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. . .

~

"Not a leaf falls but that He knows it." (Qur'an 6:59)

~

Zoya begins to read other names of Allah, pondering over the way they feel on her tongue when she says them. She murmurs them quietly as she visits people she asks forgiveness from, as she walks around her manor, as she busies herself in cleaning or trying to cook, as she lies in bed before sleeping. Saying them brings that strange sense of peace back to her heart. She has searched for this peace for too long; there is no way she will ever let it go now.

One of the names of Allah that Zoya comes across is Al-Wali: The Protecting Associate. Interestingly, when she is learning more about this name, she sees that this is the status given to a woman's father as well.

She had learned this in passing when she was marrying Haroun and needed a wali for her nikah, but she hadn't paid much attention to the word much less care about the meaning of it.

Now when she thinks of it as she lies in bed, a bitter smile makes its way onto her face.

Her father was to be her wali, her protecting associate. One of God's names has been given to a man for his daughters, meaning it is such an important attribute for a father to have. Her father was to guard her and protect her — it was divinely given to him as a responsibility.

Zoya shakes her head and smiles bitterly. Mumtaz – lying on the bed next to her – turns to her with a quizzical brow but Zoya shakes her head again.

Her father made a joke of one of the names of God. When Zoya thinks about him now and of ever seeing him again in her life, an uneasiness settles in her heart. If she ever sees him again, what will she say to him? What is a daughter supposed to say to her absentee father? How is she supposed to ask him why he didn't follow through with such an important attribute? How will the words form on her tongue to ask him why he didn't take heed of one of God's names?

Zoya rolls over to her right side and clasps her hands under her head, pondering over this. She may never see her father again in her life — it is a huge and very realistic possibility — but how is she to make this bitterness in her heart go away? It has already taken her so long to free herself of the cage of arrogance and heedlessness and resentment she had been trapped in. She doesn't want to end up in that same cycle again.

She wants to give in. She wants to let go.

And forgive. And forget.

If she never sees her father again, she wants the bitterness to exit her heart and make room for forgiveness instead. That is all she wants.

Zoya sighs, closing her eyes and attempting to sleep. But tonight, sleep doesn't find her. Nausea climbs up her throat again and again, forcing her to hurriedly rush to the bathroom and stand over the sink. Fatigue consumes her as she stands, and her eyelids droop despite the discomfort in her body not allowing her to sleep.

However, instead of feeling disgusted or frustrated, Zoya feels something else entirely. Every time her body experiences another upheaval or another discomfort or another pain, Zoya forces herself to spread her fingers gently across her stomach and think of one thing only.

Honor.

What an honor it is to know that her Lord has chosen her. He has chosen her as a means through which to produce life. He has given her the chance to give somebody else a chance. He has made her body a secure, protective vessel through which He will provide life and security to another. He has chosen her body as the fort, the castle that guards protect. Zoya Zameer's womb has been chosen to shield the life of the upcoming generation.

What an honor, a responsibility, a blessing it is.

With this thought in mind, she trudges back to bed and lifts the covers gently so as not to wake Mumtaz. Settling back against the headboard, she stares at the extravagant chandelier in the center of her ceiling.

Zoya breathes a deep sigh. Tomorrow, she will have to do what she has been dreading. She will have to do what has been plaguing her heart and causing sheens of sweat to rise along her neck for days.

She will visit Ammi, Naima, and Aisha.

. . .

In the morning, Zoya takes a walk around her manor to calm the heart that palpitates against her ribcage in fearful anticipation.

Days or weeks ago, if she had opened the door when her mother-in-law and sister-in-laws had come knocking, she would have been destroyed in the worst way possible. Because she would have been charging into battle alone.

Now, however, she knows she is not alone. She has Al-Wali.

It's a foggy, chilly morning, but the fresh air serves as a balm to Zoya's distressed state. As she walks, she sees a figure ahead of her in the fog. Another person taking a walk.

She squints. Something about that gait is surprisingly familiar . . .

With a gasp, Zoya's hand flies to her heart. Haroun?

No. It can't be.

He's gone, Zoya. He's not here. Stop thinking about him. But as Zoya continues to squint at the figure, the gait seems unmistakably familiar.

Zoya breaks out into a trot with a sole focus in mind — to follow the figure ahead of her. She rushes into the fog, breathing the chilly morning air. She jogs and jogs and jogs and then stops for a moment to lean down and catch her breath.

When she looks back up, he's gone.

Zoya's breath catches in her throat. She swivels her head this way and that, searching for turns in the sidewalk that may have led him off path. But the sidewalk trails straight ahead.

And yet he's gone.

There is no one there, she realizes with a start. There was never anyone there.

The world around her seems to dim and silence, every noise and movement arresting her senses.

She stands motionlessly in the absolute stillness for a moment when slowly, ever so gently, a leaf falls from the tree to her right.

Zoya remains standing silently before something in her shifts at seeing the leaf. Something vulnerable in her teeters, then falls helplessly and precariously off the edge of the cliff inside her.

A sob emits from her throat, and she leans down to pick up the leaf. Haroun used to talk about one of his favorite verses of the Qur'an, something about not a single leaf falling but without God knowing of it.

She never gave much thought to it but now, it's as if Allah is so near her. Right there, so close.

What had Haroun said once? He had tapped his chest and said, "this is where Allah is." In the heart.

Zoya cradles the leaf against her chest and allows the tears to escape. But they are not tears of anguish, no. For the first time, they are tears of happiness. They testify that some One most surely has her back. Some One is most surely her Wali, her Protecting Associate. Allah is reassuring her before she visits her in-laws and before she takes any action in life that He will be there every step of the way, Guarding and Protecting her.

And who will ever protect her more than God will?

As Zoya stands in the foggy stillness of the crisp morning, clutching a leaf against her chest, she wonders why she had never paid attention to all these signs that had been dangling in front of her face all along.

. . .

After praying dhuhr and holding her hands up in duaa for a few minutes, Zoya stands and folds the prayer mat, getting ready to meet her in-laws. She sweeps the scarf off of her head and is about to stow it away when she catches her reflection in the mirror and stops. A memory prods at her.

She wraps a scarf around her head and adjusts it while looking in the mirror. Satisfied with the way it makes her look, she heads to the prayer mat when she catches Haroun eyeing her.

When their gazes lock, he looks away almost shyly, but not before she sees the expression in his eyes. The softness, the adoration.

She grins at him. "What?"

He shakes his head and looks down, smiling. His dimple appears. "Nothing . . . " But when he looks back up at her with the same gentle expression, he says, "You just look really pretty."

Wind rushes through Zoya's ears and she stills for a moment, forgetting how to breathe. Somehow he always manages to unhinge her with a few simple words.

And when she looks in his eyes, she sees a reflection of herself but also . . . someone she isn't. She sees a woman he respects and holds in such high regard, increased tenfold because of the scarf on her head.

Zoya breaks out of the memory, examining herself in the mirror. She is holding that same blue hijab, the one associated with her memory. Why had Haroun revered the piece of cloth on her head so much? Surely it had some kind of importance because of which he held it in such high esteem. And because of which millions of women across the globe willingly wrap it around their heads every day.

Zoya hesitates, holding up the hijab in front of her. She doesn't know, she is unsure. Her fingers tremble.

Does she deserve to wear this?

People wear this as an act of devotion to God and faith, do they not? As a symbol of their love and dedication to their Lord. Zoya has done horrible things in her life for which she has only just started to repent, so does she deserve to put this on her head as a marker of her faith and her devotion to Allah? Or is she too messed up to do so?

Then she remembers something — something Sumaiya had said a long time ago. Her voice rings in Zoya's head, loud and clear. "I'm not wearing this because of who I am. I'm wearing this because of Allah and the person that I want to become."

Back then, Zoya had laughed this statement off in scorn. She had rolled her eyes and thought Sumaiya to be a blubbering, bumbling fool. Someone who was attempting redemption by saying these empty, meaningless words.

But now, these words have been given a new meaning. These words show her what Sumaiya truly meant that day.

That she wasn't perfect. But she was willing to give it a try.

Zoya is far from perfect — she has painstakingly but eye-openingly realized this over the past few weeks. But should she try as Sumaiya tried? Should she hope this act will bring her closer to the person she wants to become?

Zoya watches herself in the mirror, immobilized with the piece of blue cloth resting in her hands.

But she doesn't know if she's ready. Perhaps it's better for her to wait for the time she will know with absolutely certainty that this is what she wants.

Zoya is about to move to put the scarf back in her closet when another thought nags at her and forces her to stay rooted to the ground.

What if she dies tomorrow?

What then? She will harbor this hesitant desire in her heart and never be able to implement it in her life. She will lie six feet under, regretting the choices she didn't make.

Zoya doesn't want to wait for the time that is never guaranteed to come, the time she will be confident enough. She wants to do this now in case she dies tomorrow. She wants it to be the last good thing she does if she dies tomorrow. She wants to have a glimpse of this source of goodness despite not being ready because who knows if she will ever be ready?

Doesn't the devil love to prey on insecurities? Won't Shaitan rejoice that she is putting aside an act of goodness that she had the possibility of doing?

There will probably always be obstacles and hurdles set in her path by Shaitan to unhinge and unspool her. To try to stop her from following the path of the goodness, the right path — as it is said in the surah she recites in every prayer – the Sirat-al-Mustaqeem.

So she has to do this. She has to defeat Shaitan and do something that holds the possibility of bringing her closer to the God she is learning to love and trust. And maybe this will make her the person she wants to become, as Sumaiya had said.

So Zoya takes a deep breath and settles the piece of blue cloth lightly over her head.

. . .