Rasyid

I stood before the mirror, carefully fixing the folds of my modest white thobe. It was Saturday, the day of the weekly Islamic lecture, and this weekend, our Islamic Centre was blessed with the presence of the renowned preacher, Nouman Ali.

As I adjusted the collar of my thobe, I could not help but feel a sense of anticipation welling up inside me. The opportunity to listen to someone as knowledgeable and inspiring as Brother Nouman was truly a gift from Allah. He had a unique way of unravelling the wisdom hidden within the depths of the Quran, bringing its teachings to life for all who listened.

Making my way toward Ali's house, my steps were light yet purposeful. We agreed to meet up at his house and have a light breakfast before making our way to the Islamic Centre near Ali's house. The Islamic Centre was more than just a physical structure; it was the heartbeat of our community, a hub for spiritual growth and communal engagement. Ali and Nia were lucky to be able to buy a property near this area.

It took me 45 minutes from my house to reach there by car. It all began when Ali invited me to join him as a volunteer at Kids Camp last year. And that was also the first time I met Zahra. We were on our way from Ali's apartment where we bumped onto her at the lobby. Ali introduced us and her name was engraved in my mind ever since.

I saw Zahra standing in front of the pigeonhole mail box, trying to take out her letters. Ali greeted her from where we stood. "Assalamualaikum, Zahra. Back already?"

She turned to us and smiled sweetly in return. Her eyes looked a bit tired, and she did not try to hide it. "Wa'alaikumussalam. I asked for a little break. A kid spilled soup on me, so I had to go change."

They laughed it off before Ali introduced me to her, saying, "This is my cousin, Rasyid. He'll be helping us as floor runners. So, if you need any help, you can ask him."

She gave me a nod and said, "Nice meeting you. Thank you for volunteering. I'll let you know if we need any help."

I was waiting for her to ask me for help for the entire camp, but she never did. I was ashamed to approach her and ask because she was always surrounded by all the sisters. If she were free from the sisters, all the kids would be circling her, and she would attend to their needs, or she would just be hanging out with them, killing time before the programme started.

The second time I met her was during Hadith's weekend class at the Islamic Centre. After the class ended, we had a little feast, and I saw Zahra helping to serve the people. I queued to take the food, hoping I could say hi to her. But when it was my turn, the caterer took over her spot, and I missed my chance. I almost lost my appetite; I only took two samosas while they had all the Indian food delicacies spread out on the buffet table.

Zahra has been in my thoughts ever since we met. I kept my feelings to myself, and if she is meant for me, I know our paths will cross someday. One day I saw her struggling alone to fit plates and silverware into a box. We had Hadith's class that day, and some were kind enough to bring food for a potluck after the class. Perhaps that's why I saw her tidying up afterward.

"Excuse me," I greeted her from behind, trying to get her attention. "Assalamualaikum, care for me to help?" I asked.

She got to her feet and said, "Wa'alaikumussalam. Thank you, but I got this." She then proceeded to stuff everything into the box, regardless of how messy it looked. 'She's one clumsy girl,' I mumbled to myself. Once she managed to fit everything, I swooped on the box and asked, "Where to?"

Perplexed by my announced act of service, she refused at first, but I insisted. She has no choice but to show me the way to her car. Zahra popped the trunk, but it was stacked to the gills with files and papers. "I'm sorry; give me a moment." She rearranged the items in the trunk of her car to make room for the box I'm carrying.

I was curious about her line of work. There were files, books, and papers, almost like an evidence room. I was convinced that she was a lawyer at first. Once I saw some space, I loaded the box into her trunk, and she expressed, "Thank you for helping me."

"You're welcome. Maybe you can buy me a coffee for helping you?" I did not know where that came from, but I hope to get to know her more. And I must take my chances; it's now or never.

She could not hide her shock at my request, but she agreed to it in the end. We went to the coffee shop across the street. The line at the counter was empty, so we placed our order right away. "Americano, hot, please," I said.

"Food?" She asked out of courtesy.

"No, I'm good."

She placed the order for us at the barista behind the counter: "One hot Americano and one iced caramel macchiato with whipped cream and an extra shot of espresso."

'That is one fancy coffee.' I said to myself. I made a mental note to remember her drinks in case fate brought us together again in a coffee shop. "Is the seat by the window okay with you?" I asked while pointing to an empty seat at the corner of the coffee shop. Before she says no or insists that we take our drinks home. I am almost halfway there, and she has no choice but to comply.

"Mr. Omar's explanation of the hadith today was easy to understand." I start the conversation, trying to break the ice between us.

Her eyes lit up. "Oh! You joined the lecture?"

"Yes, I am. It's hard to find an Islamic centre like this one. So, I come whenever I have the time."

"You're not from this neighbourhood?"

"No, I lived 45 minutes away from here."

The sound of the pager telling us that our drinks were ready cut off our conversation. I stood, grabbed the pager, and swiftly walked to the counter to pick up our drinks. "This is yours, the fancy one with whipped cream." I said this while passing her drinks, and she thanked me after taking a sip of that drink.

"I'm sorry, we've been talking for a while, but I didn't get to know your name." She asked. And that question gave me hundreds more questions. She did not remember me. How in the world does she not remember me when Ali properly introduced us? I kept my cool and answered, "Muhammad Rasyid, you can call me Rasyid."

"I am Zahra." She greeted me with a smile. A smile that melted my heart before and still does.

"What did you do for a living? I didn't mean to pry, but I saw a lot of papers and files in your trunk. I couldn't help but wonder."

"I'm sorry that you have to see that. I am moving to a new office at The Apex on 45th Street. As a precaution, I took the important files with me. I can't let anyone see that; those are my clients' files. I am a therapist."

I'm intrigued to hear more about her. "Oh! What kind of therapist?"

"A shrink, is that what you guys called it?"

"You're a psychiatrist?"

She laughed. That was the first time I heard her laugh, and it was like honey to my ears. "No. I am a counsellor, therapist, clinical psychologist. 'that kind'. But I like to introduce myself as a counsellor."

"Interesting." I replied, happy with how this conversation was going. We talked briefly for a few minutes before she asked to dismiss herself since she had a prior appointment.

That was a few months ago before I decided to ask her to be a witness in the Hamza case. To my surprise, I had to introduce myself to her for the third time. If Allah brought us together in the future as husband and wife, I would schedule an appointment for her with a neurologist. I am scared that one day she will wake up and forget about me.

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