A Match Made In Jannah

Flashback - Husna

I stared at myself in the mirror. Lightly blushed cheeks, perfect yet natural make up and my hijab set to suit my face. I'd wanted to try the Arabian Style hijab, but my skills weren't that great yet. I smiled at my reflection, happy to have finally gotten over my broken heart, forgiven myself for the sin I had committed after sincere repentance, and had begun my road to recovery. Now I knew my priorities, and I was not going to mess up again. Never. I had learnt my lesson and knew the kind of man and life I wanted now. "Good men are for good women." This was my clean slate and new beginning.

"Husnnaaaaaa," yelled my mother from downstairs. We're going to be late!" Smoothing down my abaya and repinning my hijab, I sprinted down the stairs, only to find my mother standing in her apron with flour on her nose.

"You should have spent less time doing your make up and more time helping me so we could go. Leave it now, I'm almost done."

"Sorry Ummi," I mumbled unapologetically. I wasn't going to allow her sour words to ruin my perfect mood. I loved gatherings, especially suppers. The atmosphere and chatter was like Jannah to me. Plus, there were bound to be a few cute guys there. Hopefully. Maybe. Astaghfirulla.

I rang the doorbell. And waited. And waited. Finally I decided to hoot the car horn, even though the neighbours would be disturbed. Their discos were much more irritating. There were a few cars parked outside, most of which I recognised. Morningville was a tiny town, and everyone was acquainted with each other, if not friends. No one I cared about. At least not the devil himself. I wanted to enjoy the supper. Ladies separated, gossip and jokes would be the main topics for the evening.

Slowly the gate opened and we stepped into the house. The atmosphere was already lovely, laughter, loud and raucous from the men's section, and the clattering of crockery in the kitchen. I greeted my friends and we sat down, ready to discuss our school and personal life over a glass of red Sparletta.
"Girls, take the food to the men."

We glanced at each other. Time
Okay, we didn't. We always did this. Plus, this made us look like perfect housewives, serving and clearing and well-informed in the art of waiting.

The two platters I held began to wobble. I shouldn't have tried to be superwoman, but what's done is done, and I had to hurry and put down the platters. I stepped down into the dining area and skimmed the table. Just the usual. At the far end of the table sat... No. Forcing my brain to shut up, I concentrated on placing the platters on the table. Unfortunately, I had not noticed that half the rice had spilt onto the tablecloth while I had stood gaping at... Him.

"Old crushes. He is way too old. You just got over a jerk. It's been 2 years since you liked him. Get over it. Of course he isn't a jerk, he is amazing. But seriously though, kullu halaal. Wait for your hubby."

"But look at him. Wait don't. One look. He isn't cute but he is so... Masha Allah. Let him be halaal. But he is real husband material."
"Shut up brain, stop insulting my actual future husband," I told myself.

An hour into the supper and lady talk began boring us. Laaiqah, the hostess's daughter, beckoned to us to follow her up to her room. We sat watching Superwoman videos and YouTube clips until we were bored to tears. That led to small talk, eventually about celebrities, mainly One Direction, and our opinions on life. Suddenly Laaiqah jumped up and unlocked the door. We stared at her in confusion.

"Come on," she said. "The boys will have stuff to do. We can play... Monopoly or something."

I shot a nervous look at my best friend, who was also my far off cousin, which she returned with a shrug. We went along with it, uncomfortable, especially for me since I had 2% exposure to boys. If anything at all.

Quite like the annoying Morningville boys were, they first refused to let us in, then teased us about being there and then challenged us to a Monopoly match. As usual, my mind, along with my eyes, searched for him. Shut up brain. I breathed a sigh of relief for the distraction the game provided. I didn't dare raise my gaze from the floor. I had already looked once, and I wasn't going to change that.

The rather tedious and unrewarding game began, uneventful. I concentrated hard, but found ways to distract myself anyways. Sometimes it was his hands, just looking at them moving the pieces, and other times it was the instinct that he was smiling, that I felt inside me. I was still in the lead, and as I picked up the dice he had just dropped, he put his hand down to push it towards me. Our knuckles brushed against each other, and both of us pulled away immediately. He, out of sheer disgust at committing the slightest sin (piety on point) and me out of mutual embarrassment.

It was unimportant. The game continued.
But the tingling in my knuckles stayed for a good few days. That was the first time I acknowledged that I really did like the guy. Zaid. The word rolled off my tongue as I repeated it over and over again

I would whisper him name in the silence of the night, and my 14 year old mind began to develop something beautiful. Something real. Something that only I could understand.

Over time, I began to learn more and more about Zaid. I had my sources, and they were well-informed about him. Not the minor things, like his favourite colour and whether he was a Manchester united or Arsenal fan, but the kind of person he was. Sometimes, I tried to use the slightly less impressive points to kill my fruitless liking for him, but it only made me like him more because I knew he was imperfect.

Zaid wasn't from Morningville, but from a nearby town called Kensington. However , he frequently visited Morningville, for lessons at a Sheikh in the area.

Over the years, my feelings for him grew, and all I could think about was him. I knew that he was a lot more pious, but I reasoned that he could uplift MY Imaan. He was older, but Nabi (saw) was MUCH older than Aaishah (rad). Soon I didn't know any other feeling besides my liking for him.