A fine street, with tucked outdoor cafes, umbrellas standing out under the sun's casting light. Cars parked in rows; families & friendship parties came in and out.

People of all sorts, of all races, ages, ideologies; Punjabis, Pathans, Sindhis, Balochis, Kashmiris- and even foreigners such as Chinese, Turkish, Americans, etc; would find this sector of Islamabad as a forest of different trees, with clear paced roots, as well as wildly floral jungles.

It was mixed, a colorful pot, for all to dip themselves in. It seemed to be that Islamabad being a city of its own, a capital not entitled to anyone but to all, was the stew where an old lad would look at and say, what colorful exposure it had!

While someone else would snot their nose, and wonder if Islamabad could ever again be that quiet and less crowded Islamabad it used to be?

One of these street cafes, was a black, English-inspired cafe, with golden, cursive writing on the signboard. Modern, fancy, a bit of touch to history.

Now, we wouldn't want to put up an advertisement for this cafe, but I assure you, it has the best teddy bear-shaped chocolates. *Or, the only I know of.

Let us zoom in on a specific streetwalker aged in his twenties, standing out a bit from the crowd. Perhaps, I should relay a bit of the 'appearance-wise' information.

The twenty-four-year-old man's reddish-brown hair was tied back in a neat ponytail- darting eyes of experience, and proof that he had come out of his way to explore the social world around him- a proof that he was a searcher for a purpose.

Or, rather, a searcher of somebody.

The searcher was sporting a black coat, over a buttoned-down maroon shirt, and dark jeans with polished shoes- a glinting watch on his left wrist. He had a stubbled chin, a bit of a shabby but worried expression to his face- yet not one person's sight on the street eased his situation yet.

He paced around the anonymous special cafe I mentioned earlier, knocked his hand on one of the glass tables settled outdoors, his other hand clenched in impatience.

A waiter approached him, but he raised his hand in denial- muttering to the waiter to pass onto the next table instead.

"But sir, you'll have to order something if you are here- otherwise, you might as well leave," The waiter informed politely, gesturing with the menu in his hand towards the street's pavement.

"I'm waiting for somebody," The unnerved lad argued, taking the menu from the waiter's hands, and seating himself down on one of the chairs. His gaze roved over the options, before deciding on a cold latte.

The waiter ceased the menu back and went over to give out his order.

"Asalamualaykum."

A voice too recognized for the searcher's liking hit his eyes upward, only meeting with a set of breezy, grey eyes.

The search was over for Bilal.

Musa pulled back the chair opposite to Bilal's and settled down before his beefy cousin, who looked astonishingly crisp in his decent manner of clothing.

Bilal however, was taken aback slightly, by Musa's modest view of his clothes: ankles exposed, white salwar kameez under a navy blue jacket.

It did not take him long to note the changes these past few years had done to Musa. Both cousins had gone through a wheel of lessons, and happenings that it only made sense how contrast they looked like.

Who knew a businessman with the fine line for the world, would ever acquaint himself with a spinner for the next life?

Who knew a bodybuilder would shake hands with the soul's caretaker?

Who knew both would be brought in the same walls that became freedom for one, a prison for the other, and yet they had the grace to smile at one another like their brotherhood was enough to keep their hands tied.

"You've changed so much," Musa mused, the tilt of his lips of his beard.

Bilal once used to be a clear-cut offender of bearded men. But now, had learned his lesson, and found a delight in seeing Soldier M, no matter what the changes with a beard, or, no beard. It was still Musa, no?

Bilal smiled. "So have you, man."

And as if still not believing they were right before each other, sitting in the present, Bilal did not review Musa or, question what had happened to him. For now, Bilal just wanted to be reminded of the good old days.

"When did you come back? You should've told me earlier. We could've set off for a hiking trip or, something," Bilal leaned back on his chair, when the latte arrived, he twirled the spoon in it thoughtfully.

"I just arrived this morning," Musa cleared his throat, wringing his hands together. He shook his head when the waiter suggested a menu with his hand.

Bilal's brows arched. "You don't want anything?"

"I'm in a hurry, Bilal," Musa excused, with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "I've come because I need your help, and then I'll have to go to the hospital."

Bilal knew at once something was wrong. He sometimes wondered, was Musa this bait for all things wrong in this world, or, was it just him?

"Hospital? What?" Bilal blurted, staring at Musa for a while- the way Musa's shoulders stiffened did not escape his notice.

As if he had no words to rephrase it, the words spilling out a bit too sudden than Musa would have liked. Yet there was nothing Musa could say, the pain clenched inside like dripping blood running out. Musa went out cold, straight ahead with it.

"Rashid Murhani... he has third stage lung cancer."

His eyes were red-rimmed, and his throat stuck out the words as if he'd rather not, but this was how it was. News. No matter how many times one informs of it, it's like a deadly inked letter, soaked wet, renewed all over again. Thus, the cycle of one's feeling the pain.

When words seemed the most sensible thing to respond with, especially in the occurrence of knowing the storm was rising in a comrade's eyes, words had failed Bilal, this time. He stared back at Musa, his latte forgotten cold. Bilal grabbed his car keys, his brows drawn together.

______

It was the scent of sanitizer. Sharp and nauseatic. There was a tube of light at the end of the empty corridor, that blinked for a few seconds then completely blocked out. There was little noise at this time of the day, evening striking outside of the window, in indigo hues.

His hollowed footsteps echoed on the floor, as he saw the only being in this lengthy corridor, with her black niqab, pulled over her bent head. Her arms were crossed, and for a while, he waited aside.

The nurse had guided him through, the rest was his own walk to where he was then. For some reason, it stroke him how a body inside one of the wards had a heart, if anyone peeked at it, would have hundred visitors rushing in.

But no, what shook him, was how it was just him and his daughter here. The only beings perhaps, with a heart to have reached out to him. If Rashid Murhani had anyone else he loved, or, was loved back, they were either few or, they had already visited and left.

She didn't dare look up, and even if she did, he didn't expect anything to change. Throughout their years of barely acknowledging the other's presence, it was of a clear conscience and dignified distance. But now, when there was this one man that both of them shared emotions with, one from the moment she was born into this world, the other from the moment his heart started breathing again after being amongst the living dead.

Musa dug his hands into his jacket.

Bilal had offered to drop him off and immediately took off after Musa had told Bilal's task. He remembered the flashing fear on Bilal's face when he requested Bilal so ardently to do it.

"Musa, how can I do this?" Was Bilal's question to him back in the car.

"I don't know how you can, Bilal. But I know you," Musa reasoned, with his chest heaving up and down. "-and I know you can do anything if your mind is put straight."

Musa backed against the wall, it was strange how he felt then. The way his legs felt lifeless and he knew he should be sitting on the waiting chairs, but then, he felt like he could go on a bit more. He could keep standing.

During the passage of three years, Musa had gone through the ups and downs to where he was now. A young twenty-four years old man, with the softest tinge to his grey eyes, like the flurry of snow atop a mountain. His hair grew a few lengths, no more the messy wave of it, but rather brushed neatly. His chin was no more naked, it was grooming a beard.

And yet one would see him, and think that what an angelic heart he had!

Ha.

The same man if seen years ago, would be taken as a broken boy.

And if asked what's better- a broken boy, or, a fixed boy?

The answer would be: the broken boy who tirelessly took his pieces and by the Rahma of Allah, glued them together to who he was today. Cracks would still be seen, for they were scars and acknowledgments for how far he had come, from gathering money by money, taking up different jobs, fulfilling his education side by side, renewing his own self.

It was hard.

But reaching where he was now, was never Musa's goal.

He was still imperfect, he was still learning the beats of life. He was still tested, and he still had his downfalls. He was no proper ideal, but he sure was human.

And here he was, having left his fortunes, his family in Lahore, to stand against a hospital wall in Islamabad, with the clock ticking as lengthy turners of time, amidst the hope, that his mentor would open his eyes once again.

"Musa?"

His thoughts shackled away out of the window, and he raised his head- only to find that niqabi looking back at him. He realized for a minute there, he was on the floor with his legs crossed. In disbelief, he looked over at the clock on the opposite wall- and realized he had been like this for more than an hour.

"You should sit up," she muttered, her voice strained under the cloth.

Without an answer, with the weight in him heaving, he lifted himself up to sit on one of the waiting chairs opposite her.

Silence ensued again.

"You could be moving on in life, Musa," Rashid Murhani once said, spooning his honey, cinnamon tea whilst sitting opposite to Musa in his classroom, during Musa's college phase. "But you could still be dragged by your past. And if everything in this world tells you to look back; look back. If there's a healing herb beside the poison, take it. Don't neglect what could fulfill your scars. That's stupid."

"And what if there is no healing herb beside the poison?" Musa remembered how sharp his question was then.

But Rashid Murhani, wise as he had always been with his brown eyes twinkling, that Musa could swear someone had replaced those orbs with moonlight.

"Retrace your footsteps. Who knows? You might have missed it along the way. Look back. Look closer. You'll find it, insha'Allah."

Musa could separate the memories that killed him and the memories that revived him. The ones with his sister, his father, the Murree's green, mountainous heights were the ones that breezed his soul.

Yet the ones that reminded him of the dark walls, hammering a nail down his heart, were ones he could not word out. Even when he tried wording it out to Zara, he couldn't. It was too hard.

He remembered how fearful she had been when he couldn't bring himself to say it to her. She patted his hand and rebuked. "Musa. Forget it. You're living a new life now. I'm sorry, I forced you into this. We shouldn't write this."

He nodded. Because deep inside he felt, that relaying Zara of what happened to him, would only be endorsing dirt in their heads towards their Uncle. No matter how unjustified his actions were towards Musa, Musa did not think that it was favorable to relay all of his life in the mansion.

Yet there was one thing that tugged at Musa, remembering Rashid Murhani's words; about the healing herb and the poison.

What did his mentor mean by that?

What is the poison of the past?

And what is the antidote (healing herb)?

The more important question was; where is the poison and where is the antidote?

This was the very thing he asked Bilal to do.

This wasn't the first time Musa was visiting Islamabad in the past three years. Meeting Bilal was, of course, the first time. And that was only because Musa especially wanted to distance himself from anything or, anyone that reminded him of the mansion. He needed time to build himself, till he could bear the sight of something that horror-struck his soul.

Musa usually visited Islamabad only for two things; if there was any work required there, and of course, to meet Rashid Murhani, to listen to wondrous words that rekindled the fire of Imaan.

As Musa was rebuilding his faith and the heart becoming stronger, Rashid's health weakened.

In the present moment, Musa sat there, his head bent over his clenched fists, with the sick breathing of his heart. It was painful to see how golden personalities like Rashid Murhani changed the lives of others, while their own was at stake just then.

Musa felt like doing something, he felt like marching in there, pounding on the table, and telling him to 'wake up!' and 'I already lost my father. What will I do if I lose you, too?!"

But he had no energy.

Having lost it in the attempt to seat himself on the waiting seat, the rest fell in the drowsy respite. The world around him fogged, yet Musa heard words.

Words as soft as the air conditioner's breeze from the lips opposite to his.

"Hasbun Allahu wa Nimal Wakil." She whispered.

حَسْبُنَا اللَّهُ وَنِعْمَ الْوَكِيلُ

Allah Alone is sufficient for us, and He is the Best Disposer of affairs (for us.)

Asalamualaykum,

Are we likin her? *smiles innocently

- e . a