Posted: June 21, 2014 in Uncategorized


transformation definition

Relief is a short-lived emotion, passive and thin. The agony of doubt disappears, leaving little memory of how it really felt. Life aligns behind the new truth. – Anne Brasheras

The waiting is killing me. I am waiting for my brothers to arrive. I still don’t know what THAT meeting is all about and i am waiting for Yusuf. Waseem did say he was going to be late but I haven’t heard from Yusuf since he left. His cell is in the study, so I know he can’t call me. I wonder idly if he did that on purpose so that he would have a better excuse this time. I heard him on the phone in our bedroom last. Maybe he needed to get something from the study before he left. Maybe he did go out on some work related emergency. The receptionist I spoke to may not have known about it, I wonder hopefully at the thought. My inner chachima nods unconvincingly. She isn’t buying any of it, and well neither am I, but hopeful thinking sure beats the alternative.


I glance at the clock in the foyer, its nearly the children’s bedtime. I resist the urge to call the children at their grandparents house before they go to sleep. If my in-laws realize that Yusuf is not back yet, I know my father in law will insist coming over to stay with me. I can’t have that now. Its been close to 5 hours now. Any sane intelligent woman would be thinking what I am thinking. The anxiety of the night he said he went to Moosa’s house comes flooding back and all rational thought leaves my brain. He is in an accident. He is badly hurt and has no phone and cannot call me. He has been hijacked. The poisonous thoughts flood by brain. Then I remember that he told me that he actually went to Westpark that night and images of a stoned Yusuf, passed out in a dirty alley in a bad neighbourhood comes to mind and it’s a terrifying thought. My inner chachima shakes her head as if trying to rid herself of that image.


I do the only thing that I know can help me right now. I put on my prayer clothes and walk through the lounge into my reading room. My quraan is on the top shelf. I take it out and start reading from memory even before I find the page I am looking for. Surah Yaaseen is the most powerful surah of the Quraan. It is what Yusuf read for me when i needed comfort and it is what I read now when I need solace.


After my third recitation of the surah, I hear a car in the driveway, then another. I run to the entrance to look out of the window. I get there just in time to see Yusuf’s car and Suhayl’s Jag pull into the garage. I find myself waiting in the passage way for someone to emerge.


I hear the car doors open and shut and the shuffling of feet. The door joining the garage to the house is shut, and I can hear Waseems voice but I can’t make out what he is saying. His voice is authoritative, like he is giving direction. I don’t know why but my body refuses to move closer and see what is going on. There is something in Waseems voice. The emotion and tone of his voice is left lingering long after the sound has gone. Something is wrong, I think. Part of me knows it is something bad. “Oh Please Allah , please let Yusuf be OK, I pray silently. The door swings open and I see suhayl being carried into the house, an arm over each of the other men’s shoulders, clearly he is not in good shape. For a moment, relief washes over me that Yusuf is fine, then looking at my younger brother I am riddled with guilt at that very thought.


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