"I need your advice," Sanam Saad said anxiously. She took out a folder from her maroon leather bag and slid it over the polished desk towards him.

Dawood picked up the folder between his fingers, scanning his gaze cursorily down the pictures. His brows furrowed as he leaned forward, identifying the structure of the house, and in result catching onto what this woman was getting at.

Without a word, he made note of all this. Sanam's anticipation was felt heatedly in the room.

When Dawood did not respond, pushing back his glasses, the silence got to her. Sanam sat forward, clinging her fancy-ringed fingers together. "Tell me... what are the costs?"

Dawood finally, placed down the file. "I think it will cost... much."

When Sanam's hands fidgeted back, he quickly added, "But not impossible, of course. It's good design, however, I'll have to make the reference of it to my team- we'll need to adjust this. We will work on something that is good in terms of your budget and will soon let you know. You needn't worry. With pace like this and your passion, I'm sure this house will be standing in just nine-months, or so. InshaAllah."

Sanam breathed out of relief, as if the bottled concerns and pummelling thoughts that had conducted her head, was just twisted open with a hiss by Dawood's words on contentment.

However, despite his words, Dawood felt a similar bottle close on him and tighten his grip on the folder, yet he remained calm. Setting the folder down, he took out his phone from his pocket and snapped pictures of the design.

"That's a relief," She said, with a broadened smile, "Thank you so much... I was worried you'd think it was too much... you see, I have four children, and we need a home... you're very generous to make our dreams possible."

"All dreams become possible by the Will of Allah," Dawood informed, quietly. "We humans can only try our best, the rest is up to the One Above."

"Yes, of course, I- I'll go now..." Sanam nodded her head edgily, she stood up to her high heels, lifting out her ringed hand to shake.

In response to the handshake, however, in a flash, Dawood took the folder that she had given and handed it over to her with a polite smile.

Sanam's surprise showed over her features for about a second, but the nonchalance Dawood showed as he got to his feet, straightening his jacket, did not pursue her to question. "I'll get going now... Assalam Alaykum," Sanam uttered, at which Dawood nodded again.

"Wa Alaykum salam."

Once she left the office, her heels pattering away, Dawood sat back down with a hefty sigh. He felt his head throb as he leaned back in his chair, and watched the fan spin on the ceiling.

He loved his job. He sincerely did. As an architect he had highly professed ideas and an athletic mind with designing and structuralist's wholesome view.

Dawood had set on this journey to idealize homes in low-costs as he possibly could for those who were weary and fearful of the idea of having their houses built.

At the age of 27, Dawood had only begun his own small firm about a year ago with a few other friends, who helped alongside as well with contacting, getting in-touch, fretting ideas, and helping clients throughout this journey of building homes.

However, as any job would with the constant flurry of ups and downs in life (for nothing can go smooth for long!) Dawood was getting stressed.

Further and furthermore, he tried helping and lending clients with concern-free suggestions and totally at-ease costs with the designs he measured himself that were subtle, sustainable and pleasant, which in response; at first, the clients would be wowed and joyful at Dawood's attempts to please them, but then, just as the plan was finalized with the shake of the hands (if male), and the time came to structure the building- the clients would come back again knocking at his office door with furthermore new ideas, and adding more to what used to be a cozy, satisfiable structure and expecting that they would receive low prices for their extravagant additional ideas when it is clearly not possible.

Dawood was getting hectic about this issue because this addition was just too much- a human's unsustainable desires can not be fulfilled, he had learned through this.

On the other hand, Dawood would feel for them- because they had no homes. Other architects and builders would charge too much, or, throw usury at the client's faces (haraam!) and break their backs with costs and heavy debts.

Dawood had experienced this situation second-hand in his own life- how his father had almost passed away from a heart attack in his struggle to build a house and to pay all the hefty debts he had taken upon his shoulders, just for the sake of his children's safety; to preserve the roof atop their heads.

The house was built by the end. His father, however, passed away a year after. His father did not get the chance to enjoy living under the roof for much long. This was how most homes in the society were built and then broken.

Ironic, isn't it?

Dawood rested his head back over the chair, taking off his glasses and massaging his temples. He whispered a dua that quivered out from his heavy heart.

"Ya Rabbi (My Lord)," Dawood murmured, his brows lining in ease. "I trust no one but You. I'm not able to give everything to everyone. I'm not able to please all their wants. I'm just empty-handed as they are. The little that I have is because of You. I am trying to give for Your pleasure. These people don't have homes but I do, Alhumdulillah. Please, help me in this and help them. We have no one but You to ask for help."

A ring vibrated on the desk a second later, ending his dua. Dawood opened his eyes and picked up the phone.

The name Queen flashed back at him and caught his heart. With crinkled eyes, Dawood attended the call on speaker.

Dawood tried his voice to sound at ease in contrast to his earlier devastated tone. "Asalamualaykum... how are you?"

"Wa Alaykum salam," Zara answered back from the other side. Dawood's intelligent sense of hearing caught at her tone- it wasn't the usual sweet reply to his salam.

"Are you.... free?" Her voice lingered as Dawood leaned back on the chair again casually swinging on it, taking the phone close up to his lips.

Lips twisted upward, Dawood lengthened his voice in imitation to hers. "Why...? You miss me?"

A pause from her side. The pause was foretold and Dawood just couldn't slide off the stupid grin on his face. A precise second later, Zara counteracted with a presumable, haughty-sweet voice.

"What? You?" Zara chuckled lightly. Dawood could just make out her tilted, thoughtful look in his mind's eye. "No, no, I actually miss the sweet buns down the street- in front of your office. Just wanted to say to bring those over after work. Alright?"

Dawood felt that someone had taken away the victory flag from his grasp. Mentally groaning at this woman's persistence against the reality of the fact that she can not live without him for more than a couple of hours, Dawood decided to let it go. Ah, Zara, ah. Will you ever accept?

Nevertheless, he started arranging the files and papers back into his suitcase, whilst the phone was pressed between his shoulder and ear. "Alright, bringing over the sweet buns!"

Just as the call ended, Dawood took the suitcase in his hand, turning off the lights in his office, before locking the door behind him.

He waved lightly at his fellow worker, Jafer, and slipped away through the exit of the building. The wind brushing through his hair, Dawood frowned a bit, scanning the street for that sweet buns shop.

"Sometimes... I wish I was a sweet-bun," Dawood huffed to himself. "Maybe, then, she wouldn't be able to resist."

A smile took up his lips at this amusing thought as he jogged across the street towards the sweet buns shop.

____

Ever wondered what it felt like to strain your head over designs? Scribbling pages upon pages, in your lusciously sunflower-patterned journal, consistently pondering over a glass of juice, trying to grasp some interiority's beauty of contentment?

Because maybe, just maybe- the juice has the power to give you- your vital spark of inspiration. Maybe, if you did wonder about all of this- you would know how Eshaal felt just then.

"I... demand... inspiration," Eshaal whispered, staring ardently at the glass of orange juice standing amidst the multiple paper balls crunched; the outcome of lazy inspiration that didn't feel like dropping by Eshaal's desk anytime soon.

Eshaal wiggled her fingers dramatically around the juice, inching her nose closer to the glass. "I demand... inspir-"

"What on earth are you doing?"

Eshaal's magical-vibrancy was snapped by her brother's amused voice. She pulled back her face from the glass, covering up the surprise at his entrance into her bedroom, with a sudden swoosh of her orange juice and gulped the concentrated Vitamin C drink down.

Ahmad's lips twisted slightly at his sister's dramatic antics. Noting her gesture of edginess, and her table filled with a million ideas crumpled into a mountain of paper balls, Ahmad had already added up all of this into a conclusion.

"You know... if you really want inspiration, I suggest you do something productive rather than talking to a glass of orange juice." Ahmad shrugged, seating himself on her bed's edge behind her back with a plate of apple-pie in his hand and a silver fork in another.

Eshaal revolved on her chair to face him. Her hunger-filled eyes fell down on the crisp, warm, golden apple pie.

When her brother's hand daintily lowered the fork down to chip off a bite, she raised her hand up in the air defensively. "Woah, Woah, Woah.... just stop there."

The fork stopped in mid-air, Ahmad's fond eyes looking up.

Eshaal continued. "Exactly what makes you think I will let you just sit in my room without having knock-"

"I did knock before coming in."

"-and then, suggest me on how to get inspiration-"

"Brotherly advice." Ahmad shrugged casually.

"-and-" Eshaal moved towards him. Her eyes absorbing the beauty of the apple pie, and her nostrils sniffed that wondrous scent of just... pure delight.

Ahmad did not respond, smirking slightly as he wavered the plate below her chin enchantingly.

"-and..." Eshaal, faltering with words, took the fork from his hands, and forked a bit out for herself. She then plopped the apple juiciness breaded with brown, thick crispness into her mouth.

"And make you my especial, apple pie?" Ahmad ended for her leaning back on the bed with his palms holding his weight. His glinting eyes gave off his victory, when Eshaal held the plate in her hand, nodding dreamily.

"Because I was sick and tired of you, knocking yourself out like this. For two hours, you've been stuck up in your bedroom coming up with crazy, fashion ideas that clearly seem to not be working out for you. That's why." Ahmad answered her, getting up to his feet. Five years of difference showed, between the two siblings. He was much taller than her, and he conveniently ruffled her hair.

"It's called talent in the light," Eshaal argued, despite simmering in the apple pie's delight. "And, of course you would not know what it means to formally take an order from someone who has finally noticed my abilities. So now satisfying them profitably with the talent I have, of course will take much of my time and energy.l

Ahmad shook his head. For years, Eshaal had been trying to make use of her skills, after studying in textiles and designs. He failed to understand her ambition. "Take a break. You can come up with the designs later. It's an official order, isn't it? And, you have a whole month's time."

"Sometimes, I hate it when you make sense," Eshaal muttered, which Ahmad ignored.

Ahmad was about to make his way out before a reminder hit his mind and he was pulled back.  "By the way, Zara is calling you at her place. Some sort-of emergency, she said."

Eshaal blinked at this news, causing her to gobble down the last of her apple pie. "Zara? Emergency? Oh Allah, Oh Allah, why didn't you say that earlier?"

She thrusted the empty plate into his hands, rushing towards her wardrobe.

"Because you first had to finish the apple pie... also, because I forgot," Ahmad uttered but his words fell deaf to her ears.

"Zara! I'm coming!" Eshaal slipped her abaya onto herself then took her go-to sunflower-patterned shawl over her head.

Ahmad watched her leave with a shake of his head. This sister of mine, I may never understand.

"Your welcome!" He called out, to no one in particular.

Asalamualaykum,

Time is ticking. This story is hurrying. That's the outcome of shifting genres, isn't it? Soooo, what do you think?

I hope I did justice to both Dawood and Eshaal now, they need light to be showcased on them once and a while, no?

JazakAllahokhair for keeping up to the updates! And, trust me, this story is going on a bumpy ride. (Literally) Salam!

- e . a