. . .

. . .

~

"And be patient over what befalls you." (Qur'an 31:17)

~

When Zoya returns to work the next day, she yells at anyone who comes into her office. Hushed mutters spread like wildfire — everyone is wondering what has gotten Zoya Zameer so riled up. After all, the fashion show was a success and the news of Zameer's international expansion has been met with an incredible burst of support. Consumer demand is rising and the company is skyrocketing to even greater success.

The staff's confused whispers reverberate from room to room and person to person the entire day.

What the hell is wrong with her?

She's worse than usual.

Did somebody forget to put the sixth sugar packet in her tea?

The woman being speculated about sits in her office, knee vibrating up and down when a knock sounds on her door. "Enter," Zoya shouts. She doesn't look up from the statistics she's observing with the CFO on the latest consumer demand.

Someone approaches her desk and sets a mug down on it. "Your tea, Ms. Zoya."

His voice shocks her into the memory of the night of the fashion show. She looks up from her tablet and sees Haroun standing quietly before her, waiting for any other commands.

For some reason, seeing him causes Zoya's fists to clench in anger. Haroun — quiet and religious — is a brutal reminder of those women at the masjid. He probably thinks the same of me, she thinks bitterly. He just doesn't say anything.

Zoya had thought for a while that Haroun was the only Muslim in the world who didn't have the ability to piss her off, but she realizes now that she was wrong. It's a hoax. He's a hoax. She should not have fallen into his trap and believed even for a second that he represented the low population of non-judgmental Muslims.

They're all the same.

There's no way Muslims all around the world are like those women at the masjid while he's gentle and quiet. He must have some ulterior motive, Zoya thinks resentfully, otherwise no one is this kind and patient with her.

In a second, her entire perspective of him shifts.

"You can leave," she says curtly. He looks a bit surprised but nods and exits. This further pisses Zoya off.

Why didn't he argue with me?

"Zoya?" The CFO breaks her out of her stupor and she returns to the tablet. But her seething mind is elsewhere.

"You're not understanding what I'm saying," Zoya tells him exasperatedly after a while. She points to the graph. "That's an exponential curve. And it didn't rise over last night. This is dated from a week ago. Meaning consumer demand has risen since then. But why? What had we done that was so special?"

The man shrugs, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "As long as it's going up, it doesn't concern me."

His comment peeves Zoya. "Oh, okay. So as long as this curve keeps rising upward, you don't give a damn if it's due to murders or pornographers or whatever. You just want it to keep going up."

"Murders and pornographers?" he replies, perplexed. "This is a fashion company, Zoya."

"You know what I mean!" she says angrily with her hands held out before her.

"No, I really don't — "

"Just get out." Zoya points to the door. He raises his eyebrows. "I said get out. If you don't leave right now, I'm going to spill this tea all over your crusty, mop-like hair. Would do you some good, anyway."

Surprise flashes across his features. He grabs the files from her desk and obliges, throwing her one last quizzical look before he leaves.

"Everyone is crazy here, I swear to Allah. Everyone's nuts."

Her mood does not improve for the rest of the day and even when she gets home, she yells more at Aman — who listens wordlessly — for not "opening the door right" and always looking at her with "puppy dog eyes". She makes her way upstairs, prays, and flings herself onto her bed.

"The world is crazy," she mumbles. "Everyone's crazy." Eyelids drooping, she drifts off into a restless sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Zoya shakes awake. Her room is plunged into darkness. She panics and sits up in bed, placing a hand over her heart. It's pitch black — so dark that there is no difference whether her eyes are open or closed. She fumbles around for her phone but comes up empty.

The door is shut. Why is the door shut?

Zoya begins to breathe heavily. Her surroundings are a jumble; nothing makes sense to her. The windows reflect a slab of moonlight on the ground, and the bend and crawl of it over the floor is eerie. It plunges her into an unwanted memory and she shakes her head roughly.

"Stop it, Zoya," she mumbles. The sound of her own voice in the silent room scares her, and she takes a deep breath before standing up to find the light switch.

By now her breaths are coming in short gasps, spasms of fear.

"Relax, Zoya. Deep breaths." She stands, but is immediately gripped by a moment of terror and falls back down.

It's too dark. Too dark to see, too dark to hear, too dark to breathe.

Zoya musters the courage to stand again and is halfway across the room when an intense fear grips her yet again. Knees bending, she collapses to the ground with a heaving breath.

What's happening to me?

Just then, it feels as if someone is in the room with her. Zoya spins around, but the darkness cloaks her eyes like a blindfold. Wild panic grips her and she croaks out a "who's there?"

Silence.

If I can't find these damn lights right now, I'm going to scream. She attempts to stand again but falls back down, breaths huffing out of her with great effort.

Without warning, hoarse screams erupt from her throat and her high-pitched, terrified voice reverberates throughout the silent manor.

The absence of light is suffocating, like a cloaked hand gripping her lungs and squeezing them shut. Before Zoya can block out the memory, it closes in on her.

"Get over here, Zoya."

"Please — "

"I told you not to argue with me. Come on, Zoya."

She obliges, keeping her eyes lowered. Focusing on the sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains. He grabs her wrist and pushes her down.

She starts to sob.

Footsteps pound toward Zoya's door before it swings open. Someone gropes around for the light switch, and the room is suddenly sheltered with harsh beams of light. Zoya's screams die down and she blinks blearily up at the doorway. "Mumtaz?"

"Bibi, what's wrong?"

"Why was the door closed?"

"I don't know, bibi, you must have closed it."

"Do I ever close the door?" she screeches. "Do I?"

"No, bibi." Mumtaz says. She approaches Zoya slowly, as someone would a wounded animal. "Are you alright?" She reaches out a hand to help her up, but Zoya stands of her own accord. Seething, she glares at Mumtaz.

"The next time this door is closed, I'll kick you all out of here. I don't care how helpless you are. Do you understand me?"

Mumtaz nods wordlessly and Zoya gets back into bed. Sweat beads her forehead and her breathing is still ragged.

Suddenly, a face flashes in her mind's eye. She envisions pursed lips and a dimple in his left cheek. The shadow of long eyelashes cast across cheekbones as he trains his eyes on the floor. She closes her eyes and one of his rare smiles blooms in her mind.

Zoya's breathing halts, her fear momentarily subsides.

As this image projects from her mind's eye, her muscles loosen. Her heart — which had been beating erratically only moments before — slows to a much more normal pace.

"Thank you, Haroun," Zoya whispers.

. . .

Zaki Ahmed paces around in his office, tension lining his features.

When the knock he's been waiting for arrives, he quickly swivels around. His assistant enters, a file in her hand.

"Sir, the photos are ready."

"Let me see them."

He hastily opens the file and sets the printed pictures on his desk. Upon observing them, a slow, wicked smile appears on his face. "You thought to challenge me, Zoya Zameer? You made the biggest mistake of your life in breaking off our partnership. I'll show you what it means to piss Zaki Ahmed off." He begins to laugh maniacally, and his assistant stands by with a worried expression on her face.

. . .

When Zoya returns to work the next day, having applied a little extra concealer to cover the dark circles, she's in no better mood than she was the previous day. In fact, she's even worse and lashes out at all her employees. And despite hearing about carefully collected reports on Zaki Ahmed's outrage at her business' growing success, her spirits aren't the least bit lifted. She continues to tug agitatedly at her hair and rub her eyes blearily.

When Haroun knocks on her door to give her tea, Zoya is immediately reminded of last night. Of how her mind had conjured him up as catharsis. She expects to feel some relief at seeing him, but apparently her heart has different ideas because it beats quickly. Angrily.

Apparently, Zoya's heart is not happy that her brain chose him as a source of comfort.

Haroun sets the mug of tea and a familiar-looking golden clutch down on the table. Zoya eyes it, recognizing it from the day of the fashion show. I left it in his car? Memories of that night filter through her head one by one.

He stands before her expectantly. Zoya notices faint bags decorating the area under his eyes. Briefly she wonders, what keeps him awake?

She clears her throat. "Why are you still standing here?"

He purses his lips and Zoya isn't happy with herself for recognizing this nervous tell of his. "I was wondering if you needed anything else."

"If I needed anything, I would have said so."

He nods and turns around. "With your permission, then." He gestures to the door.

"Actually, no. Wait. I do need something." She sets her pen down and makes her way around the table to him. Very subtly, he backs away, but instead of amusing her like it usually does, this infuriates Zoya.

"Why did you bring this back to me?" She taps the clutch.

He looks surprised. "Because you left it in my car, Ms. Zoya."

"Why did you think I needed it back?"

"I assumed . . . I assumed you would want it back."

"Don't assume as such next time," she snaps. "I have plenty of clutches."

He nods wordlessly.

Say something, dammit. Prove my assumptions about you correct. "Also . . ." she racks her brain to give him something to do, standing there for so long that he says, "Yes, Ms. Zoya?"

Ugh. "You can leave." She flips her hair behind her shoulder and plops back into her seat. By the time she settles down, he's already left.

So silent, Zoya thinks. Her anger has dissipated, replaced by confusion. Her mind plays tug-of-war, battling with itself.

If he's just like those women at the masjid and the people of her past, why didn't he say anything? Why didn't he argue with her stupid claims?

Her image of him is constantly tested. Especially when later, she's about to finalize a list of charity organizations with her board of directors and comes across Haroun. Cleaning the floor. With a mop. Doing a double take, Zoya quickly performs the calculations in her head. Three o'clock. Tuesday. Janitor Jay sweeps and mops the floors.

Zoya approaches Haroun and folds her arms. "What are you doing?"

He gestures to the floor. "Mopping the floor, Ms. Zoya," he replies politely.

"I see that. I mean why are you mopping the floor?"

"Jay needs a break from time to time. Everyone does," Haroun says with a smile in his voice.

Later, she almost walks into the lobby when she stops, having heard the passionate discussion of her two employees. She peeks around the corner.

"No, man. It just sucks." Farhan shakes his head in disgust, and Bill and Sarah listen intently. "We're told from a certain age that we have to do this and we should do that and if we don't, we're going straight to hell."

"But that's what I'm saying, Farhan. I understand why people would express distaste in religion. I understand why you do. Because so many times, the 'religion' we're shown — especially as children — isn't religion at all. It's a hoax, a fabricated religion fueled by interferences of culture and society." Haroun shakes his head. "The religion isn't the problem, the way it's demonstrated is."

Zoya leans back, pressing herself against the wall. After hearing this brief monologue, her breath seems to be getting caught in her throat. Haroun's eloquence always baffles her, but hearing his views on religious matters further intrigues her.

Haroun continues speaking, his voice laced with revulsion. "On top of being raised to resent Islam, Muslims are bombarded with news screwed up by Western media. With the decades-old narrative of 'evil and oppressive Muslims.'" He pauses, and Zoya holds her breath. "Maybe we Muslims don't do a great job of demonstrating religion, but mainstream media doesn't cut us any slack either. It doesn't bother to recognize true Islam versus the manipulation of it."

The bitterness in his voice roots Zoya to her spot.

"Like" — it's Bill who speaks next, pausing as if thinking of how best to word his thoughts — "news of terrorist organizations. Those who use the name of religion as a scapegoat."

"Oh, definitely," Haroun's voice is strained, as if he's holding himself back from erupting. "These people yell 'Allahu Akbar' or 'Allah is great' before slaughtering innocent lives. They violate and oppress, then carry the banner of Islam over their heads, leading everyone to believe this religion is violent and unjust."

Zoya turns slightly to observe the expression on Haroun's face but whips back around when his gaze sweeps around the room. "I never understood how anyone could call this religion violent when its very greeting begins with sending peace upon the other person. And a verse in our holy book clearly states that killing an innocent life is equal to killing all of humanity." Zoya risks peeking around the corner again and briefly witnesses his distraught expression. "But sometimes it seems like people's negative assumptions of Islam are — to some extent — justified."

Farhan raises his brows.

"Yeah, maybe media screws us over, but we're human. We believe what we're told and what we see on TV. How is anyone not supposed to be hostile towards Islam after all they've seen of it is violent images and glaring headlines portraying manslaughter and other atrocities?" Haroun rubs his hand down the length of his face. "These sickos drag Islam's name through the dirt and make other Muslims look bad as well. So that everyone who walks by and sees a woman in hijab or hears a Muslim name at the airport becomes wary and afraid."

"Well, yeah, we don't do a great job of showcasing religion," Farhan says bitterly. "Have you seen Ms. Zoya? She prays, but that's about it. Everything else is halal — permissible — for her. She's rude, she's selfish — "

Zoya has half a mind to abandon her hiding spot and rush towards the neanderthal to teach him a lesson of just how rude she can be, but Haroun beats her to it. Much less violently.

"Farhan," he interrupts, his tone placating. "That's not the same thing. I understand your frustration, but we really have no idea what goes on in people's hearts. We don't really have a right to twist someone's story, to ruin their image because of what we see, you know what I mean? Sincerity can't always be determined by us humans." Haroun pauses, observing Farhan's reaction. He must sees that Farhan is still willing to listen, because he continues.

"Do you know what God says in the Qur'an? 'Your Lord knows best what is in your hearts.' So if we as humans try to" — he holds his fingers up in air quotes — "measure someone's 'level of spirituality', I think I'd understand why they would become bitter with us and towards religion. If we act like this towards other Muslims, what will the larger Muslim community become? We will all become bitter towards one another, and the true message and purpose of this religion will be lost." He runs his fingers through his hair, agitated.

Bill and Sarah begin asking genuine, curious questions and the four of them continue to converse. Zoya turns away, unable to explain why she suddenly feels out of breath.

For days afterward, Haroun continues to prove her wrong without saying a single word. Flora yells at him several times for things he has no clue of but are nevertheless fitting with his job description — such as a broken printer or a lagging computer — and he stands silently before her, attempting no defense.

Slowly, Zoya's opinion of him reverts to what it was before the masjid incident. She's surprised to feel an intense guilt at having thought of him as anything but the pure, quiet human being that he is. She used those women at the masjid as a template for all other Muslims in the world and completely disregarded the careful opinion she had crafted of Haroun Suleiman after her own diligent observation. She had blatantly disregarded the caution she had warned herself to take these last four years — to not allow him to taint her image of others.

Somehow his memory still ends up traversing throughout her life, manipulating her emotions and serving as a base through which she views others. Even after Zoya's caution, he still ends up shadowing her every move, haunting her with the past she has tried so hard to forget.

Days later, Zoya calls Haroun into her office. She gestures for him to sit down and watches him brazenly with her chin in her hands.

"Yes, Ms. Zoya?" he asks softly, eyes trained to the floor as usual. His passionate speech about religion from days ago flits through her mind.

She is about to reveal why she summoned him when his gaze falls upon the article opened on her tablet. This one has a picture of Zoya speaking to a distressed employee at the Desi World Fashion Show, speculating about a relationship between them.

That employee being Haroun.

Haroun's eyes widen, mouth agape. "Ms. Zoya . . . what is that?"

"This? Oh, it's nothing. Just another despicable attempt by my rival to break me down. Haha." She reaches forward to lock the screen when his shaky voice stops her.

"May I see it?"

Reluctantly, she unlocks the tablet and pushes it towards him, watching as his expression goes from shocked to distraught.

A strange pang resonates in her chest.