Beauty and the Bangles - An Islamic Thriller of Love & Mystery

20| Diary of the Dead Whispers

"What you seek is seeking you."

~ Rumi

*

The chair swayed back and forth, and so did the ponytail, dancing to an unseen rhythm of its owner's thoughts. The moments of waiting seemed to etch for eternity. 

"Will she be dead so soon? Poor soul," mused Zumar tapping her feet. A malicious glint appeared in her eyes.

Only then did her gaze shift to the diary. The enchanting waves radiating from the leather cover were inviting her for the umpteenth time to peek in. This time, Zumar could not resist.

She delicately cradled the diary in her hands, the letters ARH etched upon it like a whispered secret.

Despite successfully unlocking the diary and revealing the invisible ink with which it was written, she had not felt any intrigue or interest in reading it.

It seemed like some boring diary written by a father—Syed Abdur Rahman, some random dead man—to his good-for-nothing daughter, Juveria.

To kill time, she began to read the first page, the words unfolded like petals, revealing a heartfelt letter:

"My grown-up Princess, may Allah's endless peace and blessings be upon you!

From the deepest of my heart, I hope and pray you are in the best state of health and Imaan. You must be reading this diary when your Baba is not with you physically.

Rest assured, sweetie, his prayers and guidance will always be with you.

Just close your eyes, draw a deep breath, and feel me beside you, sweetheart.

No, no, don't let your beautiful eyes shed a tear for me, for I am not dead, darling.

I am a martyr, and martyrs don't die, right?

Just hold tight to the last gift I gave you closer and feel my fragrance in it.

Baba's precious pearl, feel your baba with you.
Feel me gently holding you in my arms.
Feel my fingers stroking your (now) long curls.
Feel my lips kissing your rosy pale forehead.
Feel me smiling when I say :-

In twilight's embrace, I softly pray,
For my beloved daughter on life's pathway,
May Allah's light guide her steps aright,
Through every challenge, every day, every night.


 Any heart could have fluttered at the poetic beauty of the heartwarming lines. But in Zumar's case it only added fuel to her loathing. Bitterness masked her features.

 She continued, her eyes tracing the inked expressions of love and wisdom:

With bated breath, my heart does yearn,
For her to embrace knowledge, and wisdom discern,
To walk with grace, her head held high,
In the face of adversity, to never shy.

I believe, my princess, shall hold tight,
To Haya, her armor, in the world's twilight.
Guard herself from non-mahrams,
Let modesty be a shield from all harms. 

Each word seemed to resonate with the very essence of Juveria's father, a man who wished nothing but strength, resilience and modesty for his daughter.

Zumar smirked. 

"And his daughter? The crap hates the man with every fiber of her being! Does she even know the meaning of Non Mehram? A purely dumb creature, masterpiece of crappiness, that's what she is," Each syllable she uttered carried a fang's bite of poisonous disdain, "With, I must begrudgingly confess, a face that could turn heads in a crowd of yawns."