I’ve made a journey of days
er, months
no, years in fact
in this body of mine.
And it has led me
on an odyssey
to the far-off bowels of my oceanic mind,
to the tenuous, outermost tips of branches of my rigid tree
that could snap at the pound of a stiff wind,
to the niches of ability and fragility within my fort.

My body has told me tales
of when it couldn’t take it—
the cold, the hunger, the pulls of stress,
of other osseous vulnerabilities,
has vouchsafed that
it’s not invincible as the tyrants have foolishly thought,
it can burn and it can sink,
it can founder and decay and rot.

Post this (years of) extensive travel
in my body and its yarns
I have come to a halt.
Wait, what are we so proud of then?
Of a speck-like existence?
I mean, how can we carry the cargo of conceit
on breakable shoulders?

Love, I say..
Can live many lives
And die many deaths

Love breathes..
Through long sentences & unspoken words
Stolen stares and meaningless emojis

Love heals..
With comfort foods and warm platters
In aromas that touch your soul

Love hums..
Through a song once shared together
Or a verse recited halfway

Love flows..
Through a quick call to check if you reached home
Or wrapped in a late good night text

Love hides..
Behind fixed tires and filled gas tanks
Between warm folds of laundry and piles of stocked groceries 

Love simmers..
With late night chai and left over desserts
After little ones are tucked in bed, resting dreams 

Love grows..
Inside you
From leaps of fleeting moments
To waves of passing years

Love blooms..
Watered by kindness and forgiveness
Sparkling and glistening on rainy days

Love shines..
Through the pretty and the ugly
In the cold and the cozy

Love holds..
Unfiltered, unedited
In the glow and the wrinkles

Love stands…
Tall, through the sleepless nights
In loud tantrums
And quiet tears

Love grounds..
In sickness that breaks us
In the pain that heals us
In the loss that completes us

Love brews..
Along rushed smiles out the door
And in slow hugs that say welcome home

Love moves..
In walks together reliving ordinary days
Or hours of aimless couch chats
Sketching plans and weaving dreams

Love wins..
In coffee surprises and planned destinations
Or last minute dates and canceled vacations

Love lives..
Through long, long days that sway
And short lived years that slip away
Where ever this love takes us today

May we find us
Right, next to each other 
Starlit and placid like the Ever After
Spellbound and smitten like the first days

a shovel strikes the soil
in the ancient city
bayn-al-jabalayn

between the two mountains
the red soil turns
strike after strike

a golden axe glimmersrendering the ancient city
its new name:
الفأس

Fes

there between the two mountains
lies the ancient city:

a winding maze of cobbled streets
only accessed on foot

a capsule in time

hundreds of minarets, madrasas, masajid,
homes, shops
alleyways so thin–
you can touch both walls

a reminder of home,
of old Damascus streets
where my heart yearns
to go back once more

up
and
down
the streets
of Fes

follow the tour guide
or you’ll end up lost

balak balak!
move out the way!

the hustle and bustle
of this ancient city
of craftsmanship

ceramics: each tile
carefully chosen with precision
each color representing
a symbolic meaning—
green for Islam
blue for the cobalt of Fes
white for Casablanca
red for the soil of Morocco
yellow for the sand dunes
and black for the blessed black seed, habbat al-barakah

all interlaced into intricate patterns
on every wall, on tables, fountains
wherever your eye falls

and the weaving: hand stitched
embroidered from agave silk
the ancient city
bursting at the seams

the smell of tanneries so pungent
as you pass by leather shops
wood workshops, butchers
sweet shops with fresh desserts
dripping with syrup

sounds, colors, smells, flavors
so much to take in, so much to see

kids playing on street corners
and kids trained to beg, chasing you—

please madam, please
so I ask them questions,
see the curiosity spark in their eyes
what’s your name?
and
guess where I’m from

Yasin the seven year old
with his little smile and inquisitive eyes
plays along
and then the kids gathered round
in chorus, rehearsed

Yasin switches back too
please madam, please

so I gave them all a warm smile,
and a dirham each
on my way out

of that ancient city
between the two mountains

From the mountaintops

you can see the ancient city in its entirety

the red homes,
an homage to the soil
they’re built upon

hundreds of minarets,
madrasas established
to teach Islam

all that heart,
in such a small space

Olive trees

growing on the mountains above the ancient city
are the olive trees
the wind sways the leaves
as I look out over the medina

olive trees grow here
another reminder of home
of Syria

this place calls to me
something in my heart stirs:
a longing to be one with my heritage

different shades of olives grow here
green, black
low hanging fruits on the branches

I’ve never picked olives before
yet they’re such a staple in my life
thousands of miles away
from my homeland

labneh and zaytoun for breakfast
with a side of pita bread and zaatar,
a drizzle of olive oil and a cup of sweet tea

I watch the branches swaying over this ancient city
that reminds me of home, wondering
if I could reach out and pick some

my thoughts turn to Palestine
the blessed people, on a blessed land
attacked for simply harvesting their olives
from the ancient, blessed trees
tortured, burned, for claiming
what’s rightfully theirs

but just like the olive tree,
the Palestinians are resilient,
full of Iman, they rise
again and again, despite the harsh conditions

and so I stare at the ancient trees
swaying in the wind
on mountains
over the ancient city

and I reach out for the first time
in my thirty years of living
to pluck some olives

an homage to my homeland
my roots, my Syrian heritage

an homage to Palestine, the blessed land
and the Palestinian resilience

and an homage to Fes, this ancient city
that lies bayn-al-jabalayn
between the two Atlas Mountains

Prelude

“I love the righteous, although I’m not of them.” —Imam Al-Shāfiʿī

Is there still hope for me? From dust, I was brought into the world. And to dust I shall return. Yet I wonder, have I spent these years well? Have I served my lord well?

Dear Allah, is there still hope for me?

A Stranger with a Desperate Plea

I’ve been a stranger all my life—to the world, to friends, family, even to faith. I didn’t know much about Allah ﷻ growing up; in fact, I used to question whether or not He was even real. For so many years, one could say I lived blindly, with a clueless mind and a confused heart, and I worried my shortcomings barred me from getting close to the lord.

You know, I always thought praying required perfection, a pure state, and a clean history. That if a Muslim had made too many mistakes, had slipped up one too many times, their prayer was next to useless, null, and void. How many times can a person sin, I wonder?

This narrow mindset stayed with me until one night, I found myself trying to control my tears as I made my way to make wuḍū. I remember this night vividly.

It was 3 am and for several months prior, I had been deep in the pits of the worst depression of my life, and hadn’t even realized my life was slowly withering away. All these teenage years lost to a mental health battle I didn’t even know I was fighting. So many sleepless nights, constant pent-up emotional breakdowns, thoughts that felt much too heavy. I had finally reached my breaking point.

And I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Here I was, in the middle of the night, feeling an inclination to make prayer for God knows what. As I walked to the bathroom with a heavy heart, I suddenly paused in my tracks. A part of me thought it was foolish for me to pray. I hadn’t been very mindful of Allah ﷻ and only He knew how much I was drowning in my own faults. But perhaps that was exactly why I needed to speak to Him. I had made up my mind—I was really going to do this. Tahajjud, a prayer I hadn’t made in what felt like forever. What I was planning to even make tahajjud for, I didn’t really know. All I knew was that I needed presence, I needed guidance, even if my soul still felt like it was not welcome.

And so I made my wuḍū. I tried to silence my doubtful thoughts as much as possible, focusing on the fresh cold water as it made contact with my skin. First, the hands, then gradually moving to the face, then along the forearms. I had always been fascinated by how much the body can remember in times like these, having each step ingrained in the mind. Even now, as I look back and reflect on this moment, it was rather comforting to know I hadn’t completely forgotten my ablution.

As I soaked up the refreshing feel on my skin and body, I suddenly had a thirst I didn’t even realize was there. But indeed it was. A thirst for a safe space and what could have been safer than in the presence of the Almighty? I need this, I had thought to myself, taking note of my blotchy eyes and puffy face. It was time.

I had not expected anything to come out of that fateful night. But when my hands and knees hit that prayer mat and I found myself in sujood longer than intended, my soul suddenly felt like it was taking its first breath.

And as I came back up from prostration, I softly exhaled, my eyes brimming with tears once more.

I had never truly cried in salah before. Even when my family was silently enduring abuse at the hands of my father; even when I was diagnosed with an incurable chronic illness; even when we were financially broken. Even then, I never really cried to Allah ﷻ.

But there I was. I actually felt myself crying. It was such a quiet and miniscule sob, one would have missed it completely. Yet I know Allah ﷻ was my witness.

Like all things decreed, I think it was Allah ﷻ Himself calling me to Him. And with a desperate plea, I answered.

Little did I know what this prayer would do for me in years to come. It was a small step towards a process of healing I so badly needed.

Back to the Roots

But before I could ever start to heal and become the Muslim I am now, I had to relearn my own traumas. As a child growing up in a difficult home, I had so many questions about who I was, who I was meant to be. Mama enforced rules from the get-go: no tight clothes, no sleeveless tops, no leaving the house without a modest covering. Of course, I always knew she was just protecting me, even if these rules seemed strict at the time. But it felt odd being told at eight years old that I needed to cover my body. I remember getting lectured by mama from time to time as a kid if my shirts weren’t long enough or if there was too much skin showing in front of the men of the house. I never really understood why but I’d stop wearing such clothes anyway. There was a constant sense of shame surrounding the way I looked and this hair that needed to be covered with a piece of fabric. Ultimately, I never fully committed to this modesty until my first year of high school, where I finally decided to try it out.

Go for it, I thought as I was getting ready for school. It’s just a piece of cloth anyway.

I remember walking into the first period with my scarf loosely on my head—at that time, I didn’t even know how to secure it properly. And suddenly, people looked at me with a different look in their eyes.

I asked my friends what they thought of this new step and I was hit back with, “I think I liked you better without it.”

Yes, of course. Of course you do.

Those teenage years felt like a nightmare. While I felt myself drifting from everyone I once knew and loved, I became more and more wary of what the Lord was trying to teach me. And sometimes I wonder if this is where my fear of God began. I constantly felt ashamed of my appearance and questioned why we even needed to wear the hijab. I walked around with my head hung low, my loneliness becoming a cripple. Would things have been different had I been taught Islam in a softer way? If, instead of constant policing and scrutiny, I could have learned more about the beauty of modesty and why Allah commands what He does? Perhaps then, if only then, if I had understood who we really wear this hijab for, I wouldn’t have felt as lonely. Perhaps if I had been taught to pray before I was taught to cover, this wouldn’t have felt so alien.

I still can’t get the rotten sense of shame out of my mind, a feeling I am much too familiar with. I always felt it when I looked at my prepubescent body, and I feel it now, even as I look at myself in the mirror, at the age of 22, wrapping my hijab as part of my routine.

And as much as this shame stays with me, so does the religious fear and guilt. For a long time, I believed Allah ﷻ resented me and had no place for me within His love. I often felt like a purposeless piece of flesh, watching other Muslims be so secure and confident in who they were. I would always come back to the same questions:

Why does it have to be so hard for me?

What am I doing wrong?

How come their hijab suits them so well while I’m still trying to figure out how to keep this thing in place?

It was simply and utterly frustrating. I found myself trying to fit into a mold that everyone else seemed to fit into. But it wasn’t working. I could tell the shame was taking over me, consuming my every thought, my every emotion. And I began to notice how it seeped through innocent conversation with peers and strangers alike. Every time I laughed a little too loud, I’d kick myself later for doing so. Every time I smiled too big, I’d feel disgusted imagining how I must have looked. Every time someone tried to meet my gaze, I’d instantly lower my eyes and feel a burning sensation in my throat, afraid they would see too much. Hoping that if I stared at the floor, at the wall, anywhere else—they would finally walk away and let me be.

God, I never really knew how exhausting it could be to live like this.

Learning Du’a

With this religious fear, comes a sense of responsibility. Despite being told about modesty, I still struggled with understanding salah and how it worked, until one day, my mama began to teach me the basics. At that time, I didn’t even know what tahajjud was, but I’d watch my mama pray her five daily prayers, like an animal entranced by the smell of its next meal. I’d curiously observe her motions and try to copy each move. I was in awe of how she knew what to do each time, how she held her hands up to her Lord, eyes closed and mouth softly uttering words I could never make out. Later, I’d find out she was making du’a. She did this not only after she prayed, but multiple times throughout the day, and sometimes even from the comfort of her bed.

One day I asked her what she asked for in du’a. “How do you know what to say, Mama? How do you know He’s listening to your prayers?”

My mama simply looked at me smiling, and replied, “Allah hears and knows everything, beta. Try it one time, you’ll see.”

I started trying to make du’a every now and then, unsure whether or not my words even made sense. Sometimes, I didn’t even know what to say, and would sit there dumbfounded, my hands raised and my heart heavy. Yet I like to believe Allah understood me anyway, even in these moments of silence.

It’s funny how the child grows and develops. They watch their parents and mimic their actions, wanting nothing more than to be like them. This was how I felt when I prayed with my father for the very first time before he left our home, now a distant stranger. I was seven years old with a vision and a dream: to be like Baba. Even despite witnessing his violent anger and abusive nature, ten-year-old me admired him when he prayed, tall in stature, eyes on the ground, shoulders firm, calloused hands ripened with age. This is the father I remember. This is the Islam I remember. And we’d finish the last rakat, his gentle smile and hand on my head, telling me I did well.

Perhaps that was all I needed from my parents. To be told I was doing well.

Trying to Find My Place in Community

I would go to my local masjid for weekly Quran classes and to attend Friday prayers. Even when I didn’t understand the words I was reciting, I felt a lightness in my heart when I had the Quran placed in front of me. And as I recited, it was as if my soul already knew all the lines, memorized them to a crisp. My voice would come out like butter; it felt like I had done this in a past life. And as I finished reciting a surah, I’d look over to meet eyes with my teacher, who’d beam at me, a tenderness in her gaze. She always told me my voice was meant for the Quran. That I could touch souls as long as I kept reciting the beautiful words of our Lord.

I don’t know whether or not I was aware of how much of a presence Islam had in my life, even back then as a little girl. But I remember how much joy I felt when I went to the masjid and saw my friends. The times I prayed side-to-side with different women, all coming from different backgrounds, with different stories. All the energy I put into learning and memorizing surahs of the Qur’an. It was instilled in me, that this was the way I wanted my life to be, that as long as my hands and knees were on the prayer mat and as long as I kept remembrance of Allah in my heart, I could navigate life to any capacity.

But as I grew older, something in the air had undoubtedly shifted. I started noticing the changed dynamics and how society became more harsh. Our parents became paranoid of everyone’s opinions and the infamous saying muddled our home, “Log kya kahenge?” (What will people say?).

Before I started covering more, I noticed how the aunties looked at me. There were whispers here and there and judging eyes in every direction. I remember distinctively there was once a contest in our masjid for the ‘best’ student—meaning the young Muslimah who had the best attendance record at Quran classes, who memorized a commendable amount of surahs, et cetera et cetera. It was harmless, an innocent way to encourage young girls at that time to become more devoted and connected to Islam. And suddenly, I heard my name being announced. I had received a certificate in acknowledgement for my efforts, and while I smiled at this news, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pain when I overheard the aunties behind me talking in what they must have thought were hushed tones.

“How did she win? I thought she still didn’t wear the hijab…”

“My daughter goes to the same school as her and she can attest to that!”

“I don’t understand these ridiculous contests if such students can’t even cover their hair.”

I was shocked. I didn’t know what to say. I looked behind me, meeting the gaze of one of the aunties, so fierce and stern, it made me heat up. She peered at me over her large-rimmed glasses, studying me like I was a competitor even though I could have been the same age as her own child. And despite finding their comments offensive and hurtful, I started to agree with them more and more. Perhaps there was no chance for me to be a truly good Muslim if I couldn’t even commit to one of Allah’s biggest commandments.

But looking back at this moment now, I wonder what would make a person say such things? I was still so young and unaware and was still figuring out my own Muslim identity, yet couldn’t even be respected because I didn’t wear the hijab yet. It was strange and painful all the same. Every time I reached for the hijab, the thought stayed in the back of my mind: Am I really worthy of wearing this? Even when I had eventually put it on later in high school, I still didn’t feel fully worthy nor ready. My own friends stopped hanging out with me. They weren’t Muslim themselves, so it only made sense they would find it hard to understand, yet something small in me still wished they could have been proud of me, or at the very least, showed me some reassurance that they still wanted to be my friend. But in hindsight, they never did, and those friendships became history, another thing that faded away with time.

And as much as all of these experiences hurt me, I wonder now if they were all meant to shape me into who I am today. If the hijab hadn’t been there for me, perhaps I still would have stayed in toxic places and harmful company. With this perspective, my pain eases a little more.

A Yearning to Keep Going

Even now as I try to unpack my religious trauma, I still yearn to be better. I’ve always admired the righteous even if I am not as devout as them. And as much as I know that Allah ﷻ loves me, I still struggle with the feeling of being an outsider to my own religion. I look at the mirror and often wonder if people can see what I hide. A deep and sorrowful part of me longs for belonging more than anything, yet I’m afraid that my lack of knowledge and understanding makes me less of a Muslim.

But perhaps what I’ve failed to recognize in all these moments of sorrow, is that Allah’s mercy never left. His hidaya had been upon me even when I felt like dying would be better. In my loneliest and most depressive moments, I still somehow found my mind drifting back to Him. His presence never left. Isn’t that beautiful?

I realize now, after everything, after each and every trial, this yearning to strive to be better will only strengthen. If I find myself returning to Him, then indeed there is still hope for me. If this is not a reflection of His mercy, then what else could it be?

And with that, I will continue to find my way home in the shade of Allah ﷻ, where my soul feels taken care of and my tired limbs can rest. Indeed, this fickle little heart we call our qalb—it will continue to make its way to the prayer rug.

April 2005

“Raa-fia?” the physician’s assistant called out.

I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to be here.

“Please come with me.”

I followed her down the brightly lit corridor, passing the walls covered with photos of newborns and ‘thank you’ notes. Even though I was a high school senior, my primary care physician was the same pediatrician I’d been seeing since I was eleven.

“You can set your things here,” the assistant pointed to the room where Dr. Singh would later see me.

I knew what was about to happen. The dreaded weigh-in. It had been years since I had seen the doctor, and years since I had been weighed.

“Please take your shoes off and step on the scale.”

I looked down at the dusty scale and imagined the last kid who stood there, running around in the dirt before his visit. I hesitated. I didn’t want my socks to get dirty. I was only seeing the doctor because my mom insisted. I was feeling fine. I mean, other than being fat, which I had been my entire life.

But I took my shoes off, stepped on the scale, and then waited. Back in those days, doctors’ offices had not yet advanced to digital scales. You started with an estimated weight and then they would slide a weight to the right or left depending on where the scale tipped.

Most of Dr. Singh’s patients were less than 60 pounds. When the PA quickly moved the slider to 150 pounds, I knew I was going to be standing on that scale for a while. It had been years since I weighed that amount. She moved the slider to the right.

Clank.

170? Nope.

Another clank.

180? Not that either.

Clank.

190? No.

Now, even I was starting to get worried. Had I really gained 40 pounds?

Yet another clank.

Not even 200? I don’t think even Baaj ever weighed that much when she was pregnant with Ahmed.

Maybe 205?

I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear it.

What about 210?

Then the final clank.

I opened my eyes and stared at the scale. Two-hundred and twenty pounds.

I couldn’t believe it. I knew I was fat, but I had no idea I was that fat. I peered over at the PA writing some notes down on my chart. She took out a calculator, crunched in some numbers and wrote down 39.9 as my BMI.

According to the NIH, a person is considered obese if he or she has a BMI of 30 or greater. A BMI of 40+ rendered a person morbidly obese. That meant I was 0.1 points away from killing myself. “Death by Fatness” could have been the title of my story, except there would be no Hercule Poirot needed to solve the mystery of my death. I was the culprit.

Up until that point I told myself I didn’t care about what I looked like. Now confronted with the reality I didn’t want to face, I cried like I’ve never cried before.

Summer 2005 – Spring 2009

For as long as I can remember, I have been “Fat Rafia.” I was Fat before I was Rafia. I was the cautionary tale Desi aunties warned their daughters about: “Don’t eat too much! Otherwise, you’ll look like…Rafia. And then you’ll never get married!” I learned at the age of six that “Fat Rafia” was how most people would ever see me, and it forever shaped my own self-perception. I was born fat and I would die fat. End of story.

But when I learned from my doctor that my weight could lead to other conditions that could result in blindness or the inability to walk without assistance, I realized I had to do something. I didn’t want to die young.

After starting college in the summer of 2005, I began to make small changes to my diet. Although at the time, these small changes felt like huge sacrifices.

From the time I began eating cereal as a kid, there were only two kinds I ate: Cocoa Pebbles or Cocoa Puffs. No exceptions. But now I had to make some changes. When I accompanied my mother during her weekly grocery shopping trip, I hovered in front of the brown box, looking at the happy Flinstones. I then looked to my right where the cereal boxes no longer pictured cartoon characters.

I scowled.

“Rafia,” my mom said. “Remember what the doctor said!”

“How about Bran Flakes?” my mom suggested in her cheery tone.

“Yuck! I’m not eating that stuff. You eat it!”

I knew I couldn’t have Cocoa Pebbles anymore, but did I really need to eat cardboard for breakfast? I remember my naani used to eat Bran Flakes. One time when I was hungry and there was nothing to snack on, I thought I would try some. I promptly spat it out because it had no flavour. I know Nanaami was diabetic, but I wasn’t old like her. I was too young for gruel.

Luckily for me, I was able to find something that had some flavour and less sugar than my beloved Cocoa Pebbles. I opted for Special K and limited myself to just one serving, though I filled up my bowl as I always did. I missed not being able to drink that chocolate-y goodness straight from the bowl, but the Special K box touting “Good Source of Fiber” and “Made with Real Strawberries” made me feel good about my decision.

After a couple of weeks of Special K, I decided I was ready for another change: brown bread. Though it wasn’t as yummy as the Hostess white bread I was used to, Nutella had a way of making anything taste good. I was not about to give up my precious Nutella. That was asking for too much. “Small steps,” I recalled my doctor telling me.

When it came to dinner, I reduced the amount of rice I ate, limiting myself to just one plate. After chocolate, the only other thing that gave me comfort in life was chawwal and khatti daal with some talaawa ghosht. We were a family that ate rice everyday for dinner and it was not uncommon for me to eat chawwal sometimes three times in a single day. To reduce my rice intake to just one measly plateful a day was akin to depriving myself of the only happiness I had ever known.

To supplement my new food choices, I decided to make friends with the treadmill collecting dust in our basement. This may have been even harder than eating healthy. I was the kid who sat on the bench during recess. In middle school, I purposely sprained my ankle so that I could get out of playing softball during gym class. I did whatever I could to avoid doing anything that required movement. Thankfully, we had a TV downstairs. Watching America’s Next Top Model while I walked every day for 30 minutes made me almost forget I was “exercising.” Only the psychotic tirades of Tyra Banks could divert my mind from the pain of having to walk on the treadmill.

Over the course of my freshman year, I started to notice small changes in my physical appearance. The XXL t-shirt that I had to squeeze to fit into was now loose. By the end of my second year of college, I had lost 30 pounds. Though I was still obese, this was the first time in my life I had lost weight. I started to believe that maybe I could be more than just Fat Rafia.

With the early success, I was motivated to do more. During my third year, I began to carefully read and scrutinize nutrition labels. What was previously a 30-minute grocery trip often extended to an hour. Not only did I read the ingredients to make sure I recognized every one, my final selection had to have the lowest amount of fat, sugar, and sodium. After learning that Special K was full of sugar, I opted for oatmeal instead. I bought a food scale to calculate the calorie count of whatever I couldn’t assess in a measuring spoon or cup. Though it meant more dishes to clean, I had to make sure I consumed no more than 1,500 calories a day.

My goal was to reach 135 pounds by the time I graduated in May 2009. That was the number I needed to be in order to have a “normal” BMI. After losing those first 30 pounds, losing an additional 55 seemed a bit more achievable.

After dinner, I would spend even more time in the basement, walking on the treadmill for at least one hour each evening. I was now able to walk faster than before and even added some running spurts to increase my calorie burn. The pain I felt in my legs meant I was getting closer to my goal of 135 pounds.

May 2009

On graduation day, I weighed 139 pounds. I had gone from a Size 22 to a Size 10 in three years. Although it was great I was no longer plus-sized, I still was not happy. And although I won three big awards that day, all I could think of was that I had missed my weight goal by four stinking pounds.

On the outside, things were looking good for me. I had graduated at the top of my class, people were remarking on how good I looked, but it still was not enough. I had to be 135 pounds.

When I finally reached 135, I still was not happy with the way I looked. I needed to lose more. My new goal was 120.

I poured all my energy into losing weight rather than looking for a full-time job. After about six months of unemployment and upon my father’s insistence, I finally got a part-time gig. Though it came with no benefits and I hated it, I wasn’t motivated to do anything about it. A part-time job meant I would have more time to exercise when I got home and I could control the amount of food I ate without being tempted by food in the break room. It was a win-win.

By this time, I stopped going out to eat and refused social invitations. I couldn’t eat all that greasy deep-fried food. And how would I measure anything?

My family was concerned that I was becoming too extreme, but I scoffed at their comments and pleas to eat more. These were the same people telling me I was fat my entire life, and now they were telling me I was too skinny? I ignored them. I had to get thinner. Being thin was all I cared about.

Besides, how could my family not understand how absolutely delicious my carefully measured ⅓ cup of oatmeal sweetened with ½ cup of (unsweetened) applesauce was, or how satisfying my low-carb brown bread with 2 tablespoons of hummus and spinach were! And who needs cake when you can eat 10 grapes for dessert? If you freeze them for an hour, it’s like eating a grape-flavored popsicle.

February 2010 – September 2011

Nine months after graduation, I reached my new goal of 120 pounds.

But even that was not good enough. Even though my BMI was normal – and the positive comments continued – my stomach was still flabby, my thighs still jiggled, and my calves prevented me from fitting into skinny jeans.

I had to lose more weight.

By the end of 2010, I had gone down to 108 pounds. I was now a size 4 and could fit into an XS. But my thighs still touched when I sat down.

I stopped eating rice completely by this point. I also banished my beloved Nutella from the house. I only ate because if I didn’t my father would get upset. I made sure I drank a lot of water while I sat at the dinner table and ate slowly so no one would notice how little I was eating.

“Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels,” I would tell myself as I held on to my stomach, trying to massage my hunger pangs away as I lay in bed, unable to sleep.

October 2011

During the daytime, I was still dieting. But as soon as I was alone, a new side of me began to emerge. A shadow that had to be fed, and on the night of Halloween, she took no prisoners.

As I lay in bed unable to sleep, all I could think of was the leftover chocolate stashed away in the pantry. I stared at my ceiling fan and instead of sheep, I counted the different chocolate bars that remained. After an hour or so, once I heard my dad’s loud snoring, I got out of bed. I tip-toed in the dark, quietly pressing against the walls of our narrow hallway. I fumbled a bit until I grasped the railings. Holding on firmly, I took one step down the stairs, one foot at a time until I felt the cold marble floor under my feet.

Before my weight loss, my brother and I would eat a few pieces of the leftover candy each day until they were all finished. It usually took about a week. I was content with having a few pieces each day. But this new version of me wanted them all—NOW. It’s as if the future didn’t exist and if I didn’t act immediately, I’d forever lose my chance.

“Just take a few. Bhaijaan won’t notice,” Shadow Rafia whispered as I opened the pantry door. “Just eat the ones he doesn’t like. Save the Snickers for him.”

I took the bag out and put my hand in, not knowing which candy I would pull out first. I squinted to see what I had fished out. It was a Mars bar. I didn’t like Mars and in the past, left them uneaten. But Shadow Rafia didn’t distinguish the subtleties of flavours. Chocolate was chocolate – and she needed chocolate. I ripped open the plastic wrapping and hurled the chocolate into my mouth. The wrapper fell to the ground. I paid no attention to where it landed. Barely done with my first candy, I picked out another from the bag.

Rip.
Throw.
Drop.
Swallow.
Grab.

Even though it was the middle of the night and everyone was still asleep, I was in a rush. I went searching for more and took what I made out to be Hershey’s Milk Chocolate, but I didn’t bother savoring the smooth chocolate melting in my mouth. After a cursory chew, my hand went searching for more.

After about 10 minutes, when shadow me was sated and quietened, I was me again – the good dieting me – and I looked around to witness the carnage I had committed. There were tiny wrappers all around me. I had broken my “Don’t eat after 6 pm” rule. This was no small infraction. I felt embarrassment, dread.

What had happened to me? Just a couple of months ago, I wouldn’t have gone for even one of those candies. They were against the rules. I had lost all control.

Then the lights turned on.

“Rafia, kya kharray? Kya hwan?” my mom asked in bewilderment, as she came into the living room. I was crouched on the floor in the fetal position, crying like a baby.

I had turned into a monster. And Shadow Rafia was so much worse than Fat Rafia.

March 2012

There was an Einstein Bagels about a block away from my doctor’s office. I knew it was there and often thought about stopping by, but never did. Good dieting Rafia kept me in check. Bagels were full of empty carbs, and I knew that drinking even water before an appointment would add pounds to the scale. Every time I had to see the doctor, I went on an empty stomach.

Once the bingeing began though, I seemed to lose the control I had once mastered. During one particular visit, after I saw the Einstein Bagels, my stomach growled almost on cue. Without thinking, I turned into the parking lot. Shadow Rafia had taken over.

But I hesitated before I got out of my car.

“No, Rafia. Don’t do this,” good, dieting Rafia pleaded.

“Don’t listen to her, you deserve this,” Shadow Rafia comforted.

“You don’t deserve anything. Remember you will be weighed!”

“Carbs, chocolate….you love chocolate. When was the last time you had chocolate, Rafia?”

I parked the car. Shadow Rafia won most, if not all, debates.

As I waited in line, I battled with feelings of guilt, hunger, and enticement. My mom said that whenever she had a doctor’s appointment, she’d treat herself to a coffee and bagel at Dunkin Donuts. Was it really that bad if I got one too? Didn’t I deserve to be happy as well?

I was next in line.

“How can I help you?”

“Umm, just give me a minute,” I told the cheery teenage attendant. I could walk out right now and just say I’m late for an appointment. I didn’t have to get anything. But I was hungry. I looked at the whole wheat bagel. It didn’t look very good. My eyes kept going back to the chocolate chip bagel. Oh, chocolate!

“Whenever you’re ready!” her cheeriness had turned down a notch and she let out a sigh. I could hear rustling behind me. I was holding up the line and everyone behind me was getting irritated by my indecisiveness. I looked over my shoulder. I looked at the bagels again.

“Okay, I think I’ll get a chocolate chip bagel with cream cheese please?” As if I was asking for my order to be validated by a stranger I’d never see again. Ashamed, I quickly ate the bagel in my car before driving to the doctor’s office.

As I sat in the waiting room, I started to panic. Now that she had gotten what she wanted, Shadow Rafia was gone for now. Only Diet Rafia remained and she was freaking out. The second hand on the clock above the receptionist’s counter began to tick loudly. It got louder and louder as I waited and I could feel my heart race ahead of it. Thump. Thump. Thump. I wanted to go to the bathroom one last time to see if I could reduce the bagel bloat, but it was too late. The nurse came out.

“Raaa-fia?”

I wanted to sink into my seat.

“Please follow me.”

If only I could go back in time! Why had I stopped at the Einstein Bagel? The bagel wasn’t even all that good anyway, barely any chocolate chips, and now I was going to pay for it.

“Place your things here,” the nurse said.

As I went to take off my shoes, she interrupted me. “You don’t have to take off your shoes.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” I said with a slight chuckle. “They’re practically off anyway.”

She looked at me in disapproval, but I didn’t care. Anything to reduce the number on the scale. Why did I wear this thick sweater? Should I have worn my khakis instead of my denim jeans? I should have worn something lighter. It was too late now, so the least I could do was take off my shoes and pray to God that the bagel didn’t undo all that I had worked so hard for.

I stepped on the scale, eager yet anxious. I had to know how much time I’d have to spend on the treadmill later to make up for my major slip.

113 pounds, the digital scale instantaneously read.

“That’s great!” the nurse said.

Great? Was this woman taunting me? How was I doing great? I gained 5 pounds!

I should have been happy I had managed to maintain over 100 pounds of weight loss, but I was angry at myself for gaining back five of those pounds. Those five pounds were what really mattered.

April 2026

It’s been 21 years since I reached my highest weight of 220 pounds. Twenty-one years since I stepped on that scale in my pediatrician’s office and broke down in tears.

It’s been 16 years since I reached my lowest weight of 108 pounds. Sixteen years of battling with myself to be a weight I thought would make me happy.

Though it was nice to be called “beautiful” for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel it. There was always more weight to lose. Until I couldn’t. At the time, I had thought Shadow Rafia was a monster, but now I realize she was trying to help me.

Losing over 100 pounds was not easy – accepting my new body and all the changes that came with it was even harder. At the time of writing, I am learning to accept my body for what it is and what it can do, instead of focusing on what it’s not.

And for the record, I am eating chocolate again, and none of those bottom of the variety pack Hershey’s bars. I’m now all about the premium couverture brands like Callebaut and Valrhona. Shadow Rafia has evolved!

“There are giants in the sky,” I whispered to my little cousin, tucking her in as I flipped to the next page of her book.

She blinked, eyes wide as her little fingers touched the image of the giant at the top of the beanstalk—little Jack climbing down as he tried to escape his crushing doom.

But the giants I was thinking of were not perched on beanstalks. In the distance, I heard the tense echoes of raised voices in the kitchen down the hallway, the conversation that has been hovering thick in the air since we landed at my uncle’s house yesterday. His shock and disappointment.

“This decision will break our family,” he said, his voice crescendoing down the hall.

A heaviness filled my chest like a stone. My cousin whimpered and I turned up the volume on the white noise machine, closing the book.

“Let’s not read this right now, okay? I have a better idea.”

My cousin nodded, with her big, midnight black eyes and eyelashes so long they held weight when she blinked (“butterfly wings,” my aunt called them). “What idea, Mimi baaji?”

“Let’s talk about Jannah.”

My cousin smiled and giggled as we whispered under the covers about endless rivers of honey, palaces made of diamonds, trees that stretch for miles, candy without limits, and winged horses for us to fly on.

In Jannah, there was no fear, no raised voices. Only sweetness that never ran out.

When her giggles quieted and as she closed her eyes, her breathing slowing, I stepped off the bed and tiptoed out of the room, softly closing the door. The TV hummed in the living room. My nana had fallen asleep on the couch, light flickering across his face. A documentary played on mountains, one he’s seen dozens of times.

I draped a blanket over him and moved toward the kitchen.

“…mountains are shaped slowly—by wind, by water, by ice…”

The calming, monotonous voice in the British accent was soft and measured, almost too calm for the hour. It seemed to echo throughout the house, woven with the voices in the kitchen, a clash and a symphony all in one.

“…even slow movement creates immense pressure, enough to lift entire mountain ranges.”

The image of Maamu’s face comes back in flashes, when he saw the navy blue cloth around my head, a beige one around my mother’s, when he picked us up from the airport yesterday.

“You’re not Arab. Where does it say that Muslim women must wear hijab? This is not from our family at all,” his voice bellowed.

“And to impose that on a child, she’s only thirteen, how could you do this?”

I heard my mother, a mountain of a woman herself, arguing back in response with verses from the Qur’an. My heart raced, a spark catching in my chest. The muffled voice from the TV in the other room coats the hallway in melancholy.

​I stepped into the kitchen and my breath caught in my throat, like the air around me became thin, burdensome, painful. The kitchen was a space usually reserved for the heavy, rich scents of my aunt’s cooking, but now it felt hollowed out by the heat of the argument. My heart was racing, a steady, burning thing rising within me like a peak breaking through clouds. My mother looked up, her eyes narrowing into two sharp ridges of warning: Do not speak. In this house, you did not defy the giants who stood before you. My chest felt weighted, the pressure of generations of “refinement” pressing against my ribs, but I spoke anyway.

“Maamu,” I said, my voice quieter than I expected, “it was my choice to wear the hijab.”

He turned towards me, and his eyes widened with shock and hurt. The niece he doted on, loved, and saw as his own daughter, had now defied the fabric of this family. He shook his head and left the room. My mother and I both stared at each other, bewildered, and hurt.

My nani, in the next room with my aunt, came into the kitchen. An elegant shawl was wrapped around her dainty shoulders, her midnight black hair pulled back in a neat, crisp bun pinned tightly against her head, her eyes sharp.

She turned to me. “You’re too young to make these decisions.”

“Nani,” I started. I moved to step toward her to try to reason with her, but my mother’s hand held onto my wrist. She didn’t look at me; her eyes remained fixed on the oak dining table as we let Nani continue.

“Ye parda hamaare parhe likhe khandaan ke liye nahi hain…” she stated: this hijab is not suited for our educated family.

My elders always used this phrase, parhe likke khandaan, that we are a family of intellectuals and philosophers, our lineage stretching back to royalty and the Mughals. As children, we always felt uncomfortable as they shared these tales, but for them, especially my grandmother, they carried our history with esteem, a lens with which they saw the world. Nani would relay, despite our awkward glances and uncomfortable smiles, that her grandmother raised actual elephants in their familial courtyard, and not an inch of her skin was left uncovered in gold (or so we were told).

Then, a shadow of sadness would fall over her face when she talked about how the world shifted: the political trauma of colonization and the Partition that became a crushing weight, a heat that changed the very foundation of our family.

Nani’s mother had to sell much of their ancestral gold after her husband passed away; her children studied their textbooks under the dim glow of street lights when there was load-shedding at home, until they were sent overseas to study in prestigious institutions.

Gold was melted into currency for survival, safe passage, education, and protection. What once adorned became what was instead spent, after years of intense heat and pressure formed by tears and struggles.

But the pride and honor remained.

Fragments of the gold are still woven in the bones of the elders who walk with an unspoken weight of regality, an air of something grand that I cannot put into words. Many of the men in our family carry the title “Shah,” and the elders turn away any rishta that does not meet their quiet measure of honor (something that has begun to feel like a kind of inheritance we are still learning how to loosen).

Nani’s maamu and my great-grandfather, Maulana Mahmood Azam Farooqui (may Allah SWT be pleased with him), fought to bring religiosity back to the forefront of our family, and the nation. He was a giant of his time in Pakistan, being a senior leader in Jamaat-e-Islami, a government Minister, and a close friend of Maulana Maududi. Yet, after his passing, that vibrant identity of faith seemed to follow him into the earth, becoming something quiet and buried—cultural, like a cloak taken out for special occasions. Faith became something for the heart, private and tucked away in the quiet of our homes and only whispered between the threads of the prayer mat.

After his passing, to wear the hijab full-time was a jarring display, a catastrophic degradation, a notion that you’ve stepped out of the carefully woven fabric of generations of those who embraced modernity and wealth, education and refinement. And to be visually religious somehow marks you as an other, someone who falls from the ranks.

When I visited Pakistan, the maasis chuckled at my hijab as they dusted Nani’s furniture made of Italian upholstery, saying, “Baaji, this is what we wear, not you…” I offered a polite smile, but something in me stayed firm. I pinned my hijab tighter while standing on the balcony, a stubborn peak rising, with the sounds of children playing cricket in the street echoing below.

The monotonous voice from the TV continued, interrupting my thoughts. The volume was lowered, probably by Maamu.

“…metamorphic rocks are formed when existing rocks are subjected to intense heat and pressure, changing their mineral structure without melting…”

My nani’s disappointment continued and pools of tears formed under my mother’s eyes. Nani paused her scolding and poured some tea, adding a few drops of Carnation evaporated milk, a carefully levelled teaspoon of sugar, and then set the teacup in front of my mother—carefully and gently, without a word. She paused briefly before walking out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

I watched my mother gaze at my grandmother’s back as she left, a look of longing in her eyes. She had once been the daughter who glistened like gold, chasing the approval of giants down the hallway. Now, she sought refuge in the One who transcends the skies.

“Allah changes hearts,” my mom whispered, pulling the teacup close to her face and taking a small sip. She set the cup down and looked at me, “Go, get some sleep.”

I nodded and kissed her cheek before turning away, giving her the quiet she needed to steady her breath, as I walked down the hall towards the living room.

“…mountains are never truly still; they are always rising or eroding. What looks permanent is actually in motion beneath the surface. Even the strongest mountains are shaped by both force and gentleness.”

“Nana, time to go to bed,” I whispered, turning off the TV.

“Ok betiyya, let me just do my wudu and finish reading Isha.” Next to him, the Qur’an was open, his notes in the margins next to the ayah he last read:

“For indeed, there are stones from which rivers burst forth, and there are some of them that split open and water comes out, and there are some of them that fall down for fear of Allah. And Allah is not unaware of what you do.”
—Surah Al-Baqarah (2:74)

I smiled briefly and made my way to my room. What stones lay within me, yearning to burst? Are there crevices in my heart that are hard like stones?

It was just last week my English teacher took me outside the class, hot tears pooling in my eyes when yet another classmate made a hurtful comment about my hijab, connecting it to the age-old lies and media narratives. It was nothing new, being one of the only Muslim students in the school, but this time, it stung, like a peg came loose inside and a dam burst. My teacher sat next to me on the bench outside her classroom, held my hand and whispered, “You’re so brave.”

Brave?

My mind collapsed in confusion. I didn’t feel brave. I was the girl who made herself unseen and amiable, who melted into the walls of the classroom with a book in her hands—friendly, but careful not to be seen too closely. How had my mere existence, this cloth that was a quiet choice, become something perceived as courage?

And if it was courage, was I strong enough to carry it? To hold both what it meant to me, and what it meant to everyone else?

And now, the hurt in my elders’ eyes, was that the cost of being so-called ‘brave’?

As I lay beneath the covers, I asked Allah for strength—for the fortitude of mountains, and the softness of streams that vein through the valleys. The comforting sound of Nana’s recitation echoed softly through the walls.

For days after that heated night, silence was a physical thing, a tectonic plate wedged between the dinner table and the prayer rug. We didn’t speak of the hijab again, but Maamu quietly observed. He watched the way I still helped my aunt with the dishes and made funny, unbearably cheesy jokes; the way I still kissed my grandparents and devoured novels and listened to his advice with awe; the way this fabric had not changed the niece he loved. It was a slow movement, centimeters at a time, but beneath the surface, the pressure of consistency was beginning to lift something old and heavy.

When Maamu dropped us off at the airport a week later, he bent down, this grand uncle of mine whom I adored, and hugged me. When he pulled back, his eyes were warm.

“Fi iman Allah,” he whispered, a goodbye whispered among all our elders before travel.

My cousin waved from the car, her other hand clutching the book we were reading nights before.

Who would have known that a few years later, that same little cousin waving at the window, who once blinked at Jack’s beanstalk, would stand in front of a mirror, carefully wrapping a cloth around her own head? Not out of fear of a “crushing doom,” but out of a quiet, steady love?

Who would have known that her small hands, the ones that once touched the paper giants in her book, would soften stones? That Maamu would not only accept her hijab, but quietly welcome it with dignity and open arms?

Who would have known that many of my other cousins would do the same, a cloth that was once foreign, now an armor and identity? And family members who once defied the existence of God due to their version of intellectual reform would come back to the faith? That they would once again find themselves returning to the masjid, standing shoulder to shoulder, foot to foot, in a prayer that finally reached the heights they’d been searching for all along? ​

​We often look for the monumental shift, the Jack-and-the-beanstalk miracle, but the most lasting changes are tectonic: a word spoken, a line crossed, a fabric wrapped, fearfully, but with a quiet conviction. ​Given time, even the smallest shifts can reshape the entire tapestry.

“You know,” my mother would tell me years later, long after my Nani had passed with the shahada on her lips, “Ami visited us when you three were small, and she was so naraaz by how we were living, by how little we prayed. Before she left she made du’aa for our hidayat.”

My mother chuckled softly, “Even if it wasn’t exactly how she pictured it,” she whispered, smoothening her hijab.

“I owe everything to her.”

That single du’aa planted a seed that made my mother curious about her faith, curious enough to go to the masjid, curious enough for her to read the Qur’an again, curious enough to attend halaqas, and yes, curious enough to eventually wear the hijab. It was my Nani’s single du’aa that shook the foundation of generations, a seed planted in land that was glistening but seemed barren, only to sprout in ways no one could have predicted.

There are giants in the skies, yes, but the real giants are the ones that rise quietly among us, those brave enough to lift their hands in prayer, plant the seeds, take the climb, and keep rising, even as the very ground beneath or the skies above, break asunder.

“​And He has cast into the earth firmly set mountains, lest it shift with you.”
— Surah An-Nahl (16:15)

Act III: Fifty-Six Strides (and One Leap)

The banquet hall Kanwal stood in was reminiscent of every desi wedding and fundraiser she had ever attended. Crisp white linen at right angles, expectant silver chafing dishes along a buffet table, winking LED crystal chandeliers. She could have been in Mississauga instead of Surrey. 

“Looking good, my Biryani Queen,” said a voice behind her.

“Thank you, and please,” Kanwal grinned as Aicha hugged her from behind. “Never call me that again.”

“Regretted it as soon as I did.” Aicha slid into the seat next to her, a vision of silk in mulberry and gold, matching the room’s decorations. Her gaze flickered over the cardstock programs on each place setting and the floating candle centrepieces. Kanwal knew the expression well; it was the same she wore when she took stock of her stall before opening hours. 

“I’m so glad you came.” Aicha straightened out a pile of donation pledge forms in the middle of the table. 

“Me too. But I can’t stay for long. I haven’t even started packing.” The summer had passed by in the blink of an eye. Her flight back to Toronto was only a week away, right after her last weekend at the Market.  

“Your to-do list can wait.” The jeweled pins in Aicha’s hijab caught the light as she spoke. “I still can’t believe you’re leaving. It seems like just yesterday you showed up as the scrawny kid in my office.” 

“I’m still embarrassed about that,” Kanwal groaned, shaking her head. 

“I was really happy that you came back when you started Amma’s. I had often wondered what happened to you, and when I saw that you’d settled in at school, started a business, and now wanted to donate biryani, I knew you were going to do great things.”  

“I wish you had told me that at the time.”  

“Would you have believed me?”

“Probably not.”

“Still lacking that imagination I see,” Aicha laughed. “You know Kanwal, home-cooked food is a love language of its own. And your biryani gave comfort to a lot of people at their lowest lows. I’ve never been able to convince you of that, but maybe this will help.” She reached into the leather tote bag next to her chair. “If I had a dollar for every person who dropped by my office and asked who made the biryani well, let’s just say we wouldn’t need this fundraiser. I respected your request to keep your contribution anonymous, but I did tell them, if they were so inclined, that they could leave you a note.”

She pulled out a large hardcover jalebi orange notebook, with worn pages and paper inserts stuffed inside. 

“So many people are better off because of your actions, Kanwal. Never doubt that.” She placed it on the table. Her expression flipped as something behind Kanwal caught her attention. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s not where they’re supposed to put the podium. On the stage, not next to the stage, people – this isn’t a wedding. Doesn’t anyone read their emails?” She stood abruptly. “Don’t leave without saying goodbye, okay? And don’t tell the other volunteers about this, I can’t be making fanzines for everyone.” 

Before Kanwal could respond, she strode away, a whirl of sandalwood and silk fading among guests.

Kanwal began to leaf through the thick notebook. Handwritten notes crammed every page. There were messages thanking her for the biryani and the memories they conjured: a loved one’s cooking; a safer place; even a prized kitchen. There were well wishes for a blessed old age and happy children and grandchildren. Many notes presumed a middle-aged married woman was cooking, not a twenty-two year old student. 

“All this fuss over a plate of biryani?” She swallowed the lump in her throat. Her eyes then caught on words written cursive handwriting: 

May the most beautiful parts of your life be in the things you don’t plan.

Kanwal sucked in a breath. Like the rotation of a kaleidoscope, she saw the last four years through a different lens. Meeting Amanda when they sat next to each other in a four-hundred person auditorium. Failed coursework and midterms. Stress-induced cooking her mom’s biryani recipe. Turning up in tears at Aicha’s office. Amanda giving Kanwal’s biryani to her neighbours, Lucinda and Henry. Setting up Amma’s Biryani to pass the summer. Seeing the boy who ran the falafel stand across the market hall. Being offered a fellowship by Devin. 

The best parts of the last four years had been unplanned. 

Mazen had been right; she had been too guilty to want something different for herself. But if she had been looking for proof that her plans could change, or for permission to expand what was possible to her, they were in the words she held between her palms. 

Kanwal knew what she had to do. 

***

On the last day of the summer, Kanwal looked out across Granville Island’s market and contemplated what she would miss the most. The orchestra of vendor calls, haggling tourists, and seagull squawks. The way floating cherry red houses with slate grey rooftops bobbed along the waterfront. Or maybe how a passerby’s eyes lit up when they saw a Halal food option between a florist and a coffee roaster. 

“There’s my fellow researcher,” Devin called, approaching her stall. If Kanwal didn’t know better, she would never have guessed the stocky middle aged man with permanently smudged spectacles and a uniform of cargo shorts and a crumpled graphic tee, was also a tenured researcher. “I’m still riding high from your phone call last week.” 

“I’m sorry you had to jump through hoops to get the paperwork lined up in time,” Kanwal said. Only two things irked the unflappable academic: missing his daily bike ride along the Stanley Park Seawall, and dealing with the University’s administration office. 

“Don’t worry about it. You were figuring out your path. That’s what college is all about.” He smiled. “What changed your mind anyways?”

“I remembered why I got into ophthalmology in the first place.”

“Your grandma?” 

Kanwal nodded. She had told him the story when they first met at a student potluck. She brought biryani and he served his family’s favourite bánh mì. They traded stories about their favourite foods growing up and family traditions. Kanwal told him about her Nani, the family matriarch and food critic who, after losing her sight, developed an even more attuned sense of taste. Kanwal’s father would joke that his wife achieved Top Chef status during that time. Her mother would complain that she gained a few more grey hairs as a result. Devin had listened in rapt attention as Kanwal recounted the glaucoma treatment, the lack of resources at the time, and how it propelled her to want to study in the field. 

“Someone reminded me recently how our actions make an impact. Even if we don’t always see it.”

“That’s the best reason to want to do anything,” Devin clapped her on the back.

Kanwal reached for the sole paper bag left at her stall, filled with bowls of biryani and falafel she had packed before they closed. “This is for you and the family. No no, don’t do that,” she waved him away as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “Friends and supervisors get extra privileges.”

“The girls will be thrilled. They’re sick of me cooking with their Mom out of town.” Devin stuffed the boxes into his backpack, already overflowing with papers to grade. “I’m going to go look at artwork I can’t afford and don’t understand. Have fun visiting your family and I’ll see you in a few weeks.”  

As she watched Devin’s retreating form, Mazen appeared next to her. He took the remaining stack of steel trays from the counter, adding it to the pile of the items to be loaded in his truck.

“One last walk around before we head out of here?” he asked. Wearing a periwinkle dress, Kanwal wasn’t the only one who had dressed up for their last day. Mazen had traded in his roster of t-shirts and jeans for a light blue linen shirt and khakis. Kanwal nodded, a sudden flutter of nerves made her throat run dry. 

“You going to miss it?” He asked as they left their empty stall. 

“Maybe for a few weeks.” Kanwal smiled up at him from the corner of her eye. “But we’ll be back next summer.”

A caramelized late afternoon glow cast over the market. Crowds were dwindling and many stalls had packed up while others offered heavily discounted food items. They kept getting stopped by other vendors wanting to have a final chat before they parted ways, or high-fiving them for a successful run. 

They made their way around a group of tourists crowding the half-priced honey donuts and ended up in front of the spot where Amma’s Biryani had first set up shop. They regarded the mochi stand. The three kids behind the counter couldn’t be more than twenty years old. They were giddy despite the dark shadows under their eyes, reminding Kanwal of the exhaustion and buzzing energy she felt after she survived her first summer. 

“Should we?” Kanwal nodded towards them.  

They ordered a box of mochi with two bubble teas and found themselves a booth in the foodcourt. Only a few families and visitors continued to mill about. 

“You can see our stall from here,” Kanwal remarked. It was rare to have a clear line of sight across the market hall. “I never realized how close my old stall was to yours.”

“Fifty six strides.”

“What?”

“Fifty six strides,” Mazen repeated. “Seventy three during the lunch hour rush.”

“That is oddly specific.” Kanwal raised an eyebrow. 

“I made the walk over a lot,” Mazen looked away and began to gulp down his matcha. 

“Ah yes. Your four boxes of biryani. You were a very loyal customer.” Kanwal chuckled before her eyes lit up. “We should start a loyalty program next summer. How have we never thought about this?” 

She popped a red bean mochi in her mouth, her mind racing with how the pricing could work. 

“I have to ask,” Mazen set his bubble tea down and rested his elbows on the table. “Do you really think I kept coming to your stall because you make amazing biryani?”

Kanwal paused. “Don’t I?”

“Of course you do. But did you think I was buying biryani only because I wanted to eat four boxes of it?”

“Well no, I figured you were sharing it. I mean, look at you.” She began gesturing at his torso before she caught his bemused expression and her eyes widened. She buried her face in her hands. “I was doing so well all summer,” she muttered to herself.

  Mazen coaxed her hands away from her face. “Kanwal, the reason I know the number of strides from my stall to yours is because I would count them to calm my nerves. I would leave my stall with this great idea of coming to talk to you.” 

“That’s why you kept coming over? Because you wanted to talk to me?” Kanwal snuck a glance at him. His hair was an unruly mess from running his hands through it.

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I’d turn up and my mind would blank and instead I’d order four boxes of biryani. What can I say, I’ve never been very good with plans.”

Kanwal sat back and stared at him. While she could feel his knee bouncing under the table, he did not look away. 

May the most beautiful parts of your life be in the things you don’t plan.

The words replayed in Kanwal’s mind. The beauty wasn’t in the absence of a plan; it was in spite of it. It was in having the courage to revel in a bejewelled sky at sunset while accepting that it will change. It was in having faith that a hand held out never comes back empty. It was in believing oneself deserving of a life filled with colour, and of those who make it especially vibrant. 

Kanwal was now ready for that kind of world awaiting her. She was now ready for that kind of meet cute. 

Anas (may Allah be pleased with him) reported: The messenger of Allah (may peace and blessing be upon him) said: “If the son of Adam were to possess two valleys full of wealth, he would seek the third. Nothing can fill his belly except dust, and Allah accepts the repentance of whoever repents.” – (Sahih Muslim 1048)

Act I

Across the sea of luscious full trees, basked in the honey glow of the sun, animals tract in herds, prides, and flocks over the land. One boy swung lazily in a makeshift hammock with his eyes closed, soft snores sailing from his lips. This jungle was the only home he had ever known, where he found peace amongst his family of animals, while he ruled as the only human in the lands.

“O, young Boy,” screamed a bird named Hadi with his green tipped wings flapping in a fury against his blue body. He landed on a branch above the Boy, wheezing in exhaustion. “O, young Boy! Wake and come quick, two prides declare death against each other.”

The Boy woke with alarm, wiping the eye boogers away in a frenzy. He leapt down from his branch extending his lengthy body. His arms outstretched like Laffy Taffy as he grabbed the arm of a tree. He propelled his body forward, swinging his legs, as he went tree to tree. The Boy jumped down once he reached the flat grasslands and began to run as fast as he could. His heart pounded in his ears, and he swore he felt his blood press against his skin. He pushed back a long, dark curl and caught sight of two lions circling each other.

A lion roared, ready to attack, his paw itching against the dirt. Just as the lion pounced up on its hind legs, the Boy jumped in between the lions with his hands up in defense. The lion twisted its body, his paw sending a gush of wind across the Boy’s face instead of a scar. It roared in annoyance.

“Tell me, what is the matter that would cause two brothers to kill one another,” the Boy asked with authority.

“My brother starves my family, while only allowing his women to hunt and feed their young,” spoke the lion who had just attacked. He was smaller and a bit thinner than the other lion, as the boy looked between the two.

A small cub whimpered behind the lioness on the attacker’s side. They all looked tired. Their fur was thin and dull compared to the stronger lions across from them. This pride had gotten too big, despite the vast land. It was much simpler before the two brothers started families. 

“No family member of mine shall starve, as long as I stand guard. You and your pride may take my land in the east. Take today’s kill for your journey,” the Boy declared.

The lions thanked him as the stronger lions shared their hunt with them before they parted ways. The Boy smiled, his chipped front tooth touching his bottom. He ran off back in the direction after some small chatter with the lions and a quick rough play with the cubs.

“That wasn’t very safe nor smart, in my opinion, jumping in front of two lions is a death wish,” said the bird, swooping in beside the Boy’s long strides. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Hadi, you worry too much,” the Boy said, while waving at the hippos and elephants at the river creek.

“Boy, you don’t worry enough. You can’t do much without a head connected to your body.”

The Boy ran between the giraffes, laughing as he swerved between their legs. “Hadi, you kill all the joy. Did I not do good today?”

“Yes, you did good, but—”

“See! I did good even you must admit.”

“But reckless,” Hadi insisted sternly.

“But good,” said the Boy. He swung back into the comfort of his bed under the tree leaves. Hadi landed beside him on a branch.

“Yes, I would say brilliant even, in my humble opinion.” The Boy and Hadi turned, startled by the voice hiding behind the dense trees. The figure emerged first with his black tail wrapped around a branch, swinging his body upward until the full form of a monkey appeared before them. 

“Excuse my rudeness,” the monkey said. “My name is Zalim. But I couldn’t help but praise you for your selflessness.”

Zalim had a stern face imprint against the roundness of his face. The blondish brown fur around his face contrasted the rest of his smooth dark brown coat. And his eyes, the Boy couldn’t seem to escape them as they bore into him like drill.

“Thank you, Zalim. Hadi never appreciates the work that I do,” the Boy joked.

“Too much sunlight turns good fruit into rotten mush,” Hadi said, flapping his wings against his body.

“These birds never know how to loosen up.” Zalim slapped Hadi off his branch with his tail, while the Boy’s eyes followed the monkey as he circled around towards him. “They spend too much time above everyone. Don’t worry my young boy, praise doesn’t come easy for their kind.”

“See, Hadi, be more like Zalim. A little more compliments never hurt anyone,” the Boy said to Hadi with a chuckle. “Heck, a little bit more of anything never hurts anybody.”

Hadi flapped his wings as his eyes met the sly glimmer of the monkey’s. He landed back on his branch beside the Boy. “If you ever get the time, you should visit me and my kind in the South. Not too often do we get such selfless royal visitors,” said Zalim. His tail slid up Hadi’s body before slightly tightening around his neck then over his beak. He smiled a wicked smile at the bird before he set off back into the jungle.

“Maybe I should bring Zalim around more,” the Boy smiled as he spoke to no one in particular. “I quite like what he has to say.”

“Beware, that monkey is no good,” Hadi said, wiping at his beak. The Boy ignored him as he rested in his hammock in the shade thinking about how nice those monkeys must be. Zalim knew how to praise his work and showed much more gratitude than Hadi ever showed. He sought for such approval and wanted more. This thought festered in the Boy’s mind.

Act II

In the South, an abundant number of trees cover the land. An ocean of dark vibrant green flourished from every corner. 

The Boy smiled at the sight of the monkeys lounging around as he jumped from tree to tree. The crack of their lips spilled over with fruit juice. He swung deeper into the sea of green and the trees became bare of fruit and monkeys stood guard at the sight of him. The Boy saw some monkeys, more so bone than flesh, huddled together sharing small pieces of fruit. The boy frowned at this.

A small skeleton of a monkey clung to a banana, as a larger one corned it against a tree. The larger one slammed his fist against his chest, screaming at the smaller monkey. It tried to make a grab at the banana, but the smaller monkey moved its shoulder to block. This upset the larger one, and he grabbed the shoulders of the smaller and began to swing him into the ground repeatedly. Harder and harder. Until the little one gave up his banana. The larger monkey triumphally snatched the banana, leaving the starving monkey behind.

The Boy climbed down to the foot of the trees and rustled through bushes, plucking at the small berries. He returned, climbing back up the trees and weaving through troops of monkeys until he reached the small one. He gently approached, a softness to his feet as they slid over the branch closer to the monkey. His blue-dyed hand reached out his offering. The monkey looked up, its eyes wide and glimmering like glass as it took the berries from the Boy’s hand. The Boy smiled as the monkey scurried off.

“And here we find ourselves amongst such a generous ruler,” Zalim said, appearing on a branch from behind. “It’s too bad, in these southern lands, that monkey won’t live long.”

“Yes, he will,” the Boy proclaimed. “I will feed him with whatever I have to give.”

“Such a naïve boy you are,” Zalim laughed. “And what about the other starving monkeys? You must have seen the lot of them as you passed by. What happens to those who have gotten used to your aid when you have nothing left to give?”

Zalim slipped past the Boy, leading him through the Southern trees. Some full of fruit and life, monkeys strong and carefree amongst their branches. Then past the barren trees with feeble monkeys fighting over what little fruit there was. “My people will give back to me for that is the means in which I’m able to give. This is how it’s always been.”

Zalim scoffed, a grim, flat frown tightening on his face. “You expect too much from these selfish animals. Animals have no use for the weak. The strong take from the weak, and if the weak are lucky they die a quick death by the mouths of the strong. And the ones who rule with such weakness only prolongs a torturous death.”

Zalim pushed through the thick leaves of the trees as they passed, stopping abruptly and shoving back the leaves covering a branch for the Boy to see. A group of small skeleton clothed monkeys lay dead, huddled as flies bathe them. The Boy fell back in horror, his heart pounding. Then it quickly sank like a sinking ship, at such a sad grotesque sight.

“You are a strong, benevolent king who loves his kingdom,” Zalim said  as he creeped over the Boy’s body, the deep imprint of his face hovering over the Boy’s. “But strong leaders breed weak warriors and weak men create hard times.” 

“This is how it’s always been,” Zalim said, pointing back to the sad huddle of bones. “This is the consequence of your benevolence! This is what your people have left to offer you as their thanks. Animals who devour with no thought like those lions who would starve their own kin. These animals have no gratitude, no conscience. They will take and take from you until you have nothing more and leave your bones to nurture the Earth. I ask you, Boy, who can you help then? You must govern with a harsher fist or your kingdom will be desolate, and you’ll have nothing left.”

The Boy stammered, his eyes still locked on the bones of the monkeys. He hadn’t even realized Zalim had moved inches away from his face, a single finger shoved into his chest. 

“Seize the Orangutan’s land at the southwest border. It’s plentiful and they’re indebted to you,” Zalim whispered to the Boy.

And the Boy listened.

Act III

In the Southwest region of the jungle, trees soared in the sky close to the clouds and different pairs of fruit flooded the branches and bushes of the jungle floor. A smothering warmth filled the air. It tickled your throat as if you could taste the heat.

It didn’t matter for the Boy, who found refreshment in the fruit that he lazily ate in the hammock of his new home. He had displaced the orangutan village closer to the Southern area along with the monkeys, much to Hadi’s displeasure and advice. 

The Boy had promised to allow the orangutans to continue to eat from the Southwest region, but eventually he dictated for them to only eat from a small region of the land at the advice of Zalim. According to Zalim, the land was the Boy’s and for his pleasure only. If the orangutans wanted food, they had to earn it.

The Boy believed that Zalim was right. The image of the monkey skeletons played in the back of his head. He had ruled generously for too long and created selfish animals that allowed others to die. If he ruled more harshly and kept more for himself, this would create strong animals. Animals that worked hard and appreciated what they gained, instead of what was handed to them. Yes, the Boy thought. Strong men create soft times. This is what the Boy believed.

Hadi’s frantic cries and flapping wings broke the Boy’s rest as the bird landed. “O, young master, a battle is brewing between the hyena and the lions as they encroach on the hyenas and take more of their food due to the impending drought.”

“And what am I to do between such vicious animals? Should I let myself die jumping into a matter that doesn’t concern me?” the Boy asked while closing his eyes and taking a bite from a mango. “Whoever wins is more deserving, in my eyes. They’ll probably be more grateful too. So, let them figure it out.”

“Please, it is dire. This is your family. You mustn’t turn on your people. Please help,” Hadi pleaded.

“Family?!” the Boy snapped in annoyance. “What has this family ever done for me except take from me and pull me into their petty squabbles? Squabbles of selfishness and arrogance over the things I’ve given them from my own. They care for no one but themselves. No matter if I give to them or not, they will eventually leave each other to starve or kill another. So like I said before, I don’t have to do anything! And I won’t.”

“Ah, but young master, how grateful and indebted would they be to you if you stopped them,” Zalim said, appearing beside the Boy. Hadi sneered as he moved further away. The Boy’s harsh tone had scared him, and now the sight of Zalim’s cunningness disgusted him. “Those lions are being selfish and greedy, thinking they have such authority as you do—to take and eat lavish, delicious meat. While you work hard trying to craft a vibrant future, you sit here and eat lowly fruit that us monkeys eat. Aren’t you a king?”

Hadi stared between the two, his words caught in his beak as Zalim whispered to the Boy.

“Of course I’m a king,” the Boy said proudly.

“Then shouldn’t the lions pay a price in thanks for your work? Make the lions give you a hefty portion of their feast, it’s only right.”

This was the price that the Boy had decided was necessary for his kingdom, and for such a vision everyone was indebted to him. They owed him, he believed, and it didn’t stop at just the orangutans and the lions. The elephants and the gazelles and the giraffes and the zebras, the Boy sought from everyone what they owed him. This is what he believed. 

So, the Boy sent Hadi away with a slap of his hand against the bird’s protest to do as he was ordered to do. 

 ***

Loud echoes of cries shocked the trunks of the trees up the branches waking the Boy to the congestion of smoke burning his eyes and his nostrils. He sat up and looked out across the jungle. A fire had engulfed the land as if the sunrise had touched the Earth.

“What’s happening?!” the Boy asked in panic.

“A windstorm swept the land and created a spark of fire in the flatlands that have recently been plagued by drought,” Zalim said from beside him, the glow of the distant flames mirrored across his face. “It ignited a civil war with the lions massacring the other animals and their young in hopes to feed themselves.”

“What should we do?”

“Why, nothing, of course,” Zalim said, turning his back on the disaster. “Up here, you are safe in the trees with all the fruit and meat.”

“How can you be so cruel and selfish to only think about our safety? We must do something!”

Zalim turned back facing the Boy. The fire rose in his chest as he pounded it down, his teeth on display. In a loud snarl, he pounced over the Boy causing him to fall over. “Me, selfish? Look at what you’ve taken from your people. This is what you sought.”

“No, you tricked me,” the Boy cried. “Why did you trick me?”

“Do you think you are better than me? I merely gave you a choice, much like that silly bird used to do. You did this. Look around you, beyond you. If anything, you’re worse than me.” Zalim stood back, his eyes narrowed on the Boy.

“You’re just an animal too—an animal with a black, endless pit,” Zalim said as he watched the Boy come to his knees before retreating away into the jungle trees.

The fire raged on against the elephant’s wails, the lioness’ gutless roars, and the Boy’s pitiful tears.

The sound of my heart thumping reverberates in my ears. All I can hear is the thud—banging against my ribs like a drum. The intense pounding is making me queasy. I take a deep breath, hoping to drown it out, but with every inhale, the sound only grows louder. A sudden pang erupts in my lower stomach and surges up to my ribs, tightening my chest. The breaths become shallow, and the deprivation of oxygen starts to kick in, making me gasp for air. The anxiety I was holding back is flushing through my body like a wave in an ocean.

My hair beneath my hijab sticks to my neck; the fabric is light but feels heavy, as if the chiffon had been woven with wet sand and threaded with concrete. I want to yank it off. It’s wrapped loosely around my head, but for some reason, it’s strangling my neck, making it hard for me to breathe.

My legs quiver beneath me as I climb the stairs. The office is on the second floor, but the steps seem never-ending, like a mountain. I try to compose myself, but the migraine I was holding back threatens to spill within me. I can feel it pressing, needling my brain.

The questions I had practiced the night before are jumbled in my mind. I can’t seem to remember when my birthday is or how old I am. My hands are slick with sweat, sticking to the railing as if it’s the only thing keeping me upright. The building is air-conditioned, but I feel suffocated as if the sun is pressing directly against my skin.

Not now, Maya, I beg myself. But the panic is already there, simmering through my bones and spilling onto my skin like blood seeping from a wound.

It’s not the end of the world, I tell myself, slowly and deliberately, but my body doesn’t seem to comprehend. I swallow, trying to shove down the panic, but that doesn’t help. My throat clamps shut as if a serpent has sunk its sharp fangs into me.

A few people come down the steps, holding onto folders, wearing black tailored blazers with white button-down shirts, and closed-toe shoes. For a moment, I stop and stare at them as they rush past me, confidence and calmness in every step. 

How easy is it for them? Envy gets the best of me, and I accuse them of having luck on their side. I curse at them for not feeling what I am feeling.

It’s okay, I keep reminding myself, burning the thoughts into my brain. But my body quivers at the image of me sitting in front of people who will judge every word I say. 

When I make it to the second floor, I forget the room number. Maybe I should just go home. I clench my hands, digging my fingers deep into my palms, creating moon-shaped creases with my nails, but that doesn’t help either.

I walk around, trying to calm myself, hoping the panic will leave my body, but it just digs deeper and deeper into my nerves.

I focus on the orange carpeted floor with its black polka dots, but the dots blur into tiny beetles, scattered everywhere. The walls hold a stale shade of blue that feels airless—as if they’re trapping all the oxygen inside.  

My interview is in five minutes, but I can’t seem to breathe. I exhale slowly. But the air has become sparse. I look around as if searching for the oxygen. 

Four minutes. Nothing. No matter how hard I try to exhale, the oxygen just won’t go into my lungs. My chest locks. My legs tremble. My knees jitter. 

Three minutes. I loosen my hijab. Take off my office jacket. But the heat is skimming. From beneath my skin. 

Two minutes. My fingers tingle. I can’t swallow. 

One minute. 

My mind whirls out of control, and the panic spills. I grab my jacket and rush back down the steps. I look for the bathroom, but I don’t find it. Tears pool in my eyes, making everything seem blurry, but I don’t let them fall. As I make my way to the first floor, I scan the lobby to find the bathroom, but I only see an exit.

“Hey, are you okay?” An elderly woman touches my shoulder, her brow furrowed, concern draping her face. Her lips are moving, but I can’t make out her words. It’s only when she repeats for the second time that I understand her question.

I try to speak, but the words don’t come out. I want to ask her for the bathroom, but the letters in my head don’t form into sentences. So, I just stare at her, with my eyes full of water.

 Inhale through your nose and hold for six seconds, then exhale from your mouth. 

The thought reverberates in my head like an echo on a mountain. I try, but the notion of missing the interview rebounds in my head, and the thoughts I was holding back flood through my brain.

Who would hire someone like you–panic attacks are learned, so get over it–you’re so stupid for feeling this way–dumb girl–who has a panic attack over an interview–how will you explain this to Mama and Dad–your siblings look up to you. 

“Honey?” she speaks, gently tapping my shoulder. The breath I was holding back rumbles in my chest.

A tear trickles down my cheek as I try to compose myself. My breathing becomes shallower, and the thudding in my chest increases like a drum in my brain. The migraine that was once spilling now avalanches into my skull, and I gasp. Another tear cascades down my face and falls into the hem of my shirt.

The loose hijab around my head tightens against my skin, suddenly suffocating. The lobby walls start to press inward, draining the room of oxygen.

People know you’re Muslim–you’re supposed to represent Islam–they’ll think you’re acting like this because you’re oppressed–you’re making us look bad. 

I take a step back, her hand falls to her side, and I bolt out the door. Fresh crisp air hits my face—still no oxygen. I yank my hijab off. The messy bun of uncombed hair falls on my face and shoulders. The air doesn’t feel welcoming. I try to control my breathing. But my heart pounds louder and louder in my chest. 

Your hair is showing–I can’t breathe–Allah will punish you–no, he is the Ar Rehman–maybe I should call Bhai to pick me up–but what will you say?

I don’t know where I’m going. The tears accelerate. My legs start to wobble, then give way. I crash onto the sidewalk, and the panic attack I’ve been fighting surges through me, forcing air out in ragged wheezes. My heart thunders in my chest. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was a heart attack. A sharp pang grips my chest, as if bare hands are crushing my heart. 

A small crowd gathers. Someone presses a bottle of water into my hand, and another rubs my back. 

Inhale through your nose and hold for six seconds, then exhale from your mouth. 

I hold my breath for as long as I can, trying to calm the thunder in my chest. I bite the inside of my cheek until it becomes numb. When I let it go, I feel a sting. The physical pain diverts my attention, and I feel my breathing slow down. I count more in my head—three, two, one, visualizing each number in a hue of yellow and orange. 

A man in his late forties reaches for his phone, trying to call an ambulance. The wheezing and gasping start to slow down, long enough for me to stop him. When I compose myself, embarrassment takes hold. I spring to my feet, thank the people staring at me with confusion in their eyes, and walk away. My head is throbbing behind my eyes—I don’t have the energy to walk back to the hospital for the interview

I loosely drape the hijab back over my head, tucking in the loose strands of hair, put my jacket back on, and head to the train station.

Fa inna ma’al-‘usri yusra, I whisper under my breath.