For the first time in his whole life, Nafiz Arham stood on the prayer mat without any reminder or pressure from his parents. This time, there was no pretense, no hollow ritual to appease his father's stern gaze. His heart was a battlefield of restlessness and an agonizing thirst to understand the unknown. As he began his prayer, the room felt unusually quiet, as if even the walls were leaning in to hear the confession of a drifting soul.
Raising his trembling hands toward the Creator during the final supplication, he made a desperate, whispered plea: "O Allah, if that mysterious girl is destined to bring grief or stray me from my path, then erase her from my memory forever. Let her image vanish like mist in the morning sun. I am weak, and my heart is betraying me."
As he remained in prostration (Sajdah), a profound sense of void engulfed him. He felt as though the Almighty was displeased with him—and why wouldn't He be? Nafiz had spent his days indulging in the countless blessings bestowed upon him, yet he had never spared a single moment of genuine gratitude. He felt like a beggar who had only come to the door when he was in pain, ignoring the Master when life was easy.
This realization tore through his soul like a jagged blade. His prayer lasted much longer than usual. With salt-rimmed eyes and a heavy voice, he begged for forgiveness, pleading for one chance to mend his broken ways and reclaim his lost self. When he finally folded the prayer mat, his face looked paler, but his eyes held a newfound resolve.
A new clarity washed over him as he stood before the mirror. He stared at his own reflection, specifically at the dark circles forming under his eyes. "Enough, Nafiz," he whispered harshly to himself. "Think about your parents. Look at your father's hands—calloused and worn from years of relentless hard work just to give you a future. If you want to repay them, you must build yourself first. You cannot let a single moment's encounter destroy years of their hope."
With a deep, cleansing sigh, he sat at his study desk. The HSC examinations were looming on the horizon, and a mountain of neglected lessons stared back at him. He opened his Physics textbook, trying to focus on 'Thermodynamics,' but the diagrams of heat and energy seemed to blur into the silhouette of a girl standing by a window.
Just as he was about to force his mind back to the laws of science, his phone screen flickered to life. Faiyaz was calling.
The moment Nafiz answered, Faiyaz erupted like a ticking time bomb. Without even a greeting, he barked, "Hey, you idiot! Is there a shortage of girls in this country? A Hindu girl, Nafiz? Seriously? You've put our reputation in the gutter! People are going to talk, man!"
Nafiz couldn't help but let out a dry, weary chuckle at his friend's predictable outburst. "Relax, Faiyaz," he said calmly, leaning back in his chair. "Your common sense is failing you. The moment she said the word 'Jol' (Water) instead of 'Paani,' I knew exactly who she was. You don't need to give me a lecture on theology."
Caught off guard by Nafiz's sharp observation, Faiyaz stammered, "Oh... damn, Guru! You've got a sharp brain after all! But that makes it worse! You knew, and you're still acting like a lovestruck puppy?"
The fleeting humor didn't last. A heavy silence followed as Faiyaz realized the gravity of the situation. His voice shifted from mockery to a stern, brotherly tone. "Listen to me, Nafiz. The finals are coming up. Stop this nonsense. She's from a different faith—there's no future there. It's a dead end, a wall you can't climb. Forget everything. Delete her from your thoughts and focus on your books. Don't ruin your life for a face you saw for ten minutes."
Nafiz had no counter-argument for Faiyaz's cold, hard logic. Every word felt like a stone being thrown at a glass house. He suppressed a heavy breath and muttered a short, "Hmm."
But Faiyaz wasn't done. Irritated by the lack of reaction, he snapped, "Don't 'Hmm' me! Dozens of girls in this college are dying for your attention, girls who match your world, and you end up chasing a ghost? Do you want to become a tragedy?"
Faiyaz likely had much more to say, but Nafiz was in no state to endure more bitterness. The truth hurt, and he wasn't ready to hear it shouted at him. He pressed the red button, cutting the call, and immediately powered off his phone. The silence that followed was even louder than Faiyaz's voice.
His heart felt like lead. In his nineteen years, Nafiz had never looked at a girl with lust or even a spark of genuine attraction. In their group hangouts, he was the one who firmly stated, "Women are to be respected like mothers and sisters." He was the 'clean' one, the disciplined one. Now, that very Nafiz stood questioned by his own conscience.
Had he truly gone astray? Or was this merely a cruel game of age and timing—a momentary tide of emotion sweeping him away? He tried to read a page of his book, but his mind kept drifting back to that 'Dusky Maiden.' Her eyes hadn't been full of magic; they were full of a quiet, piercing sadness that Nafiz couldn't explain.
In the tug-of-war between the heart and the mind, whichever side you favor feels like the truth. But that fleeting gaze had robbed him of his sleep and appetite, turning his peace into a haunting nightmare. He wondered if this was what the poets wrote about—a love that begins by leaving a person so utterly hollow and destitute that they no longer recognize themselves.
Nafiz turned off the lamp, letting the darkness consume the room. He realized that the hardest battle wasn't against his father's rules or Faiyaz's logic. It was against the stranger he saw in the mirror tonight.
~ To be continued ~