Again Shauqina

Chapter 1 - A new beginning

COPYRIGHT2014 - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED  WARDATULNINA

'Do not grieve; whatever you lose will come back to you in a different form.'-Rumi-

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PROLOGUE

I am 17 and about to begin college.

Life, real life, as they say it, should have just about to begin.

I am at my prime, they say. Youthfulness in all its beauty, vigour and promise.

If this is beauty, why do I feel like a widow?

If this is vigour, why do I see an endless toil and struggle to keep these feelings pure?

If this brings promise, then that promise has long been gone and lies buried...

I was told not to play with fire—but I did ...

I was told that you could not right a wrong with another wrong—but I did...

And somebody wise also once told me that feelings are never wrong, it is what we do with the feelings that makes it wrong and surely, Akhi, we guarded our actions well and that feeling was pure ... could that not at least, be my salvation when my own turn comes?

But my shauqina for you, Akhi—this missing and this yearning—when will it ever end?

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Heart. Be still.

Zak—Akhi, if you could see me now, what would you be thinking? What would you be saying? Would you have gone along with the decision, or changed your mind at the last minute? Would you have chided me for my lack of God-consciousness? I will never know now what you think, right? Ever.

Looking at myself in the mirror, wearing the light, beige uniform of cotton blouse and skirt, I hoped I looked like any ordinary 17 year old college girl on her first day of school. Hope maketh all dreams come true, they say, but, well, I knew that this hope was an impossible one. It was never going to come true. I was different. I know. I had covered my head with the broadest black headband I could find and my waist-long, wavy hair was bundled under an innocuous black chignon holder. Over the short-sleeved blouse was my black hoodie. That hood will cover my head soon. A good part of my legs lay hidden under the knee-length, white socks. Yes. I was different. I was a madrasah student—11 years of religious and secular education has made me different. A madrasah-college girl. I took in a deep breath and pulled up the hood.

College, here I come.

As soon as I stepped into the college via the canteen, my senses were hit by, well, to be honest—legs. Bare legs. Although I lived in a multi-racial society, it still came as a cultural shock to be amongst young ladies at school, wearing skirts. In the madrasah, every girl would cover her aurah—which means only her face and her hands can be seen by all those not in her immediate family. As a madrasah girl, I wore a long garment and a headscarf that covered my front and back. I saw girls of my own race in the college uniform, nonchalantly going about their business and I was embarrassed. I saw socks that barely covered young ankles and I was embarrassed. Some of the college girls had even altered the length of their skirts so that the skirts could not even be categorised as 'mini'. The fact that I was looking down did not help. How ironic too that the college guys all wore long pants—looking smart and tall and well—covered. Legs. Yes. That was the first thing that greeted me in college.