I’tikaf | Episode 16
Every one of us has our own Pharaoh to push us to the edge of the sea. How many of us will strike our staves against the floor?
Late at night, while Amatullah was working, she received a message from Shumu’.
After some initial conversation, he sent her a curious question.
“And how would you explain all these rituals we’re supposed to perform? Like starting to wear anything from the right side or eating with the right hand? What’s all this?”
“What’s your opinion about it? Let me hear your thoughts before I give you mine,” Amatullah replied.
“These things are illogical. I don’t think religion has anything to do with them.”
“Illogical, you say? Huh. Let me ask you a few questions.”
“Okay.”
“Why do you have ears?”
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just answer.”
“Well... I have ears to listen to sounds, to human voices, to anything. I have them to hear.”
“And what about your eyes? Why do you have them?”
“To see colors, enjoy life... and watch movies,” he added with a hint of amusement.
“That’s some reasoning you’ve got there. Alright, let’s see. What possible reason could there be for you having one nose but two nostrils?”
“That’s the most ridiculous question you’ve ever asked me.”
“Ahan.”
“Well... I guess it’s so we can still breathe if one nostril gets blocked with flu or something. Yekh! Now, can you just tell me the answer already?”
“Just one last question.”
“Ah, okay... but this is the last one.”
“It is, I promise. You know the purpose of every organ in your body—your heart, your bones, your muscles. But can you tell me why you have a soul?”
“A soul?”
“Yes, a soul. Do you know what purpose it serves in your body?”
“Hmm... let me think about it for a second.”
“Take all the time you need.”
After a pause, Shumu’ finally admitted, “To tell you the truth... I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you discard it?”
Silence.
Amatullah waited for a response. After a few minutes, he sent a GIF of a cornered cat, breathing heavily.
She smiled.
“Every organ in your body—your veins, your brain, your muscles—makes perfect sense. Even the germs inside your stomach have a purpose, following precise instructions. You have everything needed to function as a living human being. And yet... why is the soul necessary? If you expect Islam to explain every little thing in detail—which it already does, with perfect logic—then perhaps, by your reasoning, you should discard your soul, because according to your limited understanding, it’s the one part of you that seems illogical.”
A long pause.
“I see your point.”
“Islam is not just logic, nor is it just the unseen—it’s the perfect balance of both. Do you understand that?”
“The other things are hard to grasp... but this one point, I’ll never forget.”
“I’m glad.”
“You know... I’ve been focusing on religious lectures more than my actual studies.”
“You mean your worldly studies.”
“You’re different. Why is that?”
Amatullah hesitated for a moment before replying.
“I asked myself the same question when I returned to Pakistan. Then I found the answer. Because I asked Allah to fill my heart with His love, and I follow it. Just like Ibrahim (AS)—he followed no one and became the friend of Allah. I don’t follow society’s rules. Like him, I do what I believe is right in the way of Allah.”
“You must feel lonely.”
Amatullah glanced at the time. “Okay, class is over for tonight. I’m going offline.”
“Hey, wait!”
“Yes?”
“Any message before you leave? I just... want to bug you a little more.” He flicked his keyboard softly.
She chuckled. “Words? I have plenty. But their impact depends on how open you are to absorbing them.”
“Try me.” His voice soft, focusing more on the content than the strangeness in her voice. Amatullah had this unique quality to her voice; she could compel anyone to respect her only with the cadence of it. Leading but never misleading.
“Before, you were abusing your life. Now, you’re using it. Allah Hafiz.”
A moment later, he sent another message, though it was more of a whisper to himself.
“Why does she say things that don’t let this change stop? What are you, Amatullah? How can you fight such a hard battle... and make it seem so easy?”
But she did not find it easy.
The unraveling within her was breaking her.
Days passed. Amatullah had promised Hani they’d go for a drive, but for some reason, she couldn’t make it. This upset him deeply. To make up for it, she promised him that they’d go out for dinner soon, or somewhere, just the two of them.
Lately, Amatullah had been busy helping those who needed the wealth she had but did not need. Na’am had been assisting her in this quiet endeavor.
One afternoon, Amatullah called Sundus.
“You called me, Miss?” Sundus asked, her tone laced with curiosity.
“Yes, Sundus. There’s something I need you to do. No questions. No curiosity. And tell no one.”
“I won’t breathe a word, Miss. Please, tell me.”
“I want you to go shopping with me. Bring an empty bag. When we return, leave it in my car. Is that understood?”
Sundus hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Completely understood. When do we leave?”
“In an hour.”
They went out and completed their shopping. As they walked back to the car, Amatullah turned to Sundus.
“Give me the used abaya you brought.”
Sundus handed it to her, watching as Amatullah removed her elegant silken jilbab in the car and slipped into the simple, worn black abaya.
Without another word, Amatullah drove deep into the heart of Karachi—to a place she could hardly believe existed. The sight of it made her heart ache. The streets were lined with homes that were barely standing, children without shoes, and families who had long made peace with struggle.
She parked in a narrow street and turned to Sundus.
“Stay in the car.”
Sundus watched as Amatullah stepped out and disappeared into one of the small houses.
She sat there, waiting.
A while later, she saw Amatullah returning.
It wasn’t just the simplicity of the old black abaya that struck Sundus—it was how naturally Amatullah wore it. As if it didn’t matter. As if, in her mind, it made no difference.
She had once said, People are people. Things are things.
And Sundus had never believed in those words more than she did now.
After returning from the home of a struggling girl trying to provide for her family, Amatullah came back looking just as she always did. She grabbed a few books from her room, but before she could leave, her phone buzzed with a group call from Safeer and Ummid.
“It’s already been four months since I’ve been here. I’m doing much better now!” Safeer’s voice had a newfound strength in it.
“I’m so happy to hear that, Safeer. Anabia must be thrilled,” Ummid said warmly.
“Did you tell her how you’re doing?” Amatullah asked.
“I’m already past that task,” Safeer replied with a chuckle.
“Oho, our guy is happy, Ummid! This is good,” Amatullah teased.
“Yeah, things are finally looking up,” Ummid agreed.
Safeer’s voice turned serious. “Well, guys, I need to go. My therapist will be here any second.”
“That’s okay. Bye, Safeer,” Ummid said.
“Bye, girls.”
“Allah Hafiz, bro,” Amatullah added before ending the call.
Just as she was putting her books in the car, Shalabiyya came running up.
“Hey, sis! Where are you going?”
“Ah, somewhere.”
“What does that even mean? Drop me two blocks ahead, will you?”
“Okay, get in.”
As Biyya settled into the seat, her eyes landed on an old, worn-out bag in the back. She wrinkled her nose.
“What’s that rubbish? Ew!”
Amatullah’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Oh… someone left it there.”
“Did you give someone a lift? That someone must be limitlessly poor to own that piece of trash.”
“It’s Sundus’s.”
“Oh, what is her abaya doing there? That’s so disgusting.”
“She… wasn’t feeling well. I had her take it off. I didn’t want her to get sick on my watch.”
Biyya nodded slowly. “Yeah, that makes sense. But honestly, why do you let her sit there? I mean, I can’t even imagine letting someone in my car who isn’t as clean as I am.”
“Better for you.”
Biyya gave her a sideways glance. “Something’s off with you. You’re not yourself.”
“No, it’s just… I don’t have much in common with you anymore. I don’t know what to talk about. I keep searching for topics.”
Biyya scoffed. “Your tongue is so sharp. Is there anything you can’t say with a straight face?”
“Do you want me to be dishonest about my feelings? Or would you rather respond to what I actually said?”
For once, Biyya was quiet. Then she muttered, “To be frank, there never was much in common between us. But we always talked. Things have changed quite a bit since you got engaged.”
Amatullah shook her head. “This has nothing to do with Ahyan.”
“I think it does. Now, where are you really going?”
Amatullah sighed. “You’ve asked me that twice.”
“And you’ve dodged the answer both times.”
“Did I ask you where you were going?”
Biyya smirked. “Right around the block. You wouldn’t suspect me of anything if I were right under your nose.”
“That’s true. I don’t even suspect you of the things you actually do all the time.”
Her smirk faded. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you talking about me behind my back to your cousins and friends.”
Biyya stiffened. “Who told you—”
“Don’t twist the truth, Biyya. I’ve overheard you more times than I can count. I don’t need anyone to tell me.”
Biyya’s face turned red. “Stop the car.”
Amatullah pulled over.
“Who gave you the right to eavesdrop on my conversations?” Biyya snapped.
Amatullah let out a dry laugh. “I didn’t eavesdrop, Biyya. If you wanted your words to be private, maybe try saying them somewhere smaller than the whole house.”
Biyya’s hands curled into fists. “You’re sick to your core. I can’t believe you’re my sister.”
“I know. You feel that way, and that’s exactly why, every time I step out of my room to pray, before I even begin, I hear your voice… talking about me.”
Biyya crossed her arms. “Then why don’t you just pray inside your room? Wouldn’t that be better for everybody?”
She got out and slammed the door shut.
Amatullah sighed, watching her storm away. “You couldn’t have picked a better time to say that, could you?”
She shook her head and drove off.
But when Amatullah returned home later that night, her mood had shifted. She was happy.
Because Biyya had gone to their Janan, concerned about where Amatullah might have gone. And the next day, Janan came looking for Amatullah.
Janan sat beside Amatullah, her eyes gleaming with admiration. "Ever since you got engaged, you’ve been handling everything so well," she said. "The way you’ve organized things, it’s completely out of the box."
Amatullah nodded absently, flipping through the pages of a book on her lap. She knew what was coming next.
"But tell me," Janan continued, her tone light yet probing, "did you meet Ahyan yesterday? Did you two have fun?"
Amatullah barely glanced up. "Our sense of fun, Mom, is grabbing an ice cream while shopping," she replied, her voice steady but firm. "There’s nothing to worry about."
Janan caught the slight edge in Amatullah’s tone, an irritation she wasn’t trying to conceal. It was proof enough that her daughter wasn’t fabricating anything. Amatullah never did. Yet, if that was true, why had Shalabiyya complained with such conviction? What had she really seen?
As if sensing the tension in the air, Janan sighed and switched topics. "Did you tell Ahyan about the inheritance?"
Amatullah’s patience thinned further. "We don’t talk about useless things," she answered curtly.
The endless investigations, the backbiting, the fabrications; it was suffocating. Amatullah wanted nothing more than for her mother to leave the room, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Fortunately, her phone rang, and Janan, assuming it was an incoming call, excused herself. Amatullah exhaled in relief, silencing the alarm she had set.
Once alone, she sank onto her prayer mat, her fingers clutching the fabric as if seeking refuge.
"Feels like I’m getting paralyzed, O Allah. Protect me: my soul, my intentions, my patience, please!" she whispered, her voice trembling. "You told us to seek help through prayer and patience, and I’ve been trying, I swear I have. But it’s starting to hurt more and more. It’s becoming unbearable with time. What more should I do?"
Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away.
"Every time I withdraw to seek You, I return feeling numb to this world. But this world is where You placed me. I have to stay…but I don’t want to."
She clenched her fists, her body trembling.
"I’m not running out of prayers, O Allah. I’m running out of patience. I’m running out of patience."
But no answer came.
The silence stretched on, thick and unyielding. Shalabiyya had stopped talking to her, and though Amatullah had every reason to be hurt, guilt gnawed at her. Had she been too harsh?
Later, when Hani asked again, Amatullah hesitated. Maybe going out would lift her mood. Maybe it would give her the push she so desperately needed.
Sundus helped her pick a dress, and she got ready, forcing a small smile in the mirror. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Hani arrived at the house just as Amatullah was finishing up. She had promised him lunch, and he had taken her up on the offer. He stepped inside, grinning, wearing a striking outfit: an oversized, pastel-colored hoodie with clean-cut joggers and sneakers that somehow made him look effortlessly stylish.
Amatullah raised a brow in appreciation. "You look really nice, Hani."
He glanced down at himself, then smiled. "Thanks! My friend gave me this for my last birthday."
"Wow, that’s awesome," Amatullah replied, genuinely impressed.
As they made their way out, Hani was distracted, typing something on his phone, his lips curving slightly in amusement but with a hint of confusion in his eyes.
"You’re still not used to talking to people face-to-face, are you?" Amatullah noted, watching his expression shift.
Hani looked up briefly, chuckling. "It takes time to get used to something when you never were."
"Yes, it most certainly does," she replied, feeling a familiar weight settle around her nape. Shaking it off, she took the lead toward the porch. "Let’s go, brother."
They drove to a cozy restaurant, their conversation flowing easily. As they waited for their food, Amatullah’s phone buzzed. Ahyan.
Ahyan: What are you doing?
Amatullah: Having lunch with Hani.
She set her phone aside just as Hani leaned back in his chair, watching her. "You’ve been a little introverted lately. Keeping inside your room all the time."
Amatullah raised an eyebrow. "I don’t think that’s the case. I come out for meals and other tasks."
Hani shrugged. "Before a few days, I often saw you praying out in the open. It doesn’t happen anymore."
She blinked, caught off guard. She hadn’t realized anyone had noticed that. "Huh."
She didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to admit that she had withdrawn, that she had felt safer inside her four walls.
Hani watched her carefully before speaking again. "Well, I guess engagement takes up time. You know, you should also give Ahyan a little time out of your day."
She looked at him, eyes sharp. "Ahyan doesn’t affect my prayers in any way. As a matter of fact, nothing does."
"So what’s the reason? Why have you stopped praying outside?"
She hesitated. "I just thought it’d be a better idea to pray where it’s warm."
Hani considered her answer before nodding. "Yeah, that’s right. It’s cold outside during the dark hours."
The conversation shifted.
"How are things going with Ahyan? He seems to be a good guy."
Amatullah allowed herself a small smile. "He is a good one. You guys should talk sometime. He makes some crazy faces, not to mention his crazy supplications every now and then."
Hani chuckled. "What crazy supplications?"
They laughed, their meal carrying on lightheartedly. But soon, Hani started getting hesitant, exchanging messages on and off. His fingers lingered on his phone screen, his smile faltering at times.
Amatullah noticed but didn’t press. "Are you confused about being around people again?" she asked casually.
Hani didn’t answer right away. Instead, he finished his drink and signaled for the check. "Let’s go."
The drive back wasn’t a straight path home. Hani turned down a quieter road, pulling into an empty lot surrounded by sparse trees.
Amatullah frowned. "What happened? Why did we stop here?"
Hani unbuckled his seatbelt. "It’s nothing. Come out now."
Something in his voice unsettled her. She glanced at the rearview mirror. No one was around.
"Why are we here? There’s nothing to see."
"I want you to see something. Come on."
Amatullah sighed, leaving her bag in the car before stepping out. As she did, headlights approached. A car rolled to a stop a few feet away.
Her stomach clenched. "Hani, what are we doing here?"
He exhaled, rubbing his neck. "I just want you to meet someone. That’s all."
The passenger door of the other car opened. A woman stepped out. Moum.
Amatullah stiffened. That’s the girl from that night.
The driver’s side opened next. A man stepped out, his long fringe covering part of his face. He wore glasses and something that screamed gangsta flair.
"Yeah, she wanted to meet you," Hani said, but his voice lacked conviction.
Amatullah saw it now—he was nervous. No, he was scared.
Her nape burned. Her back prickled. "Hani, I don’t wanna be here. Let’s go home."
"It’s okay. She’s just gonna talk."
Moum smirked. "Hey sweetheart, I missed you so much! Hello, Amatullah."
Amatullah’s jaw tightened. "Assalamo Alaikum, and may Allah SWT guide you to the right path."
Moum rolled her eyes. "Huh, always the party pooper. Meet my cousin…"
Two chills ran down Amatullah’s spine simultaneously.
"Hani, if you wanna stay here, I’m going home alone."
The man stepped forward, blocking her path. "Hey, no need to rush. Just a little chat."
"Hani, are you coming or not?" Her voice rose.
Moum scoffed. "Hani, she hides her face out in the open? I couldn’t see any scars on her face that night."
Amatullah met her gaze, eyes unwavering. "That’s what darkness does. Hides everyone’s—even the deepest of scars."
"Hey, b***h! Why don’t you stop yelling and just go with him already?" Moum snapped.
Amatullah turned to Hani, searching his face for something, remorse, hesitation, anything. But he stood beside Moum. Farther than the man who was ready to take me by force.
Her stomach twisted. Hurt. Betrayed. Disappointed.
She checked the car door. Locked.
"Don’t try to be smart. I saw the plan through," the man sneered.
Amatullah’s fingers curled. "Hani, give me the keys."
"I’m sorry, but he really only wants to talk to you."
"Just give me the damn keys, you… insolent little child!" she shouted.
"Babes, why don’t we talk—"
She moved faster. A stun gun flicked out from beneath her loose jilbab, and she pressed it against the man’s ribs. He crumpled, convulsing.
Moum screamed. "What did you do?!"
Amatullah stunned her next.
Hani paled. "What are you doing, Amatullah?!"
"Why don’t you find out, brother?" She thrust the taser toward him. He flinched. But she didn’t hesitate.
Zap.
Hani collapsed.
Amatullah dug into his pocket, snatched the keys, and dragged him into the car. Hands trembling, breath uneven, she slammed the door shut and sped away.
Tears blurred her vision, tears of relief, of heartbreak, of rage.
By the time she drove away, her hands shook on the wheel. Desperate for refuge, she called Ahyan.
His voice broke through the chaos. "Am, are you there? Can you talk?"
She couldn’t. She just cried.
When Ahyan’s car pulled beside hers, she rolled down the window. He reached out, patting her head gently.
For the first time, he touched her. She moved away, letting his hand slide off. But a thought stung Ahyan only a little bit… He was not touching her out of desire but simply to offer comfort. Would she not even accept that?
The tension in the house was suffocating. The entire family had gathered in the lobby, an unusual sight that sent a wave of unease through the air. The servants had been strictly ordered to stay away, leaving only the immediate family members…and Ahyan.
Hani had vanished from the car by the time Ahyan brought Amatullah home. Ahyan suspected he had come back to gather supplies, likely to escape before anyone could confront him. But fate had other plans.
As Muhaddis entered the house, his eyes immediately landed on Hani, who was leaning into his car, fumbling with something. Without a second thought, he stormed over, grabbed the boy by his ear, and dragged him inside.
Hani barely had time to react before a sharp slap landed across his face, the force of it making his head snap to the side. His older brother, Su’ad, was seething, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“What were you thinking?!” Su’ad’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.
“He wasn’t,” Zarqa muttered coldly, arms crossed as she watched from the side.
“Su’ad, let your father handle this,” Janan intervened, stepping forward protectively.
“Mom, she’s my sister,” Su’ad shot back, his voice carrying an edge of barely restrained fury. Janan had never seen him foaming like this.
Janan turned to Muhaddis, desperate to diffuse the situation. “Nothing happened. He just wanted to talk to her. She made a big deal out of it.”
A second slap. This time, from Muhaddis. It sent Hani crashing to the floor. The impact echoed in the silent room.
Janan let out a gasp and rushed to her son’s side, cradling his face as if shielding him from further harm. “Muhaddis, take it easy!” she pleaded.
Muhaddis’ expression twisted with pure disgust. “Take it easy? You’ve taken it easy on him his whole life! Look where it’s led him! He’s not ashamed; he’s not even sorry. I could just kill him right now for what he’s done.” His voice was raw with rage, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
Janan’s protective instincts flared. She stood between her husband and her son. “Don’t you dare talk like that about my child. And what are you doing here, Ahyan?”
Ahyan had been watching quietly, but at that, he finally spoke. His voice was calm, steady, but there was something in his tone that demanded attention.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Janan. I don’t know about you, but it’s clearly my family matter too.”
Janan’s head snapped toward him. “What?! Are you suggesting that I don’t care about my daughter?” Her voice rose in disbelief.
“I’m not,” Ahyan replied evenly.
“You clearly are!” she snapped, her face reddening.
Muhaddis exhaled sharply, exhausted by the argument. “Janan, stop it. And take this bastard out of my sight.”
Janan flinched. “Don’t you dare call him that, Muhaddis! I won’t allow you to spit such words about my children.”
Su’ad, who had remained silent after his initial outburst, took a step forward. His voice was controlled, but there was a quiet weight to his words. “Mom, with all due respect, Dad may sound harsh, but the words you’re choosing right now, they sound even worse. A mother should be grieving what almost happened to her daughter, not defending the one responsible.”
Janan opened her mouth, but for once, she had no reply.
Muhaddis turned back to Hani, his final judgment sharp and merciless. “Janan, take him to his room or whatever corner he always crawls in. He is not to leave this house. No money, no outings, no nothing. Do you understand me?”
Janan swallowed, recognizing that now was not the time to fight. Without another word, she helped Hani to his feet.
Hani’s lips curled in a bitter smirk. “Some family,” he muttered before turning and walking away, Janan following closely behind.
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Ahyan exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m just glad Amatullah isn’t here to see this,” he admitted, his voice laced with regret.
Su’ad let out a slow breath, his expression finally softening as he turned to Ahyan. “I’m so sorry for whatever happened, Ahyan.”
Ahyan shook his head. “It’s not your fault. But tell me honestly…is this what she deals with? This obvious favoritism? One argument, and I could already see who matters more.”
Su’ad’s face darkened. He looked down for a moment before admitting, “I don’t know. I’ve noticed she’s been a little off lately, but…I never imagined it was this bad. She never lets it show.”
Muhaddis sat in his dimly lit room, his face buried in his hands. The weight of the night’s events hung over him like a suffocating cloud. The silence was heavy until Janan stormed in, her eyes blazing with anger, her hands trembling at her sides.
"You slapped him so hard that he fell, Muhaddis. What was that?" Her voice was sharp, quivering with both rage and something deeper, fear, confusion, pain.
Muhaddis looked up slowly, his jaw tightening. His exhaustion was evident, but his temper was barely restrained. "Janan, choose your words very wisely tonight. I don’t want to be abusive with you."
Janan let out a bitter laugh, hollow and filled with frustration. "Huh. You’d—what? Slap me? Go ahead. Why don’t you just kill me instead, since I’m the one who bred these spoiled children?"
Her voice cracked at the end, betraying the pain she was trying so hard to mask.
Muhaddis shot up from his seat, his expression darkening. "Don’t start yelling at me, Janan. I have never once blamed you alone for our children’s faults. They are not just yours; they are mine too. Their upbringing was as much my duty as it was yours."
His voice dropped lower, filled with a restrained, aching fury. "But look at where our upbringing has led them. Our daughter had to be brave enough to outsmart the situation and escape. I never gave her that taser gun and I am her father. But, Janan…" his voice caught for a second, "can you even imagine what would have happened if she hadn’t bought it herself?"
Janan’s breath hitched. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"Of course, I can’t," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "She’s my daughter as much as she’s yours."
Muhaddis’ gaze burned into hers. "Then act like it."
Janan flinched.
"You should have been the first person to do what was right under these circumstances," he continued, his voice growing heavy with disappointment. "Yet, instead of standing by her, you yelled at me. You protected him."
Janan's lips parted, but no words came out.
Muhaddis exhaled, running a hand down his face. "Tell me, Janan, what would that act of yours have made her think of you? If she had been here? If she had seen the way you defended Hani over her?"
Janan’s composure finally shattered. A sob broke free from her chest, and she covered her face with her hands, her shoulders trembling.
Muhaddis’ expression softened. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest. She stiffened for a moment before collapsing into the embrace, gripping onto him as if she were drowning.
His voice was quiet, firm, but filled with something else, understanding.
"Jan, this is not the place for this and I am not the right person. Go to her. Tell her how much you love her. Don't let anything, not fear, not pride, not guilt, stop you from telling her what she needs to hear tonight."
Janan clutched the fabric of his shirt, her tears soaking into his shoulder. She had spent years trying to control Amatullah, fearing the strength in her daughter that she herself lacked. But now, she saw just how much damage that fear had caused.
She pulled away slightly, wiping her face.
"I don’t know if she’ll listen," she admitted brokenly.
Muhaddis nodded. "Then make her. If you truly love her, you won’t let tonight end without telling her."
Janan swallowed hard. Then, without another word, she turned and walked toward the door.
To Amatullah.
Janan quietly pushed open the door to Amatullah’s room, expecting to find her curled up in exhaustion, maybe even withdrawn from everyone after what had happened. Instead, she froze in place, her breath stuck in her throat.
Amatullah was praying, her forehead pressed against the prayer mat, her voice trembling yet steady as she whispered her supplications. And she was crying. But not the kind of tears that came from pain alone. These were tears of submission, of solace, of something far beyond what Janan could comprehend.
She was smiling.
Janan stood there, motionless, her own tears slipping down her cheeks. Amatullah was so lost in her prayer that she didn’t even notice her mother’s presence.
But Janan, she saw something.
For a moment, the lines blurred, and she was no longer looking at her daughter. Instead, she saw another woman standing in Qiyam, enveloped in the same quiet strength, the same unwavering faith. Qaisarah.
Janan’s knees gave way, and she sank onto the floor beside Amatullah, covering her mouth with her hands as silent sobs wracked her body. Why? Why do I see her instead of myself?
She had always feared Amatullah, feared the defiance in her eyes, feared the way she could never control her, feared the reflection of something she had never understood. But now, sitting beside her daughter as she poured her heart out to Allah, Janan felt something else.
A devastating realization.
She had never seen herself inside of Amatullah.
Muhaddis sat in his own room, lost in thought, his fingers tapping absently against his desk. His mind wrestled with the same question that had haunted him for years.
Why can’t she see herself inside of Amatullah?
She had always believed that Amatullah carried Qaisarah’s spirit, the woman he had loved and married first, the one who had shaped his past. And maybe, in some ways, she did.
But she was also Janan’s daughter.
And Janan, she was too blinded by her fear to see it.
Later that night, the house was quiet, but Amatullah’s voice floated softly through the air.
She was reciting Surah Ash-Sharh in the darkness, her voice laced with both serenity and strength:
"For indeed, with hardship comes ease.
So when you have finished [your duties], then stand up [for worship].
And to your Lord direct [your] longing."
She had been lying in bed, but as the words left her lips, something shifted inside her. The weight of her trials, the pain, the betrayal, everything that had unfolded in the past few days, it was all a test. Just like the prophets had been tested.
And who was she compared to them?
Tears spilled down her cheeks, but this time, they were filled with gratitude. Amatullah sat up, and without hesitation, lowered herself into sujood.
"It’s okay, Rabbi. I am happy with Your decisions. You tested the prophets; I am just a mere, sinful human being. You have already blessed me with more than I could ever ask for."
She didn’t know that Sundus was still in the room, arranging a few things in the small fridge. The moment Sundus heard Amatullah’s whispered supplication, something inside her broke.
She turned away quickly, covering her mouth, but she couldn’t stop the tears.
How? How could someone endure so much and still find the strength to surrender completely?
Sundus left the room quietly, her heart heavy, yet strangely uplifted.
A few days later, Amatullah secluded herself again, entering I’tikaf, seeking refuge in the only One who truly understood her heart. She buried herself in the study of her faith, memorizing more chapters of the Qur’an, her connection with Allah strengthening with each passing moment.
When she finally emerged, Ahyan and Nuran were waiting for her.
They greeted her with wide smiles, their arms full of beautifully wrapped gifts: books, perfumes, scarves, and small tokens of love.
Ahyan and Nuran stood outside Amatullah’s room, and for the first time in his life, Ahyan hesitated.
He had never stepped into a woman’s private space before, especially not her space. The one he had always loved.
Nuran, sensing his hesitation, rolled her eyes. "Are you coming in or just planning to stand there like a lost puppy, because you clearly wanna come in?"
Ahyan swallowed, exhaling sharply before stepping inside.
The moment he did, his breath caught.
The room was nothing like he had expected. It was meticulously organized, yet it felt warm and lived-in. Everything was arranged with such intentionality that it reflected Amatullah’s mind: structured, creative, and endlessly thoughtful.
He barely noticed Amatullah herself at first, standing near the window, a soft scarf draped over her head. But when he did…
His mind blanked.
He had seen her in many ways before, laughing, debating, even arguing with him. But this was different. There was something peaceful about the way she carried herself, as if nothing in the world could shake her.
Meanwhile, Ahyan…was a mess.
He stiffened, hands clenched, every movement calculated to make sure he didn’t accidentally brush against anything, or worse, her.
"Ahyan, relax," Amatullah said, arching a brow with an amused smirk. "I’m not hiding any bed-hidden monsters."
Nuran snorted. "Yeah, you look totally messed up."
Ahyan cleared his throat. Be cool, Ahyan. Be cool, man. There’s nothing to be worried about. Nuran’s here too… Nuran is here too…
Then, irritation flared in his mind.
Agh, Nuran is here too.
Amatullah tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes catching his awkwardness. "I see you’ve recovered."
Her smile, it was soft, teasing, too teasing. She was enjoying wrecking him more.
He melted.
"What are these, Am?" Nuran's voice broke the moment, her eyes wide with admiration as she examined a collection of artistic displays in the room. "I’m really inspired by your creativity. I mean, how do you even have time to do all this?"
Ahyan finally pulled himself together enough to add, "Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that too."
"You really were," Amatullah teased. "Well, it’s not the work of a single day. I had my whole life to do all this."
Ahyan frowned slightly. There was something in the way she said it, a quiet loneliness wrapped in acceptance.
"Sounds easy when you put it that way."
"Ahyan, look at this wallpaper," Nuran called, pointing to a collage of pictures. "Did you make it yourself?"
Ahyan distracted himself by examining the rest of the room, careful not to stand too close to Amatullah, especially since she was already standing near Nuran. His heart was already working overtime; he didn’t need to make it worse.
"Yeah, these are my friends," Amatullah said.
Nuran pointed to one of the pictures. "Oh! This is that girl from your engagement ceremony, right? The Chinese chick. What was her name?"
"Chiaki. And this is her boyfriend, Feng."
Nuran whistled. "He’s so gorgeous."
Ahyan rolled his eyes.
"Hey, Am," he said, deliberately changing the subject, "what do you do with this projector? Don’t tell me you watch cartoons on a big screen, please."
Nuran burst into laughter. "Haha! Ahyan, your future, I can see it already!"
Amatullah chuckled, shaking her head. "That’s not for cartoons or anime. Well, I do watch my favorite series once in a while, but it’s for something else."
Ahyan tilted his head. "Care to share?"
"I turn it on at night and watch constellations move across the ceiling. Astronomical phenomena, distant galaxies; it helps me fall asleep."
Nuran gasped dramatically. "That’s wicked awesome!"
Ahyan, meanwhile, was already lost in the image his mind painted, lying beside Amatullah in the quiet of the night, watching the constellations change above them.
He shook his head. Don’t go there.
Nuran nudged him. "Ahyan, remember to add a range of projectors to the list you've been making—"
"Nuran, please," Ahyan groaned.
Amatullah frowned. "What list?"
Ahyan’s eyes darted to Nuran with a silent plea, but it was too late.
Nuran smirked. "Oh, nothing. I just meant…well, actually, Ahyan should explain it himself."
Amatullah narrowed her eyes. "What are you guys talking about?"
Ahyan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Well… I might have been assembling a list of things that you, I mean, I…would love to buy for you."
For the first time since he walked into her room, Amatullah stilled.
And then, something unexpected happened.
She looked at him, the way he had looked at her a thousand times before.
A look that made his heart settle into something quiet, something achingly familiar.
Something he had grown used to… but couldn’t bear.
Nuran sighed loudly.
Ahyan shot her a glare. "What was that for?"
"Nothing, I’m just admiring the room. You guys keep talking… or staring."
Amatullah blinked. "We’re—we’re not staring. Well, at least I wasn’t."
Flustered, she quickly turned to show Nuran something, while Ahyan busied himself with something else, anything else.
That’s when he found it.
A sketchpad.
Flipping it open, he saw a doodle: a small chibi girl, kneeling in prayer. A simple sketch, but it held an indescribable beauty.
"Turn the page," Amatullah said. "You’ll find the rest of the concept there."
Curious, Nuran came closer and flipped the page excitedly.
The two pages were divided into four sections, each depicting Amatullah praying with someone different. The first—Ahyan himself—was checked off with a date. The second, Shalabiyya. The third, Su’ad—also checked off. And the fourth, with her entire family. Achingly, still left unchecked.
Ahyan stared at it. "Is that…?"
"Su’ad," Amatullah confirmed.
His throat tightened. "You’ve prayed with him, too?"
"Many times," she admitted. "Prayer becomes another level of beauty when you know that your loved ones are praying alongside you, no matter where you are."
Her face held a faint smile, one filled with both hope and sadness.
Nuran clutched her chest. "Aw, Am!"
Ahyan hesitated before saying, "You know, I…prayed when I went home after dropping you off that day."
Amatullah looked at him, surprised. "You did? How did you feel, Ahyan? You never told me."
Silence. Nuran leaned forward expectantly.
Ahyan exhaled. "It felt… original. There was nothing on my mind but gratitude that night. It felt like I finally had a reason to pray. It wasn’t like when our parents tell us to do something and we are forced to. It was like I really…really felt love for Allah."
Amatullah’s expression softened.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
And Ahyan realized, maybe for the first time, that no matter how much time passed, no matter how much they tried to avoid it, he and Amatullah would always find their way back to each other, even in the quietest of moments.
Su’ad entered Amatullah’s room with a confident stride, his hands in his pockets, and his usual charm flickering in his eyes. He had been thinking about her a lot these past few days, about how she had been drifting, about how she wasn’t herself. And today, he had decided: he was going to do something about it.
“What do you wanna do now?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe. “I told you to come and join the office. What’s holding you back, Amatullah? Do you wanna get married?”
Amatullah, seated by the window, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the cold glass, barely reacted. Her gaze was distant, fixed on the sky as though it held all the answers she sought.
“No,” she replied, her voice steady but void of its usual spirit. “I’m not thinking about marriage; neither am I thinking about career. As I’m traveling through the stream of time, these things are losing their meaning to me. They make less sense to me.”
Su’ad’s brows knitted together. He stepped closer, sitting on the edge of her neatly made bed. “Darling, you’re getting too deep in whatever this is,” he said softly. “Amatullah, I know, with the things as they are around you, you must feel terribly lonely. But wait until you’re with Ahyan. He’ll make everything right.”
Her lips twitched slightly, almost like she wanted to smile, but the expression never fully formed.
Su’ad exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Now, I’ve heard a lot about this cosmos of yours, that it’s too beautiful. Why don’t you show me around?”
A flicker of light passed through Amatullah’s eyes, and for the first time that evening, she looked at him. “Alright,” she said simply.
They took the telescope to the terrace. The night stretched above them, vast and endless, a deep indigo canvas speckled with celestial wonders. As Amatullah adjusted the telescope, Su’ad looked up, wondering why he had never taken the time to appreciate the sky like this before.
When he peered through the lens, his eyes remained shocked for a moment that stretched long. Amatullah let him soak in but he saw himself in the vastness of space: still, large, ready to embrace whatever may come its way but unable to depend upon anyone. He had long accepted his position in this house where only three people were his family.
He looked at Amatullah who was staring at him. She smiled with a nod, acknowledging him and he knew, it was all that mattered for him to live with contentment. He smiled and looked back through the lense.
The stars weren’t just stars anymore. They were worlds, glowing in silent brilliance, each one a testament to something far greater than himself. He had always considered himself grounded, practical, but standing here now, with the cool night air against his skin and the universe unfolding before him, he felt… small.
“Amatullah,” he murmured, still staring through the lens, “how did you find all of this?”
A gentle wind brushed past them, lifting the edges of Amatullah’s scarf. “I didn’t,” she said, her voice laced with a quiet understanding. “It was always there. I just stopped looking at everything else.”
Su’ad lowered the telescope, staring at her. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple.”
Before he could respond, Zarqa arrived, carrying a tray filled with popcorn and juices. “What are you two up to?” she asked, settling down beside them.
“Stargazing,” Su’ad replied, handing her the telescope. “And questioning our existence, apparently.”
Zarqa chuckled. “Well, that sounds like a very Amatullah thing to do. Sundus ratted both of you out. I thought I might as well tag along.”
And just like that, the heavy air around them lifted. The three of them sat on the terrace, passing the telescope around, pointing out constellations, sharing childhood memories, and laughing at ridiculous things.
Su’ad, though he wouldn’t say it out loud, felt something shift within him.
Amatullah’s alertness in this world is truly admirable. She never lets worldly distractions come in the way of doing what’s right. Her strategic thinking, paired with unwavering tawakkul, reflects the kind of strength and clarity today’s women need. She is independent, relying on no one but her Rabb.
Su'ad has consistently stood by Amatullah, never compromising on justice. The moment he and his father slapped Hani was incredibly satisfying. Despite everything, Su'ad stayed respectful toward his mother while firmly defending his sister. He’s such a beautiful, caring soul.
Ahyan, from the very beginning, carried himself with deep respect. He noticed the little things that mattered to Amatullah and always honored her boundaries, even when they seemed small to others. He stood by her quietly, without complaint.
Zarqa, from the day she met Amatullah, never judged her. She offered companionship, help, and respect without conditions. Her presence was calm and genuine.
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