. . .

. . .

~

"People, here is an illustration, so listen carefully: those you call on beside God could not, even if they combined all their forces, create a fly, and if a fly took something away from them, they would not be able to retrieve it. How feeble are the petitioners and how feeble are those they petition!" (Qur'an 22:73)

~

The manor is still.

Deafening silence makes a home in all the rooms and halls. It settles on the gold plated decorations and the extravagant furniture and the silently swaying chandeliers.

Zoya sits on the couch, as silent as her house. Her eyes trace every inch in front of her, drinking it up hungrily. Imagining another presence roaming the halls. Another figure walking to and fro and settling next to her. Stroking his hands in her hair. Placing a kiss at her forehead.

She blinks constantly to throw herself out of her reveries, but the memories come back. Again and again. To tease her, to haunt her.

She had once said that simply the memory of Haroun Suleiman in her manor would be enough for her. That she would remember him here in times of distress and that would be enough.

But it is never enough.

All it does is fill her up to an excruciating point before draining her of everything. Over and over again. Fill up. Drain. Fill up. Drain.

A horrible travesty.

Somehow, this is worse than death. At least with death she knows with absolute certainty that he will never return no matter how much she won't be able to accept it.

But this? This disappearance like her father's all over again?

This is death while living.

Slowly poisoning and killing her. The not knowing, the uncertainty of staying home knowing he's somewhere out there, the only proof of his existence his payments and her memories. Her sweet, sweet memories that burn her up inside.

But in a way, they're not so different at all. Death and departure — with both there are torturous memories haunting one for an entire lifetime, promising to destroy them.

As they are destroying her Zoya Zameer.

She has been destroyed once before. But that had not been in the name of love. And it had never hurt this much. She had divorced her ex-husband and occupied this home for weeks during her 'iddah. Living in silence, pleading in her heart for her father to come home. However, even then, her father's lack of love her entire life had trained her not to expect anything from him when it mattered most.

But it had destroyed her nonetheless. And yet she had been able to rebound from it.

Today she's standing on the same battlefield, yet fighting a different war. Alone with her thoughts all over again, monsters and demons creeping into her life's every crevice, every nook and cranny, memories tearing her apart.

The same battlefield, but an entirely different war.

All the people in her life that Zoya has cared about have left her. Surely this means there is something about her that makes people want to leave. That makes it hard to stay.

It all started with her mother, who birthed her and died the next minute from the pain of labor. Leaving Zoya behind to be raised in the hands of a bitter and heartbroken father, who was unable to even look at his daughter without being reminded of the woman he loved being taken from him.

And then he left, too. Her father, whom Zoya had loved and tried to make him love her. But no matter how hard he tried to maintain the façade, he couldn't shake the anguish from his eyes every time he looked at his daughter.

And when he chose a husband for her and later found out what kind of man Farhan Hussain was, he fled. Too ashamed to show his daughter his face.

And then Haroun. Oh, Haroun. Zoya presses a fist against her mouth to contain the sobs. Haroun had entered her storm of life like a ray of sunshine, like the rainbow after rain.

And just as quickly, he had left, too.

She cannot go after him. She cannot. She has spent an entire lifetime running after people, is it not time for someone to hold her dear in their lives? Is it not time for her to discover her importance in other people's lives?

Because if the one person she has loved this dearly in her life cannot find the strength to run back to her, she will know she has truly failed. At all of her twisted ideals of sidling up to men to remind them of her importance, to not be neglected.

Because if the one person she loved with all her heart is gone, who is left to stay?

. . .

One night, Zoya wakes suddenly, flinging the covers off of herself. She breathes harshly, searching the room in the bright light, but there's no sign of her dream. She begins to sob and Mumtaz wakes, worriedly glancing at her before realizing it's a dream. She tries to coax her back to sleep but Zoya opens her mouth, attempting to speak. Mumtaz pushes the pen and pad towards her, but Zoya shakes her head and takes a loud, heaving breath.

A strange feeling appears in her throat, one she has stopped growing accustomed to over the past couple of weeks living voiceless. One her vocal therapist continuously tried to instill in her. But the feeling tingles in her throat, and she takes another deep breath. Her heart gives permission to her brain and finally, finally, Zoya Zameer speaks.

"Haroun," she whispers hoarsely before she clamps a hand over her mouth, rushes to the bathroom, and throws up in the sink yet again.

Mumtaz hurries after her, patting Zoya's back as she retches. There is a confused expression on the elderly woman's face — since Zoya has tried to hide her nausea from her — as she asks if anything was wrong with the food Zoya ate or if she swallowed something she is unaccustomed to. Zoya continues to shake her head and press her forehead against the cool wall to redirect her body's temperature.

In the morning, Zoya gets checked by a doctor, who prods her in various places and asks many strange questions. Finally, she runs some tests, observes the results, and returns with a wide smile on her face. She congratulates Zoya and Mumtaz lets out a happy laugh, kissing her forehead. Zoya sits there mutely, too shocked by the news to react.

And then she cries.

Hoarse, raucous sobs that worry the doctor. But Mumtaz simply watches her with grieved eyes, too saddened to explain Zoya's outburst to the doctor.

At night, Zoya absentmindedly looks at the date on the calendar and withers away from it as if it is made of fire. Because this was the day she married him. Farhan Hussain.

She locks herself in the bathroom, crying and muffling her screams so as not to wake Mumtaz. But the elderly woman profusely knocks on the door, begging Zoya to come out.

She comes out, but does not sleep the entire night.

At the breakfast table in the morning, Zoya is picking at her food and eating like a bird, cheek in her hand. And suddenly she asks Mumtaz in a raspy voice, "Do we have sleeping pills?"

As soon as the words come out, she has to clear her throat to help her voice adjust to being used again.

Mumtaz eyes the dark circles under Zoya's eyes and says. "Yes, bibi."

"Okay. Can I please get one?"

"It might not be best for you to take pills in this state — "

"Mumtaz."

After a moment's hesitation, Mumtaz nods and turns around to do as she is told.

"Wait," Zoya says with furrowed brows. "Why do we have sleeping pills?"

"Oh, Aman usually has a hard time falling asleep." Mumtaz says casually about the doorman, as if this is a normal thing.

Zoya's face scrunches up. "Hard time sleeping . . . ?" she mumbles to herself. Mumtaz nods and retreats into the kitchen.

I never knew that, thinks Zoya. How come I didn't know that?

Later, when Zoya is leaving the manor to take a walk around her garden, she stops in front of Aman, who gazes at her with the same expression as always. Apologetic, grieved. "You never told me you have trouble sleeping. And for quite a while, it seems like?" she says this accusingly, as if Aman should have told her. But there is also an expression of hurt on her face.

Aman's eyebrows rise, surprised. "Uh, bibi, I didn't think it mattered."

"Didn't think it mattered?" she says tiredly, rubbing her eyes. "Of course it matters." She pauses, calculating her next words. "You're going to the doctor with me. We're going to get you medicine that actually works."

Aman looks baffled. "Uh, thank you, but there's really no need for that. My appointment is next week — "

"We're going now. Come on." She gestures for him to get seated in the car.

He obliges, albeit hesitantly.

He signals to the security guard by the gate to come take his post as he settles in Zoya's car. She wraps a scarf around her head and perches sunglasses on her nose so as not to be easily detected.

While Zoya's driving, Aman continues to glance at her in confusion. Suddenly she says, "what is it that won't let you sleep?" Her brain is still getting accustomed to allowing her to speak, so the words come out broken and rasped.

"I'm sorry?"

"What's bothering you?"

"Nothing, bibi."

A scornful, hoarse laugh escapes her. Having experienced quite fully the disturbance caused by insomnia, Zoya won't fall for his "nothing".

"Tell me, Aman."

Aman scratches his beard, expression anxious. "I — "

"Is it me?" she laughs mirthlessly. "I know I've been terrible to all of you."

"No, bibi, you're not at fault."

She gives him a curious expression through the rearview mirror. "What do you mean?"

Aman hesitates. "You really don't remember me, do you?"

Zoya has to swerve rapidly to avoid hitting a car because she is surprised by his words. "Excuse me?"

"You don't remember me?"

Zoya observes him through the mirror again. "What do you mean, 'remember'? You've been my doorman for like five years, if that's what you mean."

"And before that?"

"Before?" Now Zoya is extremely baffled. "I didn't know you before then."

"I was hired by Farhan saab before I was hired by you, bibi."

Zoya slams on the brake, earning a honk of disapproval from behind her. "What?"

"When you got rid of all the servants, you got rid of me, too. But I don't think you recognized me, because you were looking for a doorman and had me hired again."

Zoya's mind is reeling, but she has no time to process his words on the road.

"I can't" — he breathes deeply in the back, expression afraid — "I have a hard time sleeping because I can't get over what he did to you." He says this very quietly.

Zoya glances at him again, shocked. His face is scrunched up, worry written all over. "What?" Zoya breathes

"He hurt you over and over again, and I was too much of a coward to do anything about it." The distress in his voice is plain and clear, and as Zoya parks in front of the doctor's office, she has to swivel her whole body around to face her doorman.

He seems to be at the height of anxiety. And a strange, unfamiliar pang of sorrow twists in Zoya's heart. Watching him, she finally begins to understand why he has always been so antsy and upset around her. She had played it off as fear, but now there's no mistaking the remorse in his eyes.

"Aman, it wasn't your fault," she says quietly, suddenly all too familiar with the guilt twisting the features of his face.

She remembers her words then. Seemingly from ages ago.

Zoya Zameer kabhi kisi ko maaf nahi karti.

"But I didn't do anything to help. I didn't do anything to try to stop him." He pauses a moment, then whispers, "I heard your screams, and still I didn't do anything."

Zoya fights off the tears forming in her eyes. "And you couldn't have. People in power know nobody will dare confront their actions." She says this with a bitterness in her mouth as she remembers her own use of power. The way she has wielded it to harm others.

Aman breathes deeply, lines etched into his forehead.

"Aman, there was really no way you could have done anything about it without risking your own safety. So stop beating yourself up over it." He doesn't seem the least bit less distressed, so Zoya says, "The fact that you are so anxious about this tells me how guilty you feel. And it's okay. Don't ruin your life over it. Jao. Maaf kiya. It was never your fault anyway."

Aman rubs his hand along his beard, anguish plain and clear. He shakes his head almost absentmindedly, as if he is unable to dispel what has been haunting him for years with just a few of Zoya's words.

She knows it may take him weeks, months, or years to even come close to forgiving himself. She now knows what that feels like all too well. But if she can do this for somebody — if she can ease Aman's distress in the slightest after all the horrible things she has done in her life — perhaps her heart will heal. Perhaps God will stop punishing her.

And then she exits the vehicle and opens the car door for her doorman.

. . .