. . .

. . .

~

The Prophet Muhammad SAW said, "The worst people in the sight of Allah on the Day of Resurrection will be the double faced people who appear to some people with one face, and to other people with another face." (Bukhari)

~

The doctor says that the hospital cannot keep Zoya when her vital signs are clear and there is no immediate threat, but she tells Haroun that if Zoya experiences symptoms such as dizziness, severe weakness, or low blood pressure, she should be brought to the hospital immediately. She shares a glance with Zoya and strictly says to Haroun, "You must bring her to me only."

This, to Haroun, seems like a strange request, but he nods all the same.

When Zoya is discharged, Haroun brings her to his home, where his mother and sisters welcome the two of them happily. Decorations cover every inch of the house, and Aisha places a necklace of jasmine flowers around each of their necks as they enter. Zoya gives them genuine smiles, while Haroun tries to crack a smile for their benefit.

It is at odds with how he really feels, though.

They feast together and Haroun's mother fusses over Zoya while Zoya continuously reassures her that she's okay. His mother pleads Zoya to call her "Ammi", and at this Zoya's eyes sparkle with warmth. Even with the way everything went down, the heavy feeling that has settled in Haroun's heart lifts slightly when he sees that Zoya Zameer finally has someone to fuss over her, to take care of her. He can tell that she is flattered by it, comforted by it. He can tell by the soft gleam in her eyes and the way that she laughs with a fierceness in her voice, void of any animosity or mockery. The kind of fierceness that only comes from someone knowing they might be okay.

He is baffled by her. He continues to watch her. He watches her as she eats, as she talks to his sisters, as she flinches when she catches him staring. She becomes unsettled by his gaze, he can tell, but he also can't seem to look away.

He has never watched her like this before, and it strikes him suddenly how breathtaking she is. With her auburn curls framing her face and her smile seeming to light up the room.

This does not seem like the same woman who cried in front of him, begging him to grasp her outstretched hand. This does not seem like the woman who told him she was weak and was tired of her weakness and didn't know what to do with herself.

This woman seems . . . happy. Even if only momentarily. Because every time she thinks nobody is looking, she breathes a deep sigh and furrows her brows together, worried about something. Something nags at her, Haroun can tell, but she shakes her head and tries to brush whatever it is off. Nonetheless, there is a softness in her face that wasn't there before. A gentleness . . . a glimpse of happiness.

It makes Haroun feel worse than ever, knowing from her words and actions that he is the cause of that look on her face. Knowing that he is the cause she had breathed a deep sigh of relief when they had both recited "Qabool hai". Once again, he feels as if he has been forced up on an unrealistically high pedestal by Zoya Zameer. She expects him to keep supplying her with happiness, but he has no idea if he can do that for her.

He is upset, distressed. He has been put into a very strange situation and does not know how he feels about it. He can't make himself feel happy, not to mention this woman. His wife.

His wife.

Haroun has always sensed that Zoya Zameer had a secret. A deep, dark secret. From the get go, he saw in the way she spoke to others and the way she flinched at the mention of religion that somebody had hurt her. That she had been let down too much in her life.

After his mother's divorce, Haroun has always felt inclined to help others out. Especially those who are heartbroken. And his radar had sensed that Zoya was more than heartbroken, that she had survived a very difficult life. That's why, even though many of her actions had seemed questionable, he had tried to defend her as much as possible. Because he felt and still feels that behind her every word, her every insult, her every angry jibe, is a deep-rooted pain that nobody can reach. And he has wanted her to realize that her wounds can be healed.

But he didn't think she would see him as the source of her comfort. He never intended for it to be that way.

But that's the way it turned out. Haroun, with his annoying desire to want to help people learn to heal themselves, has landed himself in an uncomfortable, helpless situation.

Throughout dinner, Haroun remains tense. Clutching his fork harder than necessary, smiling with more force than necessary when he's spoken to. He doesn't know how he's feeling, and it frustrates him to be unable to explain his emotions to himself.

He can tell that he's somewhat angry, but at what? Or at who? At himself? At Zoya?

But why should he be angry at her? Isn't this his fault? He allowed her to become too attached. He allowed her to trust him, to want to share her pain with him. All the while he thought he was trying to do something good for her, trying to make her realize that she needed to open up to God to heal her wounds. That a lot of her issues were rooted in her distrust of God. He thought he was doing it in a professional, detached manner.

But has he overdone it?

On top of that, there is Sumaiya. Sumaiya, Sumaiya, Sumaiya. Haroun's chest squeezes painfully when he thinks of her. Although they had only made a commitment and he thought he hadn't gotten attached to her, he had been wrong. The minimum amount of times they had spoken, Sumaiya had always seemed like a generous, caring person.

Most importantly, they had a really good understanding of one another even with only a few conversations. Haroun admired her honesty and her passion. He had thought that their understanding of one another would allow them to trust each other in any circumstance, but she had stepped away after the mere thought of Zoya's affection for Haroun.

Haroun cannot even keep himself happy — he is too upset by Sumaiya's decision — so how does his wife expect him to keep her happy?

And another thought nags at him — if he got attached to Sumaiya after such little time — then how can he blame Zoya for getting attached to him after all the time they've known each other?

Perhaps this is why there's no Islamic basis of engagements. They only form unrealistic attachments. Vulnerable attachments that are easier broken than maintained.

Haroun's head aches. He does not want to think at all.

His tense, angry swirl of thoughts is interrupted by the clank of the dishes as everyone stands to put them away. Haroun stands as well, sneaking a glance at Zoya only to find that she is staring directly at him, the dark black of her eyes attempting to pierce into his.

He flushes a deep red.

When the table has been cleared and the dishes have been washed, Zoya and Haroun are led by the three other women to Haroun's room, which has also been decorated. It is soft, beautiful, and elegant, with lit candles everywhere and rose petals scattered about the room. Garlands of flowers are strung from the ceiling into a sloping canopy around the king-sized bed.

Haroun turns to Zoya and sees that her expression is awed. Her eyes rove around the room, then settle on the lamp on his bedside table. Immediately, a stricken look overtakes her. Her eyebrows furrow, her lips begin to tremble.

Haroun watches her, perplexed. His mother and sisters also watch her, excitedly trying to gauge her reaction to the room. But she pays them no mind. Instead, she brings a hand up to her heart, eyes fixated on the lamp. Haroun can hear her laborious breathing from a foot away.

"Does she not like the room?" Aisha whispers dejectedly.

"Zoya?" his mother says tenderly. "Are you okay?"

A memory suddenly hits Haroun like a brick to the face.

"Get that off the set. Now!"

Zoya's voice, from over a year ago, rings in Haroun's head. Loud and clear. He doesn't entirely understand why, but he realizes that the lamp is the source of her distress. He rushes forward quickly, unplugs the lamp, and stows it away in his closet. His mother gives him a strange look, but he simply shakes his head. He doesn't know how he'll explain that to her.

When the lamp leaves her vision, Zoya's hand drops from her chest. She swallows, then turns her face to Haroun. There is fear in her eyes, but a deep warmth is seeping into them. She is surprised, he realizes, that he remembers her aversion to lamps.

He tugs his eyes away from hers, discomfited by the warmth in them.

Zoya reassures his mother and sisters that she's okay, that she loves the room, that she just got claustrophobic for a second, but when she turns back to Haroun, her eyes tell a different story.

Haroun's mother ushers for Naima to bring a pitcher of water and Zoya's medicines to the room and instructs Zoya to get some rest.

When they are alone, Haroun gestures to his bed. "You can take the bed."

He hears her halt behind him. "Where will you sleep?"

He points to the reclining chair by the window.

There is silence. Then, "This bed is big enough, I think. I'll be okay."

He can tell it costs her a lot to say this, so he shakes his head. "It's okay. You don't have to do that." He shrugs. "Besides, I'm not sleeping right now. But you should get some rest."

She nods. "Okay, but . . . you can come whenever you're about to sleep. And I just need to pray 'isha first."

"We can pray together."

Zoya's eyes dart to him quickly, then she looks away. She is uncomfortable by the idea, he realizes suddenly, but before he can say anything, she nods. "Okay."

They both make wudu and Haroun begins the prayer. When they finish, he sits and holds his hands out in an earnest duaa.

Minutes later, when they're both done praying, Haroun turns to Zoya. He is taken aback by the look in her eyes. The wonder, the fascination.

He clears his throat and says, "You should take your meds."

Zoya gives him an unfathomable look. "Right now?"

"Um, yes, your doctor said one every night."

She nods reluctantly, and he brings her a glass of water. She takes it from him, their fingers touch, and she pulls back suddenly, sloshing water over her hand in the process.

"Sorry," Haroun murmurs automatically, handing her a napkin.

When she's all tucked in the bed with her arm under her head, Haroun walks to her and perches at the edge, careful not to touch her. He pulls out a blue velvet box from his pocket and sets it on the bedside table. "Your ring." He holds a hand up and wiggles his fingers. "I'm wearing mine."

At that, a smile blooms on her face.

Once again, Haroun is taken aback by her beauty, especially when he sees it from this close. Dark eyes framed by voluminous lashes and tangled curls sweeping around her exquisite face. Haroun has always found it somewhat strange that people write odes to a person's beauty, but now he is not so sure.

"When you're ready, I'll put yours on your finger, too."

Zoya gives him another soft smile, and it is so different from the way she usually regards people that he turns away, hands tugging the back of his neck. "Is there, uh, is there anything else I can get you?" She shakes her head, continuing to stare at him in that way. Haroun nods, stands, and heads to the reclining chair, glad to be away from her unsettling gaze.

"Should I turn the light off?" he murmurs.

"No," she says quickly. "No, keep it on, please."

Haroun nods. "Okay, good night." He doesn't say anything, but sleeping with the light on is not gonna be easy. He can't sleep if it isn't pitch black, and lately he's already been having difficulty sleeping, hence his "Dracula eyes", as Farhan likes to say.

Haroun settles into the reclining chair, taking his Qur'an and opening it to the page he left off on. Minutes later, when he looks up to check whether Zoya has fallen asleep or not, he is startled to discover that she is staring directly at him.

. . .

A couple more days pass with this strange silence between the two of them. This uncomfortable, stretching silence. Haroun frets about Zoya taking her medicine, about her health, but he doesn't utter more than a few words to her. He smiles at her occasionally when he catches her staring, asks her if she's okay, if she needs anything. He murmurs sorrys over accidental touches and speaks minimally about things that don't matter. He plays the part of husband really well, maintains his responsibilities really well, but that's it. Forced smiles. Empty conversations.

Zoya threatens to fall into despair as a result of it. She doesn't know how to reach him, doesn't know how to approach him when he is so close but seems so far away. She has never had trouble speaking to anybody, especially not him, but somehow this contract that binds them together has seemed to change everything.

One night, Zoya is lulled to sleep by concentrating on Haroun's voice as he reads the Qur'an. She wakes sometime around three in the morning, startled by a muffled, strange sound. Zoya blinks blearily, rubs the sleep out of her eyes, and looks around the room in alarm.

The sound seems to be coming from outside, so she takes a long gulp of water to expel some of her sleep and trudges slowly of out the room.

The house is dark and quiet, both things Zoya is not particularly fond of. But she hugs her arms around herself and continues to walk towards the source of the sound. She emerges into the living room, and there, sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands, is Haroun. His shoulders shake and his breath hitches as he cries.

The sight causes Zoya's chest to squeeze painfully. Haroun has been her peg, her column of support, the person she has relied on to uproot her and be her foundation.

But her foundation is crumbling in front of her, and suddenly Zoya feels unsteady.

She steps forward unsurely, and the ground creaks beneath her. Haroun's head shoots up. He registers Zoya standing in front of him and he rubs his face hastily. But not before she sees the stream of tears pouring down his cheeks, the puffy redness of his eyes, a look so wrong for him.

"Haroun?" she says softly, stepping closer.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" He attempts a laugh, but it sounds all high and wrong. "I was just — " But just what he was doing Zoya doesn't get to hear, because he turns away and his shoulders begin to shake again.

Zoya has never been put into a situation like this, has never really cared enough about someone for her to feel uncomfortable when they are upset. But as she watches her husband, as she watches Haroun, all of her certainty in herself suddenly flies out the window. She is unsure of what to do, unsure of how to comfort him, unsure of how to ask him what is afflicting him.

Especially because she is afraid to hear his answer.

So instead, she settles down on the sofa next to him, listening to him cry. He tries to control it, tries to fist his hands and cover his mouth so the sounds don't disturb his mother and sisters, but he's only able to contain so much.

It makes Zoya's insides twist uncomfortably, to see him this way and think she might be the root of it.

Zoya lifts a tentative hand, and it hovers in midair for a moment before she brings it down slowly to rest on Haroun's back. He tenses for a moment, during which time Zoya also feels strange to be touching somebody like this. But she shakes the thought out of her head, reminding herself of the many times she has grasped Flora's shoulder at parties, the many times she has shaken female employees' hands.

With this in mind, she rubs her hand slowly on his back. She moves it in a circular motion, jaw clenching at the shudders of his body as he cries. But she focuses on her single job of comforting him with her hand since she has never been one who can comfort with her forked tongue.

His shudders lessen somewhat, the sniffs decrease. Zoya's hand continues to rub soothingly on his back before trailing up to his shoulders, then his hair. She strokes her fingers through his hair and for one stupid, distracted moment, marvels at the texture of it.

Eventually he stops crying and turns to Zoya, her hand still in his hair. "I'm sorry." His voice cracks.

"You have nothing to be sorry for." she whispers, and the words feel right.

Maybe I can do this after all.

He gives her a weak smile, then reaches up slowly. His eyes ask permission, and Zoya's respond with a tentative yes. He grasps the hand in his hair with a gentle touch, bringing it down to hold in between his two hands.

A shock of revulsion passes through Zoya at the feel of a strong, manly hand on hers. But she shoves the feeling away angrily, focusing on Haroun's face to remind her of who is touching her.

She hates feeling this way. She does not want to feel this way. She doesn't want to shudder in disgust when he traces the shape of her nails, when he plays with her fingers absentmindedly. She wants to be able to cover his hands with her own, wants to be able to smile at him without feeling the disgust roiling through her.

She is an anomaly, then. One who shrivels at the act of touch — so forbidden to her — at human contact, yet has taken every opportunity to sidle up to every male on the planet. To test out her theory about mankind's never-ending lust meter.

And yet, despite being the notorious Zoya Zameer, she cannot handle this one man's simple, gentle touch. And although she despises the vulnerable feeling, she pulls her hands out from his gently after a few moments, her eyes sending him a fervent sorry.

"I'm sorry," he says automatically. "I didn't mean to — "

"It's okay." Zoya tries for a soft smile. "It will just take some getting used to."

He nods.

"How about we go back to sleep?" Her voice is soft, gentle. So unlike the way it normally sounds. But Haroun seems to do this to her.

He nods and allows the pressure of her hand between his shoulder blades to guide him back to their room.

. . .