"To understand the heart and mind of a person, look not at what he has already achieved, but at what he aspires to." ~Kahlil Gibran

The bright sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling crystal windows as the elders laughed ceremoniously and floral Persian teacups clinked with their saucers in a rhythmic dance. The room smelt of the freshest petals of jasmine that swam in the bowl of water with a hint of rosewater that only the most sensitive of noses could decipher. Generous amounts of overflowing flowers tickled over in laughter through the rims of Swarovski vases. 

Each piece of furniture in the large living room was polished and shining to its manifested sheen. The large chandelier hanging from the ceiling threw shadows of amusement on the large rectangular amber red Arabian carpet that slept under the coffee table. 

"Hashir beta, why don't you show your new friend where the restroom is?" Tabrez nodded towards the small boy that gave him a wide smile. 

"Yes, Chachu!" Hashir replied generously. 

Hashir jumped off the vintage chaise lounge where he sat next to the very handsome man that had befriended him instantly. Hashir knew they'd be good friends just as the man had offered to sit right next to him, and not in his lap as if they were equal. Even in his big heart, he hoped to Allah that this friend be with him forever and ever. 

"Come on! I'll show you where the restroom is," Hashir turned his pink cheeks to him, and he smiled down at the eager child.

"Alright then, let's go!" he extended his long suit-clad arm down to Hashir, and after a minute's observance, Hashir grinned and weaved his tiny and chubby fingers through his new friend's long and slender ones. 

"Maaf kijiye (Excuse me)," the man voiced respectfully, bowing his head and humbly placing a hand on his chest as he excused himself from the chatty elders and the woman who was known as Zubaida. 

Her eyes were casted downwards as she played with the tassels at the ends of her dupatta. She seemed like a rather anxious person as her fingers didn't spare her bangles or one thing or another after she'd finished pouring the chai and sat down next to her mother and his. 

His mother had seemed to like her. The bright pearly smile extended beyond her bold burgandy lips was a dead giveaway and the way she kept looking back at her son- he knew that she was hinting her liking towards her. 

The woman seemed slightly older, though his father had told her she was in her late 20s. Her olive skin was dewy and an asset to her round brown eyes. But there was something- something was lacking when she'd lifted her eyes to greet his in a minuscule second's notice. 

For the past eight years, his family had begged him to get married, but time did not permit and neither did his desires. He didn't want to meet anyone, nor did he have any intention of marrying... not after everything that had happened. 

But his sisters and mother had ambushed him, and his father believed it was time he moved on from the past.  

But the past was like a tea kettle set on an open flame. The longer it stayed burning in its place, the more water was lost just like life lost its substance after awhile. And then there's no flavor left- just how life becomes a routine and there's no difference from beginning to end. 

"So tell me Hashir, what do you like to do? What are your favorite games?" he asked the five year old while smiling to himself, trying to catch up with Hashir's energetic and bouncy steps. 

"I like to play with my action figures, and sometimes video games but Ammi doesn't always let me. I like playing Candy Crush and Temple Run on the hi-pad too," he said with a large sigh at the end. 

"Achcha ji (Really)," he chuckled under his breath at 'hi-pad'. "So, who plays with you?" he asked while they strolled through the spacious hallways of the house decorated with simplicity but class. There was a story that spoke down the hallways, and every single piece sang the tunes of a family who valued the things that were close to them. 

"Sometimes Faryal baaji plays with me, and sometimes my Aapiya," Hashir said as he played with the man's expensive watch. 

"Aapiya?" The man's eyebrow rose with curiosity. "Is that your sister, Zubaida?" he tried the name on his lips. An unsettled feeling falling into the pit of his stomach as his tongue touched the roof of his mouth, the syllables teasing his gums. 

Hashir giggled, and the man looked down at him with a smile. "What's so funny, friend?"

"Zuby Baji is not Aapiya. Zuby Baji doesn't play with me. She always says she's busy," Hashir said solemnly.

"Oh," he replied curtly. He watched the child's face morph from extreme happiness to melancholy and then to enthusiasm as he remembered something.

"But Aapiya- you don't know her? She's my bestest friend in the entire Milky Way galaxy!" Hashir even extended his free arm to show the man just how much his Aapiya meant to him.

"Hey! I thought you and I were friends, Mr. Hashir," he smiled down teasingly.

Hashir covered his mouth and laughed. "You are!"

Hashir remembered something else, and the stories roamed into the depths of classic books and stories that someone had read to Hashir. He expressed his love for Harry Potter, and how much he wanted to be Dumbledore when he grew old.

"The bathroom is right this way. We are almost there," Hashir voiced after taking a left turn down a dimly lit hallway.

Silver Moroccan cylinders hung from the ceilings as a source of light as the windows became smaller and were outlined with deep cherrywood every half block.

"You have a beautiful house Hashir," his dark and husky voice mingled with the home in awe and appreciation.

"Thank you, friend," Hashir giggled. "We're getting close to the bathroom!" 

The hallway carved against the structure of the modish house as they got closer to the restroom. As they rounded towards the large twin staircases that mirrored one another to perfection, a thin and rather tall figure loomed in the distance. Their lissome body swayed as light as a feather on the granite slabs of the grand west staircase.

The soft thudding of a--

was that a... heart?

There was a cold silence that froze the air while his eyes tried to greet the sound of the heart that thudded beyond repair. His eyes were trained forward as his feet stopped him from ascending through its voyage any further.

"Who's this?" he asked after a minute of everlasting silence. 

His eyes fell to the khatoon who stood with her back straight to him, one hand holding her wavering dupatta to her mouth. He did a quick glance downwards, as Hashir stared where his eyes had been just seconds ago. He couldn't help but notice the delicate feet that sat on the stairs in mid-step.

Her feet were fair, a sharp contrast on the rich granite marble that sheltered the delicate blushing pink soles. It was as if her feet had spent the entire night making love to fallen red rose petals. Two white gold minareted anklets fell against the sharp curve of her ankles, the silver edges cutting deep into her feet as they waited for the next cue for their disappearing act.

And within mere seconds, 

everything came to a standstill 

as her demise stood behind her in all its glory.

"That's my Aapiya," Hashir replied sweetly.

"Your Aapiya?" the man asked thoughtfully as his head turned just a bit to the side with curiosity, trying to catch a better glance of this lady who hadn't dropped a single breath into the air.

"Yes, Firdaus Baaji. She's my favorite!" Hashir said with a smile.

Her figure was thin, like a broken yet fixed bird's who'd learned how to fly again overtime, but still was lost in where her direction was. She was exquisitely tall, much taller than Zubaida.

And just as his curiosity dropped to the world's end,

a single hitched breath

flew through what he'd thought to be pursued lips, and the vast amount of particles between them had turned sweet.

Firdaus? She wore her name on the sleeves of her emblazoning kameez as she wore the garden of flowers that had determined her destiny.

"Is your Firdaus Baaji frightened to show her face? Or is she simply playing hide and seek?" he asked with a fragile arrogance in his deep voice. He was simply playing with her, trying to find what it was about her that wanted to stay hidden like a long lost secret from a lover's quarrel.

Slowly, with a slight tilt in her head, she finally turned around, her feet not gliding any further than where they'd stilled like ice.

His hand slackened in Hashir's as her large kohl-lined almond eyes berated the floor beneath her as if it were its fault that this disastrous situation was taking place.

Without any warning, his lips parted just the tiniest fraction under her chiffon dupatta, and his eyes couldn't help but greet what stood in front of him.

Her slim and tall figure turned towards him, though her glistening eyes shined away. They were a blinding shade of honey that was much lighter than any Egyptian gold found under in the depths of the Nile River, and they were carved with the most affluent jade green there was in the Amazonian forests.

They were framed with the longest wisps of lashes that casted shadows on her high cheekbones, the thick kohl just enough to capture its beauty.

Her eyes were set below his face, the shyly gracious gaze not moving from the single thread of his sharp cut suit. She quickly looked away before he could even appreciate the silent protests that her eyes wanted to shout.

"Hashir, does your Aapiya wear niqab?" he shamelessly asked as his eyes turned nearly irritated as she held the fabric of her vivid dupatta to her face.

"No, Aapiya is just playing hide and seek with me!" the little boy replied before leaving his hand and running towards his statued sister.

Her pazeb clinked against the granite, and his eyes zeroed into the way a carving from the left prickled her sensitive skin. It would only be seconds before the pazeb fell away breathlessly, leaving her skin bare.

His eyes fell to the sharp curve of her back, but Hashir was impatient and she was in a hurry to escape the scene.

"Aapiya, wait! Meet my new friend, he's here to see Zuby Baaji," he said as he ran after her.

Her steps hadn't gone too far as Hashir pulled the end of her dupatta. He picked at the flowers that created the majestic garden of purity.

Her already large eyes widened at Hashir, and the man couldn't help the turn of his amused lips as they enlarged. She furiously shook her head at him, but Hashir was adamant.

"Hashir, meri jaan, please let go," she whispered down at him in a gentle voice.

"So she speaks," the man said to himself, rather arrogantly as her voice prickled the back of his neck. It wasn't a high soprano, rather it was an alluring rasp as if she spoke with ignited passion melting from a cup of lava.

She kept her eyes trained, warning Hashir to not pull on her savior scarf like he'd done once before.

What was behind that dupatta that she was selfish to keep hidden away as if it were a precious belonging?

"Hashir, please!" she nearly begged.

"But why are you hiding?" Hashir demanded, his frustration growing.

"Hashir please, Hash-" her words dropped to the floor as if it were shattered glass when Hashir pulled hard enough to stumble back just slightly and pull the dupatta away from her head and face.

Her eyes rounded with her mouth, an involuntary gasp fell out, and his eyes settled on her.

Her hair was like spun butterscotch toffee, the light strands caught in the shimmering shadows from the large chandelier that danced softly to the beats of their hearts just above them. Her silky mass of hair was roped into a thick bun that loosely sat at the nape of her neck, and it took all his strength to not pull the peaking single clip that held it all together.

One tug and it would've spilled like melted coffee with the most obscene amount of creamer down her back.

She turned away , holding what she had left of the teasing dupatta in her hands.

A second

A minute

No, what felt like time that could only be calculated by light years passed without a warning. His eyes hardened as his teeth clenched, his fists heating at the sight in front of him and the way her full lips throbbed with fear. The bottom was fuller than the perfectly lined top, and they sat as a pair to make a ravishing pink heart. 

He looked away for just a few seconds before calling out to Hashir and regaining his soothed posture. "Hey friend, you were showing me where the restroom was. Let's go, shall we?" his voice echoed up the staircase that held her hostage.

"Okay!" Hashir's replied as he dropped his Aapiya's dupatta.

When he'd closed the door of the bathroom behind him, his mind couldn't stop chanting the name that had stayed in his ears like a lost tale.

Firdaus. 

~|✵|~

"I really liked the boy and his family. His eldest sister seems like a piece of work though. What's her name? Haseena?" Maida asked as she rubbed her expensive lotion into her hands and over her arms. 

"Yes, but they seemed nice over all. Qaasim Bhai is a soft-hearted man. I could tell that he just wants his son happy and married to a nice girl," Zaakir answered from across the room, rolling up the sleeves of his night kurta. 

The couple had been getting ready for bed as they discussed the day's whereabouts. 

"His mother is a prestigious lady. Their whole family is well-off and well-known. I just want my Zubaida happy, and that's it," Maida smiled to herself in the vanity's mirror.

"Begum, I think you are forgetting that we have standards as well. Ammi jaan has known Qaasim Bhai since we were in our teenage years," Zaakir replied. 

"And Ammi jaan has said such good things about their entire family! I don't know about you Zaakir Sahab, but it's a yes from me. Our daughter seems to have liked them as well," Maida fondly remembered the smile on her daughter's face after the guests had left and they'd asked her what she'd thought. 

Her daughter's single shy smile was enough for her to understand. 

"My Zubaida is a girl with many skills. Growing up in this family she has taken up a lot of responsibilities. I am sure she can singularly handle their family," Maida retorted from where she sat at her vanity, grinning at herself as she massaged the lotion into the thin lines around her neck. 

"Ma sha Allah humari betiyon ki tarbiyat achchi hai (Our daughters have a very good upbringing)," Zaakir nodded as he sat on the bed and languidly stretched his feet under the blanket. "Now I am just waiting to find a good man for Firdaus beti." 

"I am only talking about our daughter! Why do you and your mother always have to include those other two girls in every conversation?" Maida snapped at her husband through the mirror, her hands stilling in her lap. 

"I was simply saying that we have raised all the young girls well, Maida. Must you always find a reason to turn a conversation sour?" Zaakir straightened in his position and looked back at his furious wife. 

"Yes, yes I must! Because nobody in this house ever thinks about my daughter and her future!" Maida roared under her breath, paying heed to the clock striking half past eleven. 

Zaakir exhaled a sharp breath as his head leaned back onto the headboard and his eyes shut from the tension in the room. "Maida, stop blowing things out of proportion. My mother is your mother-in-law, and those girls are your nieces as much as they are mine. So please- I beg you with the hour in mind, do not start something at this time," Zaakir denoted in a final tone before laying down and pulling the covers above his shoulders. 

He turned to his side, facing away from his wife who had stood up from her seat at the vanity and had glared at him with her arms folded across her chest. 

"Fine! But Zaakir Qadeer Sahab, note one thing. Yeh shaadi ho kar rahegi, chah he kuch bhi ho jayen (This wedding will take place no matter what happens). I promise you that," her tone just as final as his. 

~|✵|~

The next day, the house was buzzing with silent conversation. It was obvious that things had gone well the evening before, but nobody spoke about it with grandeur as if it were too soon for wishful thinking. Everyone had learned from the past that it didn't take too long for happiness to become temporary even before it could be claimed and shown off to the rest of the world. 

Maida was over the moon, and Zubaida was blushing as if she'd already been a newly married bride. The two of them were often found in secretive chatter away from the eyes of everyone else- sometimes in the corners of the kitchen and other times in their rooms. 

It killed Faryal to not know what this mysterious man had looked like let alone hear every conversation be about him since morning welcomed them. Sitting at the dining table with her hair in a loose fishtail braid and lavendar kurta, she overheard her Nani Maa and Amaanah Mami talking from the French kitchen doors. 

"Laadka toh achcha hai, aur Zubaida ko pasand bhi hai (The boy is good, and Zubaida seemed to like him)," Amaanah Mami said in a hushed voice. 

"Hmm, you're right, Amaanah. Qaasim's son is a nice man, but I don't know if Zubaida-" Mehnaz's voice evaporated over the sizzle on the stove. 

"Arrey yaar," Faryal grunted under her breath as she leaned back on the back two legs of her chair and pushed it further so she could hear what the two were saying. 

The front two legs of the Vatican handcrafted chair were in the air, and the back two dug deep into the marble floor as Firdaus leaned backwards and the chair wavered. Her toes dangled at the edge of the chair next to her as she pushed the chair further and further till she could eavesdrop on her Nani Maa and Amanaah Mami's conversation. 

"He's been through so much, and even though Zubaida has grown up, I feel as if she might not be able to handle everything-" Nani Maa's voice was almost sad as she sighed at the end. 

Who has been through so much? Faryal's eyebrows creased in confusion as she asked herself, trying to fill in the blanks. 

"Ammi jaan, don't worry about it too much. Allah knows best. Anyway, Tabrez was telling me that he's the best neurosurgeon in the entire nation," Amaanah Mami's voice was filled with pride, as if she was talking about Idris, Firdaus, or Faryal. 

Amaanah Mami had the heart of gold, Faryal thought. No matter who the person be, she always found happiness in their self-made success. 

"He is ma sha Allah, you know-" Nani Maa's voice cut off when something pushed her chair back to all four standing legs, and she jostled in her seat. 

"Ahh!" she blinked with a gasp when a face crouched down at her from below. 

Sikander frowned at her as he bent down on his knees and feet, staring at Faryal with disapproval. He shook his head at her as she looked down at him. 

"What are you doing?" he rested one arm on his knee while the other hand held the wooden head of her seat. 

Faryal gulped as she tried catching her breath. He watched her with his demeaning charcoal eyes, his forehead frowning at her behavior. The sleeves of his gray button-down shirt were rolled up to his muscular forearms, the bottom tucked into his dark slacks and tied with a teasing black leather belt. 

"I- I um...." Faryal looked away, blowing a piece of her hair away from her face distractedly. "I was studying before you so rudely entered my abode," she nodded to herself looking around the large living room with her chin raised. 

"Kisi ki baatein chup chup kar sunna buri baat hoti hai (It's wrong to listen in on someone else's conversations)," he stated matter-of-factly. 

"For your kind information, I wasn't listening to anyone's conversation," Faryal glared down to where he sat below her, trying to overlook the fact that his head was inches away from her lap, his hair millimeters from her fingers to brush the silky threads away. 

"Oh really?" he asked with an eyebrow raised in question. His hand tightened over her chair, and he brought his face closer to her. 

"Really," she muttered, her neck flushing. 

"Then why were you trying to look through the shutters of the kitchen doors and leaning backwards in your chair like a lunatic?" he said with a grin as he stood up and towered over her. 

His slacks were tailored to perfection, his hands slipping into the pockets as he tilted his head to the side and looked at Faryal with appreciation glinting his midnight orbs. 

"I was- exercising," Faryal nodded. 

"Are you convincing yourself or me?" Sikander pretended to think.

"I'm stating a fact!" Faryal seethed childishly. 

"Okay, whatever helps you sleep at night princess," the term of endearment slipped off his tongue easily without a warning.

Faryal's breath hitched in her delicate chest as he turned to walk away. "Where are you going?" Her hand instinctively drew out to stop him, her fingers burning at the way they curled around his arm. 

Sikander looked down at her small hand keeping him hostage as she she sat in the chair next to him. He watched her quickly extricate her hand away from him, his mouth parting in a small O. 

She shifted in her seat as she looked down, unaware of what had come over her. He smiled to himself, shaking his head at her innocence. He bent his head downwards, close enough to smell the jasmine on her skin that he'd notice feet away in a crowd full of strangers and familiar faces alike. 

Faryal's eyes widened as Sikander lowered his head to mere inches away from her burning ear. The stuttering breaths created music for the pieces of hair that had escaped her braid. Though her eyes didn't dare look up and nor had her head moved. 

Because if she did- she could almost feel the way his roguish lips would brush against her soft ones.

And if they did, she wouldn't be able to stop herself. 

"I'm going... to tell..." his whispers evoked deep within her as he teased recklessly. "-Nani Maa and Amaanah Mami that you were listening to their conversation!" he said hurriedly before walking away with a chuckle. 

"You wouldn't dare!" her head sharply turned to the side, her eyes glaring at his back while he deftly walked past her. 

"Try me!" he said behind his shoulder, not looking back. 

She watched him, leaning over her seat until her feet were dangling over the chair and she nearly fell out and onto the floor. Faryal grinned at herself as she saw him pass the kitchen and walk towards Tabrez Mamu's office room instead. 

~|✵|~

The Sheldonian Theatre, Oxford, UK

Saturday, 6th February 1988

Every year as the midterm exams came to an end, the university planned a night to celebrate the diversity and many cultural/ethnic backgrounds that were a part of the academics and arts. Hajra and Salma had been doing everything in their power to get me to do a classical performance this year with a dash of ballet. They knew very well that dancing was simply a hobby and that Ammi jaan had gotten me a personal instructor when I was at the ripe age of four. I didn't dance for anyone except for myself, and over the years it had become therapy for my physical and mental stress. But the two were adamant and when I had called home that night, Ammi had thought it was a good idea to participate this year.

I had traditional dresses that I had packed from home and the precious ghungroos that were weaved together with the most delicate of abundant bells Baba jaan had bought for me from a trip in Lahore.

"What's the issue pal? You're fantastic at what you do, and you have talent! Show it off," Hajra winked as she bit into her butter croissant.

We were having breakfast just a few blocks from The Sheldonian Theatre, and the chilly air was still blowing through my ears.

"You two have lost it," I said with widened eyes as I opened the glossy black buttons of my trench coat and revealed the long peach dress I wore inside. 

The kameez flowed down celestially from my midriff, forming soft pleats around my hips and down my legs as it stopped a few inches just above my ankles. The churidar white pants bunched into folds around my thin ankles, the flats I wore did nothing to protect my freezing feet and toes.

Salma and Hajra had pulled the covers from my face at quarter past seven as I had slept peacefully. The week had been long with classes and working long shifts in the library, and it was the first weekend after what felt like an eternity that I had gotten to myself.

Wishful thinking, the girls wouldn't even let me enjoy one morning of sleep. They'd dragged me out of my bed, dropped a neatly hung shalwar kameez from our adjoined closet in my hands, and pushed me into the bathroom without any further words. Little did I know that they'd kidnap me for breakfast and take me to the prestigious Sheldonian Theatre just outside our university.

Salma whistled under her breath and looked me up and down above her ridiculously big glasses with sheer approval in her hazel eyes. "Oye hoye, baari soni lagdi hai (Oh ho, you look quite beautiful)!"

"This is no time to joke around, you two kidnapped me without my permission! I demand a reason!" I whispered angrily, blowing the strands of my chocolaty hair away from my face.

"Nobody kidnaps someone with their permission!" Hajra chuckled and fluttered her lashes innocently as she tossed her thick, bouncy curls over one shoulder.

"Ha ha ha, so very funny!" I said and slumped in the booth.

The brasserie was filled with people for a snowy Saturday. The smell of fresh steaming coffee had lured the regulars and passerby's, forcing them to huddle into the restaurant with the comfort of equally cold people.

"What is there for you to think about? If you don't want to do it, then fine! But just go and feel the rhythm of the theatre. I'm sure that will be enough to sell you out on the idea," Salma said wisely.

"What do you mean 'if you don't want to'? Of course she has to! This only happens once every year and she hasn't danced in front of a crowd in years!" Hajra looked at Salma with wide eyes and set her French teacup down on the saucer.

I watched the two bicker across from each other with hushed yet forceful tones. I sighed and shook my head before straightening in my seat and ripping off two pieces of my croissant. I looked at both of them, and neither paid me any attention. I leaned over from where I saw next to Hajra and pushed a piece of croissant into Salma's mouth and then into Hajra's. They both glared at me as they tried to speak over the food in their mouths.

"Hush!" I said with a finger to my lips. "First of all, you both look very un-lady-like trying to speak over full mouths, and second of all, listen to me!"

Salma pushed her slipping glasses above her sharp nose and tilted her head to the side as she tightened her leather jacket over her small chest. Hajra rolled her eyes at my tactics and placed an elbow on the wooden table, turning her full attention to me.

"Look, you both know very well that dancing is something that I do as a hobby. It was never something I thought of putting in front of the whole entire world," I sighed and looked at them with solemn eyes.

"But-" Hajra quickly swallowed the piece and was about to talk before I placed a hand over her mouth and hugged her close to my chest, turning to Salma.

"But! I will go to the theatre and do a small warm up. If I fell comfortable, which I am not promising I will," I directed to Hajra with raised eyebrows. "I'll think about it, and if so then you two can sign me up for the festival. Deal?" I gave them a small, growing smile and Salma shook her head at me, her lips mirroring mine.

"EEEKKKK!!! Yes!" Hajra yelped and a few heads turned to look at us. "Woops," she covered her face with her hair and squeezed me into a tight hug.

"Let her go before you suffocate her!" Salma playfully thwacked her arm.

"Oh my! We have to go to the theatre now. Chop, chop! Eat your food quickly ladies, we have a performance to watch," Hajra swooned as she did a little number in her seat and a young man in his early 30s winked at her from across.

I covered my mouth that bubbled with laughter as her face turned crimson and she turned to us with wide eyes. Salma and I high-fived over the table and sipped our coffee with smug smiles.

***

I held a hand up to my face, as my head tilted away and my palm faced away from my face. The bright lights from the windows around the cupola was unbearably bright as the spotlights shined from above. The glass dome above the shiny wooden had been deprived of light as the harsh winter weather swept across and covered it with fluffy white garnishes of snow. The multitude of seats in front turned in a big U and were empty much like the seats layered to the top of the building on the outskirts of the floor. The theatre was enamored with wood and dark accents, the stained glass humans staring down from where they languidly stood around the cupola.

The theatre was empty, except for just the three of us. The few people who overlooked the space hid in the shadows away from our prying eyes.

"How's the light?" Hajra yelled from where she and Salma stood above in the black box with the main spotlight and control panels.

"Very bright as you can see!" I yelled back, squinting through my fingers.

"Kaam kar (Lower it)," Salma said to Hajra.

"Haan haan meri maa, kar hi rahi thi (Yes, yes my mother, I was just doing it)," Hajra said.

I took a deep breath as the tips of my bare cool toes traced back on the linoleum floor of the stage. I had knotted my georgette dupatta over one shoulder and below the opposite arm, so it sat just about on my slender hip.

My long legs clinked with the bells ready to dance on my ankles as I rolled my shoulders and fixed the fitted sleeves of my long kameez to my wrists, the single bangles I donned shimmering under the bright lights.

The beats of the tabla started to vibrate from the thin floor of the stage and to the soles of my feet. My body easily picked up the rhythm, and before I knew it, my feet were tapping to the sound of the tabla, and soon to the dholak and harmonium. I was swimming through the vibrations of the soothing instruments as the noise echoed off the walls of the theatre. There was a newfound peace that only belonged to the sur and lai as I spun with the grace of the music. My arms moved on their own, the soles of my feet twisting and the pads of my toes drawing geometric patterns on the now warm floor.

Little did I know that I had lost myself in the music that expelled off the large and hidden speakers in the walls and possessed my body with a magnificently soothing dance. I smiled to myself as I brought my arms to a perfect T in front of my chest and pulled the fingers flexibly. I spun till my heart was content, and the braid running down my back loosened, the traitorous strands falling into my face.

But I didn't care.

I didn't care that my fingers were starting to turn rosy and that the ghungroo on my ankles were dancing to their own tune of music. I didn't care that my braid was coming apart and that my kameez flailed in a wide circle around my body and the tassels in the back clung to the bare skin peeking below my neck.

I had lost all the power and willingness to backdown from moments ago, and everything slipped through my fingers like sand as I moved to the beat of the seductive instruments.

Minutes passed before the music morphed into a slight pop rock, and my movements became more shy and changed from classical to ballet. I was taught the art of mastering forms of dance to the music it wasn't originally made for.

There was a uniqueness in the way I felt my body move, and I was suddenly home. In the empty and large open studio in Karachi just across Clifton Beach, and I could feel the sun shining its rays down the back of my body as I leaned over my chest and hugged the sun.

Minutes passed and my steps became vigorous. I spun and spun, leaping with an ounce of faith that the floor would catch me.

And it did as I meticulously glided my big toe in a wide circle around my body and finished with a high soprano.

My heart was beating out of my chest as I froze in step and the music cut off. My eyes had shut on their own from the adrenaline that pumped in my veins. As I smiled to myself, I could hear the howling joy from above. Salma and Hajra yelled and clapped with praises.

"Oh mere Allah! Muskaan you are just stunning! Uff, what a site you were," Salma bounced with excitement from where she and Hajra stood at the black box.

"Meri chand (My moon), apne toh hume lajawab kardiya (you made us speechless)!" Hajra squealed.

I laughed and shook my head at them. I placed my hands on my hips and looked up at them, my breaths heaving in my chest from the exhilaration. "Now come down you ladies, or were you planning on staying there forever?" I asked with a knowing smile.

They took each other's arm and slowly made there was out of the black box and to the elevator that would bring them to the main stage.

I grinned to myself as I slowly stepped to the edge of the stage to grab my belongings. I looked around the theatre and absorbed its beauty before finally understanding why Hajra and Salma were adamant on bringing me here before I made a final decision.

They knew that I couldn't turn away an opportunity to dance in the prestigious Sheldonian Theatre. It's magnifying beauty and European aura held authority, and it was hard not to fall in love with the beauty it beheld.

As I held the tumbler of my warm tea up to my chapped lips and looked forward, I noticed a pair of glimmering eyes that stared right back from the outskirts of the theatre. It couldn't be Hajra or Salma, as the way from the black box to the main stage was quite a trip.

My palm became slack around my tumbler and my eyebrows furrowed at what could possibly be the sight in front of me. No one was hear except for us, and if there were, then why would they hide in the dark shadows of the floor?

I moved my tumbler from my lips and turned my head to get a better view. "Who's there?" I called out into the silent orchestra, but there was no response.

Very slowly, a figure stood from where he sat in the last row of seats and made himself be known as he walked down the path, inching closer to the stage with his hands in the pockets of his dark denim pants.

It was him. Zayan Gul Rang. 

My eyes widened, and my heart sunk to my chest as a bead of sweat dripped from the side of my neck. I could feel the single drop fall to the floor of the stage with a single plink.  

His light butterscotch hair had been tousled with the bitingly cold wind from outside, and it sat like a devilish mess atop his head. His eyes looked more jade than gold as they'd hardened at the sight in front of him. The Antalya water blue sweater hung to his built frame as she strode towards me. His black backpack was thrown over one shoulder as his hand held the loop through his arm and to his chest. 

My throat suddenly felt parched as if I had swallowed the dry snow to my heart's desire. My fingers clutched the body of my tumbler, my long fingers encapsualting the warmth that seeped through the metal. 

"You were watching me?" It came out more like a statement than a question as I whispered to the single blinding light that gave space to the filaments swaying above his head. 

"I was headed towards the library when I heard the classical music of Pakistan bellowing through the doors," he nodded as he turned his head towards the open theatre doors. 

"It's bad manners to watch someone secretively," I looked down to my burning red feet that were feeling cold from the ministrations on the floor and clenched and unclenched my toes. 

We hadn't spoken once since he'd entered our university with his cold demeanor, meticulously ignoring each other's presence as if the other hadn't existed. He would come to the library every night at seven, staying till the head librarian would beg the occupants to leave after half past ten at night. 

I only knew because I worked the night shift there, nothing else. But even then we would only exchange the smallest of courteous nods if our eyes found each other. 

"Oh my, then I shall apologize to thy lady," I could hear the small smile in his voice as he held the other hand to his chest. 

My eyes moved up to look into his, and my palms were clammy, the soles of my feet slack on the floor as my breath hitched in my fragile chest. Something about him was different. 

He was different.  

He offered the most sensitive and minuscule of smiles, and I had never in a million light years would've imagined a day would've graced the world where Zayan Gul Rang would smile. 

I couldn't help the smile that slowly spread across my chapped lips, nearly cringing at the way the dry skin was taut over the frozen mirrors. 

"Please forgive me for my rudeness, I couldn't help but find where the sound was coming from. And my was I glad I did," he grinned, his features turning just a tad bit boyish before he turned back on the heel of his polished Oxford's and headed towards the doors of the theatre. 

Just in time before the girls finally made it down the elevator and flight of stairs. And yet, my cheeks were still burning into flames!

~|✵|~

The soles of her feet patted the granite floor. The sound waves reverbrated up her legs like electric currents converted into extent amounts of energy.  

One, 

Two, 

Three,

Turn to the left. 

Her simple yet chinkari lemon kameez flailed around her body and down from her waist like a large tulle circular enigma. The white churidar shalwar peaked out from under as she turned in circles into a figure eight. The abundant metallic bells making up her ghungroo resonated their voice from where they sat loosely above her pazeb. They were a classical dancer's most prideful possession. 

The day had been long at the firm, but she had to come to the academy for classes. Every step she took, she was reminded of Sitara, and a hunger to find her roared louder than before. Every turn, every twist of her wrists, and every gracious movement of her body against the humid air was a note to herself as to why she had opened the dancing academy after she'd moved to Karachi. 

It was her mother's dream- but she never got to dance, her father had never allowed her mother to pursue her hobby even if it were attending an all girls dance academy. To this day, his words had remained etched in her mind like a burning creed.  

"Your mother gave you these when you were sixteen, right? Now watch me take them apart piece by piece, and then I'll see how you dance again," her father spit at her mother's feet. 

Her mother had been slapped to the floor, blood dripping from the side of her raw lips and into the old carpet of their condo as her watery eyes begged for unforgiven mercy. He'd found his daughter watching her mother in awe as Muskaan spun around the room with vivacious grace. "Please, pl-ee-ase," she'd pleaded with a broken voice. 

"Shut the fuck up!" he growled as he hunted for a pair of scissors. "I won't let you turn my daughter into a bitch like you!"

Instead, he'd dug out a pair of metal pliers, smirking down at them viciously. He laughed like a howling wolf as he ripped out one small bell after another. Her mother's silent tears were muffled by the carpet below her bloody cheek where she lay in a fetal position. 

He'd come home early that day, and Firdaus had begged her mother to dance just once. Her Amma had always looked so beautiful in her long dress, her hair in a loose and long braid down her back, and a pure and sweet smile that would envelop her from the sound of the bells kissing her ankles with every graceful step she took. 

Muskaan had sworn off dancing ever since Zayan had expressed his distaste towards her passion and that women who danced were shameless, showing off the tricks of their body and seeking attention from men who would devour the way their body could move. Muskaan had never danced for anyone except for herself, and it had taught her to be flexible from a very young age- it was her hobby and nothing else to practice classical dance and ballet. But when Firdaus had dug up the ghungroos from the old and dusty box in the cellar, Muskaan couldn't turn away her daughter's hopeful eyes. 

Firdaus could hear the little bells fall to the floor one by one as she shook and screamed from the dark closet where her father had locked her up. "Amma!" she'd screamed and screamed, scared of the closet and the darkness, but her Amma didn't come.

"Amma! Abba, please open the doors!" she'd whimpered as she held her small knees to her chest and her head fell to them with shame of what she'd compelled her father to do. 

"I'm sorry Amma, I'm sorry," her tiny voice had shook as she curled up into a ball and rocked on the floor to the sound of the bells. 

She was only six. 

Only six. 

Just six years old. 

Turn to the left. 

Circle around the big toe. 

And stop!

Firdaus's breaths stumbled as she stopped in her position, and the little girls sitting on the floor clapped out loud. 

"Wow! Firdaus Aapi, that was aaaaa-mazing!!!" Safeera, one of her seven year old students exclaimed with awe. 

All the little girls clapped and grinned at her as they sat on the floor of the big studio in their black shirts, leggings, and tutus. 

Firdaus's arms came down and tucked in a piece of hair behind her ear, smiling at the little hopeful girls. "Thank you Safeera, now it's your turn!" she kneeled down and watched Safeera's smile turn into a frown. 

"What's wrong meri jaan?" Firdaus asked, reaching for her water bottle. 

"Go Safeera!" the eleven girls cheered on Safeera. 

"I can't," Safeera's head fell to her chest, her tight bun glistening from the sunlight streaming through the open windows of the old studio. 

"Why ever not?" Eva piped up from beside her. 

"Because I am not as good as Firdaus Aapi!" she told her friends. 

Firdaus smiled at the little girls and giggled at the drama encompassing as the six and seven year olds agreed with Safeera. 

"Oh my butterflies! You all are doing such a lovely job Ma sha Allah! You all are already much better than me, I promise you guys will be pros soon," Firdaus tickled Safeera's nose and scrunched her own with a wide smile. 

The girls cheered and ran to Firdaus, falling all over her in a tight hug. The twelve girls had become a part of her life just like the rest of her extended family. She'd known them and their parents for years now, and they felt like they were her responsibility. She loved kids, and it was a blessing how kids easily fell in love with her. 

"Okay, okay! Now everyone get your bags and water bottles. Your parents will be coming soon, it's almost four. Safeera you can show us tomorrow, okay love?" Firdaus watched them scatter like ladybugs as she sat kneeled on the floor and helped Zainab put her baby-sized ghungroos in her bag. Zainab was five, the youngest and the smallest of the twelve girls. 

"Chalo bachcho, jaldi se (Come on kids, quickly)," Firdaus got her bag, pushing her dupatta over her shoulders as she rounded the girls, and they all held hands as they walked to the gate. 

After every child was picked up, Firdaus drove home. She'd gone to the shower straightaway after saying a quick salaam to everyone she'd seen in the living room. She'd found Maida walking around the telephone in circles with her cellphone in one hand. Zubaida looked like a bundle of nerves as she'd sat on the couch with her hands flat under her thighs. Nani Maa was reading her tasbeeh as Amaanah oiled Faryal's hair while she munched on pistachios. 

It had seemed as if they were waiting for the prospective bachelor's family to call with their decision. Firdaus only prayed that Zubaida finally be happy and that things would settle with her Mami and cousin. 

Firdaus showered and prayed Asr before heading downstairs and joining everyone in the living room. Even the men had come back early from their work though Tabrez Mamu was doused in his paper work while Amanaah Mami rolled her eyes across from him. It looked like Maida Mami had rounded all the family members just in time for the much awaited phone call to come. 

Firdaus had descended the last of the stairs when Zaakir Mamu called out for her. "There's my beti!" 

"AsSalaamualaikum Zaakir Mamu," Firdaus smiled at him as she came to where he sat and extended a soft hand to her head, patting her hair gently as he looked up at her fondly. 

"Walaikum asSalaam Mamu ka chand (Uncle's moon)," Zaakir replied before gesturing to the open seat next to him on the vintage chaise lounge and asking Firdaus how work had went. 

Firdaus could almost see Maida Mami's distress and line of frown as the two chatted nonchalantly about Firdaus's latest project at the firm, but she didn't let it bother her. 

Minutes passed and the tension in the room started brewing as the clock struck quarter past six. 

"Why haven't they called yet? Rabia Apa said she'd call and let us know around five," Maida Mami grunted as she massaged her temples. 

Rabia Apa must've been the mother of the man that had came to see Zubaida Apa, Firdaus thought to herself. 

She hadn't mentioned the previous day's situation to anyone, not knowing how she'd say anything in the first place. Firdaus had thrown the events of the day to the back of her head, not thinking about it twice as it seemed utterly unimportant. 

"Stop worrying so much bahu, they'll call soon enough," Nani Maa said as she killed the rosary beads to her lips and straightened her dupatta on her head. 

Seconds hadn't even passed before the loud shrill of the telephone echoed through the large living room, silencing everyone's side conversations. Maida Mami jumped the two steps to the phone and answered it with the widest of grins displaying all 32 of her teeth. She clutched the phone to her ear, her fingers grazing the cord spiraling below. 

"Hello AsSalaamualaikum! Ji, ji (yes, yes), Rabia Apa," Maida Mami answered as Firdaus caught Faryal's eyes from where she sat below Amanaah Mami's lap on the floor, her freshly oiled hair now in a thick braid over her shoulder. 

The two girls made faces at each other, not trying to eavesdrop on the conversation, but it was hard to since Maida Mami's voice had changed terribly. 

"Excuse me?" Maida Mami said scornfully after minutes of solitude. "What do you mean? Your son and our daughter met each other, how could this be?" Maida Mami straightened in her position and everyone exchanged glances. 

The only person who seemed the least bit fazed was Nani Maa as her fingers tightened over her tasbeeh. 

Firdaus's eyebrows furrowed in the middle as they all looked up to where Maida Mami's face turned bright scarlet under the luminescent chandelier. Zubaida slowly stood up from her seat and made her way to Maida, not sure what to make of the grim line that had sat on her mother's lips. 

Something was terribly wrong. 

"Rabia Apa, how could you and your family use my daughter as a shield and play with her emotions? There must be a mistake. There has to be a mistake! Please just listen to me-" Maida voiced. 

The temperature in the room dropped drastically, and everyone was confused by how Maida Mami's tone had changed too quickly. 

"What is wrong?" Zaakir Mamu asked, getting up from where he sat beside Firdaus. 

"Ammi?" Zubaida shook Maida's shoulder. 

"Baas! Bahut hogaya, ek aur lafz bhi nahi (Enough! That's enough, not one more word)," Maida Mami gritted her teeth before her reddening eyes reeled into a point in the distance. And with that she put the phone back in its holder and stared at Firdaus with blazoning eyes that were ready to spit fire and burn her down in her place. 

Firdaus's heart jumped out of her chest at the sight of her Mami's wrath, not understanding what was going in.  

"What happened?" Nani Maa asked astonishingly as she got up from her seat on the couch. 

"SHE! SHE IS WHAT HAPPENED!" Maida Mami pointed an accusing finger towards Firdaus, and everyone's eyes were on them. 

"What are you talking about Maida Mami?" Faryal shot up from the floor and walked to stand beside her sister. 

"What am I talking about? You're asking me, really?" Maida scoffed. "This shameless girl who goes around painting herself to be an angel around the whole world is what happened!" Tears spilled out of Maida Mami's eyes, and Firdaus couldn't catch her breath.

Ya Allah.  

Her heart was accelerating faster than she could catch, and in front of her she saw nothing but terror awaiting her from the past that loomed over her head. 

"MAIDA!" Nani Maa yelled. 

"I WILL NOT STAY QUIET TODAY!" she roared back. 

"How dare you raise your voice at Ammi!" Zaakir Mamu yelled, ready to pull her into their room. 

"Why? Does it hurt? Good! It hurts me too when people put my daughter, OUR DAUGHTER second in front of these girls," she snarled at Firdaus and Faryal. 

"Bhabi please," Tabrez Mamu pulled a quivering Faryal behind him as he dropped a reasuring hand on Firdaus's shoulder. 

"I have had enough! Rabia Apa has asked for this shameless girl's hand for marriage over my daughter's! Ask her, ask her what she did!" Maida surged a hand in the air, ready to strike Firdaus across her cheek when Zaakir Mamu caught her in time. 

"Have you lost it Maida? You were going to slap Firdaus?" Zaakir Mamu yelled, Nani Maa pulled Firdaus from where she stood uprooted with widening eyes at the scene unfolding in front of her. 

She felt suffocated as if her lungs were filled with sand and darkness had consumed her while her father raised his doubt's against her mother's dignity as she wept and fainted to no avail in the dark closet of their house. 

She was back in Birmingham. 

No, no, no- 

"Tumahri himaat kaisi hui meri bachchi par haat uthane ki (How did you dare yourself to raise your hand at my child)?" Nani Maa pulled a frozen Firdaus to her arms, and Amaanah Mami's arms instantly wrapped around Firdaus. 

Tears swam down Firdaus's cheeks, and she couldn't bring herself to move. 

She was utterly frozen to her place as dark memories flashed across her eyes and her hands turned bitingly cold. She couldn't see anyones's face, she couldn't distinguish anyone's voice as they all swam loudly, and thunderous roars of the old condo in Birmingham boomed through her ears. 

"You whore, how many men did you sleep with?" her father had asked her mother behind the closed doors of their bedroom after shatters of glass seeped through the slit under the bedroom door. 

"Appi!" Faryal shook her, worry and tears tinging her voice. 

"If she was so innocent, then why would Qaasim Bhai's son ask for her hand in marriage instead of my Zubaida's? Huh? Can anyone answer that? I didn't think so! So don't tell me she's innocent!" 

Their voices were like slithering serpents as they tangled around her legs and tried to drag her down. 

No, stop. Please, stop!

And she was back in the four by four confinement of the closet where she could hear her mother's screams and could do nothing to save her. 

"Aapi!" was the last thing Firdaus heard before her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell herself falling back into the depths of darkness. 

~

Glossary:

Khatoon~ lady

Ghungroo~ one of many small metallic bells strung together to form a musical anklet that classical dancers wear 

Churidar~ type of fitted trousers worn with kameez/kurta's that are cut wide at the top and narrow at the ankle 

Tabla~ pair of small hand drums attached together where one is slightly larger than the other and played using the pressure of the heels of the hand to tune the pitch  

Dholak~ small barrel-shaped wooden drum with two heads

Sur and Lai~ musical Urdu terms describing tune and rhythm 

Asr~ afternoon prayer out of the five daily prayers in Islam

Bahu~ daughter-in-law 

AsSalaamualaikum and a very warm hello everyone! Oh, how I have missed you all so very much? Hope you all who celebrated had a wonderful and joyous Eid. This is my late Eid gift to you all, and I hope you all enjoy this long chapter! (: 

Just a reminder, please do not point fingers to unIslamic teachings such as dancing and music from this chapter. Those who have read my other works know very well that I try to depict realism and uniqueness in my stories, and there is always a message and moral that follows it. I hope that as the story progresses In sha Allah, you all will be able to draw them out and understand why I do the things I do in my stories.

With that being said, how as the chapter? Thoughts, comments, concerns, cupcakes?

Well, what do you all think about this mysterious man and the sudden urge to choose Firdaus over Zubaida? Woah there, hello! Did not see that coming!

And what about Maida? Do you all think she's being irrational or does she have the right to act the way she is?

Please don't forget to vote, comment, and share. Thank you, and until next time!