. . .

. . .

~

"So whoever does an atom's weight of good will see it. And whoever does an atom's weight of evil will see it." (Qur'an 99:7-8)

~

"Zoya, come sit with me for a minute."

Ecstasy grips Zoya as she abandons her task and follows her father's voice. "Yes, Papa?"

He shifts closer to her and strokes her hair. Zoya has to control the wave of happiness that washes over her, but she can't help the confusion at his unexpectedly affectionate gesture.

"You're my amazing daughter, aren't you?"

Zoya nods her head earnestly. "Yes, Papa."

"I found a guy for you."

Zoya's face falls for a second, then brightens up quickly. "Really?"

"Yes. He's an investment banker and really wealthy. Religious, too. His name is Farhan."

Zoya listens with rapt attention. All she can focus on is the plea in her father's voice.

"Do you want to meet him?"

Zoya observes her father, sees the way he's looking at her tenderly. She feels his hand stroking her hair and all she can think of is how she had forgotten what this felt like.

She smiles. "No. I agree."

Her father's eyes brighten, and Zoya's heart lurches. "Really?" he says.

She nods firmly, no hint of regret on her face.

"Oh, Zoya." He leans forward and embraces his daughter. For a few moments, Zoya's eyes widen with shock. And then she throws her arms around his shoulders, reveling in the sweet pleasure of the embrace.

Zoya jolts upright, panicked. Bright light from her chandelier pierces her eyes as she gropes around in her blankets, unsure of what she's looking for.

Realizing she's awake, a sudden, fierce pain grips her. She draws her knees up to her chest, trying to numb the aching of her heart.

"Papa," she mumbles. His face — so vivid, so clear — has come to plague her dreams again. She closes her eyes, trying to capture the memory that had manifested into a dream. Tears begin rolling down her face. "Ugh." Shocked at herself, she swipes angrily at her eyes. "Stop."

Although nineteen-year-old Zoya had no idea what that day in her dream would lead to, today's Zoya would do anything to fall back onto her pillow, close her eyes, and see her father's face again. Feel his hands in her hair again. See the adoration in his eyes again.

So Zoya Zameer falls back onto her pillow, closes her eyes, and mumbles, "Good night, Papa."

. . .

Later that day in the office, there's a knock on Zoya's door. "Enter!" she barks. Footsteps proceed towards her desk and she glances up, distracted.

Haroun leaves her tea at her desk and stands before her. "Salaam, Ms. Zoya. My mother was asking if you would be able to make it tomorrow."

Oh, shoot. With the events of the past few days and the numerous interviews for new designers, the invitation has completely slipped her mind. She twists a curl around her finger. "Oh, yes, yes. Tell her yes."

Haroun nods and turns to leave, then stops midway to the door. Worry lines crease his forehead. Zoya watches him expectantly.

"Ms. Zoya, it's just been bothering me for too long and I . . ." He blows out a deep sigh, shoving a hand through his hair. "You didn't have to fire Flora because of what she was saying to me. I'm simply your worker, as everyone else here is."

Zoya knits her eyebrows. "What makes you think it was because of you? I fired her because I don't tolerate injustice. And I don't tolerate her lashing out at my employees."

"I understand, but she was the lead designer. And you were more fond of her than — "

"That gives her no entitlement to go around stabbing defenseless people with her words. Yes, it'll be a sad loss to the company. But I cannot keep such character in Zameer."

"Please just give her another chance," Haroun whispers quietly. "She didn't mean anything she said and I wasn't offended by it."

Zoya laughs. "A bomb exploding in Syria doesn't hit us here in America. But that doesn't mean the bomb didn't explode. And you still continue to defend her after she demoralized you. Bravo, Mr. Suleiman, bravo."

"She didn't mean any of it. I know she's a great person. I may have done or said something that upset her or —"

Zoya rolls her eyes and folds her arms, walking towards him. He stands silently before her, gaze fixed to the ground. "You are the epitome of goodness," Zoya says, voice dead serious. "Morality and righteousness is — is packaged into your human body." She points to her window. "You see this twisted, corrupt world outside? This world has no room for people like you. Stop being so good, I'm warning you. One day this goodness is going to come crashing down on your unsuspecting shoulders. It's going to be thrown in your face, and you'll regret every good you ever did for anyone." She pauses, cocking her head to the side. "You know this piety that beats inside your heart? This faith in everyone's 'clean' motives and this belief that everyone is inherently good? It's going to destroy you, Haroun Suleiman. And you'll be left standing in the debris of your destruction, remembering what I'm saying. You mark my words."

"Ms. Zoya, you place me on such a high pedestal, please don't, I —" He rubs his face with his hands. "Please," he says helplessly. "Give her one more chance."

Zoya snorts. "Life doesn't give second chances. Why should I?"

He bites his bottom lip and furrows his brows worriedly, as if debating whether he should speak or not. After a moment, he says — in an almost imperceptible whisper — "The guilt is too much."

Zoya steps closer to him. "Pobrecito. This guilt that beats inside your heart is just more proof of your clean character." She turns around and walks back to her chair. "Understand that you're lucky to feel this emotion. Not a lot of people do." She chuckles mirthlessly. "And that, inevitably, this emotion will eat you inside out. Better restrain yourself before it's too late."

Haroun stands in front of her with a helpless expression on his face before he turns around and exits the room.

Zoya is not given much time to ponder over this conversation because she receives a call from the receptionist, notifying her of the designers' arrival.

"Send them both to my office."

"At the same time?" Sarah asks.

Zoya shrugs. "Why not?" Zoya has always been fond of group interviews so that she can get rid of more people at one time. Finding an assertive and professional employee nowadays is difficult, and tackling them with the group method better highlights a probable candidate.

She freshens her lipstick and fluffs up her hair. Satisfied with her reflection in the mirror, Zoya waits for them.

Before they arrive, however, Farhan knocks, bringing papers to be signed. She grabs the pen from him and scans the document before signing it hastily. He wordlessly takes the file back and turns to leave when Zoya's voice rings out.

"Farhan." She pauses, her dream suddenly flooding back to her. Shaking her head, she continues. "I'm pretty sure you have a tongue in that mouth. Considering it runs pretty wildly when you're trash talking me."

He turns slowly, eyes wary. "What do you want me to say?"

Zoya shrugs nonchalantly. "At least acknowledge your boss' existence."

Farhan hesitates. "Hi, Ms. Zoya."

Zoya rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Never mind."

Farhan exits quietly and Zoya is left to stare at his retreating back, mulling over how guarded he has become around her since the Desi World Fashion Show. Even more so than before.

A knock sounds on the door, interrupting her thoughts. "Enter," Zoya shouts, flipping over the hourglass on her desk.

A man and a woman a little older than Zoya step inside. Upon seeing the man, Zoya flips her curls behind her shoulder haughtily.

"Have a seat, please." She gestures in front of her. The man smiles and extends a hand for her to shake. Zoya immediately shrinks back. "Oh, no. I don't — "

"Oh, I'm so sorry." He sits down with his hands in his lap, and the woman follows suit.

"Do you guys know each other?" Zoya points between the two of them. They shake their heads. "Great. Now you do." Zoya opens the file in front of her. "Sana, meet Alejandro. Alejandro, meet Sana. Tea or coffee?"

They look taken aback at her forwardness, then Sana quickly says, "Coffee is good for me."

"Same here," pipes up Alejandro.

Zoya pages Sarah with a request to send Haroun with two cups of coffee.

"None for you?" Alejandro asks politely.

"I don't drink coffee," she replies curtly before setting her chin in her hands and staring them both down. Alejandro squirms under her gaze. "So. What will you bring to my company?"

They look at each other before Alejandro says, "Well, the designers are sort of the backbone of the fashion industry."

Zoya raises her brows. "Why? In essence, all you guys do is draw. People all over the world draw, not everyone gets paid for it." Alejandro and Sana turn to each other in bewilderment. Zoya laughs and twists a curl around her finger. "Are you offended? It's the truth. Let me ask you a question. Would you ever work as a barber?" Both of them look thoroughly confused by this onslaught of seemingly random questions.

Sana slowly says, "If it was the last job option I had."

Zoya turns to Alejandro. He presses his lips together and Zoya is reminded suddenly of someone else with the same habit. "I don't think so, no. Unless I had no other options, like Sana said."

Zoya smiles. "Right. Do you know why? Because it's 'degrading'. The term barber has negative connotations." She pauses. "What if I told you that you're now Kim Kardashian's personal hairdresser?"

Sana exclaims, "I'd love to be her personal hairdresser" while Alejandro looks shrewd and says, "I see where you're going with this."

Zoya nods. "It's unfortunate we live in a twisted world with the label of equality yet really it favors the wealthy. A barber is a barber and a job that people scorn, but if you're Kim Kardashian's hairdresser, then oh My God, you've become like the coolest person to ever walk earth. It's about privilege, it's about wealth and status and who you serve, not about what occupation you have."

Alejandro nods. "Understood."

"Now tell me." Zoya turns her piercing gaze to him. "What will you bring to my company?"

"Well, without designers, you don't have designs. Without designs, you don't have — "

Zoya holds a hand up. "I know very well the job description for a designer, thank you." Alejandro's cheeks redden. "I asked what you will bring to the company. Not the designer in you." She turns to Sana. "Yes?"

Sana raises her brows. "Ms. Zoya, we speak as designers when we come here. I can say that I myself will bring a plethora of new ideas into the market — "

Zoya shakes her head in frustration. Alejandro interrupts, "May I ask why this is more important than our capabilities, Ms. Zoya? You've probably seen our resumes . . . " He trails off at the expression on Zoya's face.

Zoya leans forward and sets her clasped hands on the table. In the quiet room, her bangles clink noisily against each other and the man and woman in front of her flinch. "Because, Alejandro, I value character more than talent in my company. And fortunately for me, I've been able to handpick people from all over the nation who harbor both of these traits." Well, that's ninety-nine percent true. Sorry, Flora, Zoya thinks bitterly. "Integrity is the baseline for every form of work. It either makes or breaks you. That's why this is more important."

Alejandro nods, looking shaken by her response. "I understand."

Zoya sits back in her chair. "You two may leave."

They dart confused glances at each other. Alejandro says, "But — "

Zoya smiles sweetly. "Yeah. And I can ask my receptionist to show you out of the building. If you need a ride, I can arrange that for you?" She bats her eyelashes at him. I'm not arranging anything for anyone.

Sana grabs her purse. "No, thank you, Ms. Zoya. We'll find our way out." Her voice is cold.

Zoya nods vigorously and examines her nails as they leave. Once the door shuts, she grabs the hourglass on her table and slams it upside down. "Idiots," she snarls to herself. "Flora, couldn't you just keep your mouth shut about Haroun? Because of you, I have to go through all this."

Someone knocks on her door. "What?" she yells. Haroun walks in, a tray of two coffees in his hand. He looks around quizzically.

"Take it away," Zoya snaps. "Drink it. I don't care. I sent them away." Suddenly Zoya remembers that he no longer has to handle tasks such as serving coffee anymore but still continues to do so when asked by Zoya.

Haroun stands there for a second. "Is everything alright, Ms. Zoya?"

She sighs, making a big show of shoving her curls away from her face. "Yes, Haroun. Everything's fine."

Without another word, he leaves.

"Oh, Haroun," Zoya laments to the ceiling. "Would it kill you to stay for a second more and ask me again if everything's okay?"

. . .