamzah left, it was all I wanted to do.

And knowing that I barely got visitors, and as I shifted off the couch, I could feel myself almost calibrating as I headed to the door, trying to figure out exactly what I was feeling.

I didn’t even think it strange that they had bypassed the main gate.

I pulled open the door slightly, keeping the chain in place as I peeped out, nearly having a heart attack as I saw Hamzah’s face in the tiny gap I had looked out from.

He didn’t waste a second, probably in case I decided to shut the door right in his face. After his last words to me, I was tempted, but something in my heat was literally holding me back, so I stood there, frozen, just staring at him, wondering if he was real or not.

His face was serious as he looked at me, his brown eyes shining with emotion, and I could almost see the absolute caution that he approached me with, almost as if he was afraid of what it would bring. I didn’t even hear him the first time he spoke.

It was the second time he said it, that I really processed, my heart contracting as he said it.

”Mos, did you hear me?” His voice said, in that usual soft tone that pulled at my heart strings. “Can I come in? We need to talk.”

---

Sunnah of Entertaining guests

Hosting and entertaining guests is indeed a significant deed in Islam. The first man to entertain a guest was Nabi Ibrahim (‘alayhis salam).

This quality is directly linked to the level of one’s Iman.

As seen in the above narration, Rasulullah (sallallahu ‘alayhi wasallam) coupled honouring the guest with Belief in Allah and the Day of Qiyamah, which are two fundamental aspects of our Din.

Someone asked Ali (RA): “How much was the Sahaba’s love for the Prophet (Sallalahu Alaihi wa Sallam)”

He replied: “By Allah! To us The Prophet (Sallalahu Alaihi wa Sallam) was dearer to us than our riches our children and our mothers, and was more cherishable than a drink of water at the time of severest thirst.”

SubhaanAllah… what perfect imaan they had… May Allah enable us to practise..💕

#RevivetheSunnah

#RevivetheSunnahofbeingGrateful

#RevivetheSunnahofQur’aanTilaawat

#ReviveSunnahofDuaa

#SunnahofMaintainingTies

#RevivetheSunnahofSadaqah

#RevivetheSunnahofGivingGifts

#RevivetheSunnahofGoodAkhlaaq

#RevivetheSunnahbeforeSleeping

#RevivetheSunnahofGuardingtheGaze

#RevivetheSunnahofLickingtheFingers

#RevivetheSunnahofMiswaak

#RevivetheSunnahofEnteringtheToilet

#RevivetheSunnahofSpeakingGood

#RevivetheSunnahofUsingtheRighthand

Exposed Agendas

Bismihi Ta’ala

Rabia

Part 90

I didn’t mean for it to get that far.

Okay, maybe I did. Maybe I meant for it to go very far.

But don’t judge me, okay. My heart wasn’t as black as it seemed, or at least, that’s what I thought.

Just hear me out, because it’s only natural that different people see the same things from many different angles and perspectives. And okay, maybe my different is a little unorthodox, but it made good sense to me until it didn’t anymore, but by then… it was too late to do anything about it.

You see, how I see it was… for me, Hamzah was always good. Maybe not always the best. But good.

A good guy. A nice person, most times, until he went through his bad patch at Hammonds. Someone who some of my nicest friends even had silent crushes on as we grew up, and though he was oblivious, he wasn’t ever the type of guy to hurt or take advantage of someone on purpose. He knew his limits and where he needed to stop.

And even though I would never tell him that he wasn’t exactly a complete kachra to his face, it was no secret that at twenty-three, before he had tied the knot, was one of the few good decent ones left.

I still had a few friends in mind that could have worked for him. Even if Hamzah didn’t pick one of them, he was then supposed to so the normal thing and surprise us with a nice, homely girl that one of his friends wives may know who could actually take care of him.

You know that ayat that states that good women and for good men and vice versa? I justified it, knowing that there had to be no other way. Saving Hamzah from an ill-suited partner was my duty.

All I was doing was showing my love for my brother. I wanted the best for him. I wanted him to be happy. What he didn’t know when he chose Mohsina, was that she could never make him happy, and that’s precisely what I wanted to show him.

It was meant innocent at first. A little bit of snooping and posting. The defaming post from my spamming account was meant to be deleted after a while. The additional comments I posted from two other accounts were just a little catalyst. It had been a small scandal, but it had unsettled my sister-in-law. And it worked, for what I needed at that time.

She was thrown. I knew that Hamzah didn’t care about social media, but he thought that he loved her, so where she hurt, he would also naturally get upset, but no one knew it was me.

It was just a small interference. But posting that had opened up a channel for me. One person had messaged, promising to give me the scoop on how Mohsina had lost her job, for me to when I realised that it may have not been true.

And then, meeting up with my lawyer friend had opened up a door for me. She happened to see Faadil stop by for a latte at the coffee shop we were at near Melrose Arch and meeting him was something that I never actually anticipated happening till that point. When we had spoke, and he heard that I was Hamzah’s sister, his eyes lit up in a way that I didn’t understand. The fact that he wanted to get back at Mohsina had thrilled me in a way that I couldn’t quite explain. It’s not that I wanted to see her crumble. I just wanted the social media diva part of her to know that there was no guaranteeing that her entire feed and influencer profile that she spent so long perfecting was going to last forever.

Also, now that it was probably well on the way to going as planned and Faadil and Mohsina were possibly patching some things up at least, I found myself feeling like a dead loss. I felt like an extra branch, drifting in the wind, not quite sure which way to sway. I hadn’t heard from Faadil, who had become my new BFF for the time I was helping him to get somewhere in his new aspiration of gaining Mohsina’s trust again, and I had a feeling that I probably wasn’t going to anytime soon. His agenda was already sorely exposed to me.

I sighed, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. How I hadn’t foreseen this minor factor, that was that once I had broken Hamzah and Mohsina apart, the link with Mohsina and I would also be severed, which meant that Faadil would simply not need me or what I could offer anymore.

I tapped out a message to one of my instafriends, wondering if they were free to meet up the next week for coffee. I desperately needed a diversion and some good foodie pics. I also needed to spill my story to convince myself that I wasn’t as bad as I was feeling. To assure myself that I wasn’t as foul as I thought I was.

I wasn’t always a bad person. Somehow, that just happened. Maybe I had forgotten what it was like to happy and contented. Maybe I was being ungrateful for my mediocre life. Or maybe, I had just lost hope after everything that had gone down with my marriage and the love that I was so desperately trying to hang onto, despite accepting that maybe I had also messed up a bit.

And now, I found myself stuck in the hope that perhaps I would somehow still be able to overcome the pit I’d sunken into, even when it seemed like it was bottomless.

“Rabia, can you put down that phone, and go and do some reading at least. It’s Eid day. It’s not acceptable you sitting here with the phone all alone, ignoring everyone else.”

As usual, it was my mother, going bayaan-mode on me, and I knew that the only valid response I would have for her was an eye-roll.

She didn’t get it. I needed something to fill my life up, and social media made me happy. Seeing people happy, made me happy. Even though it sometimes made me grumpy and disagreeable, somehow, that also made me happy.

“The phone doesn’t go down,” Hamzah said to her as he finished his meal and walked past me to go outside, and I could already see him search in his pockets for a lighter. Forever story. “It’s attached to her fingers, Ma.”

“Just like your damn cigarettes,” I shot back, while Hamzah tut-tutted and my mother gave me the stink eye.

“Rabia,” my molther hissed on cue. “We have visitors. You lucky they arent close by. I keep telling you to watch your language. You waste so much of time on your phone, don’t you realise how important this time is? You don’t even have to worry about a husband or any of those things, but you don’t realise how important this time is to just throw it away in useless pursuits.”

Oh my goodness, it was that lecture again.

“I don’t have to worry about a husband because he ran away with another woman, mother,” I said, my face as deadpan as I could manage.

My mothers face, on the contrary, did the whole disgusted and outraged thing, and then I knew where I was headed in this talk.

“Everything happens for a reason,” she said, shaking her head, and definitely not falling for my pity party. Given, I’d had quite a few in the past few months. “I know it seems so unfair, but you don’t realise how much you have going for you. You’re healthy, you are intelligent and you have all this time on your hands because you don’t have to worry about running household yet. You young girls have way too much of free time on your hands. I think I need to get rid of the helper and actually let you learn life the hard way.”

Oh great. It was the don’t-you-realise-how-lucky-you-are lecture, only, I didn’t feel lucky at all. I was the one who had to deal with divorce stigma, the third wheel and the other woman who didn’t deserve to be the woman because apparently I wasn’t worthy of it.

I failed at everything in my life. Marriage. Studies. Friends. The one time I ran a household, I thought I was doing okay, until I was divorced for not being the right kind of woman.

“Don’t give me that look,” my mother said, her voice dropping as my Masie entered the kitchen. “You have so much of time on your hands. Do something. There are so many classes you can go for. Tafseer? Qur’ān classes? It doesn’t even have to be Deeni. What about sewing. Or knitting? Cooking?
Do something, Rabia.”

”No thanks,” I shot back, not liking the bayaan mode but also knowing that she may be a little obsessed with household chores because that was all my mother did.

I mean, who cares if I could run a household or not? I did everything for he-whose-name-shall-not-be-mentioned and he stabbed me in the back with his infidelity.

Bibi Masie had a twinkle in her eye and Zaid in her arms, and seeing him was already enough for me to want to stop moping and cyber stalking people and rather pinch his chubby cheeks.

I put my phone down and grabbed him, blowing raspberries on his neck until he was forced to giggle. He was the only person I really liked here. Oh, and Uthman, because he stayed out of my business and didn’t judge me when I sat on my phone the whole day.

Small people were so much easier to please. Adulting was a huge pain in the behind.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but did you guys hear that bayaan about how we are growing our kids into spoilt adults who will be incapable of running a household and living independent lives?”

Oh my gawd, Masie was onto another bayaan. She wasn’t even done.

“Like every kid of age is living in this fantasy world – thinking life is one big fairy tale, with no awareness of what real life entails. It’s all these instagram stories, this illusion that makes people think that life is one huge dream world.”

My mother was nodding and lapping it up as Bibi Masie gave her the lowdown about how people were fighting about it and saying that it was sexist when it fact it refers to both our younger male and female generations who are so lazy and incapable of basic household tasks that it is embarrassing. Take away was becoming the new household cooking and the Barakah in the home was basically non-existent because there was no awareness of what was expected of the people of the household.

My mother was nodding and shaking her head at all the appropriate times, blatantly glancing at me from time to time, as if trying to show me exactly how useless I was as a housewife, and that was probably the reason why I was the the D-word.

And I beg to differ. Maybe it was debatable. Okay, so I didn’t always know how to run a household. But I did try. Being the only daughter gave me a good chance at being spoilt, but being married to an ogre was a reality that shook me. I didn’t want to relive how much I had failed. What I had maybe done wrong. Maybe my divorce was actually more to do with my inability to run a house properly and some other stuff too and not so much about how attractive the other woman was. Maybe my husband just had another agenda that I had mistakenly exposed when I married him.

I grabbed Zaid and left the room, not wanting to dwell and happy that Mohsina had left him with us again that morning, after her puking incident, remembering that my mother had said that she was sick gave me an idea. It meant that I could finally have something valid to message Faadil about, and not sound like I was desperate for his conversation.

And just as I was about to pick up my phone and ask Faadil whether Mohsina had been sick at any point when she had come into the office, the doorbell that rang was kind of unexpected right then.

Being Eid day, it wasn’t like it was unexpected. My mother was obsessed with having visitors, as much as I abhorred it, because to welcome people into our home was like her life ambition.

The Mehmaan talk that Ma and her always have was starting to get on my nerves already. All I wanted to do was sit in peace and enjoy my free time.

I mean, who had the time to entertain guests, feed them, and then see them to the door these days? My Ma and Dadi had always stressed it, but it was so extra and old-fashioned to wait on people who could do things for themselves. Back in the day, all that stuff was normal, but now with cell phones and WhatsApp, there really was no need for all that admin.

Sayyiduna Abu Hurayrah (radiyallahu ‘anhu) reported that Rasulullah (sallallahu ‘alayhi wasallam) said:

‘Whosoever believes in Allah and the Last Day should honour his guest.’

(Sahih Bukhari, Hadith: 601

“Can you please check who it is?”

My mother was calling from the kitchen, and I assumed that I was the only person she would take advantage of right then. I mean, that’s what I was there for, right? The rejected one.
I didn’t have a job or any real tasks to do, so I might as well be the damn butler.

I sighed as I plopped Zaid on the floor with a toy, knowing I wouldn’t win the argument anyway, hoping he would stay there while I quickly checked the intercom. It was only after I answered that I smelt the cigarette stench behind me, and I knew Hamzah was behind me to see who it was, but I was already halfway through the task to give it up.

Plus, it was a huge delivery of flowers and I simply wasn’t just going to leave without seeing who it was from.

“I got it,” I hissed at my brother. “Zaid’s in the lounge with his hammer toy. Check on him.”

Hamzah and his disgusting stench retreated into the next room, while I unlocked the gate, my sense already overwhelmed by the deliciously aromatic scent of the lilies that were bunched together with multiple other gorgeous blooms. I loved flowers. Loved getting them. Loved receiving them. I loved how they made me feel. How they made my heart burst with happiness.

And I was so enamoured by the gorgeous bunch as I placed it on the counter and looked for the card, that maybe my mind was already going into overdrive, hoping and wishing that this was my reward for all my patience and endurance and I finally gotten.

I was living in the dream that someone had finally realised my worth and sent me flowers to prove it, and lo and behold, as I pulled the card out from the two flowers it was stuck between, I guess was I was a little overwhelmed to actually take note of what I was saying.

It was a simple Eid message, a greeting with wishing you all an amazing day, and though the greeting sounded a little generic and impersonal, I knew that the sending name wouldn’t disappoint.

At the end, it simply said:

Love from

Fardil and Family 

And my heart was already bursting with pride and appreciation (not with love because I knew that he was hung up over my ex-sister-in-law) but still feeling very much impressed by this big show, that I couldn’t help but murmur blissfully to myself.

“I can’t believe he remembered me.”

“Who did?”

“Faadil,” I said without thinking. “After so-“

Shit. Shit shit shit.

It was Hamzah and I was so shocked at seeing his name, albeit misspelled, probably by the florist who packed the flowers, that I didn’t even realise that Hamzah had come up behind me with Zaid in his arms.

And call it twinstinct, but somehow, even without looking at my twin brothers face, I already knew that he was extremely, irrevocably pissed off right then.

Just catching a glimpse of his reddening ears was enough to get me stuttering and stumbling over my mistaken words, in a poor attempt to erase the past few minutes.

”It’s not- I didn’t mean that guy- you know, the one who was in the office, Hamzah- Faadil, I mean, the one I’m talking about…”

I didn’t even know what I was saying.

My jumbled up words were falling on Hamzah’s reddened ears and the more I said, ten more stormy his face got. And oh my word, I knew I was in deep trouble, because there was barely any way that he was going to believe me.

“How the hell do you know Faadil?!”

His tone was even but definitely intimidating as he watched me, his stare a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

“I don’t!” I said, a little too quickly, holding up my hands, and then placing them down again, not knowing what else to say. “I mean, which Faadil? It’s not like there’s only one Faadil in the -“

”Rabia.”

His tone was so menacing that even Zaid stopped slurping on his own fingers for all of five seconds while Hamzah’s eyes bored into mine.

My silence was all he needed to confirm what we both already knew.

Hamzah’s head hung now, as he shook his head, turning around hastily while he stopped to dump Zaid in a passing Saaliha’s arms, just before he stalked up the stairs, while I tried to maintain a poker face.

Where he was going, I don’t know. What I did know was that he probably had a lot to figure out now that I had more or less admitted to being an accomplice to whatever Faadil had done. And I was. I was, and I knew it. The thing was, I wasn’t even that sorry about it. All I felt was a little regretful that I had revealed myself so easily.

Saaliha was watching us both, her eyes slightly bulging as she processes Hamzah’s inaudible hissy fit, and then immediately looked at the bunch in flowers in my hand.

“Is that from my sister?”

I stood there, my entire stance completely frozen for a minute, as I wondered why she would ever think her sister would send that. And then it clicked, because as always, Saaliha’s family always sent something for our Eid table every Eid, and oh-my-word, I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.

Fareeha and Aadil. Far and Aadil. Oh crap. That was why it said family. Fardil. I could only expect that stupid celebrity type nickname from Saaliha’s looney sister… And the message was so generic… so of course it made sense.

The entire thing was completely screwed up, and I locked my gaze on Saaliha, knowing that my goodie two shoes sister-in-law was way too unassuming to ever conspire against me, but helpless against everything this would bring.

Hamzah took two hours to re-emerge from the room, even knowing that everyone was there waiting for him.

And knowing that I could do nothing more, I buried my nose in my phone for the rest of the night, catching up with friends Eid outfits and double tapping on plate settings, even though my tummy was completely revolted by the thought of what had happened earlier that day.

My mother continued nagging, and I couldn’t put my phone away any longer. Well, sue me while I escape the messed up reality for a bit. Even though we all do it in one form or the other, I knew it was time for me to also check in on how the plan that Faadil and I had worked out was actually going.

I needed to know more. If Mohsina was actually buying it. If anything had worked. If me chatting to Faadil, and if Hamzah finding out, was all worth it. I was panicking inside, but I forced myself e to breathe and calm down. After all, there was nothing else that he knew besides the fact that I knew Faadil. That alone wasn’t an incriminating fact, and I knew that I had been really careful and deleted all evidence of my involvement in the whole necklace saga too.

It took a few days for Hamzah to say a word to me, and I still hadn’t received a reply from Faadil either. I pretended like I didn’t care about either. I was pretty much in the dark, and I hated it.

I had tried to convince myself that my entire existence didn’t depend on that. I was way past Hamzah’s stupid tantrums too. I still believed that I had done him a favour by getting Mohsina out of all our lives.

After all, she didn’t truly love him. Aren’t we all attracted to people because of superficial aspects anyway? Money, looks, what status they may represent. Everyone had their own agendas, and they were pretty transparent here.

For Hamzah, he probably just liked her pretty features and ability to swindle him where no one else could. For Mohsina, her agenda was only Zaid and my brothers generosity in footing the bills for her high flying lifestyle. It’s precisely what made her say yes to him, and the sooner he saw that, the better it would be for them both.

He would probably move on and find a better mother for Zaid anyway. The way she carried on, I found it hard to believe that she really cared about them both.

It was a few days later when he was leaving for the ijtima, and I wanted to tell him that he rather not go. I mean, what was the use of going for it when he had all this dirt in his heart, but there was some distant part of me that was actually stopping me from lashing out at him and wanting to strangle him.

I didn’t realise that the dirt that had been building up on my heart was so thick that it was already ingrained on mine. All I could see was how stupid Hamzah was beeing, and as he rolled his bag to the door, glanced at me briefly, and I wanted to strangle him again for the next words he said.

”I don’t know what you were playing at, Rabia, but when I get back, I expect you to have contacted Mohsina and let her know exactly what happened with my old boss.”

And with that, he greeted my parents, turned his back, and left me narrowing my eyes at him in utter exasperation.

I had already made my mind up that I would never do it. There was no way I was ever going to be blackmailed into talking to Mohsina. She was the one who had caused all this.

There was no way that I would ever admit defeat. What I didn’t know was that when Hamzah returned a week later, finding me still in an unfazed state, my deepest secrets were going to be explosively exposed in a way I didn’t quite expect…

---

Sunnah of Entertaining guests

Hosting and entertaining guests is indeed a significant deed in Islam. The first man to entertain a guest was Nabi Ibrahim (‘alayhis salam).

This quality is directly linked to the level of one’s Iman.

As seen in the above narration, Rasulullah (sallallahu ‘alayhi wasallam) coupled honouring the guest with Belief in Allah and the Day of Qiyamah, which are two fundamental aspects of our Din.

Someone asked Ali (RA): “How much was the Sahaba’s love for the Prophet (Sallalahu Alaihi wa Sallam)”

He replied: “By Allah! To us The Prophet (Sallalahu Alaihi wa Sallam) was dearer to us than our riches our children and our mothers, and was more cherishable than a drink of water at the time of severest thirst.”

SubhaanAllah… what perfect imaan they had… May Allah enable us to practise..💕

#RevivetheSunnah

#RevivetheSunnahofbeingGrateful

#RevivetheSunnahofQur’aanTilaawat

#ReviveSunnahofDuaa

#SunnahofMaintainingTies

#RevivetheSunnahofSadaqah

#RevivetheSunnahofGivingGifts

#RevivetheSunnahofGoodAkhlaaq

#RevivetheSunnahbeforeSleeping

#RevivetheSunnahofGuardingtheGaze

#RevivetheSunnahofLickingtheFingers

#RevivetheSunnahofMiswaak

#RevivetheSunnahofEnteringtheToilet

#RevivetheSunnahofSpeakingGood

#RevivetheSunnahofUsingtheRighthand

 

Chasing Sunsets

Bismihi Ta’ala

Jameela

Part 89

I’ve often heard people saying to follow your head over your heart.

But is it not your head, that logically gives you the reasons why someone may be right or wrong for you, and is it not your head, that replays the sweet memories over and over again?

The same brain is what causes those images to flash before you, like a high definition lens, when years later, you’re feeling most nostalgic.
The same brain, will be your sponge, and your storage device, as the precious moments of those beautiful sunsets, the romantic moments, and even your entire life passes by without you realising that you were really and truly making the most beautiful memories…

We don’t ever see each moment for what it is, until we’re forced to open our eyes to its beauty.

I switched my gaze from the canvas I was working on by my cottage window, to my husband who walked in the distance, immediately putting my brush down and watching his confident stride, donned in his working gear, out in the glorious sunshine.

I turned back to my painting, glancing at the little cottage I had single-handedly spent the day cleaning.

I bit the end of my paintbrush, trying to decide what colour to use next. It didn’t quite matter though, because whatever I would choose, nothing here was fixed or set in stone. Unlike life, things on a canvas could be easily changed, tweaked or resolved. When things around me didn’t make sense, I knew that on a blank canvas, I could somehow make it make sense.

I sighed, trying to drown out my thoughts that evaded me.

The picture of the beautiful but fiery sunset over an ocean that made jaws drop, was doing nothing for my peace of mind, but it was good to have something to focus on. I wanted to capture the beauty of something beyond now, and to be able to control the end result. I wanted to capture this beautiful sunset.

One that I’d never really seen. One that I wished that I could, one day, witness. I wanted something for my home- our home- that would stand out. Just a little something that captured all the colours blooming in my heart when I remembered how blessed I was, despite the trials that sometimes broke us.

It didn’t matter how basic our home was. How many chips our tea pot had on it. How patched up our curtains were.

Mohsina had wealth saved for a rainy day, a fancy apartment, multiple helpers and every other luxury she wanted at her disposal, but she couldn’t be with the two people she loved most in the world.

Being here with Zubair was the most treasured thing for me and there weren’t many moments I forgot it nowadays.

And I missed my sister too. Seeing Mohsina on Eid day was something that I thought would appease me, but instead, I just felt more confused after. I should have known better. Mohsina never broke, even through the most stringent circumstances.

Now, she seemed, surprisingly, numb. As if she hadn’t just been through the most heartbreaking kind of ordeal that broke her once beautiful home. Nani had plenty to say about why she was the way she was, but I really didn’t want to think about that right then.

It had been a week since I’d seen her and it was as if she had entered an entirely different phase of her life. The tell-tale signs were all there but till then, I chose to ignore it. I had messaged her earlier that day, hoping for some kind of assurance that things weren’t gone completely south as yet… but it had left me at a loss too.

Mosee, I miss you. When are you coming to visit? Hows my Zaidoo? When will I see him? 

I missed Zaid. So, so much. I wanted to wrap him up, hold him tight and keep him forever.

And I knew that between us and Zaid, she would always choose him and his dimpled thighs. I mean, who would blame her?

Since he started taking formula full- time, he was really bulking up. She saw him every day, without fail, and even though I understood… with every day that passed, I really felt that she was slipping away from us too.

Her reply only came now, hours later.

I saw him earlier. He’s teething so was a bit whiny. At the lawyers now to sort out some paperwork. Will chat later x 

I like how she slipped in the lawyer bit there without really raising any suspicions.

I was sure that she was at the office more than I liked and probably more than Hamzah felt comfortable with. I knew that she had things to sort out, but after knowing what Maahira had said about Faadil, I got the feeling that he had lured her there for his own reasons, and not for her best interests. I had a feeling that she was barely even aware of what he was even doing.

I wanted to ask her if her ex-boss was around. If he had helped to drop charges against her. If she really thought that she would pull herself out of this through the help of people alone. Also, if she had finally called her sister-in-law Saaliha who was waiting for her to chat to her.

Saaliha had even messaged me in the week to tell me that something huge had happened with Rabia and Hamzah, but Mohsina hadn’t bothered to even check what it was. I knew that Rabia had been acting suspicious, but it was as if Mos really just didn’t care anymore, and it made me really concerned.

“Hey angel.”

I dropped my phone and looked up, watching him smile big as he entered our humble abode and came toward me, leaning down to peck my cheek while I grinned back at him, my heart doing all the usual backward and forward flip things it still does when my husband entered the vicinity.

But I didn’t forget. The thoughts were always at the back of my mind. I wanted to ask Zubair. I wanted to ask him if he had any more information on Faadil. If he had verified that Faadil was actually looking to cause problems and was after my sister. Basically, if he had proven anything else that would help to get Mohsina and Hamzah back together. If he wanted some help with making it work….

I just couldn’t seem to understand why he had just given up the way he had, after things went sour between Hamzah and Mos.

But I knew that I had to force myself to play it cool as he moved toward the kettle and switched it on. In time, I will bring up the topic, and get him to tell me everything he knows.

“Fast going okay?” He asked as I nodded, looking at the time as he opened the fridge to take out the dates for our iftaar.

He was amazingly sweet and thoughtful. Because we had been keeping Shawwaal fasts intermittently, Z did the iftaar preparation with the Kajoor and water and was never fussy about what I managed to put together for us afterward.

”Jamz,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly as his face gave away signs of slight unease. “Can we chat?”

”Everything okay?”

I hid my emotions well as I turned away from the painting, watching him pull on something more comfy before he looked at me.

He nodded. Then shook his head. Then looked at me with resignation and sighed.

”Is it about my sister?” I asked quietly. “Because she’s been acting really, really strange…”

I had completely forgotten about how out of sorts she was behaving after dropping Zaid off. She had mumbled something about feeling unwell, said she would see us later and then never came back. We hadn’t seen her since and Nani did not let it rest. Every day that she avoided us, meant Nani would have something more outrageous to say about my sisters whereabouts.

”No, sweets,” he murmured, almost looking troubled as I said it. “It’s something else.”

“Is it to do with your father?” I asked him, remembering my other mission. Remembering that I was supposed to somehow be saving him from himself, if I couldn’t save my sisters marriage.

“Listen angel,” Zubair said, straightening, and I could already tell from his face that he didn’t want to. “I know you mean well, but no. It’s actually about you and me. I want to take you somewhere. Anywhere. Just get out of here for a bit… have a break. We haven’t been on any getaway and I think its way overdue.”

”Oh,” I said, liking the sound of a honeymoon too because it would mean I could obsess over him more, but also, I was still thinking about all the things he needs to do here, at home. “Where will we go?”

”An old friend has a house on the west coast, and it’s got all the best hits of nature and fun. Beautiful sunsets too.”

He gestured to my painting as I watched him.

”Okay sure,” I said easily, a plan already popping into my head. I was happy wherever. Whether we were here or in Timbuktu, it didn’t make a difference to me. All I needed was my husband and I would be good. “But I just want you to think about meeting your father before we go.”

Zubair sighed, shaking his head.

“You don’t give up, do you?” He said, rubbing his forehead vigorously, almost as if he was stressed out. “You do know my father probably won’t want to see me?”

”That’s not true!” I shot back, crossing my hands over my chest. “How can you say that? He’s the only parent you had. You said that he loved your mother. Of course he would want to see you.”

He smiled as I said it, and I already felt like a child. For some reason, he always seemed so much wiser. He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head, almost as if he was onto me and my scheming ways.

”You are up to something,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Did Nusaybah put you up to this? Is this what it will take for you to come away with me?”

“No and no,” I shot back, wiping my hands on my apron and walking toward him, probably looking like a canvas myself, as I clasped my hands in front of me. “I just want you to sort things out. You’ve done so much to rectify yourself. You’re a changed man. I’m not up to anything. I just have a feeling that this is the missing piece in your life.”

It was true. He reminded me of the Sahabah, who had seen the light of Islam after being lost in the dark for so long. He had come back with a fervour, knowing he had done so much wrong, and wanted to set it just as right.

It reminded me of the story of Wahshi (RA), and about how he had killed the uncle of Nabi (SAW), Hadhrat Hamzah (RA). The guilt of what he had done had eaten him to such an extent that he knew that just as much bad that he had done before Islam changed his life, he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t rectify it all after Islam came to reform him.

Nabi ﷺ had recited the verse, “Say, “O My servants who have wronged their souls, never lose hope of Allah’s mercy. Verily, Allah forgives all sins. Undoubtedly, He is the Most Forgiving, the Most Merciful”” (Qur’an 39:53).

Upon hearing this verse, Wahshi (RA) accepted Islam (recorded in Hayaatus Sahaabah and Tabarani).

After the demise of Nabi ﷺ and in the khilafah of Abu Bakr (RA), a few individuals claimed prophethood. Amongst them was Musaylimah Al-Kaddhab and his wife, Sajah. Abu Bakr (RA) declared war against Musaylimah, which became known as the battle of Yamama. In this battle, Wahshi (RA) killed Musaylimah using the same spear that he killed Hamza (RA) with. He remarked that this is in lieu of that. I had killed a great person and now I have killed the most wretched. I hope Allah will atone that evil deed, through this good deed.

And it was so typical of those great men who had changed their lives for the better. They wanted it to be a permanent change. Something that made an impact. As much evil as they had done wrong, they wanted to rectify it with just as much good.

Ans just like he wanted to help other people, I wanted him to make this right with his fast. I wanted him to be better, to feel better. I just had to use strategy for this case, because he didn’t feel that it was worth his time.

He grinned as I approached him, no regard for the mess I was looking like as he hugged me to his chest, while I tried to give him my doe-eyed face.

“I know you mean well,” he said softly, the green in his one eye a little more prominent today as he looked at me. “But this is not a good idea. There is way too much of history for us to just kiss and make up.”

I pouted, a little more severely this time, evidently not happy with his answer as I pulled away.

“But why?” I asked, my heart feeling pained as he turned away from me too. Like the topic was closed and there was no opening it. “He’s your father. Nusaybah said that he wanted to see you and-“

”Well, I don’t want to see him,” Zubair cut in, his jaw ticking as he walked toward the window and stuffed his hands in his pocket.

I sighed, wondering what his beef was. He refused to tell me, even after over a month of being married, he had barely opened up to me. Okay, I wasn’t being fair. He had told me a lot. But not everything. I was greedy.

I wanted all of Zubair, but what he gave me was just bits and pieces of himself that I was struggling so hard to put together and make whole again.

“Tell me why,” I pressed again. “Why you are so against it?”

“Because,” he said uneasily, still looking out the window.

“Because what?” I asked, throwing my hands up in the air, feeling like I was nagging my head on a wall. “What did he even do?!”

“Because,” he said, turning around again, his face looking like a kid. “He was supposed to shelter me and he threw me to the wolves!”

While we had spoken about everything else, about his mother, about the people who would come home after, about his fathers financial crisis, this was the most he had given me about his father’s relationship with him, and though I was grateful, it just wasn’t enough.

”Explain,” I said softly, taking the opportunity to seat myself in the chair behind me, and picking up the paintbrush once again. I just needed something to do with my hands. If I got closer to him, I would end up comforting him, and then I would get no more information. I really needed him to talk. “Please.”

Zubair looked away, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and I could tell that it brought back memories for him. Bad ones.
Ones that he wasn’t so willing to share. If killed me to have to sit there and watch him relive them.

“You ever wondered why I went to work for my uncle so easily?” He asked, his eyes still not meeting mine. “He obviously had earned himself a reputation.”

“Yes,” I breathed, wanting to know more, considering the circumstances. I thought that he needed the money and that was his motivation. His father was in a deep financial fix for a while before Nusaybah got married. That much, he had told me about. About how he would sometimes work doubles shifts. About how Nusaybah tried to earn money before their father said that she needed to look after him.

”We go way back,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to shake off memories. “He has something of mine. Lots of it. When I was seven, my father would send me to him for a month every summer holiday. His wife was my mother’s sister and she never had kids. She used to beg me and Nusaybah to come. I knew that… in her own way, she loved us. The thing was…. She knew that her husband had violent tendencies, but she never thought that he would ever channel it into a kid. She was wrong.”

I swallowed as he moved away from the window, sitting down in front of me, intertwining his fingers together as he did, and I could already feeling my heart contracting at his evident pain.

“Did he hurt you back then?” I asked softly, leaning forward to touch his hand comfortingly. He ran a hand through his hair as his expression changed. “Physically?”

I knew that his uncle had slapped him around when he was working for him, in the earlier years. But after Zubair got older and taller than his uncle, he stood no chance with him.

“My aunty would work,” he said steadily, not answering my question, his unusual eyes focusing on me. “He would starve me and tell her that I ate two meals during that time. When supper time came, he’d find a reason to send me on some errand. I knew what he was doing. He said I would get a meal when I finished my task.”

I bit back a gasp.

“What were the tasks?” I asked, my voice choking my throat as I wondered about how people could be so horrible.

What a terrible thing to do to a little child. What an absolutely helpless feeling to have, as a little soul, wondering who on earth would save you from this treacherous human whose care you were under.

”He wanted me to fight,” Zubair said, squaring his shoulders boldly as he looked up at me. “And win.”

“And so you did,” I said flatly, feeling like all the wind was knocked out of me. It wasn’t rocket science.

The scars were preoccupied enough. The elongated ones that he was always self conscious about. That’s where they were from.

Tears pricked my eyes as I remembered the first time he had tried to stop me from seeing them. How he had covered up as soon as light entered the room. He didn’t want me to know that this was his past. I hated knowing that he had been hurt the way he had, and the man who had done it was still walking around as if he deserved to.

“When you haven’t had a proper meal in days, you’ll do anything for a promised plate of food,” he said, shrugging, his face giving away tell tale signs of the torture. “You learn to appreciate whatever you have.”

That was so true. Zubair was someone who never wasted a single bit on our plate. He would suck every bone dry. Every grain would be eaten off the dastarkaan, even if it meant him scraping it clean. No matter how horrible my cooking was, according to Nani, every morsel to him, was like he was eating food from some divine source.

“Didn’t you ever try and tell your aunty?” I asked, feeling exceptionally hurt by this revelation. “Or your father?”

“When my aunty didn’t believe me about him not feeding me, I gave up on trying to convince her,” he said simply. “She was easily convinced by him. My uncle was someone who would break someone before they could ever think that he was wrong. It was Nusaybah who had noticed how I looked after that summer I turned nine. She was the one who told my father that there was no way that she was letting me go back. My father was going through his own problems. He didn’t know how to deal with me or keep the family afloat. He was also struggling to keep the house. But I still feel he failed me. He could have checked. He could have cared. Years later, when I went back to my uncle, he didn’t stop me either. He just cut me off.”

I breathed out as he told me about how he walked out the house with a backpack after Nusaybah left for London, expecting his father to  stop him, but he didn’t.

“Im so sorry, Z,” I said quietly, tears streaming down my face as I felt my heart breaking for him. “I wish that I could make it all better.”

Not everyone has life easy. We never appreciate the ease we have… the security and comfort our parents so naturally give us.

Zubair shook his head, his hand cupping my face as his thumbs wiped my tears.

“Don’t cry, angel,” he murmured. “Just you, being here, makes me feel like Allah is healing me, inside out. With all your warmth and your purity, you are so much more than I ever imagined. I love you.”

I smiled, my heart melting slightly, but the grief within was almost unbearable at that point.

I felt as if I wanted to wrap that little boy up and keep him safe from the world. While I was being pampered like a princess, playing with my dollhouses, with parents who spoilt me and my sister who sheltered me relentlessly, 8-year-old Zubair was literally fighting battles to put a meal in his tummy.

“Have you ever told anyone about this?”

I wanted to know. I hated to think that after so many years, I was the only one he had ever confided in.

“I’ve never told someone that I loved them before,” he said, a small smile on his face as he nudged me, causing me to offer him a small smile at least.

I blew him a kiss, knowing that he was skirting away from the topic I was drilling him about, but also feeling a heaviness in my heart at his confession. Despite being honoured, and swooning over his words, it was just so sad that he had never experienced the feeling of loving, and being loved back. It was like he always kept an arms length, even from his closest family.

His story… his past.., It wasn’t just some random thing that had happened. It was something that had shaped him and moulded him into who he is.

“It’s been a long journey,” he said after a few seconds, taking a seat next to me, as I glanced at him, and picked up my paintbrush as he mixed some orange with some red. The sunset needed a little bit of tweaking, and though Zubair was no artist, I wanted to see what he would do with it.

“I know,” I said quietly, leaning my head on his shoulder. “But it’s not over yet.”

”I want to take you to see an actual sunset,” he said into my hair. “Far away from everyone else. From everyone here.”

”But I like our home,” I said, meaning it. “The people here. I don’t mind just staying here and being with you.”

”I know,” he said, a slight urgency in his voice. “But I think we need to go.”

I shifted slightly, trying to watch his expression. His jaw was rigid, and his eyes were darkening with worry.

“Is that a warning?” I asked, my heart beating slightly faster as I worried what could be troubling him so much that he needed to leave the farm. “Does your uncle know where we are?”

He said nothing as he continued to paint, and I continued to watch him. I didn’t need him to answer me to get the message.

“Did he threaten you?” I asked, my voice a little more high pitched than usual. “Zubair, please tell me, if he’s out to get you, we can do what you think is best. Is it to do with Mos and Hamzah? You just have to tell me what’s going on.”

The way that he was so focused on the painting was scaring me.

It took him a few seconds, before he put the brush down, and looked at me.

“You think I’m worried about me?” He said quietly, tipping my chin up slightly as he met my gaze.

I shook my head, then nodded, feeling like I was in a daze as he made me look up at him.

“Jameela, I don’t care what he does to me,” he said, his eyes fixed on me as he spoke. “He can hang me by a butcher hook and chop off all my body parts, for all I care. I won’t put it past him.”

The thought made me sick with disgust. Why did he have to be so bloody graphic?

“Zubair, no, please don’t say those things,” I said, shaking my head.

”I told you it doesn’t matter what he does to me,” Zubair said, his expression dead serious. “But Jameela, he didn’t threaten my life. That’s why we need to pack and leave.”

I looked at my husband, completely confused, and then looked at the painting in front of us, taking in the colours that had been blended so perfectly together, to present the perfect blaze of a bloody sunset.

And that’s when he finally uttered the obvious part, that I had been missing all along.

”Jameela, he wants to get me where it will hurt most,” he murmured, his voice breaking with every word he spoke.

The next sentence was almost a whisper.

“He threatened to kill you.”

---

Mission Sunnah revival: Sunnah of Duaa

Along with our Shawwaal fasts, lets try and keep to the Sunnah of duaa, even after Ramadhan. 🤍

Begin your dua first with praising Allah and then by sending peace and blessings upon His messenger ﷺ.

Then, make dua for yourself, dunya and akhira, for close family and friends, and then the ummah at large. Finish your Duaa by again sending peace and blessings on the Prophet ﷺ and praising and thanking Allah.

The Prophet (ﷺ) said, “Du’a (supplication) is worship.”

In all situations, let’s bring in the Sunnah of Duaa every single day this Ramadhaan and after.

Someone asked Ali (RA): “How much was the Sahaba’s love for the Prophet (Sallalahu Alaihi wa Sallam)”

He replied: “By Allah! To us The Prophet (Sallalahu Alaihi wa Sallam) was dearer to us than our riches our children and our mothers, and was more cherishable than a drink of water at the time of severest thirst.”

SubhaanAllah… what perfect imaan they had… May Allah enable us to practise..💕

#RevivetheSunnah

#RevivetheSunnahofbeingGrateful

#RevivetheSunnahofQur’aanTilaawat

#ReviveSunnahofDuaa

#SunnahofMaintainingTies

#RevivetheSunnahofSadaqah

#RevivetheSunnahofGivingGifts

#RevivetheSunnahofGoodAkhlaaq

#RevivetheSunnahbeforeSleeping

#RevivetheSunnahofGuardingtheGaze

#RevivetheSunnahofLickingtheFingers

#RevivetheSunnahofMiswaak

#RevivetheSunnahofEnteringtheToilet

#RevivetheSunnahofSpeakingGood

#RevivetheSunnahofUsingtheRighthand

When Things head South

Bismihi Ta’ala

Hamzah

Part 88

I truly believe that everything that happens has a deep and phenomenal reason behind it.

Life can be really hard. Confusing. Difficult too. Things do head south, every now and then. At times Allah Ta’ala is appeasing us. At times, Allah Ta’ala is testing us.

At other times, what our loving and caring Rabb is doing is paving a path for us to find our way back to him, even if it means having to stumble hopelessly along the way.

You see… the harder we chase this world, the more it will escape you.

People will hurt you, more so the ones you love the most.
You will search for peace and contentment.  You attach yourself to friends thinking your happiness is there… until you lose them.
You’ll get married hoping you’ll find it in companionship… till the point when you find out you’re wrong.

You’ll look for happiness in places where you’ll never find it. You’ll search for it in your children and still… nothing. So you’ll try harder. Search deeper. Seek it more fervently. You’ll try to bury yourself in material things with the hope of satiating yourself but still, it never comes.
And if it does, it’s only just for now… just  temporary. 

Have you noticed how any gratification you feel in this Dunya is so short lived?

The people we love will return to Allah, our children grow up and have their own lives, material happiness will never bring you and peace and the people that are dearest to you will hurt you, leaving you feeling deceived and broken… leaving you wondering when this hoax that’s called Duniyaa will end and reveal its true colours.

I scanned the article that I was skimming my slightly shaky fingers again. Things were heading south. One of the pages on the business news site I had been stalking for a month was looking at me like the most treacherous traitor.
This wasn’t good.

Not a single word about Mohsina, and Zubair was basically awol the entire month to drill about it. I knew that it wasn’t intentional and he was busy with Ramadhaan, but I really wanted to throw my phone against the wall until it smashed to millions of pieces.

“Hey grumpy!” My sister cooed, walking into the lounge as I glared at her without feeling. Sans feeling because I knew that if I felt anything at all, it wouldn’t be good news for anyone in my vicinity. As usual, her phone was attached to her hand as she froze, hand stretched out, and slanted her face to take a selfie.

The whole process just got me. I had seen it before Mohsina and I had gotten proposed. Watched her, my future fiancé at the time, countless times, put on those pouty lips, play with filters, and once, even try and drag me into that crap. Once, she had a fan girl who spotted her at our coffee shop where we used to meet, who was obsessed with having a selfie with her.
It was a sick obsession.

Selfitis.  “The obsessive, compulsive urge to take photos of one’s self and upload them on social media.” For Rabia- ‘attention seekers’. This mental disorder was named ‘selfitis’ as the people who suffer from it are generally prone to having ‘inflamed egos.’

I had read somewhere that plastic surgeons reported an uptick in the number of people asking for facial reconstruction solely because they are not happy with the way they look in selfies. I wondered how Rabia felt about that.

I watched her snap herself a few times, smile to something on her phone, and then look up at me as if I should be proud of her.

Besides being annoyed with her self-obsession, something had shifted in the air between us a few weeks back and I wasn’t entirely sure of what it was. Maybe it was the fact that Mohsina had alluded to… that Rabia was involved with the downfall of my marriage. Maybe it was the mere thought that she had been pretty scarce, despite being previously crazy about Zaid, and now, she was extremely elusive. It was almost as if something (or someone) was keeping her so busy that she couldn’t even just be who she usually was.

“You talking to me?”

My voice was cutting as I said it, really now remotely interested in whether I was being rude or not. I reached for my Qur’ān, knowing that it was the only thing that was going to bring me any peace. When everyone else had left me, when the pains of the world seemed to tire me, and when life just seemed to grate on my nerves…. Qur’ān was the only thing that soothed me. Today, I was just finding it hard to get down to it.

Rabia rolled her eyes as I ignored her, unaffected.

“Duh,” she said, her face an expression of disinterest. “You can’t sit here on your butt the whole morning, just because Zaid isn’t here. Wake your case up. We’re also here you know, and we’re also family.”

I sighed, shaking my head as I realised that she may have been right. I was softening up. Blaming her because of what Mohsina had said.

It wasn’t fair that I was taking this all out on her. There was no way Rabia would have been involved in everything that went down in my marriage. I didn’t lose sight of the fact that Mohsina had lied and pretended and it didn’t mean that Rabia too, was guilty.

I sighed and sat up, propping my hands over my knees as I watched my sister walk away. She seemed carefree. A little too dressed up, for a quiet breakfast with just my parents, but it was Eid day after all.

I sighed as I sat back on the couch, putting my Qur’ān away without reading it, missing my brother than morning. He had gone to his sister-in-law for breakfast because they would be spending the rest of the day with us, and I was looking forward to his company later. I mean, I didn’t have much else to look forward to. Imraan was the closest thing I had to a best friend now, and he always made time for me, despite his work and Jamaat work.

I didn’t even realise that I had drifted off into a half-slumber, having had an early morning, and trying to catch up on some sleep before family would join us in all their glory. When the doorbell rang, I was immediately jolted awake, and without even realising what I was doing, I knew that I wanted to get to the door before anyone else did.

I wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe it was the tiredness. Or maybe it was the yearning, after over a month of not seeing her. The last day we had spent together was still etched in my mind, as I recalled the feelings that accompanied it, wondering how we had morphed into enemies in such a short span of time.

The fact was that even though I hated what she’d done to me, I was aching to see her. She was still my wife, and some feelings were hard to change.

I was well aware that Zaid was scheduled to be back anytime now. My mother had made sure of that, knowing that I would hit the roof if I didn’t have Zaid here for lunch and supper, because as far as custody went, he was supposed to be with me.

Mohsina was obligated to fulfil my request, or she knew that she had another court battle to face. I knew that she didn’t want that, and I knew that she would do anything to avoid clashing with me in.

My legs were already pulling me toward the door, before I heard my mother coming from down the passage, and I yanked it open, barely even thinking properly before I glimpsed her grim face.

It had been a long time. A long time since I’d seen my wife, who simultaneously looked so angelic, yet completely objectionable at the same time. Seeing her felt like my heart was filled again, and then immediately cracked open in a beat.

She stood there, our son on her hip, her one hand holding him, while the other cupped over her mouth while she glanced and me with wide eyes, literally dumped Zaid into my arms, dropped the bag at the door and pushed past me as she rushed down the passage to the first door on the left.

Bathroom.

I was too stunned to speak.

Also, I felt like an obsessed freak as I savoured the brush of her shoulder against mine, wondering at what point I had gotten to this level where I craved her simple touch.

It took me a few seconds to recover. With Mohsina’s health-freak (only regarding Zaid) eating habits, his mouth was stuffed with a piece of dry mango, and I looked around outside, wondering how come she hadn’t brought the nanny/helper with her today. It had been a new development of hers, before I had moved out, because she had expected office visits to take up her time with Zaid, and she didn’t want it to upset her time with her court cases.

My mother was already at the front room, and I could already see her confused expression as she watched me standing there, at the door, probably wondering why on earth I had decided to answer it. I had been in Mujaahid mode from the beginning of Ramadhaan,

I couldn’t stop thinking about her rush to get to the bathroom, and as my ears attuned to the not-so-subtle retching behind closed doors, I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows, wondering what on earth my wife was doing, driving around by herself when she was clearly unwell.

And then, came the anger.

What on earth was wrong with her? She could have phoned for someone to fetch him at least. Why the hell did she always have to prove something, over and over again, as if she was some superwoman?

“Everything okay?”

My mothers voice was softer as she ventured closer, her eyes on the closed door next to us.

Zaid’s arms stretched out toward her as she approached, his monosyllabic expressions cuter than ever. As he grew, learned to speak and wobbble around, he was begiining to become irresistable to every woman who saw him. A simple trip to the grocery store wit him warranted way too many female interactions. I still, for the life of me, could not understand how my dear wife had just abandoned him without a fight.

I grunted in response to my mothers question, my expression showing very obviously how not okay everything was.

I wasn’t supposed to be doing this. I didn’t want to be here, worrying about Mohsina and what could possibly be wrong with her. I didn’t want to have this deep-rooted concern that made me feel as if I’d give up everything and anything to just have a normal conversation with her again.

The sound of the toilet flushing brought me back to reality as I looked at my mother walking toward the window, knowing that she wanted to give Mohsina and I time to talk.

The truth was, as much as I wanted to scratch the itch I had to see her, to engage in actual conversation with her was a little bit of a stretch. The thing with my mother was that she never took sides. She remained annoyingly neutral throughoutb the entire ordeal, and evn though I know that I didn’t tell her the full story, I still expected loyalty from her at least.

“So sorry,” Mohsina almost coughed, her breathing slightly labored as she pulled the door behind her, and I automatically took a step away, toward the lounge entrance. My mother turned from where she was at the window and smiled at her.  “I think it was the something I ate. Can I fetch him tomorrow morning. It’s been a while since he’s been home and Jameela really wanted to spend time with him…”

She was addressing my mother, but her voice was loud enough for me to hear, and I knew it was her intention.

I wanted to respond, but I knew that speaking would only make Mohsina feel like she’d won one of the the silent battles we were fighting. I was being immature and petty but I couldn’t help it.

I was already in the lounge again as they spoke, deliberately drowning out the words that they were saying, before I finally heard the two of them greet and the front door close. I breathed out a huge sigh of relief as I realized that she had finally left, wanting to get Zaid, but realizing as soon as I stepped out that he had fallen asleep on my mother’s shoulder while the two of them were chatting.

“She looked lovely,” my mother said, her expression wistful as she entered the lounge and placed Zaid on the couch there. “Lost even more weight too. I hope she is taking care of herslf.”

Why? I wanted to ask. Why must she hope for good things for Mohsina when she had made me feel like this? 

My mother was one of those rare gems who thrived through every situation. Always looked for the best. Ignored the bad. Accepted the flaws. Never read into anything. She took everything at face value and she never bothered with any of the usual gossip that went around.

Honestly, my mother was one of the few people I knew who actually had the gift of amazing character, and Ramadhaan had done wonders to her, making her the sort of person who saw no wrong in anything, and wanted to hear nothing either.

Also, my bitterness was out of control that day, after a month. It was as if Shaytaan had been injected into my veins, and was running circuits all around my blood stream. My heart was already rusting, and it was only a day after Ramadhaan.

I took a deep breath in, trying to understand that all my mother wanted fro me was the best. She wanted us to patch things up. She wanted to believe that this would all blow over. She hoped and believed that there was a way out here.

“Ma, stop emotionally blackmailing him.”

I didn’t even notice Rabia entering the room, but I immediately turned to glare at her, as my mother frowned, picking up Zaid to take him to another room. Rabia was always loud. I didn’t exactly want him to wake up right then.

Honestly, it was as if no matter what anyone said, nothing was good enough. Even I could admit it to myslef, and my twin sister was one step ahead.

“Oh, get over yourself, Hamzah,” she snapped, her voice sounding exasperated as she plopped herself on the couch next to me. “It’s no use reading all that Qur’ān and acting all pious when you can’t even treat people with dignity. I think you need to stop moping and go somewhere to calm yourself down. What about the ijtima? I’ll look after Zaid. Teach him how to walk properly.”

I wanted to tell her that he had a mother, but I didn’t want to bring Mohsina up right then. Also, I hated when people say that. It’s no use acting pious when blah blah blah.

Also,  you know… even though she may have had a point about attending the ijtima, I was bitter.

And she may have an idea. I needed to do something for myself. I felt like a mother hen who was always worrying about her child.

I scowled.

“You know,” she said, scrunching up her face and looking thoughtful. “I was watching this one documentary about a guy who was going through all these emotional issues and they couldn’t figure what on earth was wrong with him. Eventually, after doing scans, they realised that there was a worm in his brain that was eating all his happy hormones.”

”You need to stop watching junk,” I deadpanned, knowing that Rabia watched Netflix sometimes till late hours at night.

I had caught her a few times when I was trying to make Zaid sleep, because she would laugh so loud that I had to tell her to calm down. Ramadhaan was no exception for her.

I wasn’t judging. I just didn’t know what had happened to the pious, good-girl persona that she had always played the part of.

“Maybe you have a worm eating all your good stuff,” she said with a smirk. “And as for those dumb things I like to watch… your ex-wife had also been pretty obsessed with them at one point.”

My ex-wife.

She was playing dirty and I knew it. I decided to ignore her. For one, Mohsina and I were not actually divorced. We had signed a paper for business reasons, and that was it. For two, if we had to speak about our sins, I knew that I had way more than them both.

Keeping quiet here was the best solution. I knew the deal. If you desire that Allah conceals you on the day of Qiyaamah, then the tongue must be controlled.

The matter of concealing the faults of others is mentioned in numerous hadith of the Prophet, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him. In particular, we find the following:

“O gathering who believe with their tongues but faith has yet to enter into their hearts, do not backbite the Muslims. And do not search into their private matters. Whoever searches for their private matters will have Allah follow up his private matters. And whose private matters Allah follows, He will expose him even [if his act were done] in his house.” (Recorded in Ahmad and Abu Dawood)

After Ramadhaan, it was just that much easier to fall into that trap of saying something bad. Of losing control of the tongue. It was like the filter on our mouths immediately get removed.

”Did she come to leave Zaid,” Rabia pressed, not getting the message, her eyes scanning my face as she tapped on her phone intermittently. “Did you see her? Or did mummy open? Did you talk?”

I found it strange that she knew that Mohsina was here yet she always avoided her. Once again. I wondered if there was any truth in Mohsina’s statement when we had our bust up.

My mother had returned to the room, but she looked extremely deep in thought, opening the curtains and fluffing up cushions for the visitors. I took a cushion as she passed and covered my head with it. Let her answer her.

”Hey.”

She had poked me in the ribs as she said it, and I knew that I would probably snap if she didn’t go away. I needed some sleep so I could deal with the day ahead in the best possible frame of mind, and Rabia was testing my patience.

“Mum!” She almost shouted to my mother. “He’s ignoring me!  Did you open for Mohsina? What was she wearing? I see she bought Zaid his cutie outfit! Are they wearing the same colour?! Is she coming back to take him?”

Way too many questions. And way too loud. And why on earth was she so invested in my wife? 

”She came,” my mother said, sounding faint through the pillow. “She and Zaid were matching. She said she wants to take him tomorrow if Hamzah agrees. She hasn’t been taking him previously. She didn’t seem… well.”

”What do you mean?” Rabia asked, and I knew that my mother had her full attention now.

I wasn’t sure what was Rabia’s obsession with Mohsina but I really didn’t appreciate it, seeing how everything went down.

“Sick,” my mother said briefly, probably realising that mentioning that was unnecessary. “She mentioned that it was something she ate. Anyway, I think that her family really enjoyed Zaid. It’s been over a month that they saw him…”

”What do you mean it was something she ate?” Rabia asked, suddenly fixated on her condition. “Did she have like… morning sickness?!”

Trust Rabia to spot the elephant in the room.

The moment she said it, my mother cleared her throat, and I was already too intrigued not to look at her expression.

Yes. Okay. For one (hopeful) moment, I had thought the same as I heard her retching in the bathroom, but I didn’t dare say it loud.

Morning sickness.

That would mean a baby. But that would also mean that Mohsina was in a space where she wanted to fall pregnant in the first place, which was never true. Those things weren’t in our hands but in our short history of bliss, she had been pretty well prepared and made sure she did everything to prevent it.

She had always been on the pill, even before we had gotten married. Not my choice. Probably something to do with Faadil that I didn’t want to think about. I mean, the thought of littel Faadil scared me too. She was insistent on changing the type and not stopping when she started breastfeeding, but she had made me understand why we didn’t want our own kids right then.

Actually, Mohsina had pretty much forced me to agree. She said that it made sense, with Zaid and all the emotional baggage.

My mother was glancing wearily from me to Rabia, but I shook my head, saying that it wasn’t possible and dismissing the idea.

If she was, she would have known by now, and she would have used her situation to at least evoke some compassion from me, because I gave her none, which she didn’t.

“Well, if she’s trying to play some game by making you think that, then that’s really low,” Rabia scoffed, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I mean, how desperate can she be?”

I blinked. Low?

Mohsina didn’t strike me as the desperate type. Seeing her crying for the first time had made me realise how self-sufficient she had always been. Also, she had no way of knowing that I was going to answer the door before she decided to puke her guys out.

”Rabia,” my mother said in a warning tone. “She herself said it was something she ate. Can you please go and do something more productive like take out the salad things for lunch. We have five trays to make. I need to talk to Hamzah.”

Surprisingly, Rabia sighed and rolled her eyes, stalking to the kitchen while my mother hovered over me.

“You sure there’s no possibility that there’s a baby on the way?”

Her voice was soft and hopeful, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment as I heard her.

Mohsina would probably rather die than have my baby right now.

I shook my head.

No hope. At all. i didn’t want to give my mother a false sense of assurance because I was done with hope for that day.

As much as I tried to be hopeful for us all, I knew that my hope wasn’t going to pull me through. I was in a bad space, now, more than ever. I just needed to pull myself out of this situation. Be more positive. Believe that hope, really, never is a mistake.

And I wasn’t sure how it was going to happen. All I was doing was waiting for that day to be over.

And it was getting there slowly. Seeing my grandparents and aunties soothed my spirit to a certain extent. Being spoilt by them made me forget about the gaping hole in my life. When family surrounded you, it was easy to feeling a little more secure… a little less lonely… and a little more loved. Alhumdulillah.

Lunch had just been served and everyone was already tucking in, grateful for family, love and just being together on this blessed day. Zaid was with Saaliha, who was almost back to her normal self and was even more crazy about him than before, and the day was soon coming to a close.

No-one anticipated the knock on the door at that time. No-one anticipated the chain of events that would follow, because when the bell rang, no one anticipated that things would go all the way down the way they would.

There was a feeling in the air that day, and I wasn’t quite sure whether it meant that things would get better or whether they would go south. What I didn’t even think about was that things could still go south, before getting better.

Sometimes it was hard to see the light that was shining way in the distance.

When the buzzer rang, no one really knew the direction things were headed, but what unfolded was something that lit a path to a truth that was long overdue to be exposed …

---

Mission Sunnah revival: Sunnah of Duaa

Let’s try and keep to the Sunnah of duaa, even after Ramadhan. 🤍

Begin your dua first with praising Allah and then by sending peace and blessings upon His messenger ﷺ. Then, make dua for yourself, dunya and akhira, for close family and friends, and then the ummah at large. Finish your Duaa by again sending peace and blessings on the Prophet ﷺ and praising and thanking Allah.

The Prophet (ﷺ) said, “Du’a (supplication) is worship.”

In all situations, let’s bring in the Sunnah of Duaa every single day this Ramadhaan and after.

Someone asked Ali (RA): “How much was the Sahaba’s love for the Prophet (Sallalahu Alaihi wa Sallam)”

He replied: “By Allah! To us The Prophet (Sallalahu Alaihi wa Sallam) was dearer to us than our riches our children and our mothers, and was more cherishable than a drink of water at the time of severest thirst.”

SubhaanAllah… what perfect imaan they had… May Allah enable us to practise..💕

#RevivetheSunnah

#RevivetheSunnahofbeingGrateful

#RevivetheSunnahofQur’aanTilaawat

#ReviveSunnahofDuaa

#SunnahofMaintainingTies

#RevivetheSunnahofSadaqah

#RevivetheSunnahofGivingGifts

#RevivetheSunnahofGoodAkhlaaq

#RevivetheSunnahbeforeSleeping

#RevivetheSunnahofGuardingtheGaze

#RevivetheSunnahofLickingtheFingers

#RevivetheSunnahofMiswaak

#RevivetheSunnahofEnteringtheToilet

#RevivetheSunnahofSpeakingGood

#RevivetheSunnahofUsingtheRighthand