. . .

. . .

~

"Neither My earth nor My heavens can contain Me, but the heart of a believing servant contains Me." —Hadith Qudsi

~

That night, dark eyes plague Zoya's dreams. Quiet, intense, and probing. She tosses and turns in bed restlessly.

Do you trust me?

. . .

For Zoya to say that she didn't expect the various reactions to her new initiatives would be a lie. In the business world, it's never just positive or just negative. Fluctuations are her best friend.

The Zameer Co. clothesline has released various new designs in bridal wear, most of which are met with admiration and approval. Yet, as Bill quotes Newton, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Meaning every time they majorly succeed, they will also majorly screw up.

Zoya tells him to shut up.

The board of directors gather around the table in the meeting room, mulling over the latest statistics and worrying over the slight decrease in consumer demand. Zoya leans back in her chair and watches all of them, amused. She has been concerned about the decrease as well but maintains her indifferent façade.

Haroun settles in the corner of the room, busying himself with inputting the catalogs into the system. Zoya steals a glance at him. He rubs his eyes wearily, faded shadows decorating the area under them.

"I don't think this decrease has anything to do with our actual products," Ibitoye says, staring pointedly at Zoya.

Zoya begins examining her nails nonchalantly.

Bill's eyes dart around the tense room. "Perhaps it's the change in designs?" he proposes.

"No, I don't think that's it, either," another director — Matt — says. "Sumaiya's wonderful, really. Her designs have this touch that truly show the essence of the company that Flora's designs didn't have."

At the far end of the room, a corner of Haroun's lips turns up.

Zoya wants to hurl her jhumkas in Matt's face but nods grudgingly. "Agreed."

Raj clears his throat. "Actually, I beg to differ." Zoya rolls her eyes at his use of flowery language. "Do you guys remember what Mr. Zaki was wearing at the evening gala?"

"A whole lot of arrogance and attitude," Zoya says in a clipped tone.

Raj ignores her cynicism. "He and the rest of his employees were wearing clothing manufactured by their own company."

"So? We do the same."

He shakes his head. "What I mean is, their clothing catered more to the audience there."

This catches Zoya's attention. She ignores her nails for a moment and leans forward. "What do you mean 'catered more to the audience there?'"

He takes a deep breath. "I think the reason we are experiencing some downfall is because we need to cater to a wider group of people. Mr. Zaki and his employees adjust according to the styles and standards of a wider population of people. Being the CEO, he parades his most renowned employees around in their best clothing and it receives showers of praise because he knows what people want. Especially in the fashion industry."

"And we don't?"

"No, I — " he stops, seeming at a loss for words. "I think that being the CEO and making . . . adjustments to his and his staff's style wins them more success."

"So what are you suggesting?" Zoya says somewhat sharply.

"Ms. Zoya . . . maybe since you don't make these adjustments to your own style despite being so notorious . . . it . . . turns people away."

There is pin drop silence. The sound of Haroun's furious typing halts, and for a moment there is only thick, thick tension in the room. Eyebrows are raised, heads are bent, and a few scared, subtle nods of assent follow Raj's observation. Perhaps others know better, however, because they widen their eyes or place their heads in their hands. Ibitoye and Bill included.

"Excuse me?" Zoya says after a moment, eyes glinting dangerously. "What are you saying?"

Raj bites his lip anxiously but stands his ground. "I'm not saying that what you're doing is wrong. I'm just saying that maybe you should consider changing up your style a little bit in order for the company to expand. It may be seen as liberating to others, which would be widely accepted, especially since you're the CEO. Other companies are skyrocketing because their employees aren't averse to showing what people want in fashion, and sometimes that may be a bit more skin or — "

Zoya cuts him off. "All I hear is bakwaas, I swear." Her staff has been with her long enough to know what this particular word means. "I'm absolutely awed that you, as a man, are saying this to me. If you had even the tiniest inkling of what respect is, you would be looking out for me and making sure people don't lay their nasty, unlawful eyes on me in all the wrong ways yet you are turning around and telling me to show "a bit more skin" for people to do exactly that? And that too in the name of business? What kind of a man are you? Okay, maybe not for me — I'm Zoya Zameer — but don't you have any respect for woman? You immoral —" she stops, balling her fists.

Raj looks a bit wounded, perhaps at having his masculinity challenged, but to placate her he says, "Of course I do — "

"If you respected me, Raj, you would never tell me to 'show a bit more skin' in the name of liberation and empowerment. You would want to protect me and you would tell me that the world has nasty eyes and views women as specimens, as objects, and my 'showing a bit more skin' — as you advise — would not liberate me. It would place me in jeopardy of those very disgusting eyes and that disgusting mindset. Especially considering your conviction that women exist solely to undress or cover up for the pleasure of men."

Zoya is so mad with rage and disgust that she wants to spit. "I'm liberated, I'm empowered, I don't need any more of this one-sided false feminist rubbish, so please stop. If you want to do all this, go ahead. If you don't agree with Zameer's ideology, start up your own company. Better yet, go work with Zaki Ahmed. But I'm not going to compromise my beliefs and the integrity in my company just for a few dumb statistics to change. I value my respect and honor more than that." With that, she pushes against the desk and whirls out of the room.

Haroun's fingers hover over the keyboard, but the blank expression on his face signifies his attention has strayed far from the catalogs he's supposed to be inputting.

The remaining directors all stare at each other until Ibitoye sighs. "You had to bring up showing more skin, did you?"

Raj holds his hands up indignantly. "If I knew it was going to make her react like that, I never would have said it! I was just thinking of ways to combat recent problems."

"Raj, you've been here long enough to know." Bill sighs. "I understand what you were trying to say. But how could you not know that things like these are her biggest pet peeves? She doesn't believe in sacrificing her own morals for temporary success."

"And maybe others wouldn't be offended at a comment like that," Ibitoye adds. "But you know how she gets when it's about feminist views and what she believes respect entails for women."

The directors in the room continue to argue back and forth.

Outside, Zoya fumes as her heels click sharply against the floor and she makes her way into her office. Once inside, she grabs fistfuls of her hair and closes her eyes.

Control. Breathe in. Breathe out.

As of late, she has noticed that it has become increasingly difficult for her to suppress what bothers her most. She can't afford this lack of control – not when she's in such a high position at work and in public.

"Back to normal, Zoya," she chides herself and begins adjusting her curls. "Become who you were. Spine straight as a ruler. 'I don't care' façade stronger than a tied knot." She glances at herself in the mirror hanging on the wall. Her face looks as it always does — impeccable, breathtaking. Not a hair out of place.

A bit more skin.

Suddenly, she is thrown back into that time. Another memory hits her like a brick to the face, like being dunked in ice cold water.

"I don't understand why she took such a rash decision for a divorce. And this . . . this doesn't make sense to me."

"Ayaaz, this girl has become trouble for us. Have you heard the things she's mumbling about? Abuse, beatings, what is all this nonsense?"

Unsurely, the man says slowly, "Salma . . . her face and arms are covered in bruises. And those are the ones we can see."

"Do you think she's honestly telling the truth about our son? He would never harm an ant, let alone a woman."

"Then how do you explain those scars all over her body?" His voice is conflicted, hesitant.

A scoff. "I know how women work, Ayaaz. After all, I am one. They have a way of making themselves seem innocent."

Silence, then: "Do you think she will take legal action?"

A sigh. "I don't think so. She knows better than to do anything like that."

Outside the door stands the young woman they are speaking about. She turns to leave and sees him standing at the far end of the hallway. His eyes bore into hers before trailing down to her exposed arms. Because lately he has stopped marking her in unseen places and has resorted to marking her everywhere he desires, heedless of possible repercussions.

Perhaps because he knows there will be no repercussions for him.

She hastily covers herself up with her dupatta and turns quickly away from him, walking in the opposite direction.

Her lifeless eyes are trained to the ceiling.

A knock sounds on the door. Zoya's eyes widen as she is thrown out of the brutal memory and her heels swivel around at lightning speed. She grabs the first thing on her table and hurls it across the room, where it smashes against the wall and scatters into smithereens on the floor.

The door to her office opens and Haroun stands there with a file in his hand. He enters with a panicked expression on his face. "I thought something happened — " He glances at the broken glass at the same time Zoya realizes what she broke.

The hourglass. The one her father gave her.

A strangled cry escapes her and she rushes forward just as Haroun does the same. She attempts to reach out to grab the pieces of glass and do anything, anything to put them back together. But the hourglass seems broken beyond repair.

Her throat constricts and it feels as if the air is being sucked out of the room. Zoya falls to her knees, stunned.

Haroun bends down and, when Zoya reaches forward to try to assemble the pieces back together, says quietly, "Don't touch them. You might hurt yourself." Zoya wraps her arms around her knees and simply sits there, glassy eyes staring at the broken hourglass.

She wants to say something, anything. Wants to hold a conversation so that he cannot witness how disarrayed her emotions are.

Words fail her as she stares at the shattered hourglass.

Haroun looks around the room, perhaps searching for a brush to sweep the contents into the trash can. When it's nowhere to be found, he grabs a piece of paper and a piece of cardboard instead. Zoya watches him through eyes thick with tears. Using the paper as a funnel, he brushes the glass onto the cardboard and is about to reach out to carefully take hold of the larger pieces when Zoya shakes her head. "No." Her voice comes out raw and strained. "You'll hurt yourself."

He shakes his head. "I won't. It's okay."

"No." Zoya says. "Don't do it."

After a pause, Haroun stands. "I'll go get a broom." Before leaving, he hands her the water bottle that was sitting on her table. "Drink some water, Ms. Zoya."

She simply stares at the broken hourglass, which she herself blew to smithereens in her uncontrolled and uncalculated rage. The sand is strewn across the floor.

A fresh wave of sobs overtakes her.

A moment later, the janitor steps inside and rushes forward to clean up the mess, but Zoya suddenly glances up at him and shifts to block it. He gives her a confused look while Haroun stands helplessly behind the janitor. "He wouldn't let me."

"No." Zoya says firmly. "I don't want him to do it." She grabs the broom out of the janitor's hands and begins sweeping the glass together, but Haroun stops her by clearing his throat and standing at a considerable distance from her.

"Ms. Zoya, let me do it."

And Zoya, too overridden by grief to argue, simply watches with lost eyes as Haroun takes the broom from her and collects the mess into an empty trash can nearby.

Zoya walks over and pulls the plastic bag out of the trash can, attempting to tie it securely and place it on top of her desk, but her hands are shaking too badly. She fumbles with the knot, a tear trailing down her cheek.

Wordlessly, Haroun reaches out for the bag.

Do you trust me?

Zoya hands it to him. He ties the knot effortlessly and places the bag on her desk. "Are you alright?" he asks quietly. "Did you get any cuts from the glass?"

She shakes her head no.

After a tense, charged silence, he murmurs "Okay." He turns to leave but then pauses and retrieves the file that had been in his hand when he walked in. Hesitantly he says, "I fixed the problem with the catalogs and I printed out a copy."

Briefly Zoya laughs inwardly at the thought that her board of directors knows her so well that they sent Haroun for this task. Knowing that in her current state, she would probably fire any other person who walked through her door.

Zoya nods at Haroun. "Thank you." Her voice sounds strangled. She cannot be near him right now. His demeanor, his thoughtfulness, it's all to much.

He is engaged to someone else.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Yes." Zoya's answer is quick. Too quick to believe.

Quietly Haroun replies, "Okay."

With that, he leaves.

And Zoya is left staring at the plastic bag that carries one of the last remnants of her father.

. . .