, she realized it took her a long time to complete her project. The house was cradling in the shadows of the night, except one light was on in the corridor area.

She closed the door behind her and walked to the kitchen. The marble counter tops were immaculate like they were never used, not even to chop the vegetables and to place oily utensils while cooking. She obtained the glass from the stand and poured the cold water from the bottle. Then after drinking, she put the bottle back in the fridge and stood, hand placed on the counter, thinking.

The thoughts about the project which was due tomorrow was like a swirling storm in her head. At last she had been working on it for full three days persistently. And when it was finally done she felt relieved, but equally excited about what her professor would say and Hoorain- her best friend. Before she started on this project, she discussed out the major components with Hoorain, and floor plan of a big library, if it was ever to be built in Karachi how it would had looked, not that it was truly being built. It was just an assignment for the students who participated in the architect course and perhaps further take a degree in it upon their interest. Zoha was determined to input her best effort to fulfill her goal to be an architect and someday be able to lead her own good life, becoming independent, which was ironic because she was always dependent on her dadi.

At the age of four, she lost her parents in a tragic car crash. That time, she was too little to even realize that her mother who always kept her in her arms and gave her deep, maternal affection was gone very far away from her to ever hold her again. The strong and sensitive bond with the child was formed for temporary. After that incident, the thread was cut as the umbilical cord after the birth. Whatever Zoha had ever experienced about her mother was gradually dusted off her feelings. Over time, it lost the meaning that she barely remembered anything about her, the smooth skin, the lulling rhymes, the kisses she planted on her cheeks and anywhere on the body, and the unique warmth commingling with the motherly essence. All that was quite erased from her memory.

What was formed was a new relationship and a lasting bond that intensely connected her with dadi who wholeheartedly raised her. Zoha thought she was far more than a mother, unlike the one who left her at a very small age.

As every night after completing her homework, she lately snuck into dadi's room, which was shared by both of them, and sometimes did her little task before going to sleep. She fixed her clothes in the wardrobe and then changed into nightie- comfortable loose pair of shalwar kameez.

There were few books that were stacked on the top shelf of the wardrobe that had papers messily coming out. She took couple of them out and put it on the floor. Then neatly gathered those papers in a pile and placed them alongside the books.

"This looks perfect," she muttered to herself, clasping her skinny waist. She looked up at it for a while, then closed the wardrobe. "Dadi will be happy to see it in the morning."

On the bed, dadi was sleeping. Her white chadar designed by hand embroidery- colorful patches of flowers, was sliding down the bed and she was unaware, snoring. Zoha went over and fixed it back on her body.

Just as it caused a slight movement, dadi's snore fainted and she began to wake up. She blinked her eyes, then looked about here and there. The tasbeeh- prayer beads previously dangling on the side fell on the floor with the noise of plastic beads striking against the solid surface.

"Oh no. I woke dadi up," Zoha whispered under her breath. She picked up the tasbeeh too and put it on the bedside by the glowing lamp.

Dadi bolted her head off the pillow, trying to make sense of her surrounding in the swinging stupor. She looked about hither and thither as if to catch the source of disturbance. When she found nothing, except finding Zoha, standing, looking back at her, she itched her forearm.

"Dadi, I put your tasbeeh there." Zoha politely said.

Dadi looked at the bedside. "I didn't realize I dropped it," she said.

"You fell asleep?"

"Yeah." She heaved a breath. "When did you come?"

Zoha turned and looked at the clock. It was eleven thirty.

"A little while ago, " she said. "Sorry for waking you up. You must be really tired and sleepy."

"Little sleepy, but it will fly away as I am awake. But did you read Isha?"

"No. I was fixing the clothes."

"Right now? Leave it. This old dadi of yours has so much time to do it in the day. Don't overwhelm yourself with every responsibility. Actually when Rumina comes for dusting in the morning"- the family maid. "-I will order her to do it. Come here. Relax yourself." Dadi patted the space next to her.

"I like to do the work. It brings me satisfaction when I do it myself instead of someone doing it for me. I know Rumina can do everything, " Zoha said. "Dadi give me sometime. I will pray first and then I will join you on the bed.

"Yes of course. Namaz is the first priority."

Zoha did the wudhu and immediately read Isha, while dadi waited, resuming with her tasbeeh.

When Zoha was done praying, she folded the chadar and the prayer rug and put it back in the shelf. Then she went around the bed and jumped next to dadi.

"Look how skinny you gotten from all the daily hard work," Dadi noticed. "When you were little, I used to feed you healthy foods and avoided anything trashy or oily. They would have hurt your growth. And now when you are big enough to take care of yourself, you have become careless? This is my biggest complain."

"First tell me. You called me over to talk about this?" Zoha propped her head on the pillow, embracing dadi's side childishly.

"Oh no," dadi said, laughing. "This all came out in my worry. Don't expect that I won't talk about your health. It is important as anything else about you. Well anyways. There are plenty of things to talk about. How was your day?"

"Acha. But less good." Zoha frowned.

"Why?" Dadi curled Zoha in her arms.

"Because Hoorain was absent. I greatly miss her when I am alone. There is no one my type in the college. I don't like anyone beside her." Zoha scrunched up next to her dadi. "Only one and a half more year. Then you know what I have thought? When I become an architect, get big projects and make a lot of money, I will take you to different places in the world."

"Like where?"

"Umm. Like Dubai, Turkey, Sinagpore, Thailand, Malaysia, England, France, Spain, Egypt, Italy, Holland, and California where Zafar baray Abu lives. Just think how beautiful it would be. And Australia too. Forgot about it."

"Aray babray." Dadi got surprised. "Where will your dadi sleep? She needs her bed everywhere." There was an unnoticed sarcasm that Zoha didn't catch at first until later when she examined the tone and made a face. "I mean it. I am not a baby. I will take you everywhere one by one."

Dadi didn't say anything. She quietly recited the kalimah and dropped each bead for it.

Zoha shifted away from dadi's arm and laid her head on the slouchy pillow. The air conditioner was on and it was giving away so much cooling. She could feel the goosebumps standing on her arm.

"Isn't AC enough for tonight?" she said, pulling over the comforter.

"If you are cold then turn it off," dadi said.

"Can you do it, dadi? Please? You have your chadar."

"Don't be lazy. It's just two step away."

Reluctantly, flipping the comforter aside, Zoha got out of bed. She grabbed the AC remote from the ottoman and pressed the off button. The digital numbers disappeared and the buzzing sound ended. She opened the window, which gave the view of the beautiful lawn, sublime in the moonlight, as the wind brushed against the bushes and the hedges and the trees swayed like they were waving at her from the distance, sending goodnight kisses through the floating breeze.

She stood there and watched the lovely night. It was calm and soothing.

"What are you looking at?" dadi softly asked.

"The moon is out tonight. It looks beautiful."

"I can already tell by the light casting on the floor."

"And it's not even that hot right now. I feel like standing here for longer."

"Aren't you tired? You have been working since you came home."

"I can't stop thinking about how tomorrow will be."

"Why?"

Zoha turned around and went back to bed. "I have a huge project due tomorrow. I don't know what will my professor say."

"In Shaa Allah everything will be good. Don't stress yourself." Dadi patted her head.

"I hope so," she said, half worried. "Pray for me."

"When do I not?"

Zoha thought for a moment, arms resting on her fore-body, looking around the walls. "Dadi, can I ask you a question?"

"What?"

"Did you ever have dreams?"

"Certainly everyone has dreams, and I had too," she said. "I really wanted to be a poet."

"Really? A poet?" Zoha was fascinated.

"Oh yeah. Every morning, I used to wake up early, head bustling with ideas, picked up kagst and kalam and went by the river to write. It was a beautiful place, laced with peace and quiet, when dawn had freed the morning birds. There was no noise, no distraction of villagers like it occurred every afternoon until the day wore off. It was perfect to let my ideas out, ribboned in the beauty of words. Line after line melted out of my kalam, keeping me tied into my world. I never felt like leaving the place once I began day dreaming."

"Then what happened?"

"But it was no more than my personal desire. My mother didn't value my passion. She said that it was just a waste of time to do poetry. And I should rather learn to cook, and to take care of the house. Because for girls to pursue a dream like that raised questions for their parents. They said where has she given her heart to. She is never seen doing anything productive. Kagst kalam, kagst kalam. She will bring a bad luck to her future when she will get married. Such clumsy, uncaring person. But it was none like that. I helped my mother a lot during the day and also went to school. I had the most responsibilities than anyone else in the family."

"Isn't it something that parents should be proud of? It was not like you were committing a sin." Zoha was deeply engaged in the story.

"Sometimes the society makes its own culture with their own rules. And it becomes like their job to pick on people. But, despite that I kept writing. There is no boundary to one's expression. Doesn't matter if the society doesn't abide with it. I still have the journals I wrote in. A lot of poetry. But they never got published, nor were ever seen by anyone."

"Did your mother ever read them?"

"I was afraid if she would react negatively to it."

"Where are the journals? Can I someday read your poetry? I find them fascinating. One time we talked about poetry in detail in twelfth grade. Little long time ago."

"Sure. Could I ever think that when I become old, my granddaughter will ask me to read my poetry? You are indeed a lucky girl to be born in today's world. There is more freedom now than back then. Especially the family supports your dream. I pray with my whole heart that you become successful." Dadi went into slightly an overwhelming emotional state that made her eyes well with tears. She was half sad and half happy.

"Can I read them now?" Zoha lifted her head from the pillow and looked at dadi with hope.

"Aren't you tired?"

"Kind of. But I am more interested in start reading it now. Or I will not be able to go to sleep."

Dadi fell thinking about it. "Acha. They are in your wardrobe on the top shelf." She pointed.

"So I was right. Those books are really yours." Zoha perkily drove out of bed, padded to the wardrobe, slid opened the door and reached for the top shelf, as her heels lifted from the ground and her long hair seemed like waterfall behind her.

"Be careful. They are heavy. Might fall on you." Dadi warned.

"I took them out before too. It will be fine."

She got two journals out: one was thick, and the other was thin in comparison. They both were hardcover, with strong binding that kept the work of years ago safe, but still some pages inside had yellowed. She brought it over to dadi, constantly caressing the hardcover like she couldn't believe what she was holding. Her eyes sparkled with distinct energy.

Dadi, slouching under the comforter, chadar extra covering her chest and partly her head, she watched Zoha being amazed at something that never afforded even a slightest appreciation.

"You just brought back my past." Dadi said, lost in looking at the journal.

"This is your greatest achievement that you saved it up today. Now I am thinking since there are a lot of poems in there, I can read one or two every night."

"Only up to two, okay? When you are done, put it in my side drawer. Now that you have taken them out, I will read them in the day. You made me revisit my childhood dream." She released a sigh, preparing to hug back to sleep.

"What if you were famous, dadi? Your poetry would have been printed in the digest magazines. Everybody would have known your hidden talent." Zoha embraced journal against her chest, wrapped with both arms.

Dadi looked at her, and said, "this much pride over some else's work?" Her previous smile accompanied her words.

"I feel so lucky to have a dadi like you."

Dadi leaned on the pillow, putting her back to comfort, and dimmed the lamp. "Good night. Don't be late."

As the room darkened, Zoha reached for her side of the lamp and lit it. Then opened the journal, resting it on her knees and freshly began with the very first poem. The title was, When life is lost in the darkness. In Urdu. Just as the first line captivated her attention, she flowed her eyes down the page. It was written in such beautiful way, simple and unique that while reading it, she felt like she was transferred in a different world.

After reading the first poem, she searched for open eyes of dadi, whose face was drowned in obscurity. But she herself thought, it is really getting late. Dadi had fallen asleep. And she should too.

She put the journal safely in the dadi's bedside drawer and retuned to the bed. After a while, she fell asleep too.

While sleeping, the same dream revealed in her sub-consciousness.

It was a beautiful place, painted with orange leaves. There was a quite notion that it was impossible for such place to exist. The so-called season of Autumn that barely showed in the bustling city of Karachi, had entirely covered this new wonderland: leaves shedding from the branches, seeming magical, creek running alongside- its water cold enough to raise goosebumps, and flourishing mist yellow floating in the remote distance among the trees.

Despite that, the air felt hollow and dry. Like something was missing. Absolute vacant. No sound of any sort, except leaves rustled occasionally by the blow of wind. Zoha wandered her eyes around, quietly, as if catching someone in the absence of noise. Then settled back to self-comfort. She knew, she had not come here alone, but there was someone with her.

By the tree, rose crunching sound of leaves, as if someone had been hiding, keeping eyes on her secretly.

"Are you there?"she called.

No reply. As usual.

"Come out now. I don't like hanging out alone. Please?"

She mustered the courage to step forward, as doubt hovered over her shoulders. Warily looked around, declining the pace. As much as it caused her irritation, she began to feel even more scared.

"Please. For god's sake, come out. I don't like you hiding like this. I want you to show me this place. It's so new that I can't trust myself to go anywhere. Just think. What will happen if I get lost?"

There was no hope, he was going to come out. She had called several times and if he was to, he could have come out of his hiding and give up tricking her.

"Fine. Then you stay and I am gonna get lost. Then all the blame will go on you." Saying that, she trained her steps toward the forest. And as usual, the silence maintained.

Just when she made it around to the following tree, an uncertainty stalked her. She sensed it at the moment that it was not right. Threat. Was what awaited inches behind her back. She was unsure about turning around, and that's when she called politely, with fear, heart pounding. "Tell me you are there. I know you are." Along with assuring the moment, she unwillingly wheeled her attention around.

The hands seized her sides and gave her shock, before she could even recognize the face in the unexpected.

She woke up, dripping in terror. Her heart galloped as she faced the darkness in the room. The feeling of being jolted almost struck her as if she was electrocuted.

This part of the dream always played in her sleep- random scene out of nowhere, and she did not know why. What does it mean? Why does it keep popping up? All the types of questions gave birth. But there was no answer to the unexplainable mayhem. It did not make even a bit sense. Who was him? Why was she with him? Was this all appropriate?

No answer. Unfortunately. It was an unseen, an unexpected mess, that she could never relate it to real life and now the dream started to appear useless too.

If it had any meaning, I would have been able to figure it out long before, Zoha thought.

*******************************************

Tasbeeh- string of prayers beads connected from the two ends.

Chadar- long, big almost shawl type, but is a material like cotton, that woman in Pakistan wear around to cover their torso.

Dadi- grandma, grandmother

Shalwar kameez- Pakistani style of clothing. Kameez meaning top, and shalwar meaning bottom, pants.

Namaz- prayers

Wudhu- ritual done before performing namaz, only in Islam.

Acha- okay, yes, alright

Baray Abu- called to the older Uncle with name other than their real name, by the means of showing the respect and relationship. Literal meaning, big daddy.

In Shaa Allah- by god's will.

Kalam- pen

Kagst- paper

⭐️