. . .

. . .

~

"Many people think that punishment is limited to one's health, his wealth, or his children; however, having a sick and corrupted heart is truly the worst type of punishment." —Shaikh Salih 'al 'Uthaymin

~

The evening gala approaches quickly and Zoya — as a test for her new lead designer — has her tailor and create a new dress specifically for the event.

"You got everything down, Sumaiya?" Zoya drawls, twisting her hair around her finger. She has been watching Sumaiya like a hawk ever since she hired her, and Sameer has been reporting back frequently with the same news: "Hardworking, nice girl. Comes to work, goes home. Nothing fishy as of yet."

Sumaiya nods, jotting down a few more notes.

"I need this by Friday." Zoya examines her nails. She gauges that Sumaiya has most likely familiarized herself with the attitude of her new boss, that Zoya will stop at no lengths to humiliate her if she designs something that humiliates Zoya.

Sumaiya nods.

Zoya scrutinizes her. What is with this girl? "That's two days from now."

Sumaiya smiles. "I know."

Zoya huffs out a sigh and spins on her black heel, dismissing her.

Someone knocks on the office door and peeks in. "Ms. Zoya?"

"Yes, Sameer."

"The meeting room is ready."

Zoya nods. "Gather everyone. I'll be there in a minute." Collecting some files, she takes a deep breath and makes her way to the meeting room, where her employees are already waiting for her. Her eyes dart to Haroun, who has a notepad in hand.

"Good afternoon," she says, placing the files on the large oval desk. Sameer begins to pull out the board but she waves a hand, signaling she won't be needing it. Zoya gestures at Sumaiya dismissively and announces, "I'm sure you have all familiarized yourselves with our new lead designer." She darts a quick glance around the room. Haroun, who is concentrating on the papers in front of him, smiles a little.

Zoya's brows furrow.

"Alright. So as you know, the CFO Ilhaam and Ihave been closely monitoring international expansion, which has significantly raised our revenues. And we're being bombarded by positive feedback. Funding has also increased and net margins are skyrocketing. Of course, this means we're working on further expanding with workers and locations. And the press is continuously demanding our attention.

"As you all know, the gala is in three days' time. That is when I'll be giving the media my statement, as well as introducing the new project we've been offered."

The staff throws each other quizzical looks.

Zoya takes a deep breath. "We've been offered to take on a project regarding domestic abuse. Contractors of a Pakistani organization geared towards domestic violence issues have spoken to me. They've requested for Zameer to partner with them and help spread their message as well as creatively portray these issues since they're not receiving enough media attention."

Everyone glances at each other in confusion. Haroun bites his lower lip, eyebrows knitted.

"Well, this is new," Bill comments. "What do we get out of this?"

Zoya examines her nails, hoping nobody can hear her rapid heartbeat. "The press has been bombarding us with questions and speculations. This is our chance to break down all their assumptions and allow them to see what this company really stands for. Trust me, the media will go so wild with this they'll forget about anything else."

"Creatively portray?" Haroun interrupts quietly. Everyone's attention turns to him, since he speaks minimally during these meetings. His cheeks tinge pink but he barrels forward. "How can we creatively portray domestic violence? That seems . . . insulting."

Heads nod in agreement and Zoya's heart rate skyrockets, but she brushes her hair behind her shoulders and leans forward. "I agree with you. But this company's campaigns aren't receiving as much press coverage as they need, and they recognize that the Pakistani community brushes off these issues. What they need from us is a different way of spreading their message — something other than senseless marketing and flyers shoved under people's noses. And I know we can make that happen. With our increased funding, this should be a piece of cake."

Zoya seats herself sideways on the table haphazardly, and one of her employees — Mark — shifts back slightly to give her more room. She flashes a smile at him, batting her lashes, and he blushes.

"I need you all to listen to me very carefully." She begins to propose her ideas on the various designs they can construct to catalyze this project. As she speaks, eyes begin to light up, heads nod vigorously, notes are quickly taken. Once she finishes, she asks, "Any questions?"

"Ms. Zoya, who will be leading the project?"

"I will," she says simply, ignoring the raised eyebrows in response.

As the meeting ends and employees begin to file out of the room, Zoya cocks her head to the side and fluffs her hair. "Haroun?" she says sweetly. Sumaiya's gaze darts to her. "Stay for a minute." He nods. The last person to leave is Sumaiya, her face harboring a strangely troubled look.

When they're alone, Zoya begins playing around with her dupatta. "What do you think of the new project?"

Haroun nods. "I'm glad you took the offer."

This catches her attention. She looks up quickly, jhumkas dangling. "How come?"

He seems surprised by the question. "Because it's something that needs to be talked about. And what better way to do that than have a highly successful company like Zameer represent it?"

Something in Zoya stills. Wind rushes through her ears, head pounding. Her vision blurs, and she is close to toppling off the desk but grabs the chair to steady herself.

"Ms. Zoya?" Haroun remains at a distance, tentative. But there is concern in his voice. "Are you alright?"

She reaches up to press a hand against her forehead and nods. "Yes." Zoya raises her eyes to him, sensing the achingly wide distance between them. The distance that feels as if it's crackling with electricity. As if she can reach across the space and feel the firecrackers exploding from her touch.

His face is impassive, reflecting none of the feelings beating in Zoya's heart.

For some reason, she feels compelled to tell him the truth now that the well has opened up within her. A wide, gaping chasm has made room inside her and hungers to hear what else he has to say about this. She looks up at him. "I took this project on my own."

"Yeah?" is all he says.

"Yes. Things like this are neglected too much, and unfortunately smaller people cannot do much bigger things. And unfortunately, most bigger industries feel it is not their responsibility to worry about smaller things like societal problems. So in the end, who is left to carry the burden?" She covets the expression on his face, the admiration as well as the hint of a smile playing on his lips. She stands and moves forward, and he immediately moves back. Carefully, subtly. "I think sometimes bigger industries forget about the power that they are given, the things that they can do."

Haroun nods vigorously and a strand of his inky black hair falls over his forehead. "You're doing really noble work, Ms. Zoya. You don't realize how much initiatives like this are needed."

"Oh, trust me," she says. "I do."

"I pray Allah blesses you."

Her breath catches in her throat at these words.

When he leaves, Zoya falls back in a chair and massages her forehead. "Please let this work," she whispers.

. . .

A few hours later, Haroun approaches Zoya cautiously, asking if he can have a moment to speak with her. Zoya sets aside everything on her desk and leans forward, hands folded under her chin. "Yes?"

Haroun fidgets nervously. "I . . . wanted to ask for a favor."

"Of course."

"I — " He takes a deep breath and sighs loudly, a frustrated look sporting his face. "I'm sorry, it's just a bit difficult to ask for. I know it's kind of out of the question to ask for a favor like this when you work at a company this large. To be honest, I don't even know if this is allowed. I understand if — "

"Haroun," Zoya says, eyes widened at his strange behavior. While he tends to be shy and aloof, he's never like this. Never this anxious, this nervous.

He lifts his eyes to hers for the slightest second before focusing his attention back to his feet. "I was wondering if you would be able to let me leave work earlier?" Pause. "Every day?"

Zoya's eyebrows incline. "Well, this is new."

He runs a hand through his hair. "I know it's a crazy and highly unprofessional request."

She leans back in her chair. "Not crazy if I know why."

Rubbing his neck, he reddens slightly. This catches Zoya's attention. What's making him embarrassed?

"Uh . . . it's work. Something I do outside of working here. And it's a bit flexible so timings have changed and I" — he tenses — "can't be available during the new time anymore. Unless . . ." He sighs. "Ms. Zoya, I've been working with you for a few months now. Do you trust me?"

His question is posed casually, with no underlying motives apparent. "Of course I do," Zoya replies, then backtracks, realizing she may have said that too fast. She flips her hair behind her shoulder and tittersnervously. "I trust everyone, haha."

"Then can you please trust that I'm not feeding you some made up story just to leave early?"

Zoya holds back a smile at his restless attitude. At his bouncing knee and trembling hands. "Of course I can. But you know, as your boss, I need to be given a valid reason in order for me to even consider your request."

Haroun nods. "Yes, I know, I expected as much. Um . . ." His shoulders sag in defeat. "It's humanitarian work."

Her interest is piqued. "And why were you so hesitant to tell me this?"

He doesn't answer, just bites his lip nervously. Zoya rests back in her chair. "Humanitarian work." She mulls over it. "And you want this right after I gave you a promotion."

Haroun runs a hand through his hair. "I know it sounds strange to ask, but I was actually committed to that long before I started working here. I compromised hours for them because I needed to focus on my job. But — "

"But your work there is voluntary, correct?"

"Correct."

"So . . . " She gestures her hands around.

A crease appears between his brows. "So?"

"So is it necessary?"

He perks up. "Yes, Ms. Zoya."

Is he lying? Although highly faulty, this is the only explanation Zoya can think of for his strange behavior. Because she hasn't once heard him mention this humanitarian work in all the months he's worked for her.

"Okay," she says thoughtfully. "So it's necessary. But if you knew you had this volunteer work to do, why didn't you tell me this when I promoted you?"

He blows out a sigh. "We needed the money." By "we", Zoya guesses he's speaking of his family. "Besides, who turns down a promotion, right?" There is a hint of bitterness in his voice. A symbol of deeply buried resentment.

Now she's perplexed. Especially because she gets the feeling that he didn't want the promotion. "Do you not need the money anymore?"

"We do," he murmurs quietly. "We all wanted Aisha to be able to quit so that she can focus on school, but she insisted on at least working part time. Naima's still working, but I know the burden is a lot on her with college and all. My mom's started baking and selling sweets at home to try to — " He presses his lips together. A red tint appears in his cheeks, and Zoya knows it's not shame.

It's guilt.

He sounds so helpless, so vulnerable that Zoya steeples her fingers to cover her trembling lips. She asks the question that has been bothering her since she visited his house. "What about your father?"

There. She detects the slight clench in his jaw. But other than that he remains composed. "My parents are divorced."

Her mouth widens into an O before she quickly shuts it. Her heart begins to race rapidly. "I'm sorry about that."

He shakes his head. "Don't be. It's like my mom said to you — whatever happens, happens for our own good."

She knows she's pushing the invisible barrier surrounding him but breathlessly she asks, "And does he not send you guys any support?"

He shakes his head.

Zoya feels a strange sensation cloud her heart. To hear about Haroun's father reminds her of her own. And the pain Haroun has faced and continues to face because of him as well as the haunting past Zoya has survived seem so parallel, so alike, that she remains speechless.

This organ in her body — this strange organ that throbs and aches and manages to continue beating after the terrible excuse of a life she's lived — feels strangely attached to the human being sitting in front of her right now. As if the gate to the castle of her heart has opened, and the bridge has spread out and reached across to let Haroun Suleiman in.

Zoya breaks out of her reverie. "So then shouldn't you be working extra hours?" She backtracks at the expression on his face. "I mean, considering you need the money, the last thing you should be doing is cutting off hours from your job to do something voluntary."

Haroun drops his head in his hands and Zoya's eyes widen. "I should. In everyone's eyes, that would be the 'plausible' option. But my mom always tells me that even if life is difficult, we shouldn't stop doing good for people. She says we're still so much better off than others who have less than us. And she's completely, entirely right. We have so much to be thankful for. But — " He rubs his temples. "It kills me to see my sisters having to sacrifice time from their education and their social lives to make sure we can pay the bills every month. They shouldn't have to worry about all that. And now my mom . . . " He trails off, hair falling over his forehead as he holds his head in his hands. "But not doing it . . . not doing it makes everything worse. I need some semblance of sanity. I need some sense of tranquility in my life, something to set the seesaw straight. I need to know I'm fulfilling at least a part of the purpose I was made for." His fists are clenched, regret written all over his face, and he bites down on his lip to keep himself from speaking any more.

I need some semblance of sanity.

He must have been harboring these feelings for quite a while if he let them slip in front of Zoya, someone he is normally quiet and reserved around.

"Haroun," Zoya says gently, ignoring the thumping of her heart from his pained words. "It's okay. Relax." He heaves in a deep breath. "You can leave early if you please. I won't cut from your paycheck."

He looks up suddenly, then shakes his head. "No. You can't do that."

She watches him with a perplexed expression. Clearly him and his family are in a financial crisis, yet he still won't give up his voluntary humanitarian work in order to spend more time at his job. And when Zoya — cruel, arrogant Zoya — offers him to leave and pay for his time off on a silver platter, he won't accept that either.

He baffles her more than anyone she's ever met.

"Jaan, I'm the CEO," she replies gently. "I most certainly can."

His lips begin to tremble. "You can't. You've already done too much for us. Besides, don't give me any favors that you wouldn't give to another employee." Pause. "Please."

She wants nothing more than to deny his plea, but she shrugs nonchalantly and says, "Okay, if you insist."

He thanks her profusely, tells her he will only leave an hour earlier every day, and exits.

Zoya Zameer returns to her work, flipping through files and papers distractedly. Observing designs with glassy eyes. Receiving and making phone calls mechanically. All throughout this time, seven words occupy her head space entirely.

You've already done too much for us.

Inside her heart, a war wages. Haroun is clearly troubled with financial difficulties, rife with emotional ailments. And he has always been a calm, resolute young man. Rigorous in his faith, blindly trusting God. Always doing good for others, even when they fail to compensate. Doing unnecessary work which is overburdening him and would make his life easier if he gave it up.

Yet he allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of her for a minute — even if he regretted it immediately — and all Zoya had been able to do was watch with trembling fingers. Because once again, he had managed to make her speechless.

And somehow, he still told her that she has done too much for him.

Zoya rubs the worry lines on her forehead.

Not enough, Haroun. Not enough.

. . .