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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15th March 1933
I did not ask him anything that day.
It was cowardice from my side, perhaps - but at that time I could think of nothing but his words.
Every time I would try to forget that day, I would remember the flame that kindled in his eyes. I would remember how he had suddenly stopped speaking mid-speech and looked away, as if unable to handle the weight of the passion he carried.
I think I both understand him and do not, but one thing is for certain - something happened to him in England and this is not the Walid that left India.
The chit that was passed that day in the alleyway and the manner with which he went to that house scares me. Is he doing something illegal? But he wasn't saying anything that sounded illegal...
She stopped writing abruptly, rolling over on her back. The vacant ceiling stared back at her; like a page waiting for her to sort out the jumble of her thoughts - till it all faded into the background and she heard the echo of Walid's words, a familiar poster flashing in front of her eyes.
اور تم خوار ہوئے تارک قرآں ہو کر
You live disgraced as having left the paths of Al-Quran.
For seconds on end, Mahrosh stared unblinkingly at the ceiling, a strange emotion beginning to grow root inside her heart. It was with sudden abruptness that she got out of bed. The darkness of the night greeted her as she walked out to the courtyard. From the eastern room, she could hear the muffled shouts of her parents- her hands subconsciously fisted around her kameez as she feigned deafness to the screams and the slamming of doors.
Her Dadi's door was left open a crack, and a strangled breath escaped her lips when she knocked and walked inside, closing the door behind her.
The voices outside faded. For her, at least.
Dadi looked up from her knitting, and despite the evident crease on her forehead, the ends of her lips tilted. "Couldn't sleep?"
Mahrosh smiled sheepishly, joining her Dadi in the bed and snuggling closer to her. "I'm going to sleep here."
Dadi frowned, "Hold up- who gave you permission to do that, huh?"
Mahrosh gave her a close-eyed smile. "My heart."
"Nai ji*-" Dadi flicked her forehead, "Go sleep in your room. You move around so much, Astaghfar."
Mahrosh pouted, hugging her tighter, "Okay, okay, I'll only stay five minutes. Pakka."
Dadi glanced at her once, and despite her dramatic sigh, Mahrosh knew her grandmother's arms were always open for her. She watched the knitting needles and the methodical pattern it created, and yet, her thoughts remained a jumped up yarn ball that she couldn't find the ends of.
