. . .

. . .

~

"And I did not create the jinn and mankind except to worship me." (Qur'an 51:56)

~

"What is the purpose of our existence?" Farhan mulls.

Zoya slams her palm over her face. "Please, Goldilocks, not right now."

He stiffens when she responds, as he tends to do every time Zoya speaks to him now. Stiffen and become reserved.

Zoya's eyes flick to Haroun as he observes his friend's clenched fists and set jaw. And Haroun — ever the Good Samaritan — jumps into the conversation. "In what aspect, do you mean?"

"In every aspect," Farhan says exasperatedly.

Haroun turns to him. "This is going to be a long conversation."

"Go ahead."

Haroun opens his mouth, but Zoya's breath begins to race. He cannot speak here, not now, otherwise he will once again manage to instill in Zoya that helpless feeling she is becoming increasingly familiar with around him. And feeling powerless while attending the launch party of her successful career is not the ideal setting she had envisioned.

"I'll tell you what the purpose of your existence is, Golidlocks," she interrupts before Haroun can say a word.

Farhan turns to her slightly, but stares at the window behind her head rather than at her.

"To not piss anyone off. Can you manage that, sweetie?" She leans forward, batting her eyelashes at him deliberately.

Farhan's jaw tightens. Haroun's eyes dart between the two of them and he opens his mouth when Zoya cuts him off once more.

"I'll take that as a yes."

The limousine stops in front of the hotel and the staff heads inside, greeting people and flashing smiles. Zoya is invited to speak on behalf of Zameer during the launch party, and she holds the attention of every single pair of eyes in the room – except for one –as she speaks.

Haroun trails over to the beverage tables and fixes his gaze on the lavish assortment of coffee and tea machines. The company label for the beverages reads "Quench with a purpose."

He cocks his head to the side and scrutinizes the label, sighing.

He has been waiting to hear the fundamental question of existence from Farhan's mouth for a while now, has seen how his friend struggles with finding meaning in his life. And he has tried his very best to prepare an appropriate and guided answer for him, yet his tongue seems to have rolled in upon itself, making it difficult for him to voice what he wants to say.

At the stage, the Q&A session has begun, and various questions are asked from all around the hall. Questions like "Who has been your greatest support?" to which Ms. Zoya replies with a "Myself, of course. And my employees." She continues to rave about her accomplishments, her successes, her journey to this lofty and conspicuous position. Her words heavily imply that without status, wealth, and power, man is nothing.

Haroun listens to her halfheartedly, unable to gauge whether he believes her political words or not. How can she say all of these things on stage after she's hinted to him that it's all a façade, that she has not yet found what she is seeking?

Or has he misread her?

He shakes his head. His perplexed thoughts bounce between his boss and Farhan, both of whom seem to be fighting the same battle, but on different grounds. Farhan's issue is not about belief, but about the way belief has been handled with him. Yet Ms. Zoya's issue is deeper, more far-rooted. It isn't simply an issue with the way faith has been shown to her, but an issue with faith itself.

Haroun paces around the beverage table, deep in thought.

Farhan has not been given the chance to love religion. He believes that all the Muslims he's met are cookie cutter representations of Islam. He believes some lines of reasoning to be faulty, has been burdened by rulings and regulations. Before he was taught to love Allah, he was taught to fear Him.

Applause follows Zoya's speech, breaking Haroun out of his stupor, and he turns to see his boss descending the stairs of the stage. Her eyes search the crowd quickly, roving over faces before she catches his gaze and a warm smile touches her lips. She begins to approach him.

Haroun turns away, rubbing his temples with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

And then there is Zoya Zameer. His boss. Who seems to want to rain debris on everyone she sees except for him. Who firmly believes in his supposed goodness, is blinded by her insistence to trust him. He cannot understand why she is so adamant on believing the virtue she apparently sees in him. It places him on an unrealistically high pedestal, causing him to double check his every action.

When he joined the company, Haroun quickly became aware of his boss' eyes following him everywhere, became acutely conscious of the way she spoke to others about him and the way she began looking up to him. Even while brushing off Farhan's claims about her change in attitude towards him, deep down he could not ignore what was so plainly obvious. It became unbearable, really, when Haroun knew how badly he was struggling with trying to maintain his faith in the midst of the challenging environment he was in.

Now, not only is he battling with keeping a firm hold on his faith given the circumstances, but he's also struggling to uphold strong character.

From the get go, Haroun managed to gauge that Zoya Zameer never had the chance to experience goodness in her life. And for some reason, she sees it in him. And if Haroun can become someone's source of strength, if he can become someone's reason to want to believe in Allah's mercy again, is that not something for which he will be rewarded? Is it not something for which he desperately seeks his Lord's pleasure, something that gives him a sense of purpose in life?

To be someone's anchor to Islam?

But — Haroun wars with himself — with what he observes, he has become a point of constancy in Ms. Zoya's life, like the north star to the early navigators. And his consistent attempts to please his Lord through helping her may cause her attachment towards him to grow, and he cannot risk hurting any human being in this way.

Has he led her on in any way, or has he simply attempted to guide her? Has anything he said to her been needless and caused an unnecessarily personal attachment?

Is it not his responsibility to attempt to lighten someone's burden?

Should he withdraw and risk a wounded heart? Will she stop trying to understand and love religion? Just how much of an effect do his efforts have on her?

And if he should not withdraw, then is he causing her to hang onto him expectedly? Is anything about his demeanor, his character, unintentionally leading her on to believe in something that isn't there?

Haroun sighs deeply, head pounding as the reality of his exponential situation hits him fiercely.

"Migraine?"

He turns at the sound of his boss' voice. She smiles at him and he looks back at the coffee labels, shaking his head.

"Not your scene, right?"

He shakes his head again.

"Do you want to get some fresh air?"

"It's alright, Ms. Zoya. I'm okay. Thank you for your concern," he says politely before taking a few steps back and disappearing into the crowd. His mind is a mess of swirling thoughts threatening to drown him under the tide of fear and concern.

Zoya is left behind him, looking crestfallen.

. . .

Farhan sets his chin in his hand.

"I think . . ." He struggles with words. "I think I understand."

"Are you sure?" Haroun questions, voice far from exasperated, even after talking for over an hour.

His friend nods slowly. "It'll take some time to fully settle in, but . . . I think I get it."

Haroun leans back and uncaps his water bottle, taking three sips after whispering a bismillah. Farhan observes him carefully.

"I think what really hit me . . ." Farhan steeples his fingers, staring thoughtfully at the night sky. "Is that what essentially determines your relationship with God is your trust in Him. The stronger it is, the easier you are able to navigate through life since you have that to rely on. Like a point of constancy," he rehashes carefully. Haroun simply remains quiet, allowing his friend to sort out his existential crisis.

Farhan turns to him after a while. "You know, I've never been allowed to question religion."

"Ironically, I think that's the reason so many people lose faith. Either they don't receive proper answers to their genuine questions, or they've been told that questioning is blasphemous."

Farhan nods thoughtfully.

"You know, having genuine doubts is okay. Having genuine questions is okay. That doesn't make you any less of a believer; it just means you want to be able to comprehend things better in order to strengthen your faith. Your trust in your Lord doesn't mean you always understand everything He decrees, but it's more that you're willing to let go of things you may not fully understand because you trust in His wisdom and trust that He's planned everything in perfect order for you. And you trust that sometimes, our humanity limits us from understanding God's wisdom and His decisions."

"Trust," Farhan drags the word out slowly. Then he shakes his head with a snort. "It surprises me that it is as simple as trust. Everybody always says 'Read the Qur'an and you'll feel better! Pray and you'll feel better! Do this duaa and this and that and you'll feel better! Well, does feeling better just come from mechanically doing things I'm not even putting my heart into?"

Haroun tilts his head to the side, contemplative. He shakes his head and says carefully. "No, I think knowing why you're doing what you're doing for your Lord increases your trust in Him. Our religion doesn't tell us not to be discontent and sad — that's human nature — but you can't force contentment onto someone by handing religious books to them and calling it a day. The relationship of love and trust with God is more important than anything. Then, yes, the praying and the reading Qur'an will undoubtedly bring you peace.

"A lot of times when we're young, we're taught to mechanically worship. We aren't taught the feelings associated with worship. The love, the compassion, the beauty, most importantly the peace. Because the way we're sometimes taught to worship as kids — with anger, punishments, and scoldings — builds a resentment for the message being taught." Farhan nods vigorously at Haroun's words. "The message isn't the issue, the way we're taught is the issue."

Farhan's eyes are filled with silent wonder and anguish. He brings a hand up to cover his face. "Yaar, this is all so much. I've been in the dark for too long."

"It's okay," Haroun says gently. "Darkness eventually yields to light; night eventually becomes day. It's a process, not a single moment."

Both friends sit quietly in front of each other, gazing up at the sky sprinkled with stars. Though their own thoughts threaten to overwhelm them, they both recognize that even the night sky's darkness is scattered with glowing stars.

A sign that hope is never lost.

As Farhan sits by the friend that has changed his life, he begins to understand that as long as he trusts God, darkness will always lead to light.

. . .

Zoya paces around in her room, absently yanking at strands of her hair. She weaves them around her fingers like yarn, then throws the circles of hair in the trash can. Clutching her head, she mumbles, "Why did stupid Goldilocks have to open his mouth about the purpose of our existence and all that? Nikamma aadmi. Seriously, is ne kabhi zindagi me koi acha decision liya bhi hai ya nahi?"

She doesn't want to admit it, but her subconscious continues to prod her with the obvious answer to her distress: she is dying with the curiosity of what Haroun could have possibly said to Farhan. What answer could he have had to this question? What does he know that Zoya doesn't?

More importantly, why does it matter to her what the answer was?

"No, no, no." Zoya shakes her head. "I don't care. I don't care what his answer was." She settles down in her seat and opens her laptop, typing gibberish into the search box.

Irritably, she slams the laptop lid back down and shoots up from her seat, knocking it to the floor. Her lips tremble, her hands shake. Why does it matter what the answer to that question was? A voice taunts Zoya again in the back of her mind. Aren't you fulfilling the purpose of your existence?

She freezes in her tracks. Am I? Another voice, loud and clear, whispers in her head. Am I fulfilling the purpose of my existence?

She mulls over the thought, standing still as a statue in the middle of the room. Slowly, slowly, she takes a deep breath and allows her mind to be honest with her. Allows her thoughts — those that have been desperately repressed by a mental dam — come flooding out to haunt her.

Zoya settles down on the bed, eyes lingering on her launch party dress still lying on the couch. Her gaze shifts to the suitcases she packed, bursting with folded heaps of fabric and expensive jewelry. Then to the files tucked in another suitcase, pages upon pages of catalogs and statistics and designs and plans.

Climbing the corporate ladder has never seemed like a daunting job to Zoya Zameer. But . . . lately, she feels that she's been doing everything that she has for no meaningful reason. Especially after her talk with a certain employee by the beach. She works hard day and night, weekday and weekend, to make a name, to earn respect. For what? For heading a group of people who design and market . . . clothes?

The voice inside her head begins to whisper tauntingly once again. Imagine growing up with people telling you you have the ability to change the world, whether it be in micro amounts to fully blown out game-changers, and you wake up and go to school to learn how to expand a business that designs . . . clothes?

"But clothes are a necessity," Zoya whispers weakly.

Her mind continues to tease her. But the types of clothes my company produces are far from a necessity. Nobody in the world is going to die without designer bridal and fashion wear. People can get by and probably look equally as good with far simpler clothes.

Is this what the purpose of my life is? She thinks to herself suddenly. Zoya has never been a religious person, and if she ever had the potential to be, the scum from her past took that opportunity and desire away completely. But for a moment she thinks of all the things Haroun has said that have left her baffled. Which — in short — is almost everything he utters. She ponders whether her existence is supposed to have a higher meaning, a greater purpose.

Surely she couldn't have been born, grown up, and raised simply to make a career concerning clothes and become one of the most notorious businesswomen in North America? Or to make as much money as she makes? Or to be known by others?

And feared by others.

Surely, her life had been written with a greater purpose? Will she continue on this way? Going to work every day, yelling at employees, firing some from time to time, working tirelessly with designs and files, arguing with her advisors, dodging her rival's plans to uproot her, reviewing statistics and experiencing temporary happiness at her success, discussing news about herself in the media and ways to cover it up and overcome the next steep climb, the next rude headline on a tabloid — is this her life?

Is this the reason she had been created, the reason she had been fashioned from a single blood clot, given life, given the ability to stay in a protected vessel before she met the world? The reason her mother carried Zoya in her womb for nine months and birthed her, the reason her mother had experienced the excruciating agony and pain of labor, the reason she had died because of it? Is this the reason? So that she can live a life constantly plagued by the bad eyes of others, the risks of being a notorious figure in the corporate world, deal with the the repercussions of her harsh actions? And then?

Then what?

She'll continue to run her business, she'll grow old, and for the rest of her life she'll live alone in her million dollar manor with its endless rooms and silver-studded couches and gold-plated decorations. Living the epitome of the life everyone wants yet never attaining the happiness she so desperately seeks.

Zoya blinks with a start.

Never attaining the happiness everyone has.

What will happen then? She will grow old and retire one day — if she lives that long — and she will spend the rest of her days wasting away in her million dollar mansion. All alone. Being given the torturous element of time so that she can be brutally forced back into her hollow memories every day. Depending on others to lift her up, take her to the bathroom, take showers, eat food, just to crawl back into bed again. Having no one to give love and affection to, having all the time in the world to think about the parents she had hardly ever known, the husband she had made the mistake of marrying. And then dying off, being buried six feet under and leaving behind . . .

Leaving behind what?

Leaving behind a manor that costs more than anyone can afford and a business that makes no difference in the first place?

No, Zoya thinks with a shake of her head. This can't be it. This can't be all.

Right?

She grabs her purse and rushes out of her room, making her way to Haroun's hotel. She waves her insistent guards away in frustration.

She needs to talk to him. She needs to know what the purpose of her life is. She needs to know. Because how can he know but she doesn't know?

Are people chosen to know?