. . .

. . .

~

"He knows well what lies in the hearts." (Qur'an 67:13)

~

Doctors come and go, prattling off a series of possible diagnoses and ailments. Mumtaz calls some of the best doctors in the city — even the state — but they cannot seem to figure out what is wrong with Zoya Zameer. Outwardly she seems entirely okay.

What they do not realize, however, is that she is not suffering from a physical ailment or a psychological affliction.

Zoya Zameer's battle is spiritual.

Mutely, she sits before the doctors as they check her vital signs. As they take scans of her and run some tests. They ask her questions, to which she nods or shakes her head silently. When these questions further progress into more complicated ones so that she may have to speak other than nod yes or no, she remains silent. Mute. So they hand her a pen and a pad and — in written words — she explains her situation.

She says that she is feeling completely okay — although it burns the blood in her fingers to write this. She tells them to leave because she doesn't need them.

But one psychotherapist is finally able to diagnose her ailment as psychogenic dysphonia, which he explains to Mumtaz is a change in voice quality that emerges as a result of sudden emotional or psychological trauma. He prescribes medication – which Zoya doesn't touch — and makes immediate appointments for vocal therapy.

Then he leaves as well.

Zoya Zameer's mouth — the same that used to puncture and maim and wound others — remains shut and patched. Sealed tight.

Her eyes — her woeful eyes — seem to beg. There is a longingness and a plea in them. When anyone speaks to her, she raises her eyes helplessly and aims to move her mouth, but words fails to come out. Her eyes are haunting in their urgent story. She tries to send a message so alert, so persistent, yet is unable to do so. Barely heard whimpers escape her lips, and her onlookers watch helplessly as they try to gauge what she is trying to say. She moves her hands around feebly to communicate.

Each night Zoya Zameer's soft whimpers penetrate throughout the silent manor, infiltrating the darkness. She sees Haroun in her dreams, his dark eyes and withering stare, his silent posture. Still as a statue the last time she saw him. Wells of tears in his eyes. His grief haunts her every dream, plagues her every thought.

Each night as Zoya whimpers, Mumtaz wakes suddenly and runs to her room after hearing her over the monitor. She attempts to comfort her by embracing her and stroking her fingers in Zoya's hair. Guards rush to her room, only to find it the same cycle of haunting dreams and endless tears that afflict her.

Eventually, Mumtaz frequents Zoya's bedroom more and more until she sleeps next to her every night. And eventually when Zoya whimpers at night, the guards stop rushing. Doors stop frantically opening. Mumtaz wakes but pats Zoya's back almost absentmindedly.

Zoya Zameer: the woman who had always cried wolf and manipulated others when she was completely safe now begins to cry for real monsters and wolves that haunt her. Yet her helpless, agonizing screams are simply echoes of her past nights reverberating through the walls. Nothing new, nothing old.

The shareholders of Zameer are enraged to say the least, the employees baffled. Reporters pool at her doorstep, attempting to fit into every single place that offers room to breathe. They are haphazardly strewn around her entire manor's entrance. Angry shouts, declarations, protests, demands for answers. Zoya's guards rush to stop them from entering. She has to give them credit — they maintain control — but even they are unable to fully contain the swarming crowd.

Zoya sits in her room on the second floor, watching with passive eyes the sight happening below her very window. Cameras attempt to scrutinize the manor from every angle, but Zoya remains behind sheer curtains, only hoping this is enough to cover her from their view.

She can understand their rage. Really, she can.

But that doesn't mean she's willing to do anything about it.

She turns away and settles herself on her bed, jutting her chin out, staring motionlessly at the wall in front of her.

If only time would stop crawling and begin to bullet. Perhaps then her pain would lessen and she would be able to control it to some extent. As people say, time heals all wounds. So maybe this agonizingly slow crunch of time can speed up to heal her. Maybe, just maybe, she won't be fractured and broken and shattered into a million pieces anymore.

Maybe she won't succumb to the large, gaping chasm of grief that is opening up inside her. Pulling her under with every passing minute, every waking moment, every breath she takes.

Absolute grief.

Zoya does not think any dictionary definition gives justice to this emotion. It is everything, it is all-consuming. And she has only experienced this once before when her father left.

But it seems to have increased tenfold this time around.

Whoever said that humans were sixty percent water had been thoroughly wrong. The human body is nothing but a vessel of emotions, packaged with experience and trials. With emotions such as grief.

An emotion that feels as if lightning and fire are encased in the human body. And trying to contain these tornadoes and cyclones of grief is the most difficult task Zoya has ever had to experience. Because it comes all at once and then it continues to hammer at a person. Inch by inch. Bit by bit.

Grief swallows her completely whole, and since she doesn't have an outlet or someone to let it out on, it begins to destroy her.

So Zoya Zameer spends her days in quiet grief, as if a ubiquitous cloud is suspended above her, destined to make her life a living hell the way she has made so many lives a living hell. Even if she had the chance to release this grief, she is too weak, too heartbroken to acknowledge this storm of feelings within her. These whirring thoughts, these clicking images in her head. Day by day, night by night, this cloud of grief grows denser, heavier, thicker.

Nights she flies awake breathing heavily, feeling as if the air is compressing onto itself, determined to suffocate her. Little by little, sleep escapes her and she finds herself awake in the AM with a dark cloud hanging above her head, eyelids drooping yet sleep never finding her. Sometimes she awakens hurriedly as she drifts off to sleep, feeling as if she is being watched. Cold sweats break out all over her body and excruciating pains numb her head. She throws up frequently and a strange sort of pain nestles in her stomach. Migraines become normal and she dines with insomnia every night. Every thought that crosses her mind, every jhalak, every single thing that passes through her head causes her to wince. Her body itself seems to shudder involuntarily.

But she does not visit the doctors or go near anyone, not wanting her affliction to further increase by having to communicate with people. The only person allowed in her house is the vocal therapist, who Mumtaz forces Zoya to sit with every day.

Zoya wakes up to bright sunlight streaming through her windows, having never slept at all. Her prayers are numb and mechanized, each move barely thought out.

The curls — the beautiful auburn curls on her head — begin to wither and reduce to their original state before her marriage. Strands of fallen hair are littered all around the house. The eye bags have returned, considerably darker now. Her skin seems sallow and sunken.

And when insistent knocks and pleas to open the door come from Ammi and the sisters, Zoya finds it hard to breathe. The panic attacks resurface, and Mumtaz has to lead her upstairs and tuck her into bed before she is able to feel her heart again. And eventually Ammi goes away. And the sisters go away. Only to return frequently, causing Zoya to press her hands tightly over her ears to cover the sound of their pain through the entrance door.

Zoya cannot look at them. What will she say to them? She has no words. She knows only that if she is to stumble upon them, she will bury herself deeper and deeper into the dark, gaping hole she is falling into.

And this time, she fears she may never be able to return from it.

. . .

Mumtaz sets a plate of spaghetti and a glass of water in front of Zoya. "Anything else, bibi?"

Zoya shakes her head and grabs her fork. She lifts it to her mouth, chews, and swallows. Raising her eyes to Mumtaz's, Zoya attempts to smile, but it seems distorted on her face. Warped. She coughs and opens her mouth, aiming to tell Mumtaz that the spaghetti tastes good. Her lips spread apart, her mouth forms an O.

But no sound comes out.

Zoya clamps her mouth shut and furrows her eyebrows. Her lips begin to tremble and Mumtaz rushes forward worriedly.

"What's wrong, bibi?"

Zoya shakes her head, trying to tell Mumtaz that she's fine and nothing's wrong, but Mumtaz takes this as a sign of affirmation. She reaches forward and slides the paper and pen over to Zoya, but Zoya shakes her head again. Mumtaz gestures to the spaghetti. "Is there something wrong with it? Is it too hot? Too cold?" Zoya continues to shake her head and Mumtaz continues to speak hurriedly, fretting over nothing. "I warmed it up for forty-five seconds; I know you don't like having it too hot, so I didn't —"

Abruptly she stops as Zoya lets out a sudden whimper and her shoulders begin to shake. A second later, sobs break out and she raises her hand to her mouth, to her lips. She makes a motion like pawing at her mouth and begins to cry even harder. Mumtaz watches her helplessly, unsure of what to do. The elderly woman reaches forward and wraps her arm around Zoya's shoulders, and Zoya begins to shake even harder. Heavy, quiet sobs emit from her and she presses her fingers forcefully against her mouth.

The doorman rushes in, the worry which is usually in his eyes even more pronounced now. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know, Aman beta," Mumtaz says, concerned. "She won't even use the pen and paper to tell me."

At this, Zoya begins to cry even harder. She presses her wrists against her eyes and her entire body shakes. How can she say that all she wanted was to tell Mumtaz her spaghetti tastes good? All she wanted was to say three words: this tastes good.

She has been reduced to nothing, like the ashes after a flame.

Perhaps, Zoya thinks as tears stream down her face, this is a punishment from God. For my not saying 'thank you' when I had the chance to and now — when I so badly want to say these simple words — I'm unable to. Zoya claws at her mouth and Mumtaz tries to stop her, but she pushes the woman away and continues sobbing.

Leaving her maid watching her with a helpless look in her eyes.

. . .