. . .

. . .

~

"But they plan, and Allah plans, and Allah is the best of planners." (Qur'an 8:30)

~

"I'm going to quit, man."

"Why?"

"Why? Why? Are you seriously asking me that question right now, Haroun?" Farhan's pent up frustration is clear in his voice, like an explosion waiting to happen.

"Yes," Haroun deadpans.

"Do you need me to explain to you once again how she's literally been treating me like chewed up gum on the bottom of her heel? Actually, scratch that, it's not accurate enough — "

"Farhan — "

"Maybe more like a rat. You know that show where those rats kept exploding because of some virus? Teen Wolf, it was called, I think? Yeah, she thinks I'm those rats — "

"Farhan — "

"She may think I'm a lizard, actually. I think she's still really pissed about that chipkali thing, even though she was laughing about it." Farhan shudders. "When she laughs, it's so terrifying. It's like insects crawling over my skin and — "

"Farhan — " Haroun exclaims in exasperation, stopping in the middle of the hallway. Farhan's hands drop, his fingers halt in imitating insects crawling over his arms.

"What, bro?" Although he has tried his best to keep his mouth shut on the slow, agonizing journey to self-improvement, his spool is coming undone now.

Haroun raises a hand to his forehead and rubs it down the length of his face, stopping at his chin. "Relax."

"That's easy for you to say. She doesn't step all over you."

"She doesn't — "

"Don't feed me the same cock and bull story about her not acting any different towards you."

Haroun smacks his forehead. "Farhan, I'm getting married. Can you please drop that now?"

Farhan folds his arms. "Haroun, I'll drop it when I see that it isn't true."

Haroun glares at him.

"Besides, we're getting off topic. We were talking about how she treats me like the spawn of Satan."

"Farhan, I think she's going through a tough time right now."

"Tough times don't call for inexcusable behavior."

"You have to think about the burden placed on her shoulders. She's younger than both of us, yet she's managed to shoulder a multi-million dollar company and she's managed to do it successfully. It's not easy living a life constantly under the spotlight, scrutinized from every angle. She has to double check her every move, second guess her every step, be painfully aware of every word that comes out of her mouth."

"Yeah, well, she didn't do a very good job of that when she fired me on live TV," Farhan grumbles, but Haroun's words have their intended effect, and he quiets down.

Haroun sighs. "I know it doesn't make sense to us and seems unfair, but maybe it was a mistake on her part. She did say it was a misunderstanding. When we're stressed, we do and say stuff we don't realize. And I'm sorry about what you had to go through, bro."

Farhan stares at him for a few moments, blinking. "Man, why are you so hell bent on making everyone look human?"

Haroun lets out a surprised laugh. "Is everyone not human?"

"No, just — " Farhan shakes his head frustratedly. "I don't understand how you make everyone seem redeemable."

"I think everyone is redeemable," Haroun responds quietly.

"Everyone?"

"Yes. If they've been given the proper chances, known the right people. I mean, I don't think anyone is born inherently evil. Sometimes I feel like it's the actions we take in response to what's happened to us that make us look evil." Haroun shrugs, running a hand through his hair. "In reality, I think most of what makes us look bad can be justified with a proper explanation. That doesn't mean some of our actions can be excused, just that we're . . . human and we had a reason for doing them." He pauses, face screwed up in contemplation.

"Allah always gives people chances. Over and over again. He says that even the gravest of sins are forgiven if humans just turn to him and repent. That's all He asks for. But us humans . . . " Haroun rubs the back of his neck. "You and I, we're cheap when it comes to giving people chances." He shakes his head sadly.

His words seem to have struck a blow on Farhan, because he's quiet after that.

Farhan has always despised talks of religion in regular, casual conversations — perhaps because of the way religion is handled in his home, like shoving rods down one's throat by force — but whenever Haroun speaks of God or religion, there is no anger creeping up Farhan's neck, no impatience. Somehow the logic that builds the foundation of this religion has never been apparent to Farhan until Haroun entered his life. Whereas before rulings and regulations in Islam seemed burdensome and suffocating to him, after meeting Haroun he is slowly beginning to learn that there is sound judgment and reasoning behind these rulings and regulations. The logic and judgment he had never been given the chance of learning on his own.

On top of that, Haroun loops himself into the problem at hand. Whatever it is, even if it has nothing to do with him. He never explains something and makes Farhan feel bad for it, a feat Farhan has not at all been exposed to. All his life, the people in his home and the so-called religious scholars that he's met have all had one common problem — pointing out the faults in others. They have used bits and pieces of religion to back up their claims and rebuked any forms of disagreement or curiosity. Farhan's genuine questions and curiosity have always been seen as forbidden and blasphemous, but Haroun makes it seem otherwise. He has never pointed out Farhan's faults and rubbed them in his face, never explicitly laid out Farhan's sins before him to be on full display. Instead, he has garnered an altogether different approach — friendship. He's befriended Farhan, something none of these religious scholars or family members did, and thus allowed Farhan to see the true meaning behind giving advice to others and helping each other improve.

"You good?" Haroun asks, eyes narrowed at Farhan's uncharacteristic silence.

"Yeah, bro, I just — " He throws an arm around Haroun's shoulder. "I just love you, bro!"

Haroun smiles quizzically. "Okay?"

"When are you coming over again? It's been a while and my mom keeps crying that 'he's forgotten us, he's forgotten us.' And have you looked in the mirror lately? Your eye bags would put Dracula to shame."

The two of them walk away like that, arms thrown over one another's shoulders, their laughs reverberating throughout the halls.

"Zameer's favorite duo," the receptionist watching them says with a smile.

At the corner of a hallway, Zoya stands still and silent, her breath caught in her throat. She had just heard Haroun and Farhan's entire conversation, and she is speechless. Why does Haroun's insistence on guarding her name never fail to baffle her? She has known him for quite some time now, known that he would protect anyone's reputation no matter who it is. So why the surprise?

Abruptly she shakes her head. "No, Zoya. He said it himself. He's getting . . . married." Saying it out loud causes her heart to squeeze painfully. "Stop this . . . fascination. Whatever this is." She breathes deeply. "No more of this . . . obsession with Haroun Suleiman, okay?"

He makes that a little hard to do.

Angry at herself, Zoya huffs up to her office.

She phones Sarah and — after hesitating at the recollection of their last encounter — asks her to send Haroun up to her office.

"No more pretending," she says to herself. "Time for confrontation."

Haroun arrives and Zoya gestures for him to sit down across from her. Hands shaking, she clears her throat and trains her gaze on him.

Be cool, calm, and collected. Just like Zoya Zameer is always supposed to be.

The last time they had been in each other's presence, Zoya had been far from cool, calm, and collected. She wonders what he thinks of her now.

"Are you alright, Ms. Zoya?"

Almost choking on her own saliva at his question, she nods nonchalantly.

Haroun's eyes roam around the room as he waits patiently. Gaze settling on the expensive decoration piece to his right, he seems to scrutinize it carefully.

The air thickens with the possibility of unsaid words.

Zoya Zameer has never had trouble opening her mouth ever since she entered the professional world. She's certainly never had any difficulty saying what's on her mind in front of entire crowds. So why does her tongue seemed to have locked in upon itself in front of this one man?

Start off with something easy. She wants to ask him about the orphanage, about why he hid it from her. Especially since she has been overhearing conversations her employees have with him and has been shocked to discover that everyone but her seems to have known.

Perhaps she should ask him about his engagement? About whether the date of the wedding has been fixed? As soon as this thought crosses her mind, Zoya's heart rate rises considerably.

How can she ask him about it when her own heart stubbornly refuses to accept the harsh truth? After her shock at finding out, she has sat down for hours at a time and thought — how had she not known? Zoya observes everything about Haroun Suleiman — from his polite and strong demeanor down to the casual clothes he wears on to the kind of coffee he likes to drink — so how had she missed this one key detail?

Perhaps, her disturbed mind nags at her. Perhaps it's because they both don't make a big deal out of it; they both know their limits. That they have made a commitment and that's it.

This realization suddenly makes everything all the more unbearable.

Taking a deep breath, Zoya leans forward, bangles clinking noisily in the quiet room. "How are you doing?"

"Good, Alhamdulillah. And you?"

She deflects his question. "How is your mom? Your sisters?"

A smile blooms on his face. "They're doing great, too. My sisters have both been promoted."

The ecstatic expression on his face causes Zoya to flush with pleased warmth. She grabs her water bottle and feigns surprise. "Really? That's amazing!"

He nods happily. "It's a blessing, honestly. They both have higher positions but are not as exhausted and they can finally focus on school." He pauses, eyebrows furrowing. "It's honestly kind of surprising. I'm not sure how it happened all of a sudden, and that too to both of them . . ." He trails off.

Zoya nods and coughs on her water a bit. An awkward silence settles over them again.

Time to get real.

"Why do you feel the need to defend me every chance you get?"

Surprise flickers across his face at the sudden change in conversation. "I'm sorry?"

Zoya shrugs lightly. "Countless times, I've heard you stepping in with others who say negative things about me. Why does it bother you so much?"

He's still surprised, but doesn't miss a beat. "Because I don't think it's right for you to be disrespected."

"Just me?" A flicker of hope rises within her.

"Everyone deserves to be given a chance to defend themselves, but when they're absent, they deserve to be defended by others."

"Everyone?" The flicker dies out.

He pauses. "'Be merciful to those on the earth, so the One above the heavens will be merciful to you.'"

Her eyebrows rise. "Where is that from?" Although she's pretty sure she already knows the answer.

"It's a hadith."

Once again, she realizes with a shock that his mention of religion doesn't cause steam to swirl from her ears. Instead, the words he quotes soothe her heart.

Zoya leans back in her chair. "But why does me being disrespected matter to you? People talk all the time. And I'm not even there to hear it ninety percent of the time. So what difference does it make for you to say something in my defense or not? Why would you bother speaking up at all? It's not like I would ever know that you didn't and penalize you for it."

"It's not about whether you hear me or not, it's about my responsibility to guard a human's reputation."

She feels a pang in her chest at these words, knowing that they only prove he would stand up for anyone. Nothing is special about her for him.

Of course you're not special to him, a voice in her head whispers. He's getting married to someone else.

He must sense her uncharacteristic silence because Haroun takes a deep breath as if he's about to say something very serious. "Ms. Zoya, why do people protect diamonds?"

"Because they're valuable."

"So is your honor."

Zoya's breath hitches. Suddenly the room seems too small, too compact, for Zoya to be able to breathe. She's becoming unscrewed, teetering off the edge of the only cliff she's ever known. Especially when she thinks of this man promising himself to someone else.

A sensation equal to falling rapidly overtakes her.

With a haphazard flip of her hair, Zoya attempts to regain sanity. "Too bad not everyone likes diamonds. Still, let people do the bullying. You don't have to speak up in my defense. Just stay out of their way and you won't have to suffer harassment because of me."

I hope he can't hear how fast my heart is beating.

Haroun's eyebrows incline. "Are you asking me to be a bystander to the bully?"

"I'm asking you to stay out of business that doesn't concern you."

"People's reputations do concern me."

Raising her head to the ceiling, she blows out a sigh. "You're infuriating, Haroun Suleiman."

After a pause he says, "Ms. Zoya, a woman's reputation is really delicate. Unfortunately, people are quick to believe what they hear about her, no matter how absurd it may be. No matter how senseless it is. So defending women is really important. Defending anyone against oppression is really important."

Swiveling around in her chair, she remains silent, seemingly deep in thought.

Yet no one would be able to guess that Zoya Zameer is not thoughtful but actually speechless, having been rendered powerless by Haroun's words, his tackles to her heart's fortressed walls.

Ironically, she is bitterly reminded of her ex-husband by these words. In some of her last days with him, he had told her he didn't like her liberal feminism. And she had said, "What is it? You don't like women standing up for themselves when they are being mistreated? Well, maybe if men like you stood up for us, this liberal feminism you wouldn't have to see."

He never understood the word oppression. And how could he? He wouldn't want to even if he could. Because what he did to her fell no short of oppressive. And God forbid he would taint the perfect image he had of himself as the perfect Muslim if he acknowledged that he was the oppressor, that he was the one at fault.

Perhaps reading her silence as contemplation, Haroun clears his throats and asks, "Did you know that Allah revealed verses of the Qur'an specifically in defense of the prophet's wife Aisha?"

A startled look appears on Zoya's face. This is new. She shakes her head and leans forward with her chin in her hand.

He nods. "They were traveling with a caravan and Aisha — may Allah be pleased with her — went to use the bathroom. When she returned, the caravan had left, thinking she was already sitting in the palanquin. After falling asleep in the desert, she was awoken by the sound of a man. In the old times, one man would travel a little further behind the caravan to make sure everything got safely to its destination. So when he saw the prophet's wife, he took her back home safely and in a dignified manner, but they experienced a delay in returning, and false allegations were laid on her. Her pure reputation was stained, and for weeks people mistrusted her and made false accusations. We're talking about Aisha, one of the most chaste and pure women of her time."

The corner of his mouth turns up in a half-smile. "During a time when her integrity and purity were being questioned, when even her husband still loved her but became distant from her — after all, the Prophet was human — Allah sent down verses in Surah Nur to defend her. To claim that He, God, was a witness to her innocence."

Zoya gasps in surprise, having never heard this story her entire life. "That's . . . " She struggles with words, breathless. Why is it that things like this were hidden from her? Her father had never been particularly religious, but why had her ex-husband never told her this story or similar stories when he constantly preached about Islam to her?

Perhaps he was too busy telling her she was basically a spawn of Satan before he would sit down to read the Qur'an and make tasbeeh on his fingers. He would remember Allah's name consistently with the same mouth he used to puncture and scar her soul.

Zoya, dear, the oppressor only speaks of what benefits him. He will never speak of things in your favor.

Haroun clears his throat. "So, Ms. Zoya, if Allah defended a woman's reputation, who am I to stay silent?"

Zoya remains mute, too shocked by the story and by Haroun's determination to be able to say anything. He seems to sense that she needs to be alone, so he stands, says, "With your permission..." and leaves after her shaky nod.

After sitting in shock for a few minutes, Zoya realizes something.

Haroun is nothing like the other religious people she anticipates with dread. Every time he comes around, she does not feel an inevitable sort of fear, nor does she feel like a sinner. All the other religious people she has met in her entire life have made her feel as if she's doing something wrong and they've always made her feel lesser, inferior somehow.

Haroun presents himself as not only inferior but humble as well; he does not make any assumptions about her spirituality to her — hell, he does not even make claims about his own spirituality to anyone. His rigorous faith and demeanor are strong in that he carries a sphere of gentleness exuding from religion out of him and this sphere touches the hearts of everyone he meets.

Zoya has been psychoanalyzing him with every passing day and continues to do so in her office — in a state of wild confusion. She's always known there is something different about Haroun Suleiman from the moment she met him when he refused to look in her eyes and rake his gaze over her pretty face and impeccable features, something no man can resist doing. She knew something made him keep his eyes down and humble himself even around her — Zoya Zameer.