Leilah Usman awaits an acceptance from a university abroad so she can leave the country she never loved when she stumbles upon an ancient diary. Through the eyes of Mahrosh Irfan, she finds herself in a world so completely different from hers.
One w...
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Mahrosh stood outside the gates, the coolness of the wall she leaned against soaking into her chaddar. In the sweltering heat of July, the monsoon season came as a brief but welcomed break, as the skies filled up with clouds, giving the world a pleasant wash overnight.
Mahrosh loved how everything changed after a shower. The green of the bail that grew over the wall of her house and the faded colors, met one's eyes with the pleasantries of freshness, and awoke to an early dawn with the sweet scent of cement and the chirping of birds. Mahrosh inhaled deeply, the early morning breeze tickling her face.
The newspaper delivery boy had not yet arrived, and she waited for the newspaper outside, sometimes leaning against the wall — and other times, straightening up and beginning to pace the gali next to her house.
Her morning azkars helped her settle the wild pounding of her heart. SubhanAllahi wa bi hamdihi — she counted the tasbeeh on her fingers, diverting her attention to stepping over the dry parts of the road. Time trickled by, and the silent world began to awaken. Doors opened and closed in nearby houses and the occasional sound of mothers waking up their children alerted Mahrosh that the newspaper would be arriving soon.
She stepped back under the shade of the Neem tree that was planted inside her house but overlooked the outside. Mahrosh knew that waiting outside was not going to make time pass by any faster. She would have to wait just as long before the newspaper would be in her hands, and yet, being outside and expecting the sound of the newspaper boy's bicycle before he threw the rolled paper at their gate eased the difficulty of that wait.
She leaned against the wall, counting the second that trickled by.
Two men turned around the crossroad of her street. Mahrosh thought about her article. It was shorter than the ones she usually wrote but it was very very near to her heart. The men were talking amongst themselves as they passed by her, "I heard he angered a politician –"
Mahrosh' ears perked, her chain of thoughts abruptly cutting short. The men were dressed in white salwar kameez and wore kufi caps on their heads.
"There is no freedom of speech left, Qasim. Those with money and status control the world, and if any man dares to say something against them, these politicians will stop at nothing to teach him a lesson."
Their voices faded as they walked ahead, but Mahrosh stood frozen, the screws twisting and turning inside her head. The time of the day and their clothes made it clear that they had come from the masjid. Mahrosh' heart pounded painfully against her ribs, her thoughts transfixed on someone else who had still not returned from the masjid.
Fear and anxiety wrapped its clutches around her heart . The newspaper boy cycled in front of the house, but Mahrosh could not hear anything above the blood that pounded in her ears.
