She is Moon

The wind whispered through Zayan's hair, the Lamborghini Aventador's powerful engine composing a symphony that faded into the background as he pulled into the driveway of his childhood home. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze, casting dappled shadows on the sun-drenched facade. Stepping out of the car, he took a deep breath, the scent of jasmine and freshly cut grass replacing the metallic tang of exhaust fumes.Inside, the house was a haven of cool tranquility. 

Sunlight streamed through the large picture windows, illuminating the plush couches and antique Persian rugs. His mother, Zahra, sat in the garden, a steaming cup of tea in her hand. Her eyes, the same shade of warm brown as his, crinkled at the corners as she smiled up at him.

"Zayan," she said, her voice as melodic as the wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. "It's so good to see you."He knelt and kissed her forehead, the gesture as familiar as the scent of her jasmine perfume. "Wa alaykum assalam, Mama," he replied, using the traditional Arabic greeting. "I'm sorry I haven't been around much lately."

"I know, son," she said, her eyes filled with understanding. "But you're busy, building your empire."Zayan chuckled, his voice somewhat ironic. "Empire is a bit strong, wouldn't you say?"Zahara sipped her tea. "Perhaps. But you have achieved so much, Zayan. More than most people ever could dream of."

He sat down opposite her, the weight of her words settling on him like a comforting blanket. He had achieved so much, yet he felt an emptiness inside, a hollowness that no amount of material possessions could fill."Alhamdulillah, I just gave efforts, and Allah made it successful, Mama," he said, his voice filled with gratitude towards the Almighty.

Feroza's gaze softened. "Indeed."They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the chirping of birds and the gentle clinking of their teacups. Then, Zahra spoke again." I wanted to talk to you about Samaira," she said, sipping her cup. Zayan sighed. Samaira is the beautiful, accomplished daughter of his father's friend. She was everything a society wife should be: elegant, sophisticated, and of good background. But despite their shared cultural background and her seemingly ideal qualities, Zayan couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.

"What about her?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral."Her family has approached me," Zahra said. "They want to know your answer."Zayan took a deep breath. He knew this conversation was coming, but it didn't make it any easier."Mama," he began, choosing his words carefully. "Samaira is a wonderful girl. Kind, intelligent, beautiful. But..." he hesitated, searching for the right way to express himself. "I don't think we're right for each other."Zahara's eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Why not?"

"I don't see a future with her, not the kind of future I want."Zahara studied him for a moment, her silence heavy with unspoken questions."Are you sure, son?" she paused and pushed back her spectacles. Taking another sip, she calmly said, "Samaira comes from a respectable family. She's well-educated and has all the qualities one could desire in a life partner."Zayan, looking into his mother's eyes, held his ground with sincerity. "I understand, Mom, and I respect Samaira and her family. But I feel a connection is vital, a shared vision for the future. I'm seeking someone with whom I can build a life that aligns with my values."

"Zayan, my son, I understand you want someone homely and modest, but consider this carefully. Samaira is a rare gem—a blend of grace, intelligence, and a family with an impeccable reputation. You might not find someone like her again." Zayan, maintaining his composure, listened attentively. Firoza's tone took on a more persuasive note. "Samaira's qualities are not easy to come by. Her family values align seamlessly with ours, and together, you both could build a stable and harmonious life. Think about the reputation you'll uphold in society."Zayan acknowledged his mother's words with a nod, his gaze fixed on the tea leaves swirling in his cup. The fragrance of blooming flowers mingled with the underlying tension in the air. Firoza leaned in, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper, "Zayan, my love, you have been blessed with everything one could desire. Samaira is not just a suitable choice but an opportunity for a blissful life. Consider the respect she can bring to our family."

"Mom, I appreciate your perspective, but I can't envision a future with Samaira. She's not my type," Zayan declared, taking a deliberate sip of his tea as if punctuating the conversation. After finishing his tea, Zayan stood up. He leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on Firoza's forehead. "Thank you for understanding, Mom," he said, his expression sincere. Firoza bid him farewell with a smile, but as Zayan left, her countenance subtly shifted, revealing a shadow of concern that lingered beneath her facade.

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The air in the mall was thick with the cloying scent of perfume. Zayan wove through the crowd, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was here for his friend's wedding and headed towards a perfume shop. However, his gaze was suddenly drawn, almost magnetically, to the Indian store tucked away in a corner of the bustling Sydney mall. The shop beckoned with its colorful displays—a splash of vibrant colors amidst the chrome and glass.He was drawn in, captivated by the tinkling symphony of glass bangles cascading down their display stand. Each delicate ring held a secret melody, waiting to be strummed by a slender wrist. He picked up a few, the cool glass sending shivers down his palm. The memory flickered – her dream form adorned in bangles that chimed like wind chimes in a monsoon breeze. He closed his eyes. The image was as vivid as ever, a constant companion in his slumber, yet frustratingly elusive in his waking life.He imagined them on her wrists, the gentle clinking a melody only he could hear. His heart ached with a longing he couldn't explain.Zayan approached the nearby salesman, his gaze fixed on the delicate glass bangles. "Pack them," he instructed, the urgency evident in his voice. The salesman, attuned to the request, nodded silently, reaching for the colorful array of bangles that had captivated Zayan's attention.Then he made his way to the counter to make payment. He bought the bangles, the box cool and heavy in his hand. Outside, the mall's vibrant energy felt suffocating. He retreated to his car, the box a silent monument to his obsession. Anger, sharp and bitter, rose in his throat."I'm losing it," he muttered, slamming the box onto the passenger seat. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. He was a man of reason, a businessman who navigated the world with logic and control. Yet, this dream, this girl, was unraveling him, weaving threads of fantasy into the fabric of his reality. But was it just fantasy? He closed his eyes, the bangles' soft clinking echoing in his mind. The memory wasn't just visual; it was a tapestry of emotions – the way her laughter made his heart soar, the warmth of her hand in his. He ran his hand through his hair.Was she real? Was she out there, somewhere, searching for him too? Or was he chasing a phantom, a figment of his lonely heart? The box on the seat mocked him, a symbol of his confusion, his desperate hope.

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Zayan completed his Salat al-Maghrib and approached Imam Yusuf, an elderly man whose face radiated kindness and whose eyes held a lifetime of wisdom."Assalamu alaykum, Imam. May Allah bless your day.""Wa alaikum assalam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuhu, Zayan. You seem troubled. Is something on your mind?" the Imam asked, his warm smile tinged with concern.Hesitating, Zayan took a seat on the worn carpet beside the Imam."I've been having recurring dreams, Imam. The same girl, every night. It feels... real," he confessed while absentmindedly fiddling with the ring on his fingers, his gaze fixed ahead as if lost in the dreams.Imam Yusuf listened attentively. 'Dreams can be Rahmani (from Allah), nafsani (psychological, emanating from within), or shaytani (influenced by Shaytan),' he explained. 'How do you feel about these dreams?

Closing his eyes, Zayan recalled the mix of emotions: yearning, frustration, a sense of something missing."It's like... I have lived these moments. It feels like I know her very well.""Perhaps your heart seeks a connection, Zayan. A reflection of your yearning for love, for wholeness. Why not consider marriage?""Marriage?""Yes, marriage. Pray to Allah for clarity, consult with your family, and perhaps, consider seeking a suitable wife within the community. Sometimes, the most beautiful paths are not always the most obvious."A flicker of hope rekindled in Zayan's eyes as he nodded, thanking the Imam. Rising, the weight of the conversation settled on his shoulders."Thank you, Imam. I will keep your words in mind," he assured."Go in peace, Zayan. May Allah guide you towards the light, both in your dreams and your waking life.""Inshallah, Imam."As Zayan walked away, he couldn't help but ask himself, "Are you just a dream? An illusion ." The image of the dream girl lingered in his mind, accompanied by a new resolve: to seek guidance, to tread carefully, and to trust that Allah would lead him towards the path he truly needed, whether paved with dreams or reality.

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The cold tile bit into Zayan's forehead as he prostrated himself, the pre-dawn stillness of the mosque amplifying the quiet thrum of his heart. He was in the midst of Tahajud, the night prayer, a time for intimate communion with the divine. Each breath was a slow, deliberate offering, carrying with it the weight of a yearning that gnawed at his soul."Ya Allah," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "everyone is asking me to get married. My family, my friends, everyone I know. And a part of me, the rational part, knows they're right. It's time. But..." he hesitated, his voice catching in his throat.He choked back a sob, the image of her flooding his mind. The girl from his dreams, ethereal and luminous, with eyes that held galaxies and a smile that warmed him from within. A figment of his imagination, they said. A trick of his lonely heart. But how could something so real, so alive, be unreal?"I don't know who she is, where she exists, or if she's even real, yet I search for a glimpse of her everywhere," he confessed, his voice raw with longing. "Every proposal that comes, every arranged meeting, I search for her reflection. But it's always a mirage, shimmering just out of reach."A choked sob escapes his lips. "Ya Allah," he pleads, his voice raw with vulnerability, "I know my heart is not in my control, but You are the Master of all hearts. If this is a phantom I chase, a mirage in the desert, then please, remove her from my soul. Let me find solace in the reality You have ordained."But then, a different plea emerges, fueled by a flicker of hope. "But if, Ya Karim, if she is real, if this yearning is a seed You have planted in my heart, then I beg of You, make her a part of my life. Guide me towards her, bring our paths together, for You have the power to weave destinies beyond our wildest dreams."Silence descends once more, heavy with the weight of his dua. Zayan remained in prostration. "I leave my heart in Your hands, Ya Allah. Lead me to where I am meant to be, whether it be solitude or the embrace of a love I can only dream of."As he rose from his prostration, the first rays of dawn peeked through the window, casting long shadows that danced across the mosque floor. After completing his salah, Zayan felt different, lighter somehow. The path ahead was uncertain, but he was no longer alone. He had entrusted his desires, his dreams, to the One who knew them best. And in that quiet dawn, with a heart both aching and hopeful, Zayan awaited his answer.

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The sterile hum of air conditioning filled the plush hotel conference room, a stark contrast to the vibrant cityscape visible through the expansive windows. Zayan, having just secured a lucrative deal, leaned back in his chair, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. The weight of negotiations lifted, and he allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation, savoring the success.

Suddenly, a warm greeting shattered the stillness. "Assalamu alaikum," a voice boomed, jolting Zayan from his reverie.  "Aren't you Brother Zayan?"Zayan lifted his gaze, removing his goggles, and responded warmly, "Walaikumus salaam." He squinted slightly, trying to place the face before him. "I apologize, but I can't seem to recall where we've met."The man chuckled, his eyes gleaming with understanding. "Ah, it's understandable. We've only crossed paths once—during your wedding, to be precise. I can hardly blame you for forgetting a fleeting encounter. But how could I ever forget someone as influential as you?"

Zayan's brow furrowed, a shadow of confusion passing over his features. 

"My wedding?" he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Unperturbed, Abbas continued, his voice tinged with nostalgia, "Yes, indeed. After attending your wedding, I moved to Australia for my studies. Time flew by, and I never got the chance to visit Bangladesh and reconnect. Are you residing here now? And is Muntaha Apa with you? Please convey my salam to her; tell her that Maliha truly yearns for her companionship."Zayan blinked, a sense of bewilderment settling in. "I think there's been a misunderstanding," he said slowly, choosing his words with care. "I am not married, and I don't know anyone named Muntaha."Abbas stared at him, a mixture of disbelief and amusement dancing in his eyes. "Brother Zayan, are you jesting with me?" he chuckled, thinking it a playful tease."No, I'm serious," Zayan replied earnestly, his expression sincere. "You must have mistaken me for someone else. I am not married, nor do I know a Muntaha."

"Why are you playing such a cruel joke, Brother Zayan?" Abbas asked, his voice tinged with concern."Look here, mister," Zayan retorted his tone hardening, "I'm telling you clearly that I don't know you, nor do I know anyone named Muntaha. And I assure you, I am not married."His words cut through the air, sharp and unsettling, a strange unease tightening Zayan's throat. "Could it be that you and Muntaha have gotten a divorce?" Abbas ventured cautiously, his eyes searching Zayan's face."What kind of joke is this? If this is some prank, you should know that I can take legal action for wasting my time," Zayan snapped back, his patience wearing thin. Zayan's stern demeanor caused Abbas to sober up instantly. The surrounding onlookers, too, cast curious glances their way, sensing the gravity of the situation.

"Brother Zayan, if you don't wish to speak to me, just say so, and I'll leave. But please, for the sake of Allah, don't tell such a massive lie. I attended your wedding myself. I even have pictures from that day," Abbas said earnestly, his voice tinged with a mix of confusion and concern. Without waiting for a response, Abbas swiftly pulled out his phone, navigated to his gallery, and opened a photo taken four years ago. He turned the screen toward Zayan, displaying an image that caused Zayan's eyes to widen in astonishment. It was undeniably him—dressed in a wedding sherwani, surrounded by numerous men, looking visibly elated. The Qazi was seated beside him, overseeing the signing of the marriage contract."Will you still claim that you're not married? Or that you don't know Muntaha?" Abbas asked softly, his voice filled with genuine regret. "This is your wedding day. The evidence is right here."Zayan stared at the image, his mind racing, grappling with the shocking revelation. The weight of Abbas's words hung heavy in the air.

"6 years ago, you got married to Muntaha Islam. I don't know why you're denying it," Abbas continued. But Zayan's mind was stuck on the name, Muntaha Islam, which tasted quite unfamiliar on his tongue. However, deep inside, a voice echoed in his mind, "Moon."Zayan whispered, "Moon," and his heart skipped a beat.

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Greetings readers!As we conclude this section of the story, I want to share some reflections and a little secret. First and foremost, I acknowledge a small error in the previous chapter: before wudu, Muslims recite "Bismillah," not "A'udhu billahi min ash-shaytanir rajim." I apologize and appreciate the attentive readers.Zayan is caught in a whirlwind of emotions and memories from the past. The story unfolds with a palpable mystery, a trick of his mind or a higher force?Regardless of the path the story takes, Zayan won't be alone. He'll be accompanied by prayers, doubts, hope, and perhaps, the love he longs for.I invite you to reflect on your lives. Have you ever felt your dreams brushing against reality? Have you sought answers in unexpected places?Your thoughts are welcome. Enjoy the journey!With warm regards,

Farzana Tutul

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