BEHRUZ POINT OF VIEW
I stood there… frozen.
Her words echoed in my ears long after her footsteps faded into the crowd of students making their way past us on the path.
"I want to fulfill my mother's will… I want to honor the promise she made — even if that means marrying you."
I hadn't even blinked. My gaze had remained on her, unwavering, as if my mind refused to believe the sounds my ears had just captured. Had she really said that?
And yet, she had. Boldly. Directly. In the open.
For a brief moment, her figure had reminded me of Sayyidah Khadijah — the noble woman who had once sent her proposal to the final Prophet ﷺ. A woman of strength, intention, and trust in the plan of Allah. That same rare courage… I saw it in Jamila's eyes. Not out of desperation, but conviction. Not out of emotion, but purpose.
My heart, for all its careful walls and composed rhythms, beat like a war drum beneath my chest.
Why did she say it like that? In public? Was this her choice… or a pressure she's carrying on her own?
I clenched my fists gently I needed air, I needed clarity, but more than anything, I needed to speak to my Lord. Only He knew the storm I was feeling.
As I passed the prayer hall, I Get inside it was already 12 for dhu'r
"Astaghfirullah…" I muttered under my breath, dragging my palm down my face.
It wasn't that her words disturbed me. No. It was what they awakened in me — feelings I had buried under years of discipline, scholarship, and avoidance of anything that could distract me from serving the deen.
But she wasn't a distraction… was she? Or was she the test Allah sent — to measure how I would hold the amanah of her mother's trust?
I sat on the musalla quietly, not reciting anything at first. Just thinking. Reflecting.
Yes, Jamila had spoken with surprising boldness — like someone surrendering her fears in exchange for a greater purpose. But I feared… that purpose wasn't me. It was her duty. Her grief. Maybe even a desire to finish what her mother started without truly considering if her heart aligned with it.
What if she regrets it later? What if this isn't about me at all?
But the way she had lowered her gaze, dressed in that black abaya like it was armor — firm, poised, radiant in her modesty — I saw no regret in her face. Only resolve.
Still… it terrified me.
I wasn't ready to accept what she offered. Not without making sure it was real. Not without protecting her from rushing into something she might one day resent.
And yet, part of me — the silent part, the one that longed for companionship under the umbrella of faith — whispered…
What if she's meant to be yours? What if this is how Allah writes your story?
I lowered my head again. This time, with my forehead on the ground.
"Ya Rabb…" I whispered. "If she is for me, then calm my heart… and if not, protect hers from my silence."
I rose slowly, the email from Rizwan Holdings still flashing in the back of my mind. So much was happening at once — the company, my responsibilities, this promise I had nearly forgotten... and now, the girl who bore that promise in her eyes.
I have to talk to Abi… soon. Before this becomes something I can no longer carry alone.
As I stepped out of the masjid, a breeze brushed against my shoulders — light, but enough to make me stop for just a moment.
Jamila's words returned again.
"I want to fulfill my mother's will… I want to honor the promise…"
And suddenly, I wasn't sure if this was the beginning of something divine… or the test that would define my future forever.
As I returned to home after praying Dhu'r at masjid the golden light pouring through the arched windows of our front hall. The scent of turmeric and roasted garlic clung gently in the air — Ummi was definitely preparing something special.
As I stepped through the threshold, the familiar warmth of our home greeted me… and so did my mother.
She was rushing out from the kitchen, holding a folded scarf in one hand and glancing toward the front entrance, as if she were looking for something — or someone.
"As-salaamu 'alaykum, Ummi," I greeted softly, as I put the paper and my laptop in the table near the shoe rack.
"Wa 'alaykum as-salaam wa rahmatullah, my son," she replied, her voice full but hurried, not breaking stride.
I raised an eyebrow, no
ting the unusual haste in her step.
"Where are you going, Ummi?" I asked, curious.
She turned slightly, her scarf now wrapped halfway over her head. "Ah — I was thinking of inviting that sweet girl, Jamila, again for lunch today. It's not good for her to keep eating alone, especially when she's going to be part of our family 2 months from now on Insha'Allah"
My chest tightened subtly at the sound of her name. Of all the days… it had to be today?
I opened my mouth to respond, but Ummi clapped a hand against her forehead with a light gasp. "Oh, I forgot… I already sent Aisha to the next village to pick up the gift I had prepared for her — a small gold bracelet, nothing too much, but something to show she's welcome in our family."
A pause. Then her eyes shifted to mine, already sparkling with a plan.
"Behruz," she said, in that unmistakable tone of a mother delegating fate, "go to her dorm and invite her personally for lunch. You can take Adnan with you if it makes you more comfortable."
I stared at her. "Me? Ummi… are you sure that's a good idea?"
She shrugged, as if the matter was trivial. "Why not? You're a respectable man. She's an intelligent young woman. And besides, you both are bound by something bigger than just a classroom." She gave me a knowing smile — one I pretended not to understand.
I cleared my throat and looked away. "Fine," I muttered. "I'll go."
As I stepped out of the house again, the sun now hotter on my back, I found Adnan near the garden, trimming a small citrus tree. He looked up as I approached.
"You're off somewhere?" he asked, brushing his hands on his pants.
I gave him a short nod. "Come with me. We're going to the dormitories."
He raised a brow and grinned. "Going to see someone?"
I shot him a sharp look, but the corner of my lip gave me away. "Just come."
We rode in quiet familiarity across the campus paths, the motorbike weaving smoothly along the stone-paved walkways toward the women's dormitory. My mind, however, was not as still.
Why am I nervous? I've walked this path a hundred times before.
But this time… she would be on the other side of the door.
Not as a student.
Not as an orphan under our wing.
But as the girl who confronted me with a proposal. In public.
Ya Rabb… give me composure. Grant me clarity. And let me not fail her trust… or her mother's.
As we arrived at the gates of the women's residence, I asked Adnan to wait by the bench under the shade of the acacia tree.
"I won't be long," I said.
He smirked. "Take your time, Ustadh."
I walked toward the dormitory slowly. The sound of students talking, birds chirping, and distant Qur'an recitation from the west wing faded into a gentle hum. I reached the small wooden door and hesitated just a breath before raising my hand to knock.
Should I really be the one doing this? Or is Allah testing how I handle the responsibility that came with her mother's trust?
I knocked gently.
The door creaked, and after a few moments, a soft voice answered from inside.
"Coming…"
It was her.
Jamila.
And now, face to face again, I would have to speak — not as her teacher, not as her guardian by proxy — but as the man whose path Allah had clearly tangled with hers.
And maybe… just maybe… she'd open the door not just to lunch, but to the next chapter of our lives.
JAMILA'S POINT OF VIEW
The scent of sautéed garlic and onions lingered in the small kitchen corner of my dorm room. I stirred the pot gently, letting the steam kiss my cheeks as I glanced at the notebook beside me — open to my Hadith notes. My eyes moved across the words, but my mind… it was far from focused.
My heart had been unsettled since yesterday — ever since I blurted out those words to Ustadh Behruz.
What have I done?
Ya Allah… what possessed me?
I didn't even understand it myself. I had rehearsed a calm conversation, a respectful discussion about the will, about my mother's wishes… but what came out of my mouth? It was as if my tongue had declared war on my dignity.
I cringed just remembering it.
"Why did I even say it so directly?" I whispered to myself, pressing the wooden spoon harder into the stew than necessary.
I had barely slept. My mind kept replaying the scene — me standing on that walkway, eyes trembling but locked into his, blurting out that I was ready… ready to fulfill my mother's wishes, even if that meant marrying him.
He had looked stunned. Of course he did. I was stunned by my own boldness.
I sighed and turned off the flame. I didn't even have the appetite to eat. The rice had finished steaming, and my lunch was almost ready… but my soul felt half-cooked — confused, soft, and vulnerable.
Just as I reached for a clean plate, a sudden knock echoed through the dormitory hallway.
I froze.
My heart — already fragile — skipped violently.
Another knock, this time softer.
"Coming…" I called out, attempting to sound composed.
I wiped my hands on the towel, brushed my abaya into place, and walked toward the door with cautious steps. The hallway felt longer than usual. The air seemed heavier.
As I turned the knob and slowly opened the door, my breath caught in my throat.
It was him.
Ustadh Behruz.
The very man I had tried to avoid the entire day. The one I had spoken so boldly to, yesterday, as if I had no fear in the world — when in truth, I had never been more afraid in my life.
Now he was here, standing before me.
I blinked.
My eyes widened.
Ya Allah… what now?
I wanted to disappear. To melt into the floor. Or at the very least, shut the door and pretend I wasn't home.
But I couldn't.
Because the moment our eyes met — even with the lowered gaze and the respectful distance — the silence between us grew louder than any words could.
I quickly stepped back, almost knocking over my chair.
"S-s-salaamu 'alaykum, Ustadh…" I stammered, eyes dropping to the floor. My cheeks were burning. "I-I didn't expect…"
" I Should Supposed to say Salam but… Waalaikumusalam," he said softly, his voice calm — much calmer than I deserved.
He stood just beyond the threshold, hands respectfully behind him. I could hear Adnan a few steps behind him, waiting at a distance like a silent chaperone.
"There's no need to feel uncomfortable, Jamila," he continued. "I… I didn't come for that."
My heart thumped even harder. Not for that? Then for what?
"My mother… she asked me to invite you for lunch," he explained. "She remembered you'd be alone today. Aisha is out. She thought… maybe you'd join us."
I bit my lower lip. My throat was dry. Why does he still sound so kind after what I said to him?
"I… I would be honored," I managed to say, barely above a whisper.
He gave the smallest nod and smile? This is the first time I saw Him smiling and I am the first woman who witnessed that smile, Aisha said His brother rarely smiled. Suddenly my heart beats like a horse inside Astagfirullah!
"I'll wait outside. Take your time."
"okay" after I respond and with that, he turned and walked away.
I slowly closed the door behind him, leaning against it as I exhaled all the breath, I didn't realize I'd been holding.
He didn't mention it. Not a word. Did he forget? Or is he just… trying to spare me the shame?
My thoughts swirled like a storm inside me, but one thing was clear: That man — the one I had confronted so recklessly — carried more grace than I had expected. And somehow, that made me even more nervous about what might come next.
Wearing a simple brown dress and a soft jersey hijab, I took one last look at myself in the mirror. My hands froze as I reached for a small pot of color—just a light touch for the cheeks, I thought. But my heart hesitated. The words from our recent lesson echoed in my mind:
"Indeed, the best adornment for a believing woman is modesty, not the decoration of her face."
With a small sigh, I put it back in the drawer. No need for anything extra, Jamila. Allah created you beautifully as you are. I whispered to myself, gathering the last bit of courage I needed.
As I stepped outside the dormitory, a cool breeze welcomed me. In the distance, I saw two figures waiting—Behruz, standing tall in his black thobe, and another young man beside him who looked unfamiliar. My heart skipped a beat. It was the same man I confronted just a day ago… and now, here he was again.
The stranger beside him—later I would learn his name was Adnan—noticed me first. His eyes widened, clearly struck by surprise. "Mashallah," I heard him whisper under his breath.
Behruz, on the other hand, lowered his gaze almost instantly. He cleared his throat and nudged his friend lightly.
"Lower your gaze, Adnan," he said in a firm yet calm tone.
Adnan blinked and nodded. "Forgive me, akhi. She's just—"
"Let's go," Behruz interrupted gently, glancing in my direction but keeping his eyes focused on the ground.
I swallowed hard, feeling the lump of embarrassment still sitting in my throat since our last conversation. I said nothing, simply following them quietly to their family's home. The silence was thick, but it wasn't awkward. It was… tense. Filled with unspoken emotions.
When we arrived, I was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of warm spices and freshly baked bread. The long dining table was beautifully set, filled with all kinds of dishes—korma, biryani, lentils, roasted chicken, and even sweets like baklava and maamoul.
Ustadh Yusuf sat at the head of the table, his noble presence filling the room. His wife, wearing a soft blue hijab and a warm smile, rushed forward to greet me.
"Jamila, dear," she said, pulling me into a gentle embrace. "Alhamdulillah you came. Welcome, my child."
I smiled, feeling comforted in her warmth. "Thank you, Auntie."
Aisha came bounding down the stairs with excitement. "There you are!" she chirped. "We've been waiting!"
Behruz gave his sister a look. "Where have you been? You were supposed to be here earlier."
She grinned. "Don't worry, everything's ready. Now sit, sit!"
We all took our seats. I was placed next to Aisha, across from Behruz, who avoided eye contact like I was a glowing sun. He remained quiet most of the time, only speaking when asked by his father.
Then came the moment I hadn't prepared for.
"So," Ustadh Yusuf began as he sipped his soup. "Have you two given thought to the arrangement your mother made, Jamila?"
I almost dropped my spoon. My eyes darted toward Behruz, who finally looked up at me, startled.
"I—Ustadh, I—" I tried to speak, but my voice faltered.
His wife chimed in gently. "There's no pressure, Jamila but your mother… she had a pure heart. She trusted us, and we promised her we would look after you. Including this matter."
Behruz cleared his throat. "It's true. Her mother entrusted me with this responsibility. But—" he paused, visibly uncomfortable. "Only if Jamila wills it, and only with her consent. Nothing will ever be forced upon her."
There was a silence in the room.
Aisha looked between the two of us and broke into a mischievous grin. "So… does that mean we should start picking the wedding theme?"
"Aisha!" Behruz scolded, his cheeks slightly tinged pink.
I lowered my head, cheeks burning. I whispered, "It's what my mother wanted. I… I just want to do what's right."
His eyes met mine. For the first time since yesterday, he truly looked at me—not with surprise, not with confusion, but with something deeper.
Respect. And perhaps… the beginning of something more.