. . .

. . .

~

"So remember Me, I shall remember you." (Qur'an 2:152)

~

The employees board the private jet, and immediately Farhan makes a beeline for the bathroom. Zoya settles down into the lavish, button-tufted leather sofa, already feeling nauseous as she mechanically murmurs prayers under her breath.

She is vaguely aware of Haroun walking around and joking with the staff, making sure everyone — especially those who fear traveling by plane — is comfortable. He begins to approach Zoya as well.

Haroun sits across from her on another sofa, and despite knowing he only chose this spot to sit next to Farhan, Zoya is happy that he's there.

Leaning her head back, she closes her eyes and breathes deeply.

Zoya has always tried to wriggle her way out of traveling by plane. She either makes excuses about not liking the attitudes of the air hostesses (nonexistent) and hating the plane toilets (perfectly fine) or claims she prefers trains, buses, and cabs regardless of the amount of time they take.

In truth, however, the memories of travel always haunt her. Because they remind her of her father, and the various trips they took overseas.

"Are you claustrophobic?" A quiet voice interrupts her thoughts. Zoya's eyes fly open and Haroun gestures to her clenched fists and rapidly bouncing knee.

She sighs and looks around before replying quietly. "A bit, yes." Her cheeks color.

He shrugs. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

Her knuckles tighten as the plane begins to taxi. Farhan still hasn't returned yet, and despite her dislike of him, thinking of him all alone in a portion of the jet elevates her nausea.

"Ms. Zoya. Just breathe. Relax," Haroun says calmly, repeating the same mantra he said to all the other staff. "Don't think about it."

She throws him a bewildered look.

He's quiet for a moment, turning his head towards the window. His eyes rove over the scene outside wondrously. Moments later — as if out of habit — he opens his mouth and begins reciting something from the Qur'an. His voice is low, soft, and so melodious. Zoya closes her eyes and listens to him.

As he recites, her fists unclench slowly, her knee halts in its bouncing, the indent between her eyebrows smooths out.

Five minutes later, when Farhan has returned and is busy searching for a movie to watch as the plane prepares to take off, Haroun stops and glances around at everyone. His eyes fall on his boss as well, whose chest heaves up and down as she breathes deeply.

"She's asleep," he murmurs absentmindedly.

"What?" Farhan asks, clueless.

"Nothing." Haroun continues reciting softly.

. . .

When they step out of the jet, weary and spent, Zoya's heart palpitates against her rib cage. The humid, thick air of Pakistan coupled with the lights in the distance awaken the tearing feeling of nostalgia within her. An overwhelming, burdensome feeling.

She hasn't been in Pakistan since the last time she came with her father. And all of it — the plane, the memories of traveling with him, the all-too-familiar lights of malls and roads — is too much. She descends the stairs and presses her face into her hands.

"You okay, Ms. Zoya?" Sumaiya presses her hand to her shoulder lightly.

Zoya shrugs her off and snaps an "I'm fine" through gritted teeth.

They travel to their assigned hotels in Karachi in a limousine, calling their families to notify them of their arrival. Zoya is the only one who stares out the window silently, watching the familiar surroundings with a heavy heart.

After groaning at Zoya's sharp announcement of a 9 A.M. meeting, the staff disperses into their rooms.

Zoya doesn't sleep for a long, long time, standing in the balcony with her nightgown billowing behind her, staring out at the sea.

She had heard Haroun and Farhan talking about their favorite views for an ideal vacation a few days ago. Farhan had been grumbling about having unpleasant memories in the water as a child, and Haroun had been saying that if he could spend the rest of his life by the sea, he would.

So naturally, the hotels near the water had been booked. To Zoya, it seemed like a win-win. Annoying Farhan and comforting Haroun.

Now, as she stares out at the waves lapping onto the shore under the light of the glowing moon, she knows it's definitely a win. The night breeze as well as the sound of the waves calms her distressed heart somewhat.

Zoya heads back inside, attempting to sleep for three hours before waking up at Fajr time again.

. . .

It is said that the early hours of the morning are the most peaceful and serene time of the entire day. Zoya wakes up to calm waves slapping against the shore and the sound of birds slowly waking up, the sky's hues softly changing as sunrise arrives. She heads outside after praying Fajr and leans against the balcony railing, staring out at the sea as the wind gently twirls her hair back and forth.

A figure by the water catches her eye. She squints and, with a start, recognizes Haroun. He stares out at the sea silently, still as a statue.

Hurriedly changing into proper clothes, Zoya makes her way out of the hotel and ushers her guard away, heading towards Haroun. She doesn't bother applying makeup to her bare face. It's just him, after all.

He sees right through her anyway.

She approaches him quietly and stands at a distance, not wanting to disturb the peaceful silence. He fidgets, his grip tightening on the shoes he's carrying.

"Salaam," he murmurs without looking at her.

"Wa 'Alaikum Salaam."

They simply stare at the water as the sun's hues mirror across the rippling waves. "So peaceful," he observes quietly.

Zoya nods.

The silence between them isn't deafening and expectant, as it sometimes tends to be, pregnant with the possibility of spoken words. It's tranquil, peaceful.

"You told me once that doing humanitarian work provides you with a sense of relief and sanity," Zoya begins unsurely, voicing the question that has been plaguing her subconscious for some time now. With the image of Haroun's dark eye bags in her mind, she continues. "So . . . how come you're so restless all the time?"

He looks surprised by this observation and lowers his tired eyes to the ground beneath his feet. "It's temporary comfort. This world begs for us to worry — problems, worries, issues that never stop in this dunya — that's what makes us human." He smiles softly. "It's a brutal but effective reminder that we'll never have it easy in this life. But our struggles and our efforts won't be missed. That's what gives life balance, right? Because with every difficulty, there's ease." He quiets for a moment. "Besides, if the journey of this world was easy, patience would never be one of the doors to paradise." Pause. "And for me, doing this work fulfills a sense of purpose that no other thing in my life can."

She remains quiet, not knowing how to reply to that. Moments later, a thought occurs to her. "What is one thing you want most in this life?"

"Hidaya."

Zoya inclines her brows. "Hidaya?" He nods. She gives him a once over — from his lowered gaze to his clasped hands and dignified demeanor — and a corner of her lips turns up. "I think you've been granted that already."

Shock flits across his face and he shakes his head firmly. "I'm human. I can never say for certain that I've been granted hidaya. Because it's not a one-time lesson or a single experience. It's a combination of lessons, an entire experience. Something lifelong." He rubs his forehead. "Something I have to keep asking for every day so that I receive it every day."

"How do you know you don't own it already?"

A corner of his lips turns up and a soft smile blooms on his face, causing Zoya's breath to halt. "There are so many things in this world that we can own, wealth being one of the largest and most wanted. But there's one wealth that no one can ever truly own, and that's hidaya. Because it doesn't come from anyone but Allah, and He grants it to whom He pleases, whenever He pleases."

Haroun shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. "No human can grant it and no human can ever be completely sure they have it, which is why it's something that always needs to be asked for." There is a twinkle in his eyes. "It's . . . the light at the end of the tunnel, the breath of fresh air to the drowning man, the only comfort to the agonized soul."

Zoya cocks her head to the side, observing him brazenly. His eyes are raised to the sky above them, to the rising sun, then lowered to the crashing waves in the distance, as if taking in the vastness of it all.

"What is one thing you want most in this life?"

Zoya is shocked by him throwing her question back at her, rendering her speechless yet again. How can he know she doesn't already own everything she wants? She successfully leads one off the fastest growing businesses in the entire nation, has an insanely high next worth, owns one of the largest manors on the East Coast. Money is her right hand, wealth pools at her doorstep. Her success continues to skyrocket and her face flits across virtually every Pakistani and some American news channels and magazines. And all of this only increases.

Yet Haroun Suleiman seems to have known what no other person in this world has known about her — that she always craves more. That she is never satisfied. That running after all the wealth and success in the world is actually a cover for what she is truly chasing.

"Contentment," she whispers.

After a pause, Haroun continues to stare at the sky but speaks. "'Indeed what is to come will be better for you than what has gone by.'"

Zoya gazes at him, knowing the tender look in his eyes can only mean that this is a verse of the Qur'an.

"Through sun, snow, rain, or whatever situation it may be, everything happens for a reason. Anything you may be experiencing is in Allah's hikmah, or ultimate wisdom." He looks down and drags a finger across his wristwatch absentmindedly. "Personally, I find peace in knowing this because everything Allah has planned for me is a thousand times better than what I think I want. How can I not find peace in trusting Him?" He pauses, chuckles softly. "His love for His creation is much, much greater than a mother's love for her child. A mother herself is so loving — imagine God."

Zoya stiffens at the mention of loving mothers, but he's still staring out at the water, not noticing her discomfort.

Yet his next words relax her muscles and cause her heartbeat to slowly return to normal.

"Whatever hurricane you're suffering through, whatever weight you feel like you're crushing under, remember that everything will pass with Allah's plan. There's a verse in the Qur'an, 'Your Lord did not abandon you, nor did He forget.'" Haroun turns to her, keeping his gaze lowered. "So even if the world seems to be crashing down onto your unsuspecting shoulders or contrarily your life is going exactly the way you want, know that both scenarios are out of His ultimate wisdom. And sometimes we're far too human to understand that."

Zoya remembers these last words, the ones he had spoken at the Desi World Fashion Show, seemingly ages ago. The ones that had rendered her powerless for the first time in a while. The ones that had made her drop her sword weakly and attempt to shield herself halfheartedly. Hearing them again elicits almost the same reaction. Her guards have fallen, her façade is wearing thin, and Zoya Zameer is tired.

Tired of carrying the burden of her haunting past, tired of being Zoya Zameer, tired of having no one to depend on, no one to trust.

Haroun shakes her out of her stupor by bending down to put on his shoes. He turns around to leave but pauses for a moment. "I pray Allah grants you the contentment you are trying to find." And with that, he trudges back up the beach.

Leaving Zoya more speechless than ever.

. . .

After their morning meeting — during which Zoya averts her gaze and avoids Haroun's presence instead of the other way around — the staff mingles in the hotel lobby, eating breakfast together.

Zoya sighs loudly and Sameer looks at her. "What's with you today, Ms. Zoya? You've been avoiding him like the plague."

Her gaze snaps towards Sameer. "Avoiding who?"

"You and I both know who we're talking about."

"I'm not ignoring him," she scoffs. Sameer inclines his brows at her back turned to Haroun, her posture stiff. "Oh, shut up." She gestures to the expression on his face. "Stop that — this — whatever you're doing!"

"Okay," he says in a voice that means it's not okay at all and he's only dropping the topic due to her discomfort. "Would you like a bagel?" He offers one to her.

She shakes her head.

He throws a hand up as if coming to a realization. "Ahh, of course. Haroun doesn't eat bagels either." He begins to place it back in the tray when Zoya snatches it from his hand and takes a large bite out of it.

"I do not choose my food preferences based on somebody else's." She rolls her eyes haughtily and Sameer simply smirks at her. "Wipe that smile off your face, Sameer, or you'll get a letter in the mail pretty soon. And it won't be a promotion."

He immediately stops smiling but clamps his lips together, eyes twinkling mischievously.

Zoya sighs, continuing to chew the bagel. How can she tell him that her conversation with Haroun has been plaguing her heart, fracturing her carefully built composure? How can she say that she, Zoya Zameer, is embarrassed that Haroun has witnessed her vulnerability? That he knows all of this — the business, the success, the wealth — is a façade?

And worst of all — how can she explain that Haroun committing himself to someone else in marriage is just about the deepest sorrow she has felt in her life since her father left?

"Besides, he's getting married. Stop trying to break up their marriage," she mutters, then rushes to continue when Sameer triumphantly smiles at her. "I mean, it's unfair towards his to-be wife to constantly tease me about him." Although she doesn't care about this reason in the slightest, she doesn't reveal that to Sameer.

Sameer shrugs. "They're not married yet — they're just engaged. Haven't you seen them? They don't even speak to each other often because they know their limits. Their families just talked about it and they made a commitment. I heard that since they're in Pakistan right now and so are her parents, they may tie the knot here." He waggles his eyebrows at her.

Zoya stops mid-chew. "What?"

He nods vigorously, applying cream cheese to his bagel. Zoya darts a glance behind her at Haroun and Farhan, who are immersed in conversation on one side of the room while Sumaiya and Ibitoye are on the other, then turns back to Sameer. "They figured, why not? The only reason they were waiting is because her parents were in Pakistan. And now we're in Pakistan."

Zoya's heart begins to beat frantically. "But — but Haroun's mom? And his sisters?"

Sameer shrugs lightly, pouring coffee into a cup. "Maybe they couldn't make it. And instead of delaying it any longer — "

"Please tell me this is just part of your silly game," Zoya whispers anxiously, leaning forward.

Sameer takes one look at the expression on her face and bursts out laughing, placing his drink on the table and clutching his stomach as he shakes with mirth. Zoya turns to see her staff staring at them, and her cheeks color when Haroun's gaze flits to the two of them. Turning back to Sameer, she hisses, "You idiot!"

He pretends to wipe a tear from his eye as his laughing fit dies down. "You should have seen the look on your face. All of my theories have been one hundred percent confirmed."

"I will bury you in the ground, Sameer Mirza, I will," Zoya threatens. Sameer chuckles, unaffected by her anger. "Disappear from my sight before I do something and you regret ever opening your unfortunate mouth," she seethes.

Sameer holds his hands up. "Okay, okay. No need to be so feisty. " He grabs his breakfast and starts walking away before he turns to her with a much more grave expression on his face. "But I'm serious, Ms. Zoya. You're losing your chance. You don't wanna regret this for the rest of your life."

He leaves and Zoya stands with her fists balled, glaring at his retreating back. Although she is angry at him for teasing her, she is even angrier at him for his suggestion. He is blatantly telling her to break someone's marriage up, and even though the thought has crossed her mind multiple times since she found out about it, it's still jarring to hear someone else say it aloud.

And she has not yet had the courage to do something about this thought.

However, she is Zoya Zameer after all.

Whatever she wants, she makes it happen.

. . .

Two days later, Zoya bites her lip and gazes off at the sea, expression full of angst. From her balcony, she can hear the waves riding softly over one another, and the sound provides some comfort.

She takes a deep breath and clicks her pen.

Dear Papa,

I'm in Pakistan. I can smell the chai everywhere, hear the distant honks of the city, see the crowded bustling of the streets far away.

And all I can think of is you.