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Grabbing the pleats of her abaya, she let her socks-covered feet step over the lush carpets of the masjid's flooring. Her eyes landed on the dua that was pasted on one of the walls—the dua for entering the masjid. She recited it quietly and looked over the few women who were seated in the corner.

A happy smile plastered her lips at accomplishing her small goal; reaching the Friday prayer earlier than usual. She said the takbeer and focussed on completing two rakah, the prayer that should be prayed after entering the masjid.

Finishing it in a few minutes, she walked over to the women, her vision easily recognizing the faces. She scooped two year old Khathija and sat her over her lap, "Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuhu," she greeted Shabna, gleefully.

Shabna replied to her salaam with the same amount of enthusiasm and enquired Rafa about how she is. "Alhamdulillah! I am doing fine, what about you?"

"Alhamdulillah! Too, with kids keeping me company, I don't know how my time is passing."

"Masha Allah," Rafa chanted, kissing Khathija on her cheeks.

The sound of the mike grabbed everyone's attention and they all sat straight as the khutba (sermon) for the Friday prayer started.

The Imaam praised Allah subhanu wa ta'ala, sent blessings to the Prophet Muhammad (Sallalahu alaihi wa Sallam), and then he read a few ayah's from the Qur'an and then the ahadith related to the topic of discussion.

"Do you all know that a small good deed of yours can weigh the scales in a tremendous quantity?" He started.

"Today's topic of discussion is Husn-e-Akhlaq," the Imam continued to explain the beauty of good character and how it defines the beauty of the person. White or black, tall or short, rich or poor, aged or young, if the heart is pure then the body is too. The whole lecture was eye-opening to many points of life. How we should live and how we are living.

"There are four natures of good characters (Akhlaq), the last and the least one is oppression. There are so many people who rejoice to do zulm over their kith and kin. They are of the worst category, they are the ones who hold the title of oppressors. The third level of people are the ones who see oppression with their own eyes. They know that what those people are doing over the weak is completely wrong, and yet they sit idle and watch the folk-play with their lips sealed. These people don't have good character in them and they are the ones who will receive Allah's punishments.

The second place goes to those who see oppression, they realise that it's wrong and they raise their voice against the oppressors but they expect their reward. For doing good, they expect others to return their favor. Though this shows the goodness in one's character, the best of people are those who see oppression, raise their voice against it, and expect nothing from the creation, rather they desire from their Creator. This category is the first and foremost character of good Akhlaq.

When we try to please Allah, Allah will be pleased and He will also make the creation pleased with us. SubhanAllah! How marvelous is that?"

The whole lecture was so enchanting and refreshing that Rafa didn't want it to end, but alas soon it did. They then offered the Friday prayer, she wished Shabna a goodbye, and saw her leave with her husband. Gathering herself, she got up and walked up to the parking lot.

Rafa eyed her watch, her break was going to end in a while and she had to be available at the hospital. Fumbling with her footing, she fiddled a pebble back and forth, exasperated by waiting for her brother.

The sound of the car blinking to life startled her and she looked in time to see brown irises—resembling the creamy molten chocolates that she stirred to coat her cake. The sight brought in itself a breeze of familiarity.

Her vision fell over the entire face the next second, identifying him as the guy from the masjid and urgent care, whose name he had told to the nurse—Abdur Rehman.

He pushed his non-injured hand inside his pants pocket, and she suddenly remembered his wound. The doctor in her couldn't stop herself from knowing the state of the injury.

She gave her Salaam and he turned his posture towards her direction, slowly replying it under his breath.

"How is your wound?"

Her question slightly startled him. He had the choice to not answer, turn and walk away but something in him kept his feet rooted to the spot. Before the silence stretched more, he replied, "A lot better now, thank you."

Rafa's gaze fell over his non-bandaged wrist that still held blue stitches.

"How did you remove the bandages? Self-treatment will only cause harm," she puffed under her breath, shaking her head. She grabbed his wrist in her hand to examine the wound and soon realized that it was fine. Alhamdulillah!

"I didn't, actually. I had my doctor do it yesterday."

Rafa's mouth rounded in understanding, and she looked up from his wrist to his face, "It's alright then."

"Ahem." She heard someone cough and acknowledged what she was doing. "Rafa?"

Holding his arm, what is wrong with me?

Rafa quickly pulled away and saw Yahya standing at a close distance, giving the two a quizzical look.

"I thought you would never come," Rafa tried to hide her blush by turning towards their car, "I have hospital duty to carry on."

"I see," Yahya replied.

Rafa took a step away from Abdur Rehman, her body still deranged with current shocks at the mere touch. Her fingers felt like they were burning. A sincere astaghfaar left her lips even when her intention to touch had been solely as a medical professional*.

Abdur Rehman stood erect, recognising them as siblings. Looking at the guy who coughed, he remembered seeing him many times at the masjid, his grey eyes contrasted Rafa's blue sprinkled grey ones, his and her face matched with a handful of similarities.

His wrist still felt sparks by the soft fingers that brushed past them.

Rafa gave him a curt nod of parting, and she was about to walk away when he stopped her. Both the brother and sister turned towards him. "Thanks for the Gatorade."

Rafa nodded and walked to her car. Her mind filled with a whirlwind of emotions.

"Is this your Sherlock?" Yahya questioned after a while of silence.

It took a moment for Rafa to answer, "I must say, good guess."

"Broody and mysterious. One of the characteristics of Sherlock, so I didn't even have to rumble through my brain to guess in the first place."

"Ten points to your observational skills, Yahya," Rafa laughed, the awkward chanting of her heart halted and continued to beat in it's own pace.

Yahya joined her laugh with a high-five.

When the initial laughter subsided, Rafa rummaged through her handbag to find her cell phone. Finding it, she dialed her Mother's number, "Assalamu alaikum, Mom." She greeted immediately after her mother answered by putting the phone on speaker.

"Wa alaikum assalam, How are you? Is Yahya treating you well?" Her Mother's voice chimed throughout the car.

Rafa and Yahya's parents run an export company, and they stayed out of the country most of the time, making the siblings manage the household and each other along the process.

"Mom, don't even doubt your son. If you want to, keep an eye on your daughter, she is having some interesting tabs these days," Yahya joined in, earning a glare from Rafa whose grey irises screamed, you-did-not-jump-there.

"Really?" Her mother gasped, "Am I hearing wedding bells already?"

"Mom," Rafa groaned from her seat.

"Shall I be a good brother and see some local marriage halls for my sister's wedding?"

"You already want me out of your house, don't you?" Rafa eyed him shell-shocked, while her mother burst out laughing.

"Rafa, don't go with his remarks? He is just pulling your leg, darling. Mark my words, he will be the one bawling his eyes out on your wedding."

"Mom, I thought you were on my team," Yahya whined as he pulled the car inside the hospital's entrance.

"Well, in that sense, I will regard myself as a commoner," her mother deadpanned.

"That's clear cheating."

"Look who's speaking," Rafa turned her face away, notifying her mother that they had arrived at the hospital and cutting the call, she placed it on her bag. Not even sparing Yahya a side glance.

She was about to walk out when masculine fingers grabbed her wrist, turning her abruptly. "You are not upset, are you?"

"No! Yahya, I am so happy to leave you for my husband."

"Rafs! You are my sister, my world. Even if you marry and leave me, it doesn't mean our relationship has ended. I will forever be your brother, your well-wisher, your napkin to sniff your nose when you cry and your lottery ticket to light a smile to stretch through your lips, Okay?"

Rafa sniffed, blue moisture pooling her grey irises. She jumped inside the car and pulled Yahya into a hug, "I love you."

"I love me too," he replied.

As he watched the siblings walk away, a half crescent formed on his lips, surprising him. He wiped the smile off his face as soon as it came, questioning himself what had caused it.

Turning on his heel, he glanced towards the masjid entrance, hoping to see his mother. He did, but she wasn't smiling like she usually did when they reunited after Friday prayers, instead she was scowling.

"Assalamu'alaikum Warahmatullahi Wabarakatuh," he greeted, walking over to her. "What's wrong?"

"Who was that?" His mother asked before replying back to his greeting.

"Uh, a brother I see at the masjid sometimes," he offered cautiously.

"No, the woman."

"His sister."

His answer made his mother frown. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, instead looking at his wrist, where the feeling of Dr. Miller's hand still tingled.

Blood rushed to his face as he realized what his mother had seen.

He was trying to find his words when his mother sighed and said, "I brought Jannat downstairs with me so you could look at her, but you were busy."

"Sorry," he sheepishly whispered, embarrassed for disappointing his mother.

His mother started to walk towards where he had parked the car, prompting him to follow. Once they were buckled in, he steered the car out of the masjid parking lot and towards home.

The trees lining their path cast a cool shade on the winding road. His mother remained quiet as she stared out the window. She usually led their conversations in the car, so the fact that she wasn't talking at all indicated that she was troubled.

"What is it, Mama?" He asked, feeling like a young boy desperately wishing to make his mother happy.

His mother sighed before glancing at him, another indicator that she was indeed troubled.

"I liked Jannat, it's a pity you didn't get to see her today," his mother whispered, shifting a little in the passenger seat. "She doesn't come to the masjid often."

Abdur Rehman cleared his throat, his palms grew sweaty over the steering wheel. He measured his words, and said, "What-what is she like?"

A chester cat smile appeared on Tayyaba's face. "She's beautiful, smart and cultured."

"Cultured? How so?" He asked, when he really wanted to ask why it mattered whether she was cultured or not. They lived thousands of miles away from the hub of their culture, what difference did it make whether she was still holding onto those values or not.

"For starters, she was decked out in the most gorgeous salwar kameez, and her Urdu...it reminded me of your father when we first got married. I was always on the Punjabi side, you know. He was the Urdu-speaking one."

Abdur-Rehman gulped. "What else?" He wondered.

"She went to UCB for her undergrad. Can you believe that?"

"Good for her," he whispered under his breath.

"We didn't get into the details of what she can cook, because you know, it was just a casual meeting," his mother went on, gently palming the door handle as he took a sharp right. "But knowing how to cook desi food is a must. What else will we eat?"

"Do you think Manahil will like her?" Knowing what his elder sister thought was important, because if they decided on a girl without her consent, she would lose her marbles.

"I think she will." Tayyaba smiled. "I'll ask Badr to come with us next time so she can meet Jannat too."

Abdur Rehman bit the inside of his cheek, soaking in his mother's words.

"So you're serious about her?"

"Of course I am, she's everything I was looking for in a daughter-in-law," she announced in a matter-of-fact way.

"Okay."

A silence settled between them again, in which Abdur Rehman reflected over how his mother was racing forward with or without him. He didn't necessarily mind whatever she was doing, she was his mother after all, she had the right. But he felt hesitant to jump into a lifelong relationship so easily.

"The amount of reverts has had a steady increase recently, hasn't it?" His mother said, breaking the silence and deflating his thought bubble.

"Yes, Masha'Allah." He beamed, easing off the accelerator as they stopped at a red light.

"The siblings you were conversing with looked like reverts too."

"Yeah, it seemed so." He nodded, recalling Dr. Miller and her brother. He wasn't sure what their ancestry was, but they were caucasian most definitely.

"I wonder how they get along in the community," his mother's tone was concerned, "how well do they settle in a completely different lifestyle and community than the one they grew up in. Jobs, marriage, daily dealings...my heart goes out for their struggles."

"Indeed." A grin appeared on his lips. His mother was a bit rough around the edges, but her compassion always warmed his heart.

"But it must be difficult adjusting in families after marriage, don't you think? Due to their small numbers, I'm sure they must marry outside their race." His mother briefly looked out the window to inspect the golf course they drove by.

"Yeah."

"Marriage itself is a trial and sacrifice, just look at your sister, remember how many times she fought and came back home?"

Abdur Rehman bit the inside of his cheek as he recalled the memories. His sister had married her best friend's brother who she had known all her life, and yet she had a very difficult time settling into the family. Fortunately though things had gotten much better after both sides decided to reevaluate the relationship and make meaningful compromises.

"Marrying into another race and culture must be very challenging," his mother continued, popping open the glove box to take out a kleenex. "But of course, nothing is impossible. With adequate support and encouragement, anyone can adjust anywhere...but that's exactly why I feel that when it comes to people like us, you and me, who have a small family, it's best if we go the easier route, and avoid such matters."

His mother's words took him a few seconds to process, but as soon as he did, his face burned with a deep blush.

"You're—" he coughed to clear his throat, "—you're right, it's best we marry within people like us so there isn't a period of adjustment."

A silence engulfed them again as they entered their neighborhood and Abdur-Rehman pulled the car into their driveway.

"Next time, keep your eyes open to see who I walk out that door with, alright?" She said with a grin before getting out of the car.

"Yes Mama," he whispered as he watched her leave.

With that, any lingering thoughts of Dr. Miller flew away from his head. 

* It was narrated that Ma'qil ibn Yassaar said: the Messenger of Allaah (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him) said: "For one of you to be stabbed in the head with an iron needle is better for him than that he should touch a woman who is not permissible for him."

(Narrated by al-Tabaraani in al-Kabeer, 486. Shaykh al-Albaani said in Saheeh al-Jaami', 5045, that this hadeeth is saheeh.)

Sumaiya: I will purposely put a pebble on Rafa's way.

Sumaiya: She will stumble.

Sumaiya: Fall in AR's arms.

Sumaiya: Lock gaze.

Sumaiya: Automatically, love will blossom in the air.

Sumaiya: Bollywood will come short at my ideas.

Saroosh: LOOOOOL.