. . .

. . .

~

"From the earth We created you, and into it We will return you, and from it We will extract you another time." (Qur'an 20:55)

~

"Haroun!" Zoya whines as she tries to type on her laptop. The new cataloging of Zameer's website is befuddling her, and she has called Sameer to work with Haroun in figuring it out while she attempts to respond to numerous requests from various customers.

Meanwhile, however, a small boy with curly black hair darts around, fussing the papers on the table without meaning to every time he rushes by. Tugging Zoya's hands and murmuring the same sentence over and over again: "I didn't do it. I didn't do it."

Zoya says to Haroun, "Please make him stop."

"Zameer, come here." Haroun stands from Sameer's side, holding his hands out.

The little boy follows his father's voice from the far end of the room. Haroun picks him up and looks at him adoringly. "Why are you bothering your mom? Hmm?" He walks towards Zoya with the boy in his arms.

The little boy stares with wide eyes at his father, then grabs a fistful of his curly hair in tension. His tiny features twist in worry. "I — I was just tewwing her dat I'm not wying. I didn't dwop the waundwy," he jumbles in a baby voice.

Haroun smiles at him. "It's okay. I believe you. I know you didn't drop the laundry." Zoya suddenly looks up at her husband in bewilderment and he winks at her. "I know you would never in a hundred thousand years lie to me. Right, Zameer?"

The little boy looks conflicted now. His eyes dart between his mother and father and widen considerably.

"Right, Zameer?" Haroun repeats gently, tugging at his son's curls.

Zameer nods reluctantly. "Yes . . . Papa." His eyes avert from his father's, small face coiled up in tension.

Haroun breaks out into a boisterous laugh, causing Sameer to turn and crack a smile at the father and son. He turns towards Zoya and shrugs as if to say, "Is Haroun ka koi hal nahi hai" and Zoya rolls her eyes in agreement.

But as she fondly watches Haroun gently explain to their son why he shouldn't lie, her eyes soften. She breathes a long, deep sigh of relief at the now-giggling boy and the father making funny faces.

Sometimes, in moments like this, it's easy to forget the time in their lives when they both had been so distant from one another. Because what are a few months to many years?

But other times, those few months seem to haunt them everywhere they go. Every time someone mentions a sickness, every time old reports emerge of the once-arrogant Zoya Zameer, every time family members shuffle around the topic awkwardly. The two of them sit there, tensed, waiting with baited breath for the moment to go away.

And although it does, sometimes it settles in their hearts. Like an extra sticky piece of gum that won't scrub off no matter how hard they try.

And other times they forget it all when they sit together during starry nights, sipping tea and huddling close together. Smiling and gazing into one another's eyes as though they are still a newlywed couple. Fussing over their son and tickling his tummy as he giggles and screams "Mama! Papa!" Turning to one another when they study tafsir to discuss topics that particularly intrigue them. Attending mosques to pray and listen to lectures together. In times like those, it's easy to forget the pain that had taken root between them years ago.

Time is of the essence, they have both learned quite deeply. Time and God's mercy towards them. His mercy to soften their hearts towards one another and vanquish the bad feelings, the bad memories. Allowing them to turn the old, moldy pages of the book and start fresh on the pristine, clean ones.

Because as they continue to learn every day, with Allah on their side, they will never be disappointed.

. . .

When Farhan gets married two years after Zameer's birth, he makes it a point to mention in every conversation. Even when the topic at hand has nothing to do with his marriage. Especially when the topic at hand has nothing to do with his marriage.

But, after all, with a wife like Naima, it would be hard for him not to brag.

Every time the two visit Zoya and Haroun, they cause the latter couple to erupt into fits of laughter without even trying. Farhan has a habit of joking with Naima that he doesn't love her or something along those lines, and Naima has a habit of responding with mock indifference.

So one day when they are visiting, they are engaged in this same spitfire in the living room as Zoya makes sandwiches in the kitchen and Haroun laughs silently while working on his laptop.

Haroun's father is busy making chai in the kitchen with Zoya, having insisted on doing s despite her protests.

Farhan lets out a dramatic gasp. "Oh, my God. Is that gray hair I see?" He's standing and Naima's sitting, so he bends down to her height and fingers a single strand in her braid.

Naima swats his hand away playfully, trying to read her book. "Oh, stop it."

"No, no, no." Farhan begins pacing around and Haroun's shoulders shake with laughter as he watches his best friend. Farhan places a hand at his chin, face contorted in worry.

Zoya sets the sandwiches on the table outside and heads to Haroun, who murmurs a "thank you" and kisses her hand. She stands by him and the two of them watch the younger couple, laughter in their eyes.

Farhan throws his hands up in the air. "I can't be married to somebody with gray hair. I'm too young to become so old."

Naima looks up from her book with narrowed eyes and says, "Well, it's not like you're Channing Tatum."

Farhan's eyes almost pop out of his head at this as Zoya and Haroun giggle off to the side. "Oh," he announces in a monumental fashion. "Oh, so Channing Tatum is the standard now?"

Naima smiles up at her husband sweetly. "I'm sorry, was there ever any other standard?"

"Oh, I'll show you Channing Tatum." He leans down and swiftly picks up a shrieking Naima, running around in circles with her in his arms. Zameer, who is racing two toy cars against one another on the floor, looks up suddenly at the commotion. His eyes follow his aunt and uncle confusedly, and Zoya and Haroun laugh even more at the little boy's bafflement.

"Put me down, you good-for-nothing — "

Farhan begins to dash around even faster. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Okay, okay! Put me down, you" — Naima hesitates — "amazing . . . human being." She visibly grimaces.

Farhan stops for a moment, contemplating. "Come on, you can do better than that."

"Yeah, come on, Neemee," Zameer suddenly says, clapping his hands together in glee, not quite understanding the situation but excited nonetheless. Farhan gives the little boy a wink.

"Fine!" Naima announces. "Fine. Um . . . you . . . incredibly handsome, extremely charming . . . human being?"

Farhan hesitates for a second before he says, "Good enough." He sets his wife down breathlessly, who huffs out a sigh and pushes him back, laughing. "I'm pregnant, Farhan," she scolds.

Farhan flicks her nose and rubs her stomach gently and affectionately. "No life-threatening stunts were conducted." Then he turns to Zameer and says, "Glad to know you're on my side, little king." He reaches down and swoops the boy up on his shoulders, who shrieks in glee.

And before Farhan carries him out the door and into the back garden, he turns to a still-giggling Zoya and says, "Permission to kidnap, bhabhi?"

"No," Haroun replies, chuckling.

"Is your name bhabhi?" Farhan asks, raising an eyebrow as Zameer tugs at his hair to lead him in the other direction.

Haroun shakes his head, smiling, just as Zoya turns to Farhan and nods. "Permission granted."

. . .

Five years after Zoya's son's birth, an envelope shows up with a name at her doorstep. A name that freezes her in her footsteps and stills her heart.

Zameer.

She rips it open with Haroun by her side, rubbing her shoulder soothingly.

And inside lies a death certificate.

A startled cry escapes her, but other than that she remains mute. Glassy eyes tearing through the paper as if she can will the words to change. As Haroun whispers in her ear, "Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

There is a will inside the envelope. And underneath it, a letter titled "Zoya."

Zoya shakes her head quietly, leaning against Haroun. She cannot read it. She cannot. There is not enough strength in her to open this letter, despite having waiting almost the past ten years for something like it.

Maybe someday she will open and read it. Maybe someday when her heart has fortified itself and learned to love her father without it aching her — the way she was able to do so with Haroun. Maybe when she is a stronger version of the person that she is today.

But right now, there is not enough willpower in her to do so.

So she simply leans against Haroun as he rubs her shoulder and kisses her hair, as he murmurs the same words over and over again.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

. . .

One year later, Zoya huffs and puffs in the labor room, eyes rolling into the back of her head.

"No, no, no," Haroun murmurs fiercely, clasping Zoya's hand. "Stay with me, Zoya." He smoothes the hair over her head as she takes deep, heaving breaths.

"Heart rate one thirty-five," a doctor announces, snapping latex gloves onto her hands. "BP rising."

The obstetrician positions herself at Zoya's feet, smiling at her comfortingly. "Come on, Zoya," she says. "Push."

And, with Haroun whispering Bismillah by her side, Zoya does.

Later, when the sound of the baby's cry releases exhales and smiles all around the room, Zoya lets out a laugh mingled with tears. She reaches her hands forward feebly, and the doctor gently places the now wrapped baby in the mother's arms.

Zoya and Haroun stare down at the baby adoringly — Haroun with uncontrollable tears of joy — as the doctor whispers, "An 8-pound healthy baby girl. Congratulations."

As Zoya watches the infant, tears escape her eyes. But they are not only tears of happiness.

They are tears of anguish.

"Oh," she exhales with a sob. "Oh, my beautiful, sweet little girl. If you were a boy."

Haroun rears back and stares angrily at Zoya, having had this conversation with her numerous times before. "Zoya," he says sharply.

Zoya continues to cry as she watches the baby and caresses her face. "Allah na kare tumhe kabhi bhi dunya ki pithkaare khaani pare, my love, my sweetheart, meri jaan."

"And she will not," Haroun says fiercely, turning Zoya's face to him by placing his finger under her chin. "She will not. What did I tell you?"

The two stare into one another's eyes, Zoya's unspoken sentence charging between them electricity.

I don't want her to grow up like I did.

"You cannot protect her from everything," Zoya murmurs out loud.

"As long as I am alive, I will, Insha Allah." There is a ferocity in his eyes, the kind that emerges when he becomes exceptionally emotional. He cradles the baby girl with Zoya. "I will never let anything happen to her. Us ke pas us ka baap hai." He wipes a tear from Zoya's face. "Main hoon na? And Allah hai, and who is a better protector and sustainer than Him?"

At this, a tentative smile blooms on the exhausted mother's face. Because her daughter will surely experience the love and adoration of the best father in the world.

So the two of them stare down at the wriggling bundle of joy with tears of happiness streaming down their faces. Because she will be extremely cherished by her family, be the coolness of her parent's eyes, become the laadli of her father especially.

And during times of sadness and duress, she will never feel alone.

Because, as Haroun said, who is a better Protector and Sustainer than Allah?

. . .