Turmoils- A Muslim Love Story

Final Chapter

The weather outside was rather stormy today. It had rained in the morning and then got extremely cloudy after that. I had discovered this to be a rarity in Karachi since the weather rarely acted out like this.

I stirred the contents of the cooking pot, thinking of how I was going to confront my father. That was the last step towards achieving final peace. I had ignored the matter for as long as I could.

Farhan's words had been echoing in my mind for quite a while now. Do I forgive him? Was I okay with forgiving him?

Even if I did forgive him, his wife and daughter were going to make it difficult. I did not want my children to face their hatred because even though no one could protect me, I was going to protect them from this nonsense at all costs.

Turning the gas stove off, I turned to Karina, our new cook.

"I'm done making my soup. You can cook for the rest of the house," I told her, stepping out of the kitchen.

Sitting down on the couch, I grabbed my phone and scrolled to the number Mr Aswad had called me from about a year ago. I was wondering if he still used the same number, and I debated on whether to call him or not.

I could just talk it out with him. I didn't have to extend any sort of pleasantries to Zarina or Zara. I wondered what Zara's state of mind regarding my husband was now. She hadn't tried to contact any of us in these past months, ever since they left to live abroad. I didn't know what to think of that. To be relieved or to be alarmed.

It took a lot of courage, but I pressed the number, and it dialled. However, it was out of service. Of course, he'd change it. He wasn't in Pakistan anymore. Remembering those files he had given to me before he left, I took them out of the drawer in my room and sat down on the bed.

Being pregnant had me on edge with all the emotions going haywire. I would be so sad one moment and then extraordinarily cheery the next.

But opening these files, I felt nothing. Not sad, not upset, not happy, not excited.

I scanned through the pages and found a folded piece of paper. That letter he'd written to me after he left. Although it explained what transpired between the adults and what happened after my adoption, it refused to indulge any details of either event.

I copied his contact number into my phone and took a deep breath. Do I call? But what do I say? What would he say? Do I call him "dad"? Or do I say, Mr Aswad?

Sighing, I calm my mind down. The baby would probably be getting annoyed at my mixed-up chain of thoughts. Thinking of my child finally motivated me to try and talk to my estranged father.

I pressed the call button, and with a slightly shaking hand and elevated heartbeat, I raised the phone to my ear. Let's hope he has an internet connection wherever he is.

After the sixth ring, somebody picked up.

"Assalamualaikum," came a rough male voice on the receiver.

I swallowed. I didn't know what to say to him. I thought I would, but I didn't.

"Hello? Who is this?" He pressed.

My breathing got slightly heavy and I couldn't find any words. I think he must've heard my heavy breathing because he softly said, "Ayesha? Beti, is that you?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat and found my voice, "Yes. How are you?"

"Uh- I'm good, good, Alhumdullilah(thanks to God)," he answered back hastily. I guess he was not expecting me to ever call him. "How are you?"

"Alhumdullilah. How is your uh- health?" I had no idea how to continue this highly awkward conversation.

"Thank you so much for asking," he said softly. "A little oldie health problems but other than that I'm fine."