Adar

He gazed at the girl. Her doe-like brown eyes had watered from first glance, bringing her knees to her chest as she let out a soft cry. Adar couldn't understand why, but his heart broke at the sight. Losing a loved one was hard, but losing two people made the heartbreak even more unbearable, a knife to the chest, a wound too deep to heal.

Adar learned of the girl's family. Although he had never seen her in his entire twenty years of existence, he heard the hushed whispers on the street, the silent pity in the villagers' eyes as they watched the dead body be brought to the house. The women in the family, three daughters, had grasped one another as their visions blurred at the memory of their father, emotions torn apart under the cloudy sky. 

One girl, the niece, ran off to another direction, finding comfort in her grandfather's luscious garden of ember. Trees surrounded her, a pond stilled underneath her. Not even the memory of his work seemed to ease her sorrow, and Adar wished for nothing more than to help her. Even from afar, her anguish violently cut through him, and the crate began to feel heavier on his arms.

His best friend, Miraj, uneasily glanced at him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he strained, readjusting the crate. 

"You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," said Adar, voice quiet. 

Seeming convinced, Miraj nodded. With one last glance at the girl, Adar followed his friend. They had promised his father that they would deliver the handmade cloths to the buyer before the Janazah (funeral prayer). Adar had no time for distractions when he had work to be done. 

"So, did you hear the rumors?" asked Miraj, his voice low as he suspiciously glanced among the villagers. 

For the humble age of twenty-one, Miraj was a star born from wealth in the city. He was a merchant, who relied heavily on the goods that he bought from Adar's family and other producers. Most of the time, Miraj would be on a ship to ports in Indonesia or British-owned African lands while Adar could only dream of new worlds to explore. Through the use of letters, he had kept close contact with the merchant. 

The thought of rumors gave Adar great qualms. "I haven't heard a thing," he replied. 

"You always were the the type to stay out of trouble," remarked Miraj, visibly amused. 

Adar scowled. 

"Anyway," he began, leaning close to Adar's ears, "there are rumors that East Pakistan is seeking independence, taking the name of Bangladesh instead."

"Why?"

Miraj shrugged. "After decades of colonialism from the British and Pakistan's independence from India, we have been deprived of our freedom, becoming East Pakistan instead."

Adar was very familiar of his country's political problems, but he was also practical. "What are your thoughts on the revolution?" he asked, cautious of offending Miraj with his own beliefs.

"Personally, I'm not the biggest fan. The extremely liberal leaders will cause the Muslim ummah (community) to compromise their religion for the purpose of poor leadership. We can fight all we want, but at the end of the day, Islam should be our priority. Allah comes first."

"How can they believe that independence will solve our problems? Have they not seen the failure of the Haitian revolution a hundred years ago? They still don't have a prospering economy," argued Adar as he supported his friend's belief. Independence did not solve core problems and was very dependent on new leadership. 

Miraj smiled. "I see you have taken your history classes very well."

"I want my people to survive, Miraj," he stated. "I want the Muslims to prosper. A painful war may cause too many heartaches for the community to heal from."

Without another word, the two men walked down the narrow path, feeling the weight of politics on their backs. Adar realized that if a war broke out, he would be pressured to fight for a cause he didn't believe in.

He understood the problems his country was facing, but they deserved to be diplomatic, not to be rash in their decisions. A war would cost millions of lives, a brutal battle, and would change the heart of the people in more ways than one. 

* * * * 

By the time that they made it back, it was already around time for the Janazah. Adar stood behind the imam (leader of a mosque), focusing on his prayer for the old man. His lips trembled as he whispered meaningful duaas (small prayers) that he hoped would help the soul in the grave. 

No one knew what the punishments of the grave felt like. No one knew what death would bring. No one knew the future of a soul as his deeds came to a halting stop. Only the utmost precious and beneficial prayers would help the deceased, and Adar tried his best to use the ones he remembered the most. 

After the funeral prayer was over, he helped to place the body in the grave. His own eyes watered at the sight of a beloved man covered in white cloth. His frail body was carefully placed in the ground, the rainfall miraculously pausing. Adar watched the tormented faces of the man's son-in-laws and his grandsons. They, along with Adar, whispered one last duaa, before dropping the soil. 

* * * *

Miraj jogged up to Adar after the burial. "That was intense," he said.

"He was a good man," commented Adar.

"I feel grief for his granddaughter. She had broken the news to the family according to her cousins."

The mention of the girl he had seen earlier perked Adar's interest. "She did?" he questioned. 

Miraj nodded. "Allah only creates a handful of women like her. A heart strong enough to confront death at its doors and have faith in Allah is a heart that belongs to the most pious. She even read the Qur'an on his deathbed." 

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you wanted to marry her," joked Adar even though he hated the words that spoiled his mouth.

His friend noticed, maple eyes twinkling from the sour expression on Adar's face. Miraj ran a hand through his curly hair, the black locks becoming untamed underneath his fingers. Unconsciously, Adar put his hands in the pockets of his pants. Miraj read him like a book, unfolding his pages too quickly for Adar to even admit anything. 

"Stop looking at me like that," mumbled Adar. 

Miraj let out a throaty laugh, placing a hand on Adar's shoulder. "You are fun to tease, my friend."

"Do you think she'll be okay?" he suddenly asked. 

"Only Allah knows. Her family has suffered greatly," said Miraj before suspiciously looking around. When he believed the coast was clear, he pulled Adar by the arm. "I believe that you need to keep an eye out."

"Why?"

"The eyes of eagles look down on us, Adar, just like these villagers," he warned. "They may seem distraught now, but it is only an illusion. I do not doubt for one minute that they will harm the deceased's family. There are too many whispers in the streets."

Adar was appalled. "No human could be that cruel."

"Do not be blind. Humans are the worst enemies to mankind."

Heeding his friend's warning, Adar nodded, vowing to keep watch on the evil that Miraj spoke of.

They continued walking, ignoring the gaze of the villagers as they gazed at Miraj with suspicion. It was no secret that Miraj was an outsider. He wore the finest and was a man who was given the world on a silver platter. The bitterness of the people only heightened, but they did not see the generous man that Adar did. 

They only saw a threat. 

After bidding his friend farewell, Adar walked the path to home. He tried to keep his mind on the present and not the war that would soon breakout. He wondered if he could talk to an old teacher of his to find out more. Adar believed in peace not violence. 

As he walked, he noticed a feminine figure nearby, and soon he realized that it was the girl from before, the granddaughter of Abdul Jalil. Her scarf wrapped tightly around her head as she tended to the animals. The white-coated cow mooed at her presence, leaning into her touch. 

"Shh," she whispered, voice cracking. She sniffled. "They're both gone. Who will take care of you now?"

The animal closed its eyes, as if understanding her words. Adar's heart softened, remembering his own stallion back at home. He knew animals felt a close connection to their owners, being their most loyal servants in times of sorrow and stress. They were raised and fed by their owners after all. 

Adar cleared his throat, making the girl jolt.

"Pardon me," he whispered gruffly, "but you are blocking my way."

He wasn't lying. The cow was in his path, tail twitching. Adar didn't want to get kicked by an animal that could shatter his teeth. Above all, it was important that the girl knew she was in the presence of a man. Adar was not a man who followed women with a hungry gaze. 

"I apologize," she said, moving the cow deeper onto her grandfather's property. 

Adar continued to walk, keeping his gaze on the ground. She was a grieving woman who deserved her privacy in order to heal. He didn't want her to get the wrong idea, but as he heard the slight shudder in her breath, most likely from the cold, he couldn't resist. 

He took off his jacket. "Take this," he offered, holding it towards her. He still did not look at her eyes, and kept his gaze on the cow instead. 

"No," she refused, backing away.

"I insist. You need this more than I do."

Reluctantly, she took the fur-lined coat, covering her body with it. Adar nodded a farewell before stepping away, placing even more distance between them. He turned his back to her, starting to head home, until a thought came to him. 

Over his shoulder, he said, "Take care of your family. They need you."

Without even waiting for a response, he left. That night, he laid awake, thinking about the granddaughter and niece of the greatest men that ever lived in the village. Adar wondered if Miraj was right. 

Will they really taint the innocence that marked that home?

----

Finally, I can update this book regularly. I want to make it clear that I want Adar to stick out from regular revolutionary men.

By the way the book takes place a little bit before the events of the Liberation War. So there will be mention of it, but not too in depth, since that isn't my focus. 

What do you guys think of Adar's character so far?

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