. . .

. . .

~

"Indeed, your Lord is vast in forgiveness." (Qur'an 53:32)

~

Days afterwards, Zoya cannot stop thinking about what Aman told her. The guilt on his face and the trembling of his fingers as he finally let out what had been plaguing him for years is toying with her emotions. And what makes it worse is that she has always treated him like a mere object, passing by him every day and huffing angrily that he isn't "doing his job right" despite there being no truth to that statement.

Today is one of those days that she stares outside the window of her room and thinks of what a horrible person she has been. With her hand rubbing circles on her stomach, she ponders over what a terrible example she will be for anyone who comes into this world.

So, as she is lost in deep thought and self-loathing, Zoya Zameer — CEO of Zameer and one of the most notorious women in the United States of America — passes out on her bathroom floor. She only wakes when a freaked out Mumtaz splashes water over her face and shoves medicine down her throat.

The next morning when Zoya sees Mumtaz, there is a gaping feeling opening wide inside her. A hollow emptiness at seeing the elderly maid — whom Zoya has never respected and has always harshly reprimanded — forced to become Zoya's mother.

"I deserve this," Zoya rasps, eyes on the floor. "For all the bad things I've done, I deserve all that is happening to me."

Mumtaz throws her a look of pure shock. She shakes her head. "No, bibi. You're a good person."

Zoya gazes at her in bewilderment, baffled by her statement. "No, Mumtaz. You're wrong. I've hurt so many people. I've even hurt you and you're still being nice to me after I've continuously put you down." She grabs Mumtaz's sleeve. "It's because there is goodness in you too." Her voice breaks and she clutches Mumtaz tighter. "There is goodness in everyone except for me."

Zoya lifts Mumtaz's arm and begins to examine it. The maid's expression contorts into sadness when she witnesses her once-strong mistress unraveling so destructively. "Is there good blood that flows in you that doesn't flow in me?" Zoya questions, still examining the woman's arm.

Mumtaz's lips begin to tremble. Zoya says, "Maybe he poisoned me with his evil so now I can never be good again."

"Who, bibi?" Mumtaz asks shakily.

"That devil. Farhan. He injected his poison in me every time he beat me and yelled at me and then sweet talked me in front of everyone," Zoya explains as Mumtaz quivers. "That's why Haroun left me, too," Zoya says quietly, finally letting go of Mumtaz's arm as if coming to a realization. She begins to examine her own arms. Then she looks at her fingers, which have started to tremble.

"If I were to count on each hand, on each finger, on each part of every finger, I wouldn't even come close to counting the people I've wronged, the people I've ruthlessly hurt." Her hands begin to shake violently and Mumtaz gives her a worried look. "For all my talk of not tolerating injustice, I wouldn't even come close to counting all the wrongs I've done. I was the one committing the injustice, hypocritically claiming I couldn't tolerate it." Zoya's face contorts in pain and she begins to sob, staring at her hands accusingly.

Mumtaz reaches forward and grabs her shaking hands, trying to calm her down. Zoya blubbers, "God would never forgive me for all the things I've done. I've hurt too many people."

Mumtaz shakes her head gently. "Allah forgives anyone who is willing to turn to Him and ask for forgiveness."

Zoya refuses. "Not me. Not me. I'm a devil. He turned me into a devil. Farhan made me a devil. And now, like the devil, I'll always be away from God's mercy."

Mumtaz shakes her head again and smiles. "Allah's name Ar-Raheem means most Merciful. Allah will forgive you. Allah forgives anyone who turns to Him in repentance."

Zoya begins to cry loudly. "I'll never go to paradise, either. Paradise lies under the feet of our mothers, right? Maybe that's why mine birthed me and passed away. So that all my avenues to paradise are closed. Paradise doesn't want people like me."

"That's not true. There is never a single way to attain paradise, sweetheart," Mumtaz tries consoling her. "Paradise will be full of people who were once sinners and then turned to Allah in repentance. That's what this dunya is for."

"Haroun left me, too." Zoya cries loudly as she begins to slap her arms. "Because there is good blood in him but there is no good blood in me." Mumtaz tries to stop her, but Zoya continues to strike her arms. "He has all the good blood in the world and he transfers it to everyone he meets but somehow he missed me and I'm still poisoned by the bad blood Farhan put in me. And Haroun left me because I have no good blood."

Zoya turns hysterical and Mumtaz calls Aman to help her stop Zoya. Aman rushes inside a few seconds later and tries, but Zoya pushes his arms away and grabs onto Mumtaz. Before she collapses into a heap on the floor, she looks up at her maid with pain-stricken eyes and says, "Please ask God to forgive me."

. . .

Later, when Zoya has calmed down somewhat, she stares at the smoke rising from the chamomile tea in front of her. "Mumtaz," she begins hesitantly. "How does someone ask for forgiveness?"

Her maid glances at her. "From God or from people?"

Zoya is not ready to face God. She is not. God will not want to see her after all that she's done. So she says, "People."

"Be sincere. Mukhlis. And if they get angry at you, acknowledge that their emotions are valid. It takes courage and time for people to forgive, just as it takes time for people to ask for forgiveness."

"What if . . . what if they never forgive?"

To this Mumtaz is quiet. Finally she says, "If anyone has even the smallest ounce of goodness in them, eventually they will forgive. That doesn't mean they will forget or necessarily be on good terms again with the person they've forgiven, just that they'll acknowledge that it's time to let go of their bitterness." Her voice is wise, carrying years of experience. "Of course, it takes time."

Hearing such wisdom from the woman causes Zoya to remember Haroun, and how he used to advise and teach Zoya in the same gentle manner.

She fights to keep her tears at bay.

"What if you have done too many wrongs and hurt too many people?" Zoya's voice breaks. "My faults are as great as . . . the water in the sea. If I wanted to fix every wrong I've done, I would spend an entire lifetime chasing after people who are long gone."

Mumtaz smiles. "Do you know how forgiving Allah is? How easy he makes it for us? To simply say four words after each prayer twenty times — subhanallahi wa bi hamdihi — and our sins — even if they are as great as the foam of the sea — will be forgiven."

Zoya didn't know this. Sometimes she would see Haroun counting on his fingers after each prayer, but she had never bothered to ask.

And these things terrify her even more now. Because they imply growing closer to God. And she is too scared to do so.

"I want to make a list," Zoya says quietly. "A list of all the people I've hurt or wronged. And I want to ask them for forgiveness."

Mumtaz gives her a soft smile. "Okay, bibi."

"And I want you to stop calling me bibi. I'm about half your age — call me Zoya." She hesitates. "Or beta."

At this, a full smile blooms on the maid's face. "Of course."

Zoya works on her list all morning and afternoon, stopping only to eat and pray. She spends quite some time thinking, reflecting on people she has hurt.

At first she comes up with a very small list. Haroun, Aisha, Naima, and Ammi. But then she ponders for some more time and lists some more names, eyebrows scrunching as she works. The first name she writes after her in-laws is Farhan Malik. Then Sameer, Mumtaz, Aman, her other maids and security guards, people from work, the two managers of Haroun's sisters, etc.

As Zoya works, Mumtaz watches her the whole day, unobtrusively making her presence known by settling plates of food here and there. Replacing the wilted flowers in the vases. Dusting the furniture.

And every time her eyes fall on Zoya, there is a proud smile on the maid's face.

. . .