Walking down that road is much harder if you cartwheel.

‘Diam ubi berisi; diam besi berkarat’
(loosely translated, ‘the potato is silent from its content; metal is silent from rusting’)
- old Malay proverb

After my most recent and marked failure, I immersed myself into the workings of self-pity – I started studying to be a writer.

I’m turning 22 in less than two weeks, and my first novel is overdue. The world has been waiting for me to debut – to finally prove my worth as someone more than just an amalgam of mediocrity, into something of a more specific success. Whatever delusions of a career at science I might have had were ripped apart by my most latest results; even imagining a life where I face that same failure daily reeks of a fear I’m too cowardly to look in the eye, nevermind denounce.

But all this, I reason, will be put aside, once I prove my worth as someone who can be good at ONE thing – someone who can be labelled instantly and kept under a neat category. (Screw post-modernism. Multiple talents in a single being is so rarely expected, they turn out into modest surprises. Soon there will come a day when a dog will be lauded for being able to chase its tail AND lick its butt.)

I think there is a deadline for all this, although mine is based on the next and nearest wannabe-writer. So if Dan Humphrey (yes, I watch Gossip Girl) writes five short stories, I will make six the next day, and not all of them of a girl, misplaced in another continent and who has no love life (insert fangirl reference here). And better still, I have a friend in Dubai who is almost there, proper novel-wise. Thank God she’s writing science fiction, something I tried only once when I was 14. Otherwise I’d never be able to compete. She’s already Indian, and has studied creative writing – two things that give her that special advantage over me when running for the Booker prize. (It’s always Indian writers who win it. Kiran Desai, Vikram Swarup, Aravind Adiga. Entire shortlists made of Indian expatriates and diplomats and former international students. What is it about India and the different ethnicities that sprout from it, that waxes award-winning lyrical about the little things? Because Malaysia’s had colonialism, and we have a fixation with urban development, and we have corruption and science and technology, as well as a down-trodden arts scene. We have all of it too.)

So for my research, I’ve been reading. Not so much for my imagination, or for inspiration, or even to escape. I’ve been studying the prose. I’ve been testing the waters. Flick, glup, bloop. I have one main story in my mind. It shall have drama and love and untold wishes and dreams. It shall have cynical hope. It shall have family, as so much of my other life revolves around solely that and its peripherals, and one can never be too obsessed with something one love/hates so much.

The only things it lacks, at this point, is money and a plot.

But being a writer, or how it works in my mind anyway, is not as easy as it sounds. I was convinced by the work of Steve Toltz that writing isn’t just a piece of concentrated spontaneity thing – we can’t all be young geniuses who pour out dense snippets of our and other people’s complex life, a la Froer – so I’ve been doing research. I have a book in which I write out ideas. I listen to conversations on trams; I discreetly stare at people and imagine entire lives behind their purposely vacant faces. But all that isn’t as difficult as doing this:

Imagining the world in words.

Can you? Every colour and every sensation? Everything it means to one person, and then imagine how different they feel to someone else, all of them studied and different and made up? I keep making sentences out of the words that usually pass me by in the hurricane of sensations that living in the city gives. Not even parks here, because everybody has a fixation with being in the sun, for some reason, and people whizzing by in slow motion, or any motion, is just plain distracting to my pathetic noggin.

And so, my brain’s gotten into a bit of a logjam. I’m sloooower in public – that much slower, it sounds like I have festering stowaway food in my cranium, blocking my nerve endings. I use up all the words in my brain into sentences I’m scared to forget. I reserve the simple ones for speech. All the cliches and pop culture references that one tosses into the air to sound relevant and present, when you’re actually drifting off into 1891. Song lyrics work too; someone’s else has done the thinking and emoting for you.

As it is, I am more comfortable being quiet and frowning. My mind is learning to take over from Bob Dylan and the Kings of Convenience and The Strokes. My mp3 player died, you see.

‘Your mouth purges words.’
- my mother, to me.

If she only knew what it took.

I don’t know how he does it, that man who told me he doesn’t need his iPod to occupy his mind. That might be why he prefers to listen and smirk. He’s reliving the world through my eyes, and yours, and yours too. Maybe he’s trying to fit a cumulative existence in his strong, steady head.

Maybe, really, all one needs is practise.

30:49

The rain poured hard and true.

She knew that the rain had its passengers – angels, who went back to the Heavens, bringing with them wishes and prayers, hopes and dreams. Maybe that was why she had always loved the rain. It was her favourite perfume, this scent of fresh promises and new adventures. It was as if each torrent opened up another page in a different life. Like everything had been fixed and washed away in little streams of aftermath. Like the way God brought the flowers and the grass and the trees back to life with the drizzle.

As was the case, she welcomed rain. She had needed many fixer-uppers in her life; many washes to get the dirt all clean. And with each downpour, she felt like the rest of the world was born anew. She felt like she could hope again, rebuild again, live again.

It’s as if the rain tells her each time, with a little whisper, that there is nothing she cannot do.

Smiling to herself, she remembered lonely rains that she spent with the piano in the alcove of her home, when no one else was there. She would revel in the disguise of rainfall, knowing that her mistakes on the keys would be saved from all but her, but in the spirit of the moment, she wouldn’t care at all. The piano keys were hard on her fingers, and in them, she lay out her one-sided tales of heartbreak and adolescent pain, wondering why God had made her the way He did. She had reckoned that she must have been special, to warrant so much disappointment in her being. She had skimmed through her feelings and her thoughts and theories as her fingers padded the wooden keys, her eyes focusing on the wet, pallid grey of the world outside. Smiling a special one, she would not feel so alone anymore.

There were many times when she would deliberately forget her umbrella on a darkened day, and find herself having to walk through the rain. It was never long enough to appease her hunger of a proper shower, but it gave her a sense of syukr – maybe for being able to shiver in the cold and tilt her head up to the pouring sky. Not that she had anything against a clear-blue sky with its smattering of clouds, or the sunshine that pours onto the earth and warms her back. Its just that rain and wetness and dull skies made her feel lonely and also comfortable. Maybe it was the knowledge that it would always be temporary; that it never lasted long.

Rainy days were an excuse to curl up under warm blankets with a good book in hand. It gave her a chance to slow down and reflect – something she had wanted to do for days, but never found the time for. The stunted act of an autumn shower made time go still and the rest of the world cease from haste.

She could feel the folds of her hijab flopping to one side with the weight of the damp, but she marked it as fate that she should be stuck out here, in the middle of nowhere, without an umbrella or some form of shade in view. Because the rain would wash her troubles away, if only for a while.

And the angels would bring the blessings of Paradise with each drop of rain.

royal parade in autumn

She heaves a deep sigh.

The diaphragm shifts forwards and up; the lungs expand; fresh air gushes through the trachea and into the lungs, expanded at ready; oxygen makes its way, weaving through capillaries and into the veins and arteries, assimilating with the rushing blood; it weaves out everywhere, spread all over the body. The heart beats a single motion in time.

But that is not the amazing part.

What is amazing is how when she does so, all the worries – all the tests, assignments, projects, frustration, responsibility and trust weighed on her single person – all of it is shoved behind in a single breath, as a single word pushes ahead to the front of her mind, enrapturing her entire being:

Rabbi.

My only summer piece.

This is for my honorary BangLong. Because you were always in the story from the start, why not.

This is a du’a for everything to go on well for you and KakLong:

“There’s no excuse, you have to follow me,” Basirah insisted. Her twin brother, Basil gave her a wary look. He was a patient man by nature, but he was finding it hard to keep his cool right at this moment. He did a continuous istighfar, and absently wondered whether God had created his sister alongside him as a big trial on this earth, for him.

“Irah, can’t it wait? We promised to meet up with Mama and Abah at the deli in ten minutes. You know Ma and her punctuality. You may be up to a twenty-minute lecture on time management and/or keeping appointments, but I sure am not.” He took back his arm from her and made for the meeting place.

“But Basil, I have to meet this friend of mine, and if I leave you, I might get lost. I dislike this shopping mall,” she said with a scrunch of her nose. “So you have to come with. Please?” She shot him what he knew she hoped was her best pleading look. It made him cringe.

“Excuse me, but losing you on the way might turn out to be a good thing. I’m leaving for Dave’s. Good luck to you.” He turned his body around completely, hoping despite what he knew, that this would bring an end to it.

“You really like Ma’s half-hour lectures on responsibility, don’t you, akhi?” she called from somewhere behind him, sounding as though she had read his mind. He berated himself, finding the thought very cliché.

“Oh, fine,” he said, facing her again slowly. “Where are you headed to on your date?”

His twin gave him a satisfied glare. “She wanted to meet up at the bookstore. Just for a sec; she just wanted to pass something by me.” Much to his displeasure, she had taken to grabbing his forearm again, keeping it by her side in a half-dragging motion. Basirah gave a deep sigh. “She’s such a sweet, nice girl. Very thoughtful and quiet.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Somewhat like you. With her pensiveness and your need for silence, the two of you would make a fine headache. For me, that is.”

At this, Basil wanted to stop in his tracks, but she had a vice grip on him which he could barely pull away from. “Basirah,” he said in a dangerously low tone, “am I right in feeling that you‘re trying to… promote her to me?”

Another long sigh. “You definitely aren’t my twin for nothing, dear Basil.”

“Irah!” he exclaimed in dismay, when all other words failed him. His twin, in turn, gave him an innocent look. He could detect slightly batting eyelashes and he rolled his eyes in return.

“You’re impossible,” he declared, trying to extract his arm from her hands. Basirah held on tight.

“That’s not true. I am possible.” Surely she didn’t believe that the upturned nose and measured pout were still cute and working. Basil smirked in the other direction before composing himself for further action.

“Well, I’m telling you, you’re impossible. I don’t have the needs or the means to follow up falling in love. We’re still studying in university, and I don’t need marriage. Not yet, Irah. Have patience, young one.” Feeling a surge of optimism, he gave another tug of the arm. No such luck. He sighed and tried not to think of the pain.

“But when will you have the time to look around if not now, akhi?” Basirah’s grip on him tightened. He winced, knowing full and well where she was headed. “You’re available and on holiday, she’s available and on holiday — it’s like it was just meant to be, Basil. I mean, getting married young is a good thing; be rids one of temptation, and gives sufficient venue for the venting of romantic notions. What?” she protested when he simply goggled at her. “I’ve been talking to our cousins, okay? It’s the general consensus! Come on, Basil, think about it. It’s a great idea. You’re a great guy. (“Oh, so now I’m great.“) Why can’t you for once see things my way?”

“I could ask the same question,” he said under his breath. He stopped, grinding his feet to the floor and forcing his sister to a halt. “Basically, I’m not cut up for the job yet. When I am ready, I’ll make it known to the world, okay? But not now, and most definitely not before dinner.” He gave a gentle tug on her hijab, trying to soften her obvious disappointment, sagging shoulders and all. His twin was always the dreamer, while he had always been more pragmatic and sceptical. He liked to look at the yin-yang pendants they owned; his silver, hers in gold. They were birthday presents from a Chinese relative of theirs, who told their parents that Chinese tradition held it in belief that it was lucky to have one child of each sex, more so at the same time. Basil liked to think that placing two opposites into the world simultaneously was Allah’s way of keeping balance in the universe.

“But I am still tracing the way back for you, ya habeeb,” he softly reminded her with a nudge at her elbow, his heart slowly melting at her emotional transparency, so immature for her, and yet so familiar. “I’m hungry, and you’re on a mission, remember? So lead the way.”

Basirah perked up a little at the new power vested in her. She stood on tiptoes and peered around her, hands still on her brother. “The thing is, akhi, I’m not sure just where we are right now. Iman told me to meet her by the 2^nd fountain to my left, right after the escalator up the third floor, but –”

“Basirah?” they heard a voice call out tentatively from behind them. They turned back in unison. There stood Basirah‘s friend, her face lighting up from polite intrepidity to sheer delight. Basil felt a sudden surge in his chest, but he told himself it was the shock from his sister’s sudden leap forward, his arm following suit until he remembered to pull it back in time.

“Salaam, Iman!” Basil stood where he was, rubbing his throbbing forearm, as his sister rushed forth to hug her friend enthusiastically. He tried to concentrate on his sister’s bubbling narrative, but he couldn’t help his eyes, which kept getting drawn back to the young woman next to her. There was something about her, he was afraid, which beckoned him for a look which was longer than either of them would be comfortable with. Trying to fight the temptation to stare, he looked down at the monochromatic marble tiling instead.

After a few seconds of focusing on the tiles beneath his feet, he realized that he was holding his breath. Tightly grasping one hand with the other, Basil began pacing in a small square. When that didn‘t work, he placed one hand upon where he reckoned his heart would be, and he started pressing hard. His head was spinning, his chest was pounding, his body tingling with the effort to try and keep up. He felt so alive.

Basil decided that given the right situation, he could live with this sort of feeling.

Muttering the istighfar to himself many times, he kept his distance, trying not to remind himself of how pleasant she had appeared to him, in her patterned hijab and her black abaya, her smile –

He shook his head and chuckled, looking back down at the tiles, reminding himself that he would try to never again openly express serious doubt at his sister’s assumptions. He had really been proven wrong today. God had really taught him a lesson.

He let himself glance at his sister and her companion, trying to make sure whether they were anywhere near done. The two of them were discussing spiritedly about something or other, with Iman gesticulating with her hands, causing his sister to cover her mouth in laughter. And although he personally thought that gesticulating was very unladylike, he found that he thought it perfectly appropriate on Iman. He tried to shake the heavy train of thoughts with a shudder, but it didn’t work. Soon enough, he found the girl peering at him curiously as she said something to Basirah, who turned to grin at him. Basil gave his sister a wan smile in return.

He felt his heartbeat double in speed when both of them started walking in his direction. “Iman,” Basirah was saying even before they properly reached him, “this is my brother, Basil. Basil, Iman.” He gave Iman a curt nod, while she acknowledged him with a quick smile which made his chest ache a little. “Assalamu’alaikum,” she greeted.

“Wa’alaikumussalam.” He lifted his hand to look at the time and come up with any valid excuse, but Basirah beat him to it.

“He’s studying at England as well,” she explained out of the blue, “leaving me all alone in Melbourne. But he’s rich, thanks to that scholarship, so he comes down under all the time.” To him, Basirah said, “Iman’s reading law at the University of Hertfordshire.” Her friend only nodded, giving him a polite smile.

“I’m studying medicine,” he offered, figuring it was the least he could do.

“Oxford,” his twin piped up voluntarily, almost gleefully. Basil saw where this was headed, and felt the need to be proactive. His hand found the hem of her blouse, and he gave a sharp tug, which made her glare. “What?” she snapped, readjusting her top. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Iman had a smile hidden behind her hand.

“Dinner. With our folks. They’re waiting,” Basil managed to say, his hands moving around to try and make his point clearer. Complete sentences were never a problem with him before. He gave up and absently scratched his head, feeling the kufi he still had on from ‘Isya prayers at the nearby mosque.

Basirah, excited as she was to meet an old friend, was about to protest this, until Iman said, “Yeah, you guys should go. They’ll be wondering, and hungry. Not a good combination in parents, generally.” She gave a sympathetic smile to appease Basirah. “I’ll be here until September. We can meet while you’re still in town, no sweat. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Thank you,” Basil said out loud before he could think. And although he was inwardly knocking his head against an imaginary brick wall, he calmly gave Iman a thankful smile, took firm hold of Basirah’s wrist, and started steering her away, as reluctant as he was, himself.

“Oh, akhi ni,” she harrumphed. “Let me say goodbye?” She took back her hand and, turning her back against him, hugged her friend farewell. “I am so sorry for my prude of a brother,” she said. Basil could feel something in him protest strongly. “Nothing comes in between him and his stomach. Except for maybe death.” He winced even more at that, covering it up when Iman caught his eye and started to laugh.

“Basirah,“ she said in a rebuking tone, causing Basirah to smile at him sheepishly. “It’s alright,” Iman insisted. “Like I said, we can gab some other time, insyaAllah. So don’t worry.”

Basirah sighed dramatically, causing Basil to roll his eyes for the umpteenth time. “I suppose,” she admitted grudgingly.

“Alright then. We should get going now. Kan? Let’s go,” he said in one breath, giving Iman a curt nod and dragging his twin by the wrist. “Assalamu’alaikum.”

“Wa’alaikumussalam.”

Basil kept his grip firm and steady on Basirah, keeping his sight on the destination and trying not to look at his sister, even though he could feel her unflinching gaze on his face.

“Basil,” she began the torture, “I was right, wasn’t I? I know that look; those adorable flushed cheeks.” His blood vessels betrayed him by dilating even more. “I was right! Hoho, was I right.” In his peripheral vision, he saw her shake her head in disbelief at her good fortune. “Trust you to be the one to tell it to me, without telling it to me straight.”

He decided playing dumb was the only way through. “What were you right about?” he let out, giving in and shooting her a questioning look, taking care not to let go of her hand.

“Basil,” she said disbelievingly, “you haven’t being paying attention, have you? I meant that I was right about you and Iman, obviously. Although you may not know it, yourself.” She tugged her wrist hopefully. No chance. Basil was already immune to her glares to care much.

“Me and Iman. Okay. So…?” he trailed off, a little scared that Basirah might attempt to complete the sentence.

“Trust you to be clueless about things like this,” she scoffed. “I mean, you guys are so perfect together, okay? Like, perfect lah. I mean, you guys even met cute. Now, what else would you want in a relationship?”

“The sanctity of marriage,” he answered flatly. She laughed at that, like he knew she would.

“Of course I meant that too,” she insisted. “I could feel the chemistry, for want of a better word for it. I mean, there was definitely something in the air, and it was chemistry, make no mistake. I’m studying chemistry, I should know,” she said with the flair of someone who did.

“You do know that makes no sense?” he wondered out loud, not really expecting a direct answer. She responded with a tut.

“Oh, fooh. Come on. I mean, you’re both grown adults. You guys should definitely have marriage on your minds right now, so –”

“Why not to each other?”

“Exactly!” Basil chuckled at his sister’s predictability. “Heck, Abah and Mama got hitched at around our age, right? So they can’t object to it. Besides, this is the good way to do it. Halaalan toyyibah. Get to know each other legitimately, and when you feel ready for it (when your heart feels right), get hitched. Easy!”

“Listen to yourself!” he declared, making a sharp right turn into a walkway. “’Get hitched’? It’s not that easy, Irah.”

“Islam did not make it hard, either,” she reiterated.

“I know, but… there are other factors to it as well, you know?” He ran a hand through his head, pulling the kufi off and replacing it on his head. “I can’t just get married without considering the aftershocks of it. I can’t afford it, for one thing. I don’t think I can handle the responsibility yet, for another. You’re a girl, sure you think it’s all fun and games.”

“Well excuse me,” she said, pulling some syllables for effect. “You think girls have it easy? Right. And who is the one who grows another being on one end of her body for nine months and nine days, and then is mostly responsible for said being’s welfare? And has to take care of you as well? Don’t think we don’t have responsibilities as well, Basil.” She gave a deep sigh and swung their arms around. “All I’m saying is, you’re going to have to eventually anyway, so why not soon? I mean, the waiting game is a hard one to play. Oh, akhi, you have no idea, do you, what we go through, because of people like you? We wait for you to give hints, but you never do. And then we wait for you to be ready, but you never are. You factualize and think it over again and again, but the fact remains that there is a whole other person on the other end of the equation, waiting to be factored in.” She gave another deep sigh and used her free hand to adjust her hijab.

Letting himself be intrigued, he peered at his sister with caution. “But how can us guys tell when a girl’s interested, unless she makes the first move?”

“Girls can never make the first move without seeming either extremely desperate, or extremely brave.” She shook her head. “Unfortunate, I know, but that’s just how it is, nowadays.”

“And that makes it easier for the guy?” Basil looked at his sister. “We come off as desperate and/or brave too, you know. It’s just a stereotype that guys have to propose. And God showed that there should be no stereotypes in marriage when Ummul Mukminin Khadijah made the first move.”

He could tell that she could find nothing else to say, when she gave a tight shrug. “I know there shouldn’t be stereotypes. But they still exist, anyway, and… maybe you don’t realize just how hard it is for girls to accept rejection, especially since we’re such emotional beings, as Allah made us to be, you know?”

“I imagine that rejection wouldn’t be easy for me to handle, either,” Basil mused, with a tinge of sarcasm.

“Maybe,” Basirah replied earnestly. “Wait a minute.” She stopped in her tracks, resisting his tugs forward to where Dave’s Deli was, just a few feet ahead of them. “You’re very good,” she conceded, a tad bemused. “But not that good. You tried to veer off subject. So,” she said, picking up speed. “You. And Iman.”

“No such thing,” he insisted, trying to slow her down and prevent the risk of their parents listening in. “Not now, anyway.”

“Aha!” She turned and flashed him a triumphant smile. “I knew it! Chemistry…” she left off teasingly.

“And other factors too,” he reminded her, sitting down opposite their parents. “Meatballs, Irah?”

Home at last.

Assalamu’alaikum wrh. wbt.

The flight was memorable, even if I didn’t get any shut eye.

I am now in my new favourite house, Baitul Arden (Faiqah/Wafa’), with my favourite kind of music playing outside (raindrops touching the glossy roads).

I am too tired to be much of a writer.

So instead, I will put it some of Habiburrahman El- Shirazy‘s work here instead. He’s the authour of the book an ukhti recommmended, called Ayat-Ayat Cinta. I’ve stalled from buying the book for quite some time now, but with the recommendation of Ustaz Azhar (and his special discount), I actually did.

And although I already knew the ending, thanks to some thorough browsing at bookstores, I still found it a gripping, intelligent page turner. The Da Vince Code, it most certainly is not.

Although it is rather hard to believe that such a pious yet romantic soul as Fahri exists in this world. But then again, the author DID write the book as the mahar for his bride.

Ah.

Here. Enjoy:

‘Juga selama di Cairo, sampai Aisha membukakan purdahnya di rumah Syeikh Utsman. Kuakui ada satu nama yang membuatku selalu bergetar bila mendengarnya, namun tidak lebih dari itu. Aku merasa sebagai seekor pungguk dan seluruh mahasiswi Indonesia di Cairo adalah bulan. Aku tidak pernah berusaha merindukannya. Dan tak akan pernah kuizinkan diriku merindukannya. Kerana aku merasa itu sia-sia. Aku tidak mahu melakukan hal yang sia-sia dan membuang tenaga.

Aku lebih memilih mencurahkan seluruh rindu dendam, haru biru rindu dan deru cintaku untuk belajar dan mentelaah al-Quran. Telah kusumpahkan dalam diriku, aku tak akan membukakan hatiku untuk mencintai seorang gadis kecuali gadis itu yang membukanya. Bukan suatu keangkuhan tapi kerana rasa rendah diriku yang selalu bermain di kepala. Aku selalu ingat aku ini siapa? Anak petani miskin. Anak penjual tapai. Aku ini siapa?

aku adalah lumpur hitam

yang mendebu

menempel di sandal dan sepatu

hinggap di atas aspal

terguyur hujan

terpelanting

masuk longkang

siapa sudi memandang

atau menghulurkan tangan?

tanpa uluran tangan Tuhan

aku adalah lumpur hitam

yang malang

Tuhan telah mengucapkan kun! Lumpur hitam pun dijelma menjadi makhluk yang dianugerahi kenikmatan cinta yang memuncak-muncak dan rindu yang membuak-buak. Seorang bidadari bermata bening telah disiapkan untuknya. Fa bi ayyi allai Rabbikuma tukadziban! Maka nikmat Tuhan kamu yang manakah yang kamu dustakan.

Di dalam syurga-syurga itu ada bidadari-bidadari yang baik-baik lagi cantik-cantik.

Maka nikmat Tuhan kamu yang manakah yang kamu dustakan.

Bidadari-bidadari yang jelita, putih bersih dipingit di dalam rumah.

Maka nikmat Tuhan kamu yang manakh yang kamu dustakan.

(Surah ar-Rahman: 70-73)

P.S:- My dear BananaToffeeCheesecake, I hope you find the passage as inspiring as I do. Hugs!

On why I write.

In a world where I never measure up, writing is the place where I know what I’m doing.

I am socially inept, ever with the wrong thing to say or do. I am basically immature, although most people think it’s of my own doing. I always just barely scraped by school with As or Bs, and I didn’t really stand out that much — not in the fields that mattered, anyway. I am temperamentally short-fused, with little patience and a very poor ability to concentrate. Physically, I never seemed to match up to the standard idea of beauty, or even prettiness, though truth be told, I never saw what was so unacceptable about me. In a world where I was beginning to be judged purely by how much I scored in my exams, I seemed to have barely failed everything else.

I’d always felt so lost all those years before I rediscovered my deen, my Islam, and in those times, where all I had were my emotions and my tears and God, I would find myself with paper and a pen/pencil, and I would write. I would live out my daydreams of ridiculously soap opera-scenarios in a small spiral notebook I hid under my sock basket. I would jot down my incoherent anger (although it seems a tad harsh a word) and frustration in my journal, and release my feelings of loneliness and ineptitude in my poetry, which was basically just metaphoric prose.

When I let myself down, I immersed myself in writing, where there are no rules, other than maybe making sense. In poetry, I could say even more, and still safeguard my private thoughts. I enjoyed my despair because it sounded nice in writing. It gave me an illusion of profundity I could hide from the world, and it showed me sides of me I never knew.

Looking back and reading my work, I can understand the pain, although I no longer feel it. I no longer loath myself, because learning and understanding about the person God made me to be has made me accept myself better. I face criticism with careless abandon where the occasion calls for it; otherwise I deal with it with (what I hope is) patience and tolerance. I relish the fact that God made me the way I am, and with a little effort on my part, I could be better if I wanted to be; if God willed it. But I could also be content with the fact that God made me the way I am for reasons I may not know, all the while knowing that it is what’s best for me. And when all else fails, God would be enough.

With these relatively new principles in mind (and heart), I can see my writing grow with me, or on me; depends on where you’re looking. I used to be obsessed about huge, impressive words not usually used amongst humankind; now I prefer simple words that say more. I used to want to relate to pop culture; now I want to relate to now and forever. I used to allow my imagination to run wild, justifying that it’s all unreal; now I hold responsibility for the things I say, and I prefer to keep my feet grounded on firm reality, painful though it might be.

I think I’ve said this before: I want to spark change, open minds and provoke thought.

Words are such heavy loads in our lives. People use words to tell a story and captivate millions; you can affect politics with the phrasing you choose; you can turn words into a war, or you can bring it to a halt. Mightier than the sword, I believe the saying goes.

In retrospect, I understand why the first verses of the Quran that were relayed from Gabriel to Prophet Muhammad were:

‘Read!
In the name of your Lord and Cherisher who created,
Created mankind out of a clot of congealed blood.
Read, and your Lord is most Bountiful;
He who taught men the use of the pen
Taught man that which he did not know.
Know, but man does transgress all bounds in that
he looks upon himself as self-sufficient
Verily, to your Lord is the return of all.’

It seems ironic to me, that a person who is so well-known for doing so little, should choose so important a medium. But I did not choose this, exactly. Were the decision up to me completely, I would have chosen something simpler, plainer, quicker to get over with, so that I could get on with my life, easy. But words, instead, pulled me in their direction; forcing me to take another look, another perspective; give another try and see what it means. At times, inspiration will come to me, and when I am done, I cannot believe all this came out of ME. It can get quite scary, although it makes sense. Scary sense, but still.

Now I understand, the way humankind understands everything — from a purposely stunted point of view. I suppose that God wanted to show me from the start that life is a journey, not mere play, and as Robert Frost once put it –

– ‘The best way out is always through’.

Wassalamualaik.

Of things I leave unsaid…

Assalamualaikum wrh. wbt.

Late last night, I had to get something out of my system. And I figured that like with all other things, I could do it by writing something. Anything. I didn’t really care what is was about.

But somehow, I got this story that really wasn’t my thing at all. It’s so unlike me. But I figure that maybe I’ve been influenced a lot by the babies around me: the ones growing up like lightning, the ones I’ve only recently knew existed, the ones to come, and the ones who remind me so much of me and the fact that I really need to grow up sometime soon.

Maybe it’s because I’ve stood by and watched my cousins get married and build families of their own, quietly sympathizing with the difficulty of growing up, and not wishing the same for myself.

Allahu’alam.

But this story is pretty weird, and pretty short. And also, pretty much the only I’ve written in so long. And in the present tense, too. An experiment, of sorts.

So here you go:

He simply stares as long strands of her dark hair flutter over her face. Allowing himself a small smile, he remembers a time when he couldn’t even so much as glance in the direction of her head without a hearty blush. This, this ability to do without the infamous blush, is rather liberating.

She is reading about physics as she sits by the wide windowsill overlooking their backyard. It is one of the books he‘s started using in his lectures. Ever since the day she weaselled out an eternal permission to use all his things at all times, she has taken liberties with his share of books in their joint study. It suits him, anyway. He rather likes that the written word is a passion they both share. She has a head filled with daydreams dating back to her childhood, while he favours factual works on tangible topics. Together, he knows that they make up a sort of balance, like the Yin/Yang ideogram he remembers from his schooldays.

She looks up at him and makes a face. She has a silly smile on her face as he throws his head back and laughs, before she turns her head to look outside. He knows what she’s looking for. He planted that chestnut tree back in July with a silent plea for it to live. She wants to see chestnuts in her garden. She wants to stand back and watch as their children run about among the tall trees in the yard. He wants to grant both her wishes, but can only see one becoming real.

At times, he gets scared of looking into his wife’s face, afraid to face the familiar loss he sees. It lacks the maternal glow he’s seen in so many other female faces; the soft, gentle care that appears on their features. Something in him breaks when he watches the quiet longing in her face for the only thing he cannot give.

She has never blamed him, although she could. She mentioned to him once of her fear that he blames her instead. It is beyond his imagination. He considers himself lucky to have gotten what he once prayed so hard to get. He still mutters his appreciation to God everyday. Anything beyond her would be wonderful, but he can be satisfied with only this.

They are still trying, although five years of doing so might tire other people. He knows of how young they are, still; they had married young, in college. Still, sometimes he feels a keen sense of failure, especially when they spend time with the children of their friends. He knows that she loves children, as he does. He once suggested adoption, and she had given her approval. But her eyes gave her away, as they always do, and he decided against it.

Another thing he finds so fascinating about her are her eyes. Sometimes, when they’re babysitting, she will be sitting in the backseat with the child, and he would glance in the rear-view mirror and instantly know what she is thinking of. He would know how she is feeling. Her eyes were so sad by nature before they were married, but he learned to look past the inherent sadness and to read the twinkle in her eyes like he would his most favourite book.

Tonight… he bends his knees slightly to that he can peer into her eyes from where he is standing, near but away from her. Tilting his head, he leans forward, suddenly unsure of what he sees. Again, he is amazed by her simple beauty, which she covers from being seen by all others but him. Before he knows it, he finds himself sitting in front of her, spinning the Tous ring on her finger, round and round, all the while studying her face.

There is something in her eyes; an emotion he cannot place.

Finally, she looks up, her soft smile hit by moonlight. She asks him if she looks different tonight. He shrugs in return, placing a finger on the page she is reading and closing the book around it, pulling it away from her. It surprises him that she is so wrapped up in the question that she doesn’t even notice this. He tries again to distract her by fiddling more with her wedding ring, but her intent gaze unsettles him. He gives her a definite answer; yes, she looks different tonight.

She makes him guess the reason why.

He is not able to; what is the matter? Now he is concerned, and wanting to know. But he lets her play this small game for a little while.

She asks him; what is the one thing left that she wants, but cannot seem to have? He blinks, stammers as he weighs this in his empty hands. He looks up at her, trying not to answer.

You know, she says; you always have. But now, you don’t have to be afraid to say it. You don’t ever have to say it again. She takes his hands, and he realizes he doesn’t quite get her. She says; I’m going to have what we want. She places his hand in the small space of her lower stomach.

It takes him a moment for reality to sink in. She smiles at the expression on his face. This time, he can take his time to celebrate.

Sound Advice

“You are truly selfish, that’s all I have to say to you!”

“Hey!” she protested, thinking it was a bit unfair to be hurled such heavy accusations in the middle of the night, with a pounding headache to match. She rubbed the creases on her forehead that seemed to deepen by the day. She shut close the laptop and turned to glare half-heartedly at her roommate, Nadirah. Her head couldn’t handle full-fledged at this point. It was ready to buckle, and the lone pillow that lay just less than a foot away from her was beginning to beckon seductively.

“Well, it’s true!” her opponent insisted. “Look, you’re tired, you should take a break. It’s impossible, really, seeing you work at those letters all night long. Plus, it’s pretty hard to sleep with the light emitted from that machine distracting my eyes from its deserved rest.” She shook her head in frustration. “You won’t even share the load, even though we work in the same department. I mean, come on, it’s not as if you don’t ask my opinion for half the problems in there, anyway.”

Dania let out a sigh and leaned back against the frame of the bed. She wasn’t in the right mind to argue to win. She’d just have to mumble her way through this one, because she recognized that obstinate look on her friend’s face.

“Dirah, come on, it’s my job, and I’d feel guilty if I don’t finish it on my own. You know how strict Hazirah is,” she reasoned, giving a feeble raise of the eyebrows. “She nearly came down on me this morning for asking for an extension for my deadline. Regardless of the fact that the impact of her merely sitting on me would be enough to cripple me for life. She’d freak if I don’t complete this month’s column by tomorrow.”

Nadirah shook her head again and tutted Dania’s choice of words, making Dania squirm. “No ghibah; no backbiting our fellow sisters, y’hear? You should apologize to her tomorrow. Even if she is sleeping in the room next door and can probably hear you anyway, since she seems to NOT WANT TO SLEEP!!” Dirah rapped the adjacent wall sharply, to the retorts of, “Yes, Cik Dirah, I will sleep after I’m done fixing this issue’s margins, okay? You get some sleep; you’re driving us around tomorrow, sister, and there will be no arguments about it!” An ominous chuckle emanated through the wall, and then the furious tapping of keys resumed.

“Read the du’a for sleep first, Haz!” Dirah grinned and sat down on the bed opposite her and absently tapped the humming laptop. “But get some rest, okay Nia? I know you still have that oral presentation for Ms. Ng tomorrow.”

The monitor was back up. “Hm. I’ve got it under control.” She had barely typed two characters when she looked up, straight into the concerned eyes of her friend. “Look,” she reasoned, “I only have one letter left. I’ll try to make it a really long solution, so I’ll fill it up to the margin. Then I’ll get to bed. Okay?”

Dirah hesitated for a second. “Fine. But only one letter. Or I’m calling your mother.”

“I didn’t know you’d stoop that low.”

“Hey, we had an agreement. I keep an eye on you and make sure you get out of this semester in one piece, and she gives me all the chocolate cake I need.”

“Careful, you’ll get sick with too much of that stuff.”

“You’re just jealous because you tire of chocolate easily.” She stood up in a flourish, finishing with a bounce of her feet. Dania marvelled at the abundance of energy her roommate had, even at – she faltered, checking her computer’s clock – 12.30 a.m. “I’m going to wash up and get ready for bed.”

“Ya. Just get some sleep, will you?”

“Going, going, gone.”

Dania fingered the letter which contained the predicament she was addressing. The author of the letter was having trouble getting enough sleep at night. Dania could relate. she still had a term paper to complete, plus she had to add the finishing touches to the graphics accompaniment to her oral presentation. Sleep was becoming a distant friend.

However, she thought the Sleepless in Selangor’s problem was a bit more medical than it was logical. SiS had been unable to sleep for weeks. She was dead tired, but she couldn’t seem to fall into slumber. Dania really didn’t see how she could possibly give any advice for this problem.

Salaam Sleepless in Selangor,

Your problem seems to be more complicated than you think it is. Trust me, I completely understand your dilemma. Now that we’re in university, slumber seems to be the only goal in mind; maybe even the one thing that keeps us going through the endless lectures and tutorials. The way I see it, I only have two options:

I can be irresponsible and recommend you this wonderful sleeping drug you can get over the counter, and possibly get slapped with a manslaughter suit, or
I can tell you to go seek professional advice (I suggest a doctor, rather than a shrink because no matter what you say, insomnia is a medical problem) and end this response now.

I choose the latter.

Sweet dreams!

Cracking her knuckles, she stole another glance at her pillow in the corner, and fixed her eyes on the computer screen determinedly. She scratched at a mosquito bite at her elbow.

“Lisa, will you fumigate the room with Shieldtox for us, please? Thanks, dear!” she called to her housemates in the next room.

“We’re all out. Will Ridsect do?”

“I can’t care less, as long as you get rid of these nasty creatures!” She clawed ferociously at her elbow again, and plucked out the final letter for the night.

Covering her yawn with a free hand, she fingered the edge of the paper. She recognized the crinkle of the paper and the smudge of the black ink. The person wrote the letter in a hurry, and she suffered from a severe form of hyperhydrosis. Also known as ‘really sweaty hands’. She knew the side effects firsthand.

Dania quickly skimmed through the letter to determine what she was dealing with, so she could work out the generic reply in her head. She did that whenever she was pressed for time. Sure, she felt ostensibly guilty about it later, but there was always last-minute editing. Praise Allah for technology.

Tapping her pen on the temple of her forehead into a percussion beat from one of her nasyid, she wondered absently why their magazine even ran an advice column, anyway. And then she remembered how it all evolved from a few questions addressed to the editor, before it became a teensy slot in the middle of the double-spread features presented monthly, and then became the sleepless epidemic it now was. How had a magazine focused on the female Muslim college student get an anonymous ‘big sister’ like its other more entertainment-focused, intellectually-insipid counterparts? If Dania wasn’t only doing this to help her fellow ukhti, she probably would never have taken up this job. It had started out being only a few lines long, but then the letters kept on coming, and they soon lost track of where the problems ended and where the solutions began.

There would be no problems in the world if everyone would just focus on accepting whatever God has presented them with in life – the good and the bad. But as she formed the words in her head, aimed to address her blog audience, she realized that that sort of generalization was really quite unfair. Some people really felt lost and alone on campus. She was just blessed because she had chanced across a close network of sisters who supported each other through everything.

There were also those who really knew what they wanted to do, but were just looking for a second opinion; a person to aye or nay their alternatives, because despite what we say all the time, we actually like having a majority support for what we do. It makes us feel more sure of our decisions, and less afraid of the consequences. So really, Dania couldn’t blame the people who (unwittingly) turned to her for advice. She had no business scorning them, even if in her head, because they were all only human, and relied on other humans to get by. But it still made Dania wince when she saw that some people just do not realize that sometimes the faith and strength they truly needed and wanted can only come from God.

How many times was it that the dhikr would bring such calm into her heart? And every time she cried a little after prayers, during supplication, she would feel the pressing burden on her chest recede and lift away. Every time she sought refuge in Allah, it gave her renewed faith, because she was sure that everything from then on would be alright. Even if it wasn’t, she would be fine with it, because God would not give her something she could not handle.

‘Allah does not charge a soul except [with that within] its capacity.’ (2:286)

Dania calmly focused her now slightly aching eyes on the next letter. She was not really sleepy, but her head was throbbing a silent beat against her veins, and she felt sudden longing for rest. But she had promised herself sleep only after this letter was answered, and she could not do away with it. She soldiered on.

Dear Ukhti,

I know that this is not your usual run-of-the mill letter, and I would like to apologize firsthand, in case you do not approve of what I am about to say. I think I just really need to put my problem down on paper, before I can sort it clearly in my head.

I think I am in love.
I don’t know if I’m in love.
But something that makes me suffer this much, it should be Love, shouldn’t it?

I have what you may call a crush on someone. Actually, I’ve had a crush on him for years. Although I’ve spent most of my life trying to be an independent woman, I’ve found that a single man can still occupy the deepest threshold of the female heart.

My friends call it normal, but it worries me that so much of my emotions and my time should be preoccupied with him and his existance. I know he does not deserve my affections. He ignores me outright, even though the signs are all there. He looks away whenever he sees me. He talks to all my friends, male and female, but acts like he doesn’t know me. If he can so callously treat my heart that way — to pretend that I, along with all my feelings, don’t exist — then I know I should forget him.

But I’ve tried, and I can’t.
Maybe I haven’t tried my best.

I don’t think I’m looking for advise. I’m not really looking for a solution. All I want is another person to know how I’m feeling, and not judge me for being me, but just for being another person in her life, who doesn’t amount to much. I want my thoughts to be read by someone who does not know me, and cannot make the decision for me.
But I would really like to know what you think of this particular subject.

Wassalam,
Anonymous.

Dania realized that her gape was spreading, and that Dirah was giving her funny looks from the doorway. She decided to ignore Dirah, knowing that being the ukhti that she was, Dirah would not ask unless Dania said. And as for Dania herself — well, she felt that she could find no way to explain this. Nadirah had not been a part of her world prior to university, and had not been present during Dania’s more painful years. She found it hard to swallow as she contemplated telling her friend, who she knew would not judge her, of her old five-year heartache, pining over the same boy.

He was one of the more popular guys in school, back when popularity was the thing, and he had stolen her heart by accident, during that fateful afternoon when she had heard him sing for an end-of-year contest. It might not seem macho, the thought of a guy singing, but he did so in such a gruff yet sweet way that even though Dania had developed a resistance against all things superficial-cum-popular, she could not but think of him over and over again afterwards.

She supposed that was how all crushes began. With persistent thoughts, until a pattern, so hard to shake, developed.

Maybe she was to blame for nurturing what she had deemed to be harmless at the time. She had begun by confiding her person of interest in friends, and then allowed them and herself to create an obsession in her mind, making it fashionable and almost acceptable to be wallowing in self-pity over the level of his response. Dania could not suppress a groan from deep within as she recalled all the stupid things she had done to grab his attention, all of which were to no avail, because he had taken to studiously avoiding everything to do with her. This, of course, spurred on more indignation and depression. The painful cycle that came from having a crush — the irony of the word’s other meaning gave her a small smile.

“Nia, you okay, sayang?” Dirah ventured from her posting. “You’re being rather quiet, and it’s scaring me.” Dania could feel her grin without even glancing up. “That loud groan reminds me of when I wake you up in the mornings when you oversleep. Scary, by the way; don’t ever do that again.”

“Afwan,” Dania apologized. “It’s just…” She paused, taking in the scenario for a second. “Dirah. Do you remember your last crush?”

Dirah’s cheeks flamed on cue. “It’s definitely not something I like to talk about,” she admitted.

“Was it awful?”

She gave Dania a look. “That would be heading into the territory of ‘talking about it’.” She pretended to be miffed before relenting. “But yeah. It was pretty bad. I hate being in no control of my emotions like that. It was scary, being so uncertain all the time. I hope I never go through it again, insyaAllah… or if I do, that I’ll actually do something about it rather than sit around and mope.” Dania looked up from the letter to peek at Nadirah’s determined face.

“Taking a leaf out of Kak Basirah’s book, I take it?”

Another wicked grin. “For sure.” Kak Basirah was a senior of theirs, who had recently gained a reputation among their bi’ah for having proposed to her now husband. She had decided that she had had enough of letting thoughts of a guy cloud her head and her judgement, and felt that marriage would probably place them in a better perspective. She had reminded her sisters that it would be better to marry a guy and live with him for the rest of your lives, rather than to let obsessive emotions over him to weaken your memory and reliance on God.

Dania doubted whether she would ever have the gall to do such a brave deed, but she could relate, especially when she thought back to her school days. She gave another shudder. The things overreacting to feelings could make you do… Dania folded her legs under her and propped her elbow on the bed.

“Let me guess. The reader’s problem?” Dania nodded distractedly, handing over the letter. “What would you do without me?”

“Get less threats over chocolate cake bribes?”

“Su’uzon ke?”

“Eh, no. Only joking, dear.” Dania gave her an apologetic grin. “Forgive me?”

“Hm.”

“Jazakillahu khayr. So. What should I tell her, you think?”

“The truth.” She snuck a glance at Dania. “How do you feel about crushes and dating? Start with that. Be completely honest, as she wants you to.” She gave a reluctant yawn. “A’uzubillahi mina syaitan nir rajim.”

“I’m sorry, habeeb. I forgot you were on your way to bed.”

“Ah, relax. A little less sleep didn’t hurt anyone. Waking up early tomorrow?”

“I can’t,” she said meaningfully.

“Ah. Oh, well. Salaam.”

“Wa’alaikumussalam. ‘Night.”

Dania had wondered what she could possibly tell this girl. It’s at times like these, when the responsibility squared itself on her shoulders, that she was reminded of how things were, before she understood. Before she saw how things really worked, and before she started fully embracing everything about her religion that she had previously been scared of. Before she realized that Islam was a way of life filled with ‘can’s, and few‘cannot’s.

Things back then had felt easy, perhaps because she had not felt guilty about being selfish. She had no need to consider the consequences of her actions. She could’ve been inconsiderate, for she had felt good manners to be merely a moral chore. She had not felt the need to stop and think. The memories gave her an involuntary shudder and she felt a pang of annoyance at the person she once was.

Well, she thought, better to learn now rather than never.

Dania kneaded the back of her neck, knowing instinctively that this would be a very long reply. Hazirah would be happy, and should she finish this soon, she would get some sleep, which would make her effectively pleased as well. But how to start?

She listened to the steady, reassuring tap-tap of Hazirah’s keyboard in the next room, knowing that Haz would work late into the early morning and not sleep much. She admired that her friend would sacrifice so much of her own pleasures for the sake of helping spread the message around, knowing that Hazirah’s intention, insyaAllah, God willing, would always be on the right path. Sometimes Dania found herself questioning the state of her heart, and the heart of her niyyah. She wondered whether anything had come in between her doing this purely for the sake of Allah.

She pleaded silently to God to keep her on this path He loved.

And then it came to her. Slowly taking form at its own pace, the thoughts, rearranging into words, settled themselves at the edge of her mind. She cracked her knuckles with a sharp cry of praise, “Alhamdulillah!”, and let it run through her.

Salaam Anonymous,

Trust me, at one point in my life, my situation was almost exactly like yours, except that it took place during my formative secondary school years, which were awful at educating me about how the real world worked. Try placing yourself out and away from the problem, and tackling it from that sort of perspective. Look around you and see whether there are guys better than this guy you’re crushing on. Ask yourself why you’re still hanging on to something that he doesn’t want to happen, and don’t fool yourself by thinking that you know better than he does right now.

And as your sister, I’m telling you: When that daydream involving him arrives at your doorstep, crush it like the bug it is. Don’t let it live, because it’ll just feed something that does not exist, and thus, is not worth your time.

I know I sound awfully harsh, but the truth is, Anon, that I have experienced firsthand the life-sucking capabilities such crushes have, and I am keen on removing such fallacies from anyone I know with even the earliest symptoms. I refuse to allow anyone to look back at their lives and feel a pang of regret over having wanted to date a guy who isn’t even man enough to acknowledge that you exist. Don’t sink further into the manhole, dear.

While we’re at it, and since you asked my opinion of it, I’ll give it to you straight: I do not believe in dating. I used to dream about it, often with the question nagging at the back of my mind: After all the fun is over, and we’re married, where would we begin again?

Close observation of the people around me tells me that we’re not honest when we date. Of course we’re not! We just want to be happy, to enjoy each other’s company. That involves hiding certain things and making up others, either with intention or not. In the end, the person you choose to spend the rest of your life with is no longer the person you fell in love with. Which upon even closer observation, reveals that it hurts.

However, if you love a person, and a person loves you for the sake of God, and you both share a great love for Him, then you would, in your deepest of hearts, not want to damage either relationship. You would both do what God asks of you (which is to not to even approach anything that encourages pre-marital relations, as a reminder), and do what is right by the both of you. You would learn about each other before marrying, as per sunnah, but if your love is for God, if it is fillah, then by God, you would do anything in your power to make it work, wouldn’t you? Despite differences, and despite odds.

With prayer and love and tolerance and understanding — basically by doing everything Allah asks you to do — it would work, insyaAllah. And I know this sounds idealistic and somewhat unreal, but I’m telling you because I believe in it; because I’ve seen it work, and working still.

So worry not about the future till it comes. If you find yourself falling for someone, take that faithful plunge and go for it; make it worth something by the sanctity of marriage, and then make it work. Don’t allow opportunities to let something as wonderful as love, mess with your head and make you lose hope.

I’m sorry if I sound too passionate, but something about your plight struck a chord, and here’s to hoping my dear editor would not cut me too much slack in making this a tad long.

Wassalam.

Standing up, Dania trudged out the door and into the next room, leaning on the doorframe for a second, absorbing the sight of a person working harder than she was at 1.30 in the morning. Feeling someone’s eyes on her, Hazirah finally looked up from the thick pile of notes in her lap and gave Dania a nod.

“Yes?”

“I’m done.” She was glad she could say this, finally.

“You want me to see it.” A statement, rather than a question.

She shrugged. “If you must.” She offered a grin, surprised when Haz smiled back. Haz had just moved into the house, and Dania found that she was slowly bucking almost all of Dania’s ideas of her from the very day she arrived. It helped allay the odd feeling of having her previously physically distant editor separated from her by a single wall.

“I will, then.” They both made the few steps into the next room and plopped down on the floor. Dania purposefully looked away as her editor’s eyes quickly scanned the laptop’s monitor. Suspense never agreed with her.

“I approve.” Dania looked back at Hazirah in surprise.

“Seriously?”

Haz nodded, a half-smile stuck to her face. “I think it’s a good response. Could lose the last sentence, though.”

Dania gave a loud chuckle, making Nadirah shuffle uneasily in her sleep. “Alright. Sorry about that jibe about you being able to cripple me, and all,” she said earnestly.

Haz shook her head. “Eh, forget about it. And you can tell her you were merely repeating what I said.”

“And let her tutting get at you instead? You serious?”

She considered this for a moment. “On second thought.”