. . .

. . .

~

"So do not weaken and do not grieve, and you will be superior if you are (true) believers." (Qur'an 3:139)

~

Zoya does not find sleep that night.

Open up to your Lord.

The words have been engraved into her mind, painfully knocking, scratching, itching at the walls of her skull. Demanding her attention. She tosses and turns in bed, huffing in exasperation as she tries to sleep, but those five words keep her awake.

Rolling over and staring at the ceiling of her hotel room, the thought runs through Zoya's mind again. Open up to your Lord.

She scoffs, covering her face with her hand.

"Open up to my Lord?" She laughs mirthlessly. "The Lord who doesn't want to see me? The Lord who left me to fend for myself after what happened to me?"

What had her ex-husband told her? That praying is done for Allah and Allah alone, right? "I still pray, don't I?" Zoya says aloud to her quiet room. "And supposedly, that should give me what I'm looking for. So where is my peace?" She shakes her head. "I built myself this life. I rose up from my ashes. Nobody helped me. So who is left to open up to?"

Haroun Suleiman's voice filters through her head. If there's something that gives you comfort from the hurdles of this world, that is your peace, granted to you by Allah.

You have to find your peace, Ms. Zoya.

She scoffs again. "Peace? This is not a term I am familiar with, Haroun Suleiman. Unfortunately, the Lord that granted you peace has somehow forgotten about me." She tugs at her hair in frustration.

"Besides, where is this coming from, Pakistani Kate Spade?" Zoya turns her sarcasm onto herself. "What's going on in here? Why are you thinking about all this useless stuff? You're happy. You're at peace, right? You have everything anyone could even begin to hope for. Of course you're at peace."

Saying this out loud does not lessen the heaviness in her chest even the slightest.

One of the questions from the Q&A session flits through her mind. One reporter had bluntly asked: "Are you happy?"

Zoya had coughed, shocked by the question, before she replied, "Of course I'm happy!" Her voice had dripped with condescension. What kind of a silly question had that been?

But had there possibly been another reason for her hesitation?

Zoya continues to muse aloud. "Maybe I'm too horrible. I've done too much and God does not want to grant me peace. Maybe I'm not worth remembering." She rubs her hand over her face and sighs. "Maybe I will just have to find this peace myself."

Granted to you by Allah.

Almost six years ago, when she had requested her ex-husband to get her in touch with a therapist, he had viciously mocked her. Asking her what she needed a therapist for when she had Allah.

Is Haroun saying the same thing?

"No," she says out loud, the word automatically emerging from somewhere deep inside her. "He's not." Haroun had said that contentment comes from trusting God's plan, but he hadn't said that it comes from trusting God alone. What had he told her at the Desi World Fashion Show? "Trust in Allah but tie your camel." Wouldn't that mean to seek out the means one has while placing their trust in God, rather than pinning it all on Him?

Zoya bites back a howl of frustration as she lays sleepless throughout the night, despite her mattress foam bed.

. . .

During their return to America, Zoya seems to be going through withdrawal. Sameer arranges for a jumbo jet so that Zoya has a living and bedroom all to herself, as she requested. At one point, she has difficulty breathing; she holes g herself up in her room and clenches her fists until the suffocation goes away. She avoids everyone like the plague the entire flight, and rushes off as soon as the announcement is given to depart.

Reporters and the flash of cameras follow the crew around as soon as they step out of the jet, descending the stairs towards their private cars. Security ushers the frenzied crowd away, most of them calm, some of them irritable and agitated at the intrusive press.

When Zoya reaches her manor, her guards greet her and ask about the visit, to which she gives short, clipped replies.

She rushes into the shower and scrubs herself down raw, squeezing her eyes shut and attempting to expel every moment of her stay.

What is the purpose of existence?

Zoya angrily shuts the water and dries herself off. Once she's snuggled into the comfort of her bed, she blinks blearily up at the ceiling.

"Stop," she whispers to herself. "Don't think about it, don't say it, don't remember it."

She succeeds for a couple minutes until she begins to absentmindedly massage her aching, heel-accustomed feet. And then it comes rushing back, prompted by the reminder of what has her so worn out in the first place.

Her chin begins to tremble.

Zoya does not want to remember Pakistan. Does not want to remember her father's face, the familiar roads she traveled with him, the smoke of transportation curling up into the air. It is too painful, too dangerous. It prods at her harshly stitched wounds, threatening to split them open.

And now she has a new memory of Pakistan. The memory of a cold, breezy night. Running across the road to approach another hotel. Feeling the intense urge to quench her thirst of questions. Knocking upon her employee's door and becoming breathless with the answers he procures for her.

Before . . . before Zoya had a clear cut aim in life, a clear goal: Rise up in the industry. Destroy her rival Zaki Ahmed. Become one of the most successful people in the nation.

Now?

Now her thoughts are scattered in disarray, her nerves raw with confusion. She is beginning to doubt herself, something she has never done before. She is now second guessing her every step, her every decision. Looking back over her shoulder as if waiting for someone to point out what should have been obvious to her all along. And this is not who Zoya Zameer is supposed to be.

Zoya squeezes her eyes shut. It seems as if the pain is a circular tumor, rolling upon itself and festering up inside her, beating like a heartbeat in all the wrong places.

Governing from the heart rarely enables people to win battles. It is the mind that plans algorithmically, the mind that gears logic and reasoning to produce an emotionless, clinical plan. Zoya has always allowed her logic to guide her, attempting to keep a firm reign on her emotions.

So then why, all of a sudden, is she beginning to lose all control?

. . .

When Zoya wakes for Fajr time, having finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, she prays quickly before settling down with her laptop. A text from one of her directors pops up on the screen. It had been sent at 1:42 A.M. and reads: Heard Mr. Zaki fired an employee. Something about him being in a really bad mood ;)

A smile blooms on Zoya's face, immediately brightening up her glum mood. So Zaki Ahmed's ego can't handle Zameer's success. Check.

Her intention for flying to Pakistan had been to attend the launch party and deal with some minor details, but Zaki Ahmed's anger is the much needed cherry on top. Satisfied, Zoya checks up on a few other things and finalizes several overseas contracts before closing her laptop and making her way downstairs.

"Good morning, bibi," Mumtaz greets Zoya as she blearily reaches the bottom stair.

"Morning," she mutters. "My chamomile tea?"

"On the table, bibi. What would you like to eat today?"

Zoya taps her chin, thinking of her options. "Do something with eggs."

Mumtaz nods. "How was your trip?"

"Good."

She stands there unsurely. "Would you like a massage today? You must be tired — "

"I'm not tired."

The maid pauses, then nods quietly and disappears into the kitchen while Zoya makes her way into the first floor dining room. She absentmindedly grabs her tea and lets out a yelp when the hot liquid sloshes over her hand. The porcelain cup clatters to the floor, smashing into bits and scattering around Zoya's feet.

Mumtaz rushes out of the kitchen, eyes widening at the sight before her. "Zoya bibi, are you alright?"

Zoya begins to quiver uncontrollably, an unwelcome flashback gripping her mind.

Farhan finishes giving his lecture on respect and men stand to greet him, praising his eloquence. Once he has exited the men's musallah area, he sees a woman speaking to Zoya in the masjid lobby and quickly walks towards his wife, draping a casual arm over her shoulder. "This is my wife." Farhan gestures at Zoya.

The woman smiles, somewhat bewildered by his sudden appearance. "Oh, how wonderful." Her voice is confused. "Well . . . It was a pleasure meeting you . . . " She waits expectantly.

"Zoya," Zoya prompts. She glances swiftly at Farhan to gauge his reaction.

"Pleasure to meet you, Zoya."

Zoya nods meekly and smiles, unsure of what to say now that Farhan is here. Her eyes dart to her husband once again, whose jaw seems to be ticking through the happy-go-lucky façade he is putting up. Her heartbeat rises.

"Well, I'll see you around, Zoya. Salaam." The woman smiles once again before excusing herself, still perplexed by Farhan's sudden appearance.

He is quiet the entire ride home from the masjid. Zoya glances at the tension in his jaw, the tightened hands over the steering wheel, fearful anticipation building up in her heart. Once they are home and have been served tea, he finally says "What did that woman approach you for?"

"She was telling me about some programs at the masjid — "

"Do you know who that woman is?"

Zoya flinches at the low tone of his voice. "N-No? She said her name is Amber but that's all I — "

"That woman is Shi'a!" Farhan spits venomously.

This further increases Zoya's confusion. "S-So?"

She should have known the destruction this one syllable would cause, and known better than to utter it.

Farhan's hands tremble with rage, his teacup dropping from his grip to smash into the floor. He ignores the shattered porcelain and slowly advances on Zoya. She cowers away from him. "'So?' Do you know how bad those people are? Shi'as are not Muslim!"

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't know! She seemed like a nice woman," Zoya weeps. Attempting to placate him, she lightly touches his arm but he shrugs her off. "I didn't know, Farhan."

"Well, you should have known!" he snarls at her. He closes his eyes in frustration, breathing deeply. Zoya watches him with wide, scared eyes, confused as to why he's so livid. Moments later, he huffs out a breath and reopens his eyes. "I do this because I care about you, Zoya." He lifts a hand to gently caress her cheek. Zoya balls her fists at her sides to avoid flinching. "I wouldn't want the angel on your left shoulder to be busy, right?"

With that, he stomps his way upstairs.

Zoya stands there staring at the shards of porcelain scattered on the floor, tears pooling in her eyes. She hadn't known anything about Shi'as. She hadn't known at all. The woman had been so nice.

And Zoya is pretty sure this is another one of his baseless statements.

She bends down, attempting to dislodge the broken pieces from where they have wedged themselves into the chair's exterior. Her palms scrape the ground and shrapnel-like porcelain pieces pierce her skin.

She lets out whimpers of pain.

Mumtaz dashes into the room. "Zoya bibi!"

"Zoya bibi!"

Mumtaz shakes Zoya's shoulders and her eyes refocus, blinking sharply at the room around her. The same room. The same dining table. The same floor.

"Are you okay?" Mumtaz's voice is frantic, panicked.

Zoya stumbles backwards into the dining chair, breathing heavily. Mumtaz yells for a cook to bring some water as her hands hover around Zoya uncertainly.

"Zoya bibi, are you okay?"

Zoya nods slowly, eyes flicking towards the smashed porcelain. Her heart beats quickly, staccato.

A cleaner hurriedly rushes into the room with a broom and trash collector in her hands, swiping away the mess. Zoya seizes the glass of water with shaky hands, gulping the drink.

She remembers how her father had visited her and her husband that same day. He had entered and seen Zoya's red-rimmed eyes, and despite his usual lack of affection, his face had contorted in concern.

"What's wrong, Zoya?"

"Nothing, Papa." She smiles at him, facial muscles aching. "I was just cutting onions in the kitchen."

"Oh."

There is a heavy silence. Then, "Come inside, Papa! Don't just stand at the door. Have a seat in the living room and I'll prepare some chai for you."

Zameer nods and makes his way into the house, eyes gazing in wonder over the expensive decorations and the extravagant furniture. Zoya knows that look, notes that no matter how many times he enters her house, the lavishness of it all still seems to take his breath away.

Farhan descends the stairs and perks up at the sight of his father-in-law. "Uncle! Assalaamu 'Alaikum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakaatu!" They shake hands.

The two men exchange pleasantries and start talking about politics and the stock market. Zoya arrives with their tea and Farhan pats the space next to him for her to occupy.

"Zoya, how are you doing?" her father says.

"Good, Papa."

"Alhamdulillah," Farhan murmurs as a reminder.

"Alhamdulillah, Papa. And you?"

"Alhamdulillah. This is good chai." He gestures to his teacup.

And despite the day's events, that one, seemingly small comment causes a bright smile to bloom on Zoya's otherwise haggard face. "I'm glad you like it." She doesn't mention the constant degradation that caused her to improve her chai.

Then her husband begins talking about the da'wah workshops taking place at the masjid, and her father nods his head and continues to smile.

The maid glances at Zoya worriedly. "Bibi?" She reaches forward to shake her again.

"Don't touch me," Zoya spits. Her eyes flutter open and she glances around at the crowd she has gathered. Her maids, cooks, and guards all stand in front of her expectantly, concern etched on their faces. Mumtaz's eyes follow Zoya's heaving chest, worry lines creasing her forehead.

"What?" Zoya snaps. "Is this a circus show? Get back to your work. I don't pay you for doing nothing."

Reluctantly, all but one of her workers trudge out of the dining room. Mumtaz stands before her with a pill and a glass of water in her hands. "Bibi, take this. It will make you feel better."

Zoya's eyes sharpen into steel. "There is nothing wrong with me. I don't need your stupid medicine." She stands and shrugs past Mumtaz, wrapping her arms around herself to conceal her quivering form.

But her maid sees through it all.

. . .