HIJAAB WAALI
Don't love what you can't get

7th December. 2000

Karachi, Pakistan

5:00 p m

I still don't believe that I've lost her forever.

Perhaps I didn't deserve her. She was such a nice lady, such a wonderful female. I know that I can find many girls in this world, even more beautiful and more attractive than she was. But no girl can fit into that specific portion of my heart that has been reserved only for her now.

What shall I call her?

Aggressive? Absolutely not. She was so patient, so calm.

Hard and strict? Never. She was so flexible, so adaptable, very compromising too.

Rude and proud? No way. She was so understanding, friendly, and sympathetic.

Extremist? Impossible. She sure knew her boundaries and limits.

No, there's nothing I can call her. I can't give her a single, sole name.

She was truly wonderful, capable of doing miraculous wonders.

She understood me. I don't think that anyone could ever understand me like the way she did. She made me realize myself, arranging my life's book neatly into this world's shelf. It's only because of her that I am who I am.

I will not say that she was perfect, but she was the best one I ever could have hoped for, not only because she had a tremendous amount of unconditional love, but because she shaped who I am today, my qualities and characteristics. She was the one who made me beautiful in every sense. The kind you didn't see much anymore. She was simple but yet so mysterious. She was so familiar but ah, at the same time, so strange too.

In the paths of life, sometimes, you find faces, which you can't forget ever, no matter how much you try. So, how can I forget that fairy-face that'd let me know the reality of life? Those lake-like deep eyes which, when low, used to bring night and when high, were the source of daylight. She was the poetry of a born poet. Flowers needed her to grow; autumn required her to become spring.

She definitely was a dream girl, a beautiful scene of my sleep. But she was a reality too. A reality, which creates history. A reality, you can't imagine your life without whom. She was so alive. One, who could give you life in one glance. There was just nothing else like her at all. It was her attitude toward life that made her uniquely captivating. She had a quick intelligence and a lively curiosity about anything she happened to encounter.

And then... she was gone when I needed her the most. She came and she left. But she didn't leave alone; she had my life too.

I'll never understand one thing, and that is, why those times pass so quickly when you're happy? And why those times take so long to pass when you're sad?

Did I love her?

He closed his eyes to minimize the intense expression of pain. Then, after taking few deep breaths, he began to write once again.

I will not talk about my dark, ill past. But for sure, at present, her love is the greatest present for me.

I love her not only for what she was but for what she was when she was with me.

I love her not only for what she had made of herself but also for what she was making of me.

I love her for the part of me that she brought out.

"Did 'she' love me?"

Yes, certainly. No other woman will ever love me like the way she did. No one else will ever stand by me like her.

Finishing his last word, he stopped writing, took off his fine, neat, half-framed spectacles and blew off a long, cold, lonely sigh.Tipping his head back on the headrest of the easy chair, he finally closed his eyes.

"You look good in glasses." Her whisper was very near.

"Huh?" He turned quickly to locate the source. Not here and there, she was no where. He was alone in his room. Memories were like endless rain for him. Once began, they would never stop. As her voice faded with his consciousness, he thought he felt a tear strike his cheek.

The wind was particularly cold and wet, even for December in Karachi. Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, he stood up from his place and opened the side window. Sharp and cold wave of wind hit him full in the face, a stream of air with strong noise of sea waves nearby.

Thank God for the wind! It broke the silence.

Through the huge plain glass window, he stared at the beach of white sand that seemed almost to glow in the moonlight. Long white breakers came out of the night and broke on the shore. Far out at sea, mysterious offshore lights winked and moved steadily along.

With a long breath, he smelled the sea-scented air and closed his lashes. As soon as his anatomical eyes closed, his imaginative eyes opened and from the fantastic window of imagination, she came in front of him, like always. Smiling! Everything about her was absolutely beautiful. Even her appearance, he thought.

What to say about her external beauty and looks.

If beauty is limited, then she was its final limit.

Smiles were not very usual feature of her personality.

"Because of myself." He thought painfully. "Yes I didn't give her much chance to smile. Rude, brutal, animal-like, I was like a sharp knife for her."

"You act as if you were God Almighty, but I know what you're really like! You're a ... a... Bad-mannered, ill-tempered ... savage!" His own conscience showed him the mirror.

Although he had not seen her smiling a lot still he thought that flowers used to bloom when she smiled. Yes, her smile was as innocent as a young flower bud, as fresh as a sweet and scented morning breeze.

Apart from her smiles, he always wondered what was so "different" in her appearance? She sure had something unique and powerful in her face that always differentiated her from the other women. Only now he found out what made her face and her personality so different and impressive. Yes, it was that particular glory, that specific charisma, which comes only on the faces of those women who have strong character and firm principles. Who never compromise on their beliefs and who observe…

He couldn't think more. Such a shiny, bright 'noor' she had on her face.

Her hair was the first cloudiness, which appears before rain. Her long, shiny locks were the source of comfort for the desperate and tired traveler.

The musical ringing of the phone in his room dispersed his thoughts. With slow, tired steps, he reached and picked up the receiver.

"Yes?" While holding the cordless receiver in one hand, he used the other one to take his remaining cigarette to his dark lips.

"How's my good boy today?" A soft, caring male voice came from the other side.

"Assalaam O alaikum Maulana uncle." He sighed with relief as he heard his teacher's voice and then said, "I was actually going to call you in few minutes. I have some good news for you." Not just his face, even his voice was smiling. "Thankfully, your prayers got colors."

"You made my day son. I have waited so long for this very day." Maulana uncle's voice became shaky with emotion.

"Dr.Waris has called me tomorrow for my final check up. He said that hopefully they would issue the mental health clearance certificate for me this time." He said, leaning against the railing of the upstairs terrace. The salt breeze rippled gently through his dark black hair.

"And what about police matters?"

"One of my friends talked to D.I.G. Crimes, he has assured us that there're no more charges remaining on me now. My file has been closed. The police does accept the fact that whatever happened was something I did when I was not mentally normal." He finished his long sentence. "I'd never forgive myself ever though."

"Yes. Why not, thanks to Allah, you're normal now, physically as well as mentally." Maulana uncle was as supportive as ever. "It's been a long way though."

"Uncle, I don't believe that it's been more than two years now." He took a long breath. "The loss is unbearable however."

Maulana uncle remained silent this time.

"Uncle, tell me. Tell me, why does it hurt to love someone?"

From the other side, he heard a soft, sober laughter.

"People don't offer thanks when they're happy. Yet they object when they're hurt."

" I… I will be thankful this time." He sobbed. "Sometimes, I just want my love back uncle. Although I know it's impossible. Those who have gone forever, never come back." He murmured painfully. "And please, not this time. I don't want to get hurt again. "

"Your love was meant to be…

"If it meant to be, why did I lose her?" His voice became loud, as he cut in.

"You didn't lose her...I'd say you let her go!" Maulana uncle replied. "And that was your mistake."

He did not reply. He had nothing to say.

"How's your poetry going?"

"My only hobby these days." He laughed emptily. "Yes I wrote some thing new."

"And what I could be?"

"My new poem, want to hear?" He asked, resting against the railing again and gazing far out to sea.

"Why not."

Hearing his response, he set his neatly framed glasses back on his nose and opened his diary again.

"Alright, here it is…I have dedicated this to her, the same person for whom I wrote it. By the way the title is 'Thank you'.

"Hmm, sounds interesting. Let's begin now."

He closed his eyes, tipped his head back and began to read the poem in a soft, low voice but with an impressive accent and perfection.

My love...

I am a different person,
A better person
since we first met

your honesty helped me
to see my weaknesses,
and your support helped me
to turn them into strengths.

Thank you,
Thank you for being my real, true friend
for not saying the things
you thought I wanted to hear,
but for saying the things
I needed to know.

You're one of the few people
I trusted when you told me
that I've done well,
because you are one of the few
who will tell me
when I could do better.

You challenged me
to be the best I could be...
by accepting and appreciating me,
you helped me
learn to accept
and appreciate myself.

Thank you for being my teacher!

I was helpless, you supported me
I was restless, you comforted me
I was ignorant, you acknowledged me

Thank you…

And now, I know, you're not with me,

But know what, you're still in me

Thank you for being my 'every thing'

"You there uncle?" Finishing his poem, he asked.

"Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful my son." Maulana uncle's voice was laden with joy and appreciation.

"While thanking Allah for making us better and the best, we should not forget the channel, which is the source between Allah and us. Your " thank you" is just fantastic."

In answer, he smiled soberly and said, "Well, what can I say in answer except another "Thank you!"

Maulana uncle laughed again.

"Son, I'd like to suggest something for you and you really need that!"

"And what's that uncle?"

"Change. You need change."

"Change or 'escape' from my worries?"

"No, I mean change of atmosphere. Go to some good picnic point of your city, it will provide you chance to gather your thoughts again or…" Maulana uncle left his sentence unfinished.

"Or?"

"If you know what I mean, you can change your place too, I mean your home…

"Uncle please…" He cut in sharply with pain.

"You know it's one of the last memories of her. I can still feel her fragrance here. I can't even think of leaving this place…

"But my child, don't you think these three thousand yards are too big for a single, solitary you?"

"Uncle, I suppose we shall leave this discussion for later times, if you don't mind." His voice became spotless, his face expressionless. "But I'd definitely think about what you said about change of atmosphere!" He assured him seriously, blowing another puff of cigarette smoke.

"May this change bring many other pleasant changes to you son. I'd visit you soon."

"Thank you uncle. I'd be looking forward to welcome you here."

"Alright. And do inform me about your medical report as soon as you get it. Theek?"

"Sure uncle! Take care. Allah hafiz"

Hanging up the phone, he finished off his remaining cigarette. Now, it was time to sleep.

"It won't come so easily though." His own smile was sarcastic for himself.

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"Frailty thy name is woman."

"An eye-opening statement for those who think that our East has disgraced or degraded women." She banged her fist on the palm of her other hand. "The greatest litterateur of the West is saying that woman is a weakness."

"Williams Shakespeare was an honest man I guess." The other girl who looked a little younger smiled naughtily.

"Even now," The first girl continued, apparently ignoring the other girl's remark. "Their literature has not attained what Urdu literature had achieved in eighteenth or nineteenth century."

"Ofcourse we have Ghalib, Meer, Iqbal and so many…. The list just never ends…"

"I would never understand one thing sister." The younger girl raised the tea mug to her mouth.

"No surprise Sheeba. Infact you don't understand any thing." The older girl shrugged her shoulders.

"Deeba…I will kill you." She threw a heavy pillow toward her sister, which Deeba caught expertly.

"But I must admit…" Sheeba smiled. "That you're a good catcher. Atleast you could teach our Pakistani good cricket team how to take some good catches."

"Yuck. I hate cricket." Deeba made her mouth like she had swallowed something really bitter.

"Now, I won't doubt that. A nerdy, book-worm kind of girl like you should only go for poetry and prose." Sheeba took another fine sip.

"Why? OK. Tell me honestly, didn't you ever feel any interest in poetry?" Deeba's voice had a slight tingle of disappointment in it.

"I just couldn't get it, the failures in love, crying, and all that painful stuff. This is Internet age my dear." Sheeba said fluently. "You have to look forward instead of wasting your tears, time and energy for your past. And that's what all poets do. I just don't understand why don't they get some life and begin to work on something constructive."

"Really, you think that way?" Deeba said sadly.

"Yes, and it's 'my' way of thinking." Sheeba said proudly.

"But shall we risk our ideals, our interests and our dreams for such 'modern' age?" Deeba looked deep into her sister's eyes, her style challenging.

"Oh my gosh. You're really stupid Deeba. You're twenty now, yet it seems like you have made a dream world of your own, a world you never want to climb out of." Sheeba said.

On Deeba's silence, she went on.

"Be practical my sister. This is new millenium. Poetry, idealism, fantasies, dreams… you've got a lot more to do than thinking about such primal things, move on."

"I wonder if this new millenium has anything to do with human emotions and feelings. Does this 'mechanization' and' industrialism' govern our tender feelings and soft sentiments too? Sorry, if it will, I refuse to accept such so-called 'modern' life style which is devoid of our natural feelings."

"My own philosophy is, if you like something, just go and get it, or other wise don't love what you can't get!" Sheeba said rigidly.

Deeba laughed on her statement.

"Why are you laughing? Did I say something funny?" Sheeba raised her brows.

"On your materialistic thinking, sort of a selfish one. Life is not business my dear. Sometimes you just have to live for others, have to care about others more than you do for yourself and have to give sacrifice…

"Ok, ok. That's enough… " Sheeba cut in thickly. "I don't want to argue with you. We can never convince each other." Sheeba raised her hand in a gesture of some final word.

"I never wanted to convince you, I was just presenting my own opinion." Deeba said plainly. "I'm sorry but I just can't agree with your 'just do it' style."

"Well, so what're we talking about?" Sheeba caught.

"Frailty thy name is woman." Deeba smiled slowly.

"You mean, back to Shakespeare again?" Sheeba asked.

"No, enough of him now. I just wanted to say that our East has always been very fertile for language, culture and customs you know." Deeba said swiftly. "Even today, we've got fabulous poets like…

"Oh God. Don't tell me you're talking about 'him' again. Are you?

"Ofcourse, it's him." Deeba smiled in answer.

"My God Deeba, don't you have any other topic to talk?"

" No. And you know the reason that why…

"Oh I forgot to tell you." Sheeba said quickly, before her elder sister could finish her sentence. "And now I'm thinking how can I forget such a thing which is purely of your interest. But first tell me what can you do for me if I tell you something about 'him'?"

"WHAT? Don't tell me that!" Her sister's voice and style totally changed suddenly. No one could believe now that this desperate and excited girl was the same one who was talking so calmly just few moments ago.

"Yes, it's about him. And you're such a an admirer and fan of him, I fear if the news I'm about to tell you would cause you to have an heart attack or something." Sheeba smiled devilishly.

"Oh, you can't tell me more than what I already know about him. Can you?" Deeba gave her a challenging smile.

"And what if I tell you he's finally appearing in some poetry-show?"

"What?" You're kidding right?" Deeba couldn't believe if she'd heard her correctly.

"I really have a confirmed news that he's finally coming to some 'Mushaa'era' in front of the public for the very first time." Sheeba smiled satisfactorily. "And guess what, it's going to be in our own city, our sweet dear Karachi."

"Sheeba really?" Deeba was really excited, her breathing fast. "Please…please…tell me how and when?"

"No, not like this" Sheeba rose and put her hands on her waist.

"Black mailing?"

"Whatever,

"Okay, what do you want? Ice-cream, money, dinner or what?" Deeba asked helplessly, rising from her place.

"Umm I guess dinner would be fine, but I'd choose the menu, right?"

"Oh Sheeba please. Now for God sake, tell me everything in detail."

"Okay Baba, but first sit down please." Sheeba held her sister's hands in her own and made her sit in front of her.

"Well, do you remember I told you about Inter-colleges poetry contest?" Sheeba began after taking a long breath.

"Yes, what about that?"

"It was today. Today, classes were off early and we had nothing to do in college, so we decided to check that out. They'd invited him, as a chief guest."

"But he never goes…." Deeba interrupted quickly.

"Yes, I know until now he'd never been to any functions or contests or has not even given an interview ever. But someone told me that our college administration used a 'big' source to invite him there."

"What do you mean?" Deeba asked, her eyes showing frustration and desperation.

"They contacted him through his teacher, someone he really respects and calls as his 'spiritual teacher', his 'Maulana uncle'." Sheeba told her all in one breath.

"Oh, and who told you all this?"

"One of my class fellows is a daughter of our college principal." Sheeba smiled, opening a chewing gum from its wrapper.

"And that's where we met him." She added.

"You mean, you alone?" Deeba's eyes widened with astonishment.

"No. We were five girls in total, my class fellows." She put the bubble gum into her mouth. "We all went to the contest, and it was just amazing. I don't have words to explain what I felt out there. It was all fabulous and fantastic. The aroma, the atmosphere, guys, umm well…"

Deeba said nothing, perhaps she'd been lost in the trance of what her sister was telling her.

"And although until now I've been arguing with you about him, but I must admit that he is different and has very impressive personality." Sheeba nodded, smiling.

Deeba smiled proudly like it was not him but she, whom her sister was praising.

"He came only in the end, and read just one poem, but it was enough to steal everyone out there."

"Oh Sheeba, I am sooo jealous of you right now. I wish I were there…" Deeba clutched the pillow to her bosom, her face showing clear disappointment. "Tell me how does he look like?"

"Umm, now that will charge another treat, what about an ice cream too?" Sheeba winked naughtily.

"Oonhhh," Deeba clenched her teeth and threw the pillow on Sheeba, who bent her body perfectly to save herself from the 'expected' attack.

"Well sister, that's a surprise, you'll find out soon." She said satisfactorily,

"Meaning?"

"Now 'how' will you find out that how does he look like is another 'surprise'." Sheeba laughed with total momentum.

"Perhaps, today is the day full of surprises and shocks for me." Deeba said helplessly.

"You got my point." Sheeba twisted her lips to make a big bubble out of her chewing gum."Actually I want to get rich soon, and for all these 'services' of mine, you'd have to pay me heavily."

"Hmm, yeah I was thinking the same. You should probably apply for a job in FBI or CIA"

"That would be a waste of me, I guess." She told Deeba proudly, a lazy grin dancing on her face.

"So, how I'm going to find out that how does he look like?"

"Deeba, are you just making it or are you really 'this' serious about him?" Sheeba's question was sudden and more than that, her unexpected serious tone surprised Deeba.

"Sorry, I didn't get you." Deeba was confused.

"I mean, are you having some crush on him or what?" Sheeba looked deeply into her sister's eyes.

Deeba laughed loudly on her question.

"Come on Sheeba, don't talk stupid." She said finally, as her laughter dissolved in the air. "I just like him as a poet, and that's all. I've never even met or saw him. It's just curiosity and suspense."

"Hmm. I hope this is the case." Sheeba said thoughtfully, her eyes searching something 'particular' on her elder sister's face.

"But I wonder sometimes…" Sheeba threw her head back on the bed and lay still. "That he never gave an interview, no news paper ever published his pictures… and yet with in such a short time, he has become so famous and popular, specially among the youth of Pakistan."

"You can say so because you've not read his work." Said Deeba. "But he sure sounds like some mysterious or hidden person."

"That's why like any other mysterious personality, there're rumors about him." Sheeba closed her eyes, yawning.

"Yeah I have heard some of those." Deeba placed her hands behind her head and lowered herself on the bed in a half-sitting posture.

"Some say he's a playboy. Some say he has a dark past. Many think he's a womanizer."

Sheeba didn't say anything in reply now. She was sleepy.

"Sheeba, you can't sleep unless you tell me."

"Tell you what? Don't you ever get tired of him Deeba?" Sheeba said angrily. "Please let me take some rest. It's one a.m. now, and I have not slept a wink this whole day.

" You told me about seeing him soon."

"Oh! My goodness." Sheeba gazed at her sister who looked like she was about to cry at any time. "He's been invited in all Pakistan young poets' function and he's agreed to participate. Happy now?" She said finally, her voice louder than before.

"REALLY? When?" Deeba couldn't believe her ears.

"This weekend. Ten p.m. SHARP!"

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"Karachi Hospital for Psychiatric Diseases"

He first looked at the big sparkling signboard and then at his wristwatch. He was there in time. Locking the door, he climbed out of his car and taking short steps, walked inside the huge premises.

"Hello Sir, how are you?" The lady receptionist gave him a lovely smile, looking clearly impressed.

"Wa'alaikum salaam. How are you, hope fine!" He said, without even stopping properly near her. "I believe I am not late?"

"Not at all sir, Dr.Waris is in his room." He heard receptionist's voice on his back.

Walking straight, he reached near the door which had a name plate of 'Dr.Waris Ahmed'." He knocked at the door and on hearing the response, turned the doorknob and stepped inside.

"Welcome dear, so very nice to see you." A man in his late fifties left his chair to greet him. "Please, be seated."

"Thank you doctor." He took his chair opposite to his.

"So…" Doctor set a formal smile on his lips, taking his glasses off. "How 're you feeling now?"

"Better." He said plainly. "Much better."

"That's good. Oh yes I had to show you the reports of your last tests."

Finishing his sentence, doctor left his chair to open one of his cupboards, took a gray file out and then returned to his seat.

Taking the glasses back to his eyes, he slowly flipped through the pages of that file.

"Well" Closing the file, doctor took a long breath and peered at him through his glasses.

For several minutes, doctor just sat there, staring at him like he would never see him again.

"No sign of any personality disorder." He finally began to say. "Not a single hint of dementia or schizophrenia, no mark or trace of any manic-depressive illness."

He didn't reply, just looked back at his doctor in silence.

"Congratulations. You're completely normal and healthy now." He shook his hand with him excitedly.

"Thank you, you all really worked hard." His response was short.

"No," Doctor refused to agree. "It was' you' who worked hard, who fought with all of his might and will power. You defeated the disease and won this stressful war." His doctor said with a sheer admiration in his eyes.

In answer, he lowered his eyes to the thickly carpeted floor but said nothing.

When he looked up after a silence of few minutes, he saw that doctor was still staring at him.

"What are you looking at doctor? Anything wrong?"

"I was thinking that how things could go so right?" Doctor said, his tone filled with surprise and amazement. "Impossible. Unbelievable." Dr.Waris was plainly astonished.

"What's so impossible doctor?"

"I mean, we all expected your problem to get resolved in atleast four to five years and yet you're completely all right just with in two years." Doctor told him. "And to be honest with you, we didn't expect this problem to get subsided completely. Its prognosis is bad, and in almost all cases, the patient is never able to achieve his pre-disease state back. I mean he never gets completely normal." He told him in detail. "But your case is one of its own kind, you are as mentally and physically active now like you were before."

Dr.Waris paused for a second then added.

"Apart from all that, I now see a strange calmness in the way you talk, and your style of expression has become so mute and yet so inspiring. You look very much satisfied and content now."

"So do you suggest anything for the future?" He asked, not commenting on what his doctor had just said. "Do I need to take some precautionary measures?"

"Well, I'd say that just try to be more social. Attend parties, functions, and gatherings, make new friends, visit refreshing places. That's all."

"Anything else?"

"That's all. But yes, if you feel any mental problem or depressive episode again, you may take these medicines." Doctor slid a letterhead in front of him and was about to prescribe some medicines on it when his voice stopped him.

"I think you should leave these medicines, doctor. It will be useless." He said flatly. "Would it surprise you if I tell that I never took any of the medicines you prescribed for me in the last one year?"]

"What? Really?" Doctor was truly shocked and surprised today.

"Are you sure you didn't take any of the medicines I prescribed?"

"Not a single one." He smiled slightly.

"Then what took cure of your problem."

"My religion." As he spoke, Dr.Waris noted that there was some strange, specific contentment in his voice.

"Oh, you mean spirituality or something?" Dr.Waris raised his brows.

"Not really." He said simply. "Spirituality is just a part of religion. My religion has a lot more than that."

"Then?"

"Fortunately, someone guided me to the right place and the book I consulted was a perfect one for me. It has remedy for every disease and cure for every pain." He explained.

"That's truly interesting." Doctor's shock had not subsided yet.

"It heals wounds, and soothes bruises, even if they are on your heart." His smile was very weird this time.

"Is it some sort of a medical book?

"Not solely." He answered. "It has economics, physics, chemistry, biology, every science and every art."

"Could you please tell me which book are you talking about?" Doctor's curiosity reached its climax. "And, where I can find that book?

" Ofcourse Doctor. Why not, it's called…

"Yes?"

"Doctor, would you mind if I give my answer rather poetically?" He smiled gracefully.

"Really? That would be very interesting." Doctor's eyes and facial expression changed even more.

"You sure?" He wanted to confirm one more time.

"Positive. Why do you doubt?"

"I don't doubt" His eyes smiled at him. "I was just thinking that if you don't have much time or interest for a 'dry' thing like poetry?"

"Never. It's one of the things I prefer to do in my leisure hours. It would actually be a pleasure to listen. Please…" Dr.Waris couldn't wait to know what it was all about.

He bent slightly forward, and with full confidence, he began to read. His voice was soothing, his accent was firm, his language fluent.

I am a book in elegant prints
To know my name, here are some hints

"Wow!" Doctor said, his eyes spreading wide.

He seemed not hearing him or anyone. He was lost in himself, hidden in what he was reading.

Rich in cover and nicely bound
In hearts of Muslim, I rarely found

High on shelf, I am kept
Forgotten there, I am left

With respect, I do get lots of 'kiss'
My main point is what they always 'miss'

In a melodious voice, they recite me
Neglecting the message, inside me

At times, I am used for phony swear
My true use is very, very rare

A miracle, I am, that can change the world
All one has to do is understand my word

I have wisdom, I have treasure
So much, that there is no measure

In your savior, I'm your guide
But who's there to follow my bide

Right from wring is my fame

Leaving his sentence unfinished, he smiled, left his chair to shake hand with the open-mouthed doctor. But before leaving, he didn't forget to finish the poem.

"Holy Quran is my name"

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"So, excited?" Sheeba shifted her car into reverse gear.

"Obviously, and not just me, I guess there will be thousands of other people out there who must be as excited as I'm." Deeba saw her own image on the small mirror present in her make-up kit, giving final shade of maroon lipstick to her already pink lips.

"I know that girls must be calling him day and night." Sheeba said with disinterest. "But know what…I think he's nothing. He just poses and that's all."

But Deeba didn't pay much attention to her last comment; perhaps she was too busy in giving final touches to her make-up.

"There're rumors about him. Some say he's a playboy. Some say he has a dark past. Many think he's a womanizer." Sheeba commented with much interest.

"I don't agree."

Sheeba grinned, and looked at her sister sitting on the passenger seat beside her but said nothing.

"As far as I have observed him, he looks like a dry lost-in-himself man." Turning the steering wheel to the left, Sheeba made a big bubble of the chewing gum she was continuously chewing for the last half an hour.

"For God sake Sheeba. Would you ever stop babbling?" Deeba joined her hands in front of her sister in an ancient gesture of asking for forgiveness.

"Nobody has actually explored him. No body knows him." Deeba added thickly. "Woh kya hai yeh Mujh sey poocho." She closed her eyes. "What he really is, only I can tell."

"I think you're just over-euphoric about him and that's all." Sheeba made a bad mouth. "I have heard a lot about him, specially from the female gender." She winked naughtily.

"Oh really? Like what?" Deeba gave her a challenging look.

"He's psycho" She smiled.

"He is weird." She giggled.

"He's ice. Solid and cold." She laughed.

"Aha. What else have you heard about him?" Deeba turned her face away to look at the row of palm trees that grew along the narrow service road.

"A lot." Sheeba increased the speed of her car. "You'll find out soon."

Deeba took a short breath and took her hairbrush out of her purse.

"When did you last attend a poetry gathering?" Sheeba inquired.

"Umm, I guess it's been more than two years." Deeba combed finely though her black hair.

"I see." Sheeba put the car on the long, smooth road. "Waisey, don't you think these Mushaa'eras or poetry contests or poetry meetings are getting fairly common now a days in Pakistan?"

"Yes, and some of these poetry functions are fairly big and thousands of people get gather there to attend such meetings from all around the Pakistan to enjoy and have appropriate fun. But that's something positive and healthy" Deeba told her thoughtfully. "Atleast I'd personally prefer going to such poetry contests instead of attending some stupid musical concert" She added.

"I love concerts, I love music. It's my soul, my life." Sheeba said aloud, smiling.

"Come on Sheeba! What else is there except some cheap hooting, vulgar comments and out of control dance and stuff?" Deeba questioned.

"It's our age and time to enjoy Deeba. Don't you see how much frustrated, materialistic and mechanical our lives have become? And yet you don't want to give us some right to enjoy and have fun?" Sheeba asked emotionally, glancing over to the passenger side where Deeba sat.

"I feel sorry for those who think that 'this" is the way to have fun and enjoy." Deeba shook her head in disbelief.

"Every one has his or her own views and preferences." Sheeba said in a way like she didn't want to continue her talk on the topic.

Getting her message, Deeba didn't say anything then. They finished rest of their journey in complete silence.

As they reached the main event area, Sheeba slowed the car to look for the parking. There were literally hundreds of cars. Easing the car onto a suitable place, she brought the vehicle to stop.

The place had already been filled with a lot of public, majority of them was, ofcourse, female. Families, married ladies, young teenage girls, everyone was there

The place presented an excellent view of some huge, big festival. Colorful cloths, royal curtains, thick printed red carpets on the floor, all presented an ideal, fantastic look for such a traditional gathering.

Even the cutlery and the sittings were purely eastern. Big traditional Indian pillows were neatly placed on the floor for the people to tap their backs. Big crystal chandeliers, shiny lamps and colorful bulbs were throwing light on every part of the place.

By the time both sisters entered the main event, the function was about to start. The surroundings around the big, high stage were fully loaded with thousands of people, including students of various universities and colleges, press photographers, and important government officials were also there, waiting anxiously for this most awaited and interesting poetry function to begin. Every seat was occupied, and even the galleries and concrete borders were jammed with chattering youths, their spirits lifted by the thought of upcoming, thrilling event.

And then, the function began. Poets and poetesses began to come on the stage one by one. Some were getting more than they expected and some were facing intense hooting from the massive audience. In between the loud noise of whistles, clapping, hooting and applause, everyone was enjoying the gathering to its fullest. And then, after couple of hours, the final moment came, one for which everyone had waited so long.

The anchor came on the stage for one last time, holding wireless mic in his right hand.

"And now" His voice echoed loudly through the surroundings. "The moment for which we all have been waiting so anxiously. I'd now like to invite a young poet, who has been unique in all aspects. Whether it's his poetry, or personality or nature or manners, he has been different. With in a short period of just two years, he has given us some real poetry masterpieces to enjoy. People say he rules on the hearts of Pakistani youth but I'd say that he's not so limited. Too bad he doesn't come in front too much but the wonderful thing is that yet each of us know him. We've read him, we've heard him but not many of us have seen him. Well, here's the chance for those who wanted to see and meet him." At this sentence, he paused to take a short breath and to look at the curious, thrilled people all around him.

"And last but not the least, your favorite poet has promised to read his latest poem for you." Anchor announced excitedly, his own voice shaking with anticipation and emotion.

"Ladies and gentlemen please welcome, the one and only, AARIZ ALI."

As his name was announced Sheeba released her breath which she had held for so long but at the same time her sister held her respiration with all her might.

With ten thousand people and twenty thousand clapping hands, he emerged from somewhere. To many it all looked like a dream, as at first, no one was able to see from where he was rising or where he really was but suddenly, he was on the stage in a flash, in seconds, swiftly, quickly.

"Oh My God, I can't believe it's him." Deeba could just say two words.

"He doesn't look like a poet at all, although he is someone we can become poet for." A middle age woman said, totally stunned.

"He looks like some model or some movie star." Another girl gasped.

"So, how's my surprise?" Sheeba asked proudly. "He's really something, isn't he?"

Deeba had formed a picture of him in her mind: a dry looking, over-mature, bookworm kind of guy. But ahead of her was no such man.

Not very tall, but above-average in height, this strongly built man in his late twenties, with his dark black hair and piercing jet black eyes, was far above the image she had formed of him earlier. She had seen many good-looking men, but never one quite so handsome and charismatic.

His built was impressive, his white Pakistani shilwar suit looked perfect on him. His styled, shiny black hair fit nicely into his boyish charm... smooth, acne free face. His eyes were mesmerizing, his mouth tempting. He wore thin, fine, neatly framed glasses, which looked very suitable on his face, giving him a sober, intellectual touch.

"What a sweet guy." A mature lady in her early thirties exclaimed with interest.

"He is revolutionary." A middle age man said, stunned.

In a hushed voice, one woman said "how handsome."

In an equally hushed voice, the other agreed, adding, "And how graceful."

Getting into the middle of huge stage, he took mic in his hand and took few breaths before the first few words came out of his mouth.

Finally, after few seconds, which seemed like hours, his lips trembled and so did many of the hearts there."Thanks so much for your applause, and your appreciation." His voice was manly and masculine, his accent traditional and his tone smooth.

"I want to let you know that I don't deserve all this attention and love. I'm very much of a sinner and lost in my own self-kind of man." He said in a deep, heavy voice.

"What he's saying?" A girl asked, confused.

"That's how he is." Her companion replied.

"I'm sorry if you are not much pleased with what I'd say but it's true that I live in my own world. A world I never want to climb out of. I have my own laws, rules and principles for myself and I don't care what others would say or think of me." His voice was even, very impressive and effective at the same time.

"You may call me proud, you can say I'm rude, arrogant or whatever but it's true that, that's how I want to live and that's what I am. I won't take much of your expensive time. So here is something which I wrote very recently. My promise, which I'm very much obliged to fulfill. My latest poem… The title is "My Ideal woman."

He stopped for what seemed like an endless moment. He put a detailed stare at the massive audience all around him. There was a complete pin drop silence every where. Eyes were fully open, mouths completely closed, hearts beating in suspense, minds racing with anticipation.

" Zameen par hai magar Aasmaan jaisi hai"

With powerful sound system and echo equipment, his voice felt miraculous to everyone sitting there.

" Zameen par hai magar Aasmaan jaisi hai"

He repeated the first sentence of his poem, creating a delicate yet intense effect of thrill and suspense.

"Woh Nurm moum si larki … Chataan jaisi hai"

His voice became a mere whisper as he completed the first stanza. With that, it felt like the place and the event reached its climax. The ear-bursting and heart-shattering sounds of clapping, whistles and admiration didn't give much chance for Deeba to exclaim the big 'wow' she wanted to convey to him.

Countless camera flashes and sparkling lights were on him as he read. No doubt, at the moment, he was the center of all attention and every attraction.

"Hai Mud'daton sey Merey Dil ke nehaan khaanon mein
Woh Dil ki bazm mein… aik Maizbaan jaisi hai

As he read in his wonderful voice, it seemed like everyone there had turned to stone, frozen at the place.

For many, nothing existing in this world but his impressive, attractive voice. For them, nothing else mattered at the moment but this man who was reading his poem so sensationally.

Qadam Qadam pe Merey saath hai shareek-e-safar
Woh manzilon ki taraf… aik Nishaan jaisi hai

Safar-e-Zeest agar Dhoop hee thehra Mera
Ghazab ki dhoop mein… woh Saaibaan jaisi hai

Meri Ummeed hai saahil ki naatawan kashti
Uss ki hasti ki kashish… Badbaan jaisi hai

Gardishein jab bhi Mujhey Be-qaraar karti hain
Uss ki bus aik nazar… Itmenaan jaisi hai

Woh roobaroo hai magar, phir bhi aisa lagta hai
Yaqeen hai woh magar, kyon Gumaan jaisi hai?

Throwing one last glance at the audiences, he finished his poem and slowly left his place.

It took some moments for thousands of audiences to realize that he had finished reading, as they were still lost in trance of his voice and mesmerizing beauty of his words.

And then, they clapped their greetings and admiration in the most powerful way.

As expected, his most recent poem had become a 'block buster.'

As soon as he got off the stage, press photographers and journalists raced behind him, each trying his best to catch him before anyone else could.

"Mr.Aariz Ali, no doubt you're the most favorite poet of young generation at present. How do you feel about it?" A lady reporter asked quickly and desperately.

"A bilingual poet. We never ever saw anyone who can create such a wonderful poetry both in Urdu and English. Where did you learn it from?" Another press reporter pushed the other to ask his question.

Ignoring all the lights and voices, he left them behind, never paying attention to anyone.

He was almost about to open the door of his car when something happened.

"Mr.Aariz, just a minute." Came a distant feminine call.

There was something particular in this sound that made him stop his feet.

He turned and saw two young girls walking toward him with quick steps.

When they reached him, he saw that one of them was panting heavily.

"I am Deeba. Deeba Rizvi. This is my sister, Sheeba" One of them introduced herself, she looked older of the two.

Aariz looked from one to the other.

This teenage girl had a round face, black eyes and straight braid that hung over her shoulder, almost to her waist.

He just raised his head a little. She saw the corners of his lips spread slightly, like not giving permission to his lips to open in a complete smile.

His large, black eyes peered at the sisters through neat and well-finished wire-rimmed glasses perched on the middle of what could only be called as a perfect male nose.

They couldn't say a word, mouth agape; Deeba stared at him with fascination.

"Umm?" He moved his head questioningly.

"It's been so nice meeting you and listening to you." She said with a tiny, wistful sigh, like she was still in trance.

"Precious ladies," He said with a sober smile, adding kindly, "the pleasure is all mine. Is there anything I can do for you girl?"

"So much!" Deeba said. Words left her mouth automatically. "Well…I mean, I have to ask so much!"

"I'm afraid, I don't have much time right now."

"Sir please, can't you give us few minutes? We really need to talk to you," Deeba asked with hopeful anticipation,

"Mr.Aariz, the thing is that my sister is really crazy about you, and believe me she thinks nothing but you, day and night."

Shocked, paled, confused and annoyed at the embarrassing position Sheeba had put her in. Deeba glared at her just long enough to let her know that she'd deal with her when they were once alone.

He wanted to refuse, he wished to ignore, but there was something in the eyes of this innocent-looking girl, which made him, think twice before answering her.

"Alright, you may have my contact number. I'd see if I can talk to you on the phone." He brought a fountain pen out of his pocket and wrote his phone number on a small piece of paper. "Call me between nine and ten a.m. weekdays."

"Thank you so much sir, we're really thankful for that." Deeba said with sheer joy and thankfulness. "And do remember us in your prayers," She said formally.

"I'm sorry, that I can not do." He said without any expression, his words surprised both sisters.

"As my prayers are never answered." He smiled one last time and turned back to have his way.

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"Have you ever seen his smiles?" Deeba asked, as they prepared for sleep that night.

"Many times he didn't smile at all. But when he did, it was…it's so wonderful, so mysterious."

"He's frigid like ice." Sheeba said, teasing, as she turned the light off and climbed into her bed.

"Well, he's frozen fire." Deeba smiled confidently, pulling her blanket up to her chin.

"He's very stubborn." Sheeba said, yawning.

"Umm, I believe he is very determined." Deeba smiled in silence.

"I really love the way he smokes, keeping a long and regular interval between smokes. I just adore the way he keeps the cigarette between his long, slender fingers."

"How do you know that he smokes?" Sheeba inquired.

"I saw him smoking in the end."

"So? What's so different about him?" Sheeba turned towards her sister to face her. Their beds were placed side by side so that they could easily talk to each other.

"I suppose there's nothing typical in him. I…I just love the way he talks," Deeba told her. "So slowly, in a deep, low voice. His voice feels absolutely wonderful, smooth as silk. He's so calm, so patient, nothing flirtatious about him. He's not like sexually frustrated guys of today." Deeba left her sentence unfinished only to release a long breath and then added.

"Sober, decent, and mature guys like him have always been my ideal. Such men who never lose there temper and are miles away from vulgar and cheap jokes, nothing 'teenage' about them."

"Is he really your ideal?" Sheeba asked sleepily.

"Yes, no doubt I like mature guys like Aariz who have nothing "teenage" about them, you know. So sober, so calm, so man. I wonder if he ever gets angry or impatient. I'm sure he never saw him loses his temper. I love the way he talks, admire the style he walks and adore the way he breaths, even the way he sleeps."

"Deeba?" Sheeba glared at her sister, doubting her present mental condition. "I'm sure you've gone completely crazy."

"Why?" Deeba smiled dreamily. "What makes you think so?"

"Have you ever seen him sleeping? Have you ever felt him breathing?" Sheeba asked angrily.

"Yes, in dreams." She closed her eyes, like she was talking in sleep.

At first Sheeba didn't know what to say.

"Do you really like him that much?" Sheeba asked, completely surprised.

"Even more than that."

Sheeba threw one last look at her sister's face then closed her eyes. "I had no idea you like him so much."

"What's wrong with that Sheeba?"

Sheeba took a long sigh then said, "I'm sorry to inform you sister but you're just having your first crush. That's all."

On her remark, Deeba burst out laughing.

"Well sister, 'no comments." She said, smiling.

"Yeah, you don't have to comment about what I already know." Sheeba turned her head away." And now please let me get some sleep. Will you? It's been a really tired day for me. For God's sake don't spoil my sleep like the way you have your own. OK?"

Deeba didn't answer. She just continued to think about what was really bothering her since the time she'd returned from the poetry function. It was something she wanted to neglect, wished to ignore but couldn't.

For minutes she tried to put her feet into the beautiful valley of sleep but it would not come so easily.

Frustrated and worried for some unknown reason, she shook the shoulder of her sleeping sister.

"Sheeba?"

"Sheeba"

"Uh, uh…" Sheeba looked at her with half-closed eyes. "Yeah? What's the problem?"

"I am going to meet him. I just have to meet him."

"What the…" Anger gripped Sheeba with its full strength.

"Are you crazy or something Deeba?" Sheeba put in, giving her a hard look. "It's quarter past two at night and you wake me up only to talk about 'him' again?"

Deeba said nothing but just chewed her lower lip. Sheeba saw there were tears in her eyes. Her expression softened as she saw her beloved sister's helpless face. It was truth that she really loved her elder sister and she could do anything to make her happy but at the same time Deeba's emotional and somewhat 'childish' attitude was something she did not like much.

"Look Deeba," She began. "I know you really want to meet him and want to know more about him. But it's not that simple and easy. He's not an ordinary person. Plus, we really don't know him as a person."

"But he gave us his phone number." Deeba said eagerly.

"Okay. With which reference you'd want to meet him?"

"I'd say I'm your greatest fan." Deeba suggested.

Sheeba laughed. "That would be the cheapest excuse to meet him. I'm sure he must be getting such calls day and night, and surely, he's not going to meet every fan of his."

"Then?"

"Let me think." Sheeba said thoughtfully, sleep miles away from her eyes now. "The question is that how will you meet him? I mean he's so busy man. You don't find him here and there every day."

"That's why I disturbed your sleep and I'm sorry for that but I think you're the only one who can give me some solution for this problem." Deeba said with pure hope in her eyes.

Sheeba just stared at her face then lowered her head, combing her fingers through her shoulder-length hair.

"Well, I've got an idea." She smiled meaningfully.

"Really? What's that?" Deeba yelled with excitement.

"Please, keep your voice low. Don't disturb mom and dad's sleep now."

"Tell me about your idea." Deeba's voice became a mere whisper now.

"Just wait and see." Sheeba told her mysteriously, her eyes twinkling with naughty luster. "I'd tell you in the morning. Now don't worry and let's see if all the things go in our favor."

"Are sure it will work?"

"Not sure, but it's a pretty good one. I hope it should, and pray that it will." Smiling one last time, Sheeba went back to her bed.

Deeba breathed a sigh of relief and closed her eyes.

"Ultimately, you're mother of all "ideas" Deeba giggled weakly, but unexpectedly she heard Sheeba's voice from the other side of the dark room.

"And after all, you're mother of all 'ideals'."

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With trembling fingers, she dialed his number.

On third ring, someone picked the receiver on the other side.

"Yes?" It was a deep, inspiring masculine sound.

"Hello, this is Deeba Rizvi. Can I please talk to Mr.Aariz Ali?"

There was a brief pause on the other side, and then the same voice spoke again.

"I'm Aariz. What can I do for you?"

"Oh hi sir. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"We met last week in All-Pakistan poetry function. Do you remember?"

Silence.

"I'm sorry Miss. I don't really remember, there were thousands of people there."

His expressionless tone bathed her in the rain of disappointment.

"Oh, well, I'm from an all-women magazine 'FeMag'. I wanted to contact you for an interview."

"Oh, I see." He sighed deeply. "Then I hope you have not forgotten what I've explained to everyone earlier. I don't really give interviews to anyone."

"Can I ask 'why'?" Deeba asked back.

There was a brief silence on the other side, then he stated.

"I don't do poetry for media or to get famous. I do it for myself."

"Sir, this interview won't make you more famous than you already are."

"Then?" His voice felt expressionless. "What's the purpose of this interview then?"

She wanted to say 'Just to know more about you' but caught her lip just in time.

"Just to ask your comments about other poets and to know your views for advancement of modern poetry in Pakistan. It will help us a lot sir."

"Help for what?"

"As you sure know, on which ground the young Pakistani generation stands right now, only crazy about music, movies and stuff. Most of them have no interest for literature and poetry. However, you do represent young generation and your opinions and views might invoke some good interest in young people." Deeba tried her best to convince him.

"I avoid the people from media like plague."

"Still sir, I would say don't say 'no'." She pleaded.

"Where're you from?" He asked.

"Sir please, I request, I beg you. This would be the first and last time. I came from Dubai only for this interview…

"Listen lady, whoever you're, I just don't….

"Please, don't disappoint me. I am sincere, I am honest, and it's not something for commercial purposes. And believe me, it would be something totally confidential. We do care about people's rights."

Deeba didn't know what gave her so much confidence and courage to argue with him so strongly.

"And if you'd want, I will keep most things 'off the record'. What else do you need?" She tried her last weapon.

"Then I'd like to know that why a young lady journalist from a new magazine is so much interested in this 'off the record' interview?" His voice was very sensational.

"I've told you the reason sir. But I won't insist again now. I'm sorry if I took your precious time." Deeba said disappointedly.

He took a long, tired breath then agreed.

"Alright. We'll meet today six p.m. sharp. My address is…" He told her his address.

"Thank you so much sir. You don't know how much happy I am."

"But lady, you'd be disappointed."

"Worry not sir." Deeba smiled and added.

" I'd be privileged."

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Deeba put down the receiver and breathed a sigh of relief. Aariz Ali had agreed to see her at six, today, and if she was lucky, it was now time for her dream to come true.

At first she had rejected Sheeba's idea about meeting him. But, after long, careful thinking, she concluded that this was the only possible option available. After all, what else she could do?

She knew she was lying for the first time and it was not very ethical thing to do, but she thought this was her first and last chance to meet him.

She looked at her watch. It was too early to leave. With a cursory glance at a mirror, she left her room for lunch.

An hour later she was back in her room, looking through her cloths and trying to decide what to wear for her meeting with Aariz.

What sort of man was Aariz Ali?

Ofcourse he's supposed to like modern kind of girls, who are brave, out-going, and capable of moving in the society. Her hand stopped at a mauve silk shilwar suit and taking it out, she held it against her and looked in the mirror. Smiling at her own choice, she left to take quick shower.

Once she was ready and prepared to leave, thoughts of him emerged again like an unwanted rain.

How would he behave and react? Would he allow her to ask some personal questions?

Stop thinking of it, she once again admired her reflection in the mirror. Armed with every weapon of female beauty, it was just an appropriate time for her to 'attack'.

Giving final touches to her lipstick, she took her purse and moved forward.

But she was not prepared for the sight she came across when she finally reached near his house. Ofcourse from the address he'd given her, she knew that unlike other Pakistani poets, he belonged to financially well off class but she'd not thought that he'd be a super rich man.

His house was sprawling mansion perched on a cliff overlooking the Arabian Sea, and it was too damned big for one single, solitary man, as she'd heard of him.

On introducing herself, the guard let her go inside and a servant guided her toward the dinning room.

Nervous as a schoolgirl being summoned to the head, Deeba walked into the beautiful and luxurious dinning room.

Two minutes later, she was waiting for him. A smile on her beautifully curved mouth couldn't hide the nervousness in her.

With dark make-up and lipstick, she had tried her best to appear as someone old and mature, but her features seemed to reveal the secret.

She was nervous, really nervous. To relax herself, she threw her glance around her to see her surroundings.

The dinning room was formal, lit by two shimmering crystal chandeliers, and there were French doors opening onto a garden filled with pink, white scarlet and lavender rhododendrons and English roses. The walls of the massive library were lines with handcrafted shelves and the fireplaces on the first floor were all large and traditional. Thick wall-to-wall Persian carpets covered all floors.

Yes, the place was too big and too fancy.

The sound of door opening brought her back to her senses, and she looked up as he emerged.

She rose like an automatic robot to greet him.

"Oh, Hi… hi sir" Her nervousness increased.

"Please." He waved her to sofa and sat down at his easy chair.

He first raised his eyes and then his face to see a tall, willowy girl with long, black hair and a Miss World body. He had not actually thrown a "detailed" look at her, but the way she was exposing herself told the whole story at first sight.

"So?" He asked.

She tried to say something but her voice completely failed. Clearing her throat, she tried again.

"I… I called you this morning for an interview." Gaining her courage, she looked at him finally.

He looked more attractive and impressive than before. Wearing simple, plain white shirt, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dark gray pants, he didn't look 'formal' and yet so different. He was wearing fine, thin, black-framed glasses that gave him that brainy intellectual look. He reminded her of those mature librarians that look absolutely beautiful when they have their glasses on.

She never really liked men with glasses but this man. Well, he truly was an exception in every department. Glasses suited him and matched his personality, giving him a genuine intellectual look and a sophisticated, noble touch.

With a mind-shattering fragrance emitting from his body, he was capable of attracting many females through their nostrils.

She instantly liked him with all of her might.

No doubt, he was a man to inspire poetry.

"So, you have started this Magazine or what!" He said, contrary amusement glimmering in his eyes.

She noted, he had eyes with hypnotizing powers.

"Not me" She replied as her breaths turned to normal. "I just work there as a journalist. I am not the owner."

"I see." He folded his arms across his chest. While sitting, he did not look very tall, but he sure had an above-average height. His jaw was square and his face looked clean and neat with nicely cut black hair.

"May I ask your magazine's name?"

"Oh sure, why not. Actually, I came from the monthly female magazine ' Femag'!"

"Interesting!" He sighed. His facial features relaxed some more. "Never heard of it though"

"Actually, we publish it from Dubai, and it's been only a couple of months since we started it"

"Aha. Sounds good!" Mild amusement flickered in his eyes.

"So what do you want to ask?"

Oh yes. That is why she was here. What did she want to ask? Had she thought about it? She was supposed to take his 'detailed' interview here and yet her mind seemed totally blank at the moment.

She thought and thought but, unfortunately, no appropriate question came to her mind.

"Well?" He asked abruptly, his deep-set dark eyes narrowing as they regarded her.

"Okay, for the starters, let me ask you something while you think about your 'interview' questions." He said.

"S…sure." She stammered.

"Who's your favorite English or American movie star?"

She thought, she didn't hear him correctly.

It was her, who had to take his interview, but the first question came from his side.

"Well…Mel Gibson, Brad pit and Kevin Costner. Why?"

"Good." He said without much expression and asked his next question. "And your favorite Indian actors?"

"Oh yes, Shahrukh is cool, and Salman Khan too. He is quite a hunk I think."

"Sorry I have this bad memory." He continued. "Would you mind telling me the name of Shahrukh's last movie?"

"Yes, why not it was great." She answered evenly.

"And the last war in which our Holy Prophet fought himself?" He inquired again.

"Jee?"

She couldn't believe if she'd heard him correctly.

"Tough one? OK. Leave it. Tell me any four essential principles of Islam."

And then it occurred to her that, perhaps all the rumors she heard about him being mentally abnormal were true.

She opened her purse, and with trembling fingers, she brought a tissue and wiped off the sweat from her forehead.

"Which are the longest and shortest Soorah of Quran?" Perhaps, he was determined to make her feel ashamed of herself.

On his last question she felt like she was going to be buried alive at any second.

He gave her few minutes to gather her mind and waited for her response.

But when no answer came from her, he shrugged his shoulders.

"Disappointed, I am."

He said, and gave a long sigh before going on.

"Now it's your turn to ask questions."

"Sir…I...I was not prepared for all this." Words took great effort to come out of her mouth finally.

"Are these questions some kind of examination questions so you'd need 'preparation' for them?" He said, looking at her with some hint of grief in his eyes.

"Do you pray?" Perhaps he was determined to go to the final extent today.

"Nun…no. I mean not regularly." She replied thickly.

"But you do eat regularly, right? You do sleep regularly, you do watch movies and T.V regularly." He smiled slowly but sarcastically.

"Anyway. It's your personal matter, I'm not supposed to ask such questions." He breathed then said. "So have you made your mind to ask some questions now?"

Deeba nearly sighed aloud with relief.

She looked at him with pure shame in her eyes and brought a small tape-recorder out of her purse and kept it on the nearby table.

After pressing its 'record' button, she turned to face him once again.

"Before you begin…" He raised his hand, although he kept his voice low.

"I want to make it clear that I won't answer any questions related with my personal, private life."

"I'd start from poetry. If you don't mind?" She asked as if she wanted his permission to proceed.

He was silent. Taking his silence as his permission, she asked her first question.

"What is poetry?"

"Poetry?" He closed his eyes for a brief interval, opening them again after few seconds. "It's the job of jobless people. One who has nothing to do can try poetry."

As he spoke, she saw that there was a brief, faint smile on his lips. His faint smile held a trace of sadness.

He crossed fingers of his both hands together. He had long, artistic fingers she noted, as he pulled out a golden case and took a cigarette out. He placed it between his lips.

She couldn't resist stealing another glance at him--he was certainly attractive,

"Miss Deeba!"

He called her, straightening his fine glasses as he peered at his gold watch.

"Jee, oh" She rapidly moved her eyes from his hands and straightened herself up.

"I am waiting for your next question."

"Sure. I was, Infact, thinking about it." She made her mind.

"So, how do you see your life as a poet?"

His tortured gaze slid back to her, but only for a second, then he moved his eyes away.

"My life?" He repeated her question. "It has become like a wet paper now!"

"Wet paper?"

He brought the lighter and with a fine 'click' he showed the long flame to the fore-end of his cigarette.

"Yes. Wet paper." He said, pulling deeply on the cigarette. "No one can burn it, no one can write on it."

"But I deserved this." He added in a low murmur.

Deeba watched him for a second. He seemed so calm and so uncaring but his response clearly showed her that he didn't want to explain what he had just said.

"Any recent change in your life or has it been uniform all over?"

"What do you mean?" He asked soberly.

"I…I mean things do change. Life can not be like a wet paper through all of its course." She explained.

Aariz ran a hand through his dark hair and worked up a grin. "Things don't change," He said philosophically.

"Time moves on."

Changing her position, she asked her next question.

"Your poetry mostly revolves around love, romance and pain. Why?"

He rose from his chair. Going near the big glass window, he opened it to let the sea air come inside. The salt breeze rippled gently through his dark black hair and the sound of incoming tide, far below, was a soothing song.

Deeba held her breath.

"Love is the most persistent and undeniable reality of life." There was a wealth of patience in his voice.

He said, taking a deep drag on his cigarette, then exhaling the whole smoke through his nose.

Flicking Deeba a meaningful glance, he shook his head.

Against her will, Deeba scanned his profile, then hurriedly glanced away again. His mouth was tight and grim, yet it was still the most handsome mouth she could recall seeing on any man.

Why was he not staring at her at all? Thinking, Deeba couldn't help herself asking this question.

"Why do you talk like this?" She said absently."I mean, always keeping your eyes away, not looking at me."

"I often wonder," He paused, clearly ignoring his question "That, what has happened to our so called 'Muslim Society'?"

"I could see you only if you were in proper covering and Hijaab. I don't like to put a second glance on those women who don't cover themselves properly."

Deeba felt like her cheeks were throbbing with embarrassment.

"Muslims girls now try to attract and impress others through their bodies." He returned to sit on his easy chair, still keeping his eyes away. "Don't they feel any shame or disgust while showing their curves?"

On his remarks, she felt so ashamed that she wished she could die right there with shyness. She felt like someone had suddenly made herself bare in front of thousands of eyes.

A servant came quietly with a trolley full of snakes, biscuits, cold drinks and coffee.

"Please" He offered her to take something.

With shaking fingers, she raised the steaming mug of coffee.

"You were talking something about love?" He asked, perhaps he'd sensed her condition.

"Can you define what is love?" She questioned.

"Love"…. A cold sigh escaped from his lungs and intermingled with an equally cold air of December evening.

"Love is…. Perhaps, the most meaningful word of all languages of the world. Just see in Urdu language, how many words people use for this feeling, Mohabbat, Pyaar, Chaahat, Ulfat, Dil ki Lagi, Lagaao, Ishq!" He brought the coffee mug to his lips, while keeping the cigarette in his other hand.

"But I wanted to ask its definition, and how does it happen?" Propping her chin on her hands, she stared at him with deep interest.

He turned to face her, his features hardening.

"Well, love is a house made up of glass, where stones strike everyday in the form of rain, got it?"

He laughed softly.

But even in this little laughter, she didn't miss the chance to see wetness in his eyes.

"Some people say it happens automatically " He added, gazing at the ceiling above. "And some say it is done voluntarily and some…. Some say…. " His voice became husky.

"Yes?" She looked into the eyes of the most weird and mysterious man she had ever met.

"Some people say it's an inborn matter, a grip and bond between two souls, who have met even before they come to earth. Once they're in the world, they just have to search and find each other. As soon as eyes meet, it seems that both were familiar to each other for thousands of centuries." He said gracefully.

"Well…now I want ask a very typical and popular question …can I" She smiled.

"Go on" He closed his eyes.

"What's the difference between love and lust? "

"Hmm…lust is like trying on clothes, while love is finding an outfit to keep" His shiny black eyes twinkled brightly from behind the gleam of his spectacles.

"Wow…. And when does love end? "

"Yes…good question…To love and be loved is like the ocean tide.... They keep going out and coming in…but yes sometimes it does end in front of the world…it does end in the world with the last breaths…but speaking of age factor …Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age"

"Why do people consider first love as the most romantic one?" She asked with sheer curiosity.

"Because they're very pure when they love for the first time, don't know the bad part of it." He laughed wonderfully. The action gave her a good view to see his neat, uniform white teeth.

"Why is love supposed to be a hurting experience?" She asked, now looking deeply into his watery depths.

"One aspect of love is.... Is to feel 'pain'." He told her seriously. "You always feel pain in love.... Whether it's failure or successes in love...you feel pain in your heart...right from the beginning ...sometimes this pain is pleasurable...but many times...it hurts." He paused briefly, only to take a fine sip of his coffee and then continued his discussion.

"People have expectations...dreams...wishes...fantasies... and when one does not get fulfillment of all these things, obviously it hurts. As they say 'love is like a knife, it can stab the heart or it can carve wonderful images into the soul that will last a lifetime."

Observing his interest and knowledge in the topic, she extended the discussion on the same topic.

"Is love something constructive too? I mean, can we get something positive out of it?"

"Love can make you bear any kind of pain and any kind of sacrifice. It can also make you feel stupid and act stupidly. Sometimes when you love and end up giving so much yourself, subconsciously you only discover how much you've given when the person you love hurts you or has to say goodbye." He kept the empty mug of his coffee back to the table but did not stop talking.

"Then you realize, an important part of yourself is already with that person. It goes away when he leaves and you are left with a sickening, empty feeling inside. Tears are bound to shed from your eyes, no matter how you force yourself to keep them in. Well, that's what you get for caring so much about someone. But how can you regret it? To give yourself freely and lovingly is the most beautiful thing you can do."

She nodded, speechless at his vast knowledge and unique philosophy about the subject.

"What's the difference between knowledge and wisdom?" She managed to ask.

"To acquire knowledge, one has to study but to acquire wisdom, one must observe." His answer was short and spontaneous and yet it satisfied her.

"But still, you didn't tell me your definition of love." She stared at his face, confused.

"All the problem is about definition of love." He said thickly. "It's a mystery …no one can define it satisfactorily. Everyone defines, perceives and experiences it from different perspective."

"But atleast you can say just few words?" She begged.

"Alright." He released a long, shattering breath. "Then listen…

"Love is the reflection of His joy in Her eyes. Love is an eruption of feelings buried within a heart longing to break free. True love is like life, a gift of God to Man, which he finds only once …so when you find true love, hold on to it and never let go for a good love is hard to find and it comes only once."

"But where do we find it?" She asked.

"You can't find it. Love finds you, or you can say that love is like wild flowers. It's often found in the most unlikely places." He grinned adequately. "Actually, you do not fall in love, you grow to love, and then love grows in your beloved."

"But what's the basis and foundation of love?" She was taking full interest in the topic.

"Respect" His answer was quick and short this time.

Behind his thin-rimmed spectacles, his eyes glittered cold as the winter sky.

"Could I ask a different question?" Deeba asked.

"Sure."

"I'll understand if I'm going over the line here," She went on, "but there's something that I used to wonder about."

"I've never been offended by any question," Aariz said, "but I always reserve the right not to answer them."

"That's fair," Deeba said and paused, thinking about how best to phrase her question.

"Seems like you had some really bad personal experience of it." Deeba couldn't help herself saying. She wanted to explore this man, search this man, who had been lost in his own world.

"Have you ever been in love?" Before she could stop herself, words had left her mouth. She held her breath for the time of her life.

She watched with interest and fear as his eyes narrowed at some distant point.

Some thoughts are better left unsaid, some feelings are better left kept to you, but love has its way of expressing itself despite the silence.

Deeba didn't know how to fill the silence that followed her question.

After what seemed like an hour of strained silence, he shook his head, conceding flatly.

"I told you there will be no personal questions."

She nodded in understanding. Yes, he had made it quite clear that there will be no personal questions.

He glanced at his wristwatch and said,

"You may go now."

"But sir…still I need to ask you much." She said in a rush, getting on her feet.

On her remark, he put a detailed look on her for the first time. Here eyes were pleading for something more than he'd just told her.

He couldn't refuse her then. "Alright, we'll think about it next time. Call me again next week and I'd see if I could tell you something more about myself."

"Thank you so much sir." She was so glad that she almost yelled with happiness.

"I told you, you'd be disappointed." He accompanied her to the main door.

She didn't reply right then, instead took few steps forward, finally moving out of his house.

And then she turned back.

He was just about to close the main door.

"Yes sir, I am disappointed. Today I really felt disappointed. But not because of you, I'm disappointed because of myself."

He smiled wonderfully this time and said.

"And yes…next time you don't have to play this interview drama for meeting me. If I'd have time, I'd definitely give you some of it."

Stunned and paralyzed, she stood there, watching him go inside his house.

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"So, how was your meeting today?" Sheeba asked, putting the creamy biscuit into her mouth.

"Well, as I've told you, the plan didn't work like the way we expected, still I got more than what I wanted." Deeba told her happily.

"Yeah." Sheeba said thoughtfully."I didn't think he could guess about your dummy journalist role so easily."

"How was his behavior?" Sheeba asked, curious as ever.

"His manners were flawless the entire evening, courteous, respectful, and ever the gentleman." Said Deeba.

"Even apparently too." She told Sheeba. "He looks so wonderful in glasses. Nothing like Indian or English movie stars, he is a unique star in his own self. He has his own distinct personality."

"I see," Sheeba gave her a knowing glance. "It seems to me that you like him more than I thought." Sheeba stated with a meaningful expression on her face.

"Yes I like him." Deeba said soberly. "More than that, I adore him, respect him, but not like the way you think of."

"Meaning?" Sheeba raised her brows quizzically.

"What's wrong with you Sheeba?" She asked her sister, giving her an angry look. "Okay, I admit, he's very close to my ideal and he is my favorite poet. But don't think I have lost my mind for him. And even if I had, he is too far from my reach."

"Your ideal?" Sheeba turned to face her now. "You never told me about that. How's your ideal?"

"Very much like him." Deeba said dreamily. "Calm, yet dominating."

"Dominating?"

"Come on yaar, don't you know I don't like "dubboo" type or 'buddhoo" kind of men?" Deeba stared at her sister, confused. " I've always liked dominating men. A man who could guard his woman like a shield, instead of following her, walking behind her."

"Oh yes, that I know." Sheeba smiled in answer. "Your weird philosophy that Pakistani girls are mainly of two kinds. "

"Aha, and what are those?"

"First kind of girls wants an all-time friendly husband, who always walks side-by-side with them, free and intimate as ever."

"Hmm, and second?" Deeba smiled. She was surprised by the fact that her sister had not forgotten their once-held discussion about which kind of husbands they would prefer for themselves.

"Second variety of girls wants a dominating husband. A man who could guide them through different twists and turns of life, holding their finger in his hand, right?" Sheeba wanted her confirmation.

"Yes, but it's not just that." Deeba added."A husband who can be a strict teacher, guiding you about what to do and what not, a wonderful, gentle lover and caring friend, all at the same time."

"Well sister." Sheeba sighed. "I can only pray for you that you find such kind of guy some time. Though the chances are very rare."

Deeba didn't reply this time.

"So, he was good with you, right?" Sensing her elder sister's reaction, Sheeba changed the topic.

"Yes, very much. He didn't talk anything rude or bad. His expressions, his gestures were very decent." Deeba could never get tired of this topic.

"I still feel that he doesn't belong to this world. I mean he looks so isolated." Sheeba stated.

"That's what he says too." Deeba breathed coldly. "That he doesn't belong to this world. He has his own world."

"But I had an impression that he is rude and proud, specially his behavior with women…." Sheeba remarked.

"Not at all." Deeba cut in. "Read all of his poems. He cares about women, respects them."

"Well." Sheeba got up from her place. "I am not sure that he will tell you anything about his personal life. People like him feel a weird pleasure in keeping themselves hidden and mysterious. They actually know that this is the secret of their popularity."

"Wait and see." Deeba smiled as she put her forearm on her eyes and closed them. "Let's see what happens."

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He was sitting back in his chair, his hands supped behind his head, when the telephone bell rang again.

He rose to answer it.

"Yes?"

"Assalaam O alaikum Sir." From the other side, came a familiar feminine voice.

"Wa'alaikum salaam."

"Sir, it's me Deeba, Deeba Rizvi." From her voice, she sounded very excited and refreshing.

"Oh" A long breathed escaped out of his lungs. Surely he had not forgotten this very interesting girl.

"Sir, you promised to tell more about yourself." She asked hopefully.

"Listen bibi." He replied spotlessly. "First, I didn't 'promise" that I'd tell you more about myself, and second, it's not next week yet. If I'm not forgetting, I told you to call next week but you've called earlier."

"Oh, sorry. I couldn't wait." Said Deeba, and she sounded disappointed.

"Anyway. What do you want to ask now?"

"Sir, I want to know more about you. I mean I'd be really glad if you could tell me more about your personal life."

"Miss.Deeba or whatever you are." He said a little harder than ever, and for the first time Deeba thought he was about to lose his temper finally.

But surprisingly, his voice and tone became normal again with in a second, as calm and soft as ever.

"I just don't understand why do you have this much interest in my personal life."

She kept herself silent this time.

"Do you have any convincing reason that why should I let you open the private book of my life?" He asked firmly.

"Yes sir." She said courageously this time. "I can convince you."

There was a long silence on his side. Perhaps, he was thinking something.

"Alright." He finally answered. "You have five minutes to convince me that why should I tell you about my personal matters."

"It would be something better for the newer generation like me, to follow upon."She gave her first reason.

"We can learn a lot from your mistakes if you did any. People want to know, as your fan, someone has right to know about you as much as he or she could."

"I just don't understand that why and how do you see it as something beneficial for you." He argued.

"Then let's talk about it and we will see." She was determined to try until her last effort.

Again, he took several moments to give his answer, but when he spoke, it rang wedding bells in her ears.

"Alright Miss.Deeba, I'll see you in my home tomorrow, 5 p.m. sharp."

And then he hung up the receiver.

The next day, when she entered his luxurious house at the arranged time, she could hardly believe that it was actually happening. Aariz Ali, who had his popularity as someone who doesn't care about others, never gives any interview, never appears on media, had agreed to talk to her about his personal life.

"Miss Deeba?" He had come forward to greet her as she looked at him.

His personal life, she thought, as she made her way towards his dinning room. A mysterious book, which no one had ever dared to open until now.

With the faintest of smiles he leaded her up the wide carpeted stairs.

Once she took her place on the big, blue sofa, he lowered his frame into the armchair that matched the blue-flowered sofa.

Once sat comfortably, she took a detailed look of him.

He looked tired. Wearing plain, dark black shilwar suit, he looked uniquely stylish. Through modern black-rimmed glasses, his eyes looked sleepy, like he'd not slept for days. He had some book in his hands and from its thickness, Deeba could judge that it was very lengthy.

"Do you know Deeba…" He said calmly, setting down the book he was reading.

Her own name on his tongue for the very first time brought all of her senses to full alert.

"It seems to me like there's some invisible power that pushes me, orders me to tell you things which I've always kept limited to myself." He said softly, his eyes not on her face as usual.

"Anyway," He tipped his head back to the headrest of his easy chair. "I'm prepared now. You may proceed."

She decided to ask right away, instead of wasting her time in preliminaries. As she was not sure if he'd keep on telling all these things she wanted to inquire about or he would change his mind at any instant.

"What was the biggest mistake of your life?"

"Mistake?" He laughed huskily. "I personally believe that I'm one of the biggest sinners of the world." He gave her a wounded smile.

"Infact, my whole life has been a mistake."

Without going into the depth of his comment, she asked her next question.

"Do you live here alone? No family?"

"Next question please." His lips tightened together.

Her mouth tightened but she did not argue.

"Do you believe in relations and family values?" She asked.

"Relations like what?" He asked back.

"Umm, like mother, father, siblings, wife."

He smiled absently. "No, I have no one. I live here, all alone. I have no family, no relatives now." He murmured expressionlessly.

As usual, this time too, she didn't miss the chance to see wetness in his eyes, which was a hallmark of his smiles. Deeba noted he was not looking like the Aariz she had met the other day. This Aariz Ali looked too much tired, tensed and broken.

"Don't you have any friends?" She tried to change the tensed atmosphere.

"Yes I have, few ones." He said uniformly. "Friends, like books, should be few and well-chosen."

"People say there's a hand of some woman behind every successful man. Whose hand was involved in your case?" She inquired, staring at him deeply.

"Who said I'm a successful man?" He replied, peering at her over his spectacles.

"People think so."

"I don't care about people." He replied instantly. "But yes, I do believe in relations like of mother's…." His voice became husky and thick, his throat heavy.

"What is mother? Can you define this word?"

On her question, he gave her a long look, very long, for the first time. From his expression, she thought she'd asked something really terrible. At some instant, she thought he was about to cry. His gaze shifted to some distant point, and then he closed his eyes painfully.

His voice hollow, he said, "Mother is a person, who on seeing, that there are only four pieces of bread for four people, announces that she never did care for bread!" He smiled sadly.

At first, she couldn't understand what he'd said but as soon she did, she was lost in the beauty of his words.

"Hey you there?" He swayed his hand in front of her eyes…and she came back from the trance, which his talking had produced.

He said no more, which did not surprise her, for he never spoke of his family or background.

"Don't you ever lose your temper?" She asked petulantly.

"Not since I was…" He caught his tongue before he could say further. "Since the time I have become mature…"

She very clearly noticed that he'd stopped himself from saying something really important. But she didn't insist.

"Do you cry?" She asked, observing him very closely.

"What do you do when the only person who can make you stop crying is the person who made you cry?" As usual, he asked back, instead of giving her proper answer. "Ofcourse you won't prefer crying in such circumstances. Will you?"

"What does it take to make you happy?"

"Are you writing my biography, Deeba?" He asked evenly. He looked somewhat impressed by the way she was asking questions today, very fluently and confidently. She didn't look like the girl who had met him before.

She smiled in answer. "No," She said decently. "The purpose of asking all these questions is different."

"Why do you give a damn any way?" He asked as his lips twisted into a parody of smile.

She swallowed, shaking her head. "You'd know the purpose later."

"So," She carried on, "You became so popular in such a short time. How does it feel to be famous?"

"I never wanted popularity. I got it without my will." He said firmly, sliding his glasses slightly up on his nose with a delicate touch of his index finger.

"You look like you're in pain Sir. Like someone has really hurt you, wounded you, more than you can bear." She said with sympathetic honesty.

"No one has hurt me." He told her."I hurt myself."

"How?"

He turned his gaze to the ceiling.

"Hatred is like acid. It destroyed the vessel that holds it."

"I'm sure that's very deep, but I'm afraid you've lost me." She leaned toward him. "That's one of the things that drive me crazy about you. You can never simply say yes or no. Why do you always answer a question with a cryptic remark or, worse, another question?"

"Do I do that?" Turning to face her, he shot her a crooked smile, but his eyes gleamed like cool metal

Her eyes couldn't rise up.

"I sometimes wonder how calm you sound!" Deeba said, amazed.

"It's one thing I learned from her…" He wanted to stop himself, but it was too late. He regretted this very moment. It occurred to him that, today, someone wanted him to break all of his rules and principles.

He then slid a knowing glance at Deeba.

"Probably you're now thinking that what happened to me, right?" He said quietly. "Perhaps, you're' thinking that I was a failure in love or something like that." He laughed emptily.

She praised his fine, telepathic mind.

He released a long, weary breath, "I guess there isn't anything else I can say, is there?"

"Tell me about her."

She said anxiously.

He met her gaze squarely, though the lamplight glinting on his lenses made it impossible to see his eyes. But then, she thought she could almost see a tear trickling down his cheek.

He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, looking more tired and hurt than ever, his eyes were half lidded, hiding the waters underneath, shading them.

Pulling her lips between her teeth, she scanned the Persian carpet at her feet, nodding jerkily. "I---I'm sorry," She whispered after a taut minute.

Although she had guessed it, but suddenly it made her more uncomfortable than ever.

And then, she was hit by a horrible truth. She wanted very badly to have this man tell his story to her. There was something about him that touched her deep inside, something unnamable, risky, considering the fact that he'd recently admitted there was some woman who had…

He looked up at her, his expression serious but not angry. "What else do you want to know now?"

"Each and every thing sir." She whispered, her voice full of curiosity."Right from the beginning."

"Who was she" She asked automatically. But seeing his reaction, she hated herself for asking such a stupid question. It was all very much obvious.

He groaned. His eyes grew cold and he cast her a heavy-lidded glance.

"I...I can't." He said huskily, his throat tear-clotted.

"Just try to relax." She said."I think you need to talk about that Sir."

"Something's been eating at you for a long time." She added softly.

He darted a mutinous look her way, and in it, Deeba witnessed the shadow of his sadness and its vile complexity, raw and very close on the surface. Somehow she knew that, today, he was going to tell her things he'd kept bottled up for years. Nothing to help him on his difficult journey.

His eyes blazed into hers.

"That's true," He agreed straightly, unexpectedly.

Her breathing became rapid, short and fast, and her heart began to beat so loudly that she immediately began to fear that perhaps Aariz would hear it.

"Talk to me, Sir!" She heard herself again and again.

He leaned forward, propping his chin on his other hand. His eyes were closed, his lips drawn in a fierce line. After nerve-racking moment, he faced her.

Deeba forced herself not to ask question this time. He had to tell the story in his own way.

Aariz dropped his gaze and seemed to go inward.

Let him say it! Her mind warned. Let him get it out. The pain of doing that will cauterize the wound.

He paused for a moment before he said,

"Her name was… "

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To be continued...

HIJAAB WAALI
Caught between love and religion...

A story by IKRAM ABIDI

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