The Zuhr Salah of Eid-ul-Fitr
2010
Yasmeen yanked her sister’s arm towards her. Opposite her, Zohra suppressed a whine and obeyed. She fiddled with the end of her older sister’s kameez as she watched Yasmeen grab a cone of mehndi.
They shuffled closer together until their knees were touching, and Zohra rested her palm over her sister’s.
“Have you decided?”
Zohra shook her head and watched as her sister sighed.
The last night of Ramadhan was always like this. Every year, they would finish eating their dinner, pray Isha Salah, and afterwards Zohra would help her older sister clean up.
Only then would the preparations for the next day begin.
Eid-ul-Fitr.
The cold, wet dye on the back of her hand brought Zohra back to the present. She watched with complete stillness – that she’d skilfully learnt over the years – as Yasmeen drew a circle in the centre.
Just outside her room she could hear her brothers fighting over the last kulfi left in the freezer. She jumped as the room door banged open and Yasmeen groaned as the mehndi smudged bits of the design.
“Adam!”
He stormed in and towered over them.
“Baji, they both left me again.”
“I don’t care,” Yasmeen softly rubbed away the smudges with a tissue. “Help Abba with the ironing instead.”
Zohra watched as Adam’s fists scrunched up the side of his shalwar. His frown deepened when she returned back to the design on Zohra’s hand.
She gulped nervously as Adam remained there, staring at Yasmeen.
With a sigh, Yasmeen’s shoulders slouched, and she looked up at him with annoyance.
“I will speak with them when they return.. now go,” She gestured to the door with her head.
“Can you put some of that on me afterwards?”
“Boys aren’t allowed,” Zohra snapped.
Adam stuck his tongue out and walked out.
“Where have the bhai’s gone?”
Yasmeen’s hot breath fanned over the cool dye, “Rabwah.”
“Could we all not go tomorrow?”
“We are going to Lahore tomorrow, to see Khala.”
“Can we go before?”
“No, we have to leave early tomorrow so we can make it for Eid Sermon.”
Zohra blew a sharp breath through her nose. She didn’t like waking up early. She’d been waking up before sunrise for a whole month to help her sister with sehri.
When I was nine, I had to help Amma with the preparations too.
Yasmeen’s words echoed in her mind as she thought back to her mother. She didn’t remember what she looked like. She sometimes would ask her father to show her pictures of her again, just so she could engrave it into her memory.
“There,” Yasmeen readjusted the cone in her hand and nodded towards her other hand. “Want me to do the other one?”
Zohra glanced at the clock on the wall as it struck eleven and she shook her head.
“I’m sleepy.”
Yasmeen got up and started clearing things up, she quickly pressed a kiss against Zohra’s temple before heading towards the door.
“If we have time tomorrow, I can do your other hand.”
Zohra nodded as she carefully got off her bed, her fingers were splayed apart, and her arm was still risen as she admired her lehenga splayed on her chair. It was ironed and ready for tomorrow. Her jewellery that she coordinated earlier today was glimmering on her wooden dressing table. She fiddled with the little, golden jhumka earrings her sister had given her to borrow. The purple gems matched her outfit perfectly and Zohra grinned as excitement washed over her.
She skipped towards her grandfather’s room. A little room tucked away on the flat rooftop balcony of their home in Faisalabad. She carefully headed up the concrete stairs and knocked on his door before allowing herself in. The cool, night’s breeze kissed her sticky, hot skin and she breathed in the sweet smoke that escaped from his old, bronzed hookah.
He peeked over his newspaper and his eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. He patted his lap, and she carefully sat, making sure her mehndi didn’t get ruined. It was partially dry as he took her hand in his to admire the intricate patterns. His skin was rough against her, reminding her of the life he had made for himself and now for her too.
“DadaAbu, tell me about Jannah,” she whispered, as if afraid the Angel of Death would sweep down and grab her soul if he heard a sliver of her curiosity.
He placed his newspaper down and began braiding her hair.
“Heaven will be an immeasurably large garden literally abounding in beautiful trees and casting eternal shadows under which rivers will flow.”
Zohra’s eyes felt heavy as she rested her head against his chest.
“What of the food?”
Her grandfather chuckled; a rough, deep rumble escaped him.
“The rivers would be of milk and honey. The garden will be fruit bearing.”
She hummed in response. A warm breeze carried with it the faint aroma of blooming jasmine, mingling with the earthy scent of soil, cooled by the retreating heat of the day. The soft chirping of crickets created a gentle rhythm. She felt his calloused fingers stuff the delicate jasmines into her plait as her breathing slowed to a slumber.
“Meri shahzadi..” he nudged her.
She giggled against his chest; she was his princess.
“It is nearly midnight, you must sleep, otherwise you will snore through the Fajr Adhan.”
“I never miss my Salah!” she refrained from crossing her arms, aware that if her mehndi got ruined her sister would not retouch it for her. She intensely looked at her grandfather. Took note of all the new wrinkles on his face and the warmth that shone in his dark, brown eyes as he gazed back. “Are you well, DadaAbu?”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes, but he nodded softly. He got up and cupped the side of her face with his hand. He placed a gentle kiss on her head.
“I am. No need to worry as much, you do not want grey like me just yet,” his tone was laced with humour as he ushered her out.
Zohra let him.
“I will always worry,” she said sternly, glad that her voice didn’t waver.
*
She let Adam scrub off her dried mehndi the next morning and enjoyed watching the deep, red imprint darken against her brown skin.
“It smells,” his face scrunched up.
She laughed and pulled her hand back to admire it.
“It is pretty, though. Is it not?”
Adam shrugged.
“I guess.”
Standing on the ground floor, Zohra looked up at the bright, blue sky; she watched as her grandfather leant against the railing looking down at them. The morning air buzzed with life, a melody of rickshaws, decorated with vibrant streamers and garlands, was heard outside. The sharp, cheerful bleats of the horns punctuated the atmosphere, acting as celebratory trumpets for the occasion. Vendors were already up before the sun reached its peak, shouting the prices of their freshest fruit and vegetables.
Zohra rushed up the concrete stairs and reached the railing that overlooked the neighbouring houses and streets. Down below, she watched children darting about in their crisp, colourful shalwar kameezes. Their laughter rang out above the commotion.
She heard the front gate slam shut and walked back to where her grandfather stood by the opposite railing. Looking down, she watched as Yasmeen crossed her arms, glaring at her two brothers who finally decided to return home.
“You promised you would take him last year and you did not. And this year you left him again.”
She was in a bad mood, Zohra realised. That was never a good thing, especially on Eid day. She took note of her two older brothers who huffed a sigh in unison.
Haider and Yusuf shuffled on their feet and looked up at her and then at their grandfather, their eyes held silent pleading which was directly ignored by him. Their grandfather shook his head and began making his way back to his room – probably to smoke the hookah, Zohra thought.
“Well?” She splayed her arms.
“There was not enough space for three of us on a motorcycle, Yas.” Haider, the eldest explained.
Yusuf nodded in agreement and Yasmeen blew a harsh breath out through her mouth before pinching bridge of her nose.
Zohra admired how Yasmeen was so good at being a big sister. Though Haider and Yusuf were older than them all, she marvelled over how much respect they had for Yasmeen, how they always listened and never complained. She wished Adam was the same with her.
Adam stood beside Yasmeen. He was the first one out of them who was already dressed in his new, grey shalwar kameez, his crew cut hair was styled pristinely and his chin was held high as he refrained from cowering beneath their heights.
Her father walked up the stairs from the entrance below, he held two boxes of what Zohra knew were chaunsa mangoes – her favourite. She ran down the stairs to meet him in the angan courtyard.
“Eid Mubarak, Abba!” she beamed.
He brought her into a side hug and looked over all his children.
“Khair Mubarak, jaanu.”
Yasmeen excused herself, letting them know she had to start getting ready. And then it was just her, Haider, Yusuf, and Adam. Zohra knew that whatever arguments they would have should never reach her father’s ears, so she stayed as silent as she could. Her father motioned to the living room, and they all followed him in like sheep following its shepherd.
Zohra observed how stiff and uncomfortable her brothers looked as they sat on the opposite sofa from their father. She swiftly sneaked out just before the scolding would begin.
*
“Is her grave in Rabwah?” Zohra asked as Yasmeen brushed her hair.
“Yes, I promise I will take you soon.”
Zohra watched her sister through the mirror. She was dressed in a beautiful, tea pink gharara, her kameez was adorned with glittering, gold gems. Her curly, black hair was tied loosely in a an updo, mindful of the scorching heat that was waiting for them outside their cool room.
Zohra was envious of her curls. Both Yusuf and her sister were lucky to have their mother’s soft hair and her honey-brown eyes. Haider, and Adam were much like their father; they had silky, black hair and russet brown eyes. Zohra was told she was much like her great-grandmother; her hair was thick and nearly reached her lower back. Her eyes were nut brown, similar to her grandfather’s.
Perhaps that was why she was her grandfather’s favourite. She wondered if it made him sad that she looked like his mother. She wondered if he missed her just like she did with her own. She didn’t have memories of her mother, only the fragments of her pieced together from the stories her siblings told her. Her scent? A vague suggestion in the jasmine oil they’d said she loved. She sometimes found herself staring at other children holding their mothers’ hands at the marketplace down at the D-ground, her own small hand clutching Yasmeen’s, wondering what it might have felt like to belong like that. It wasn’t just sadness – it was the emptiness of absence.
She wondered if her mother would be brushing her hair instead right now. If she would make her rose milk like how Haider would do for them all. If she would iron her school uniform just as Yusuf did every Saturday evening. If she would read her the Quran before bed like Adam did every evening after Salah.
She blinked back to the present and met Yasmeen’s eyes through the mirror. The silence was heavy between them, as if she too was reminiscing over a particularly delicate memory. Her sister’s hands squeezed her shoulders with quiet reassurance, that she was always going to be with her.
“You look pretty, baji.”
Yasmeen’s eyes shone with endearment, “we both do.”
*
The two- and half-hour drive to Lahore was the worst journey Zohra had endured. The burning heat had given her a headache and she spent the whole time resting her head against Yusuf’s shoulder. The aircon was not strong enough to battle against the humidity that slithered through the cracks of the car windows.
The seven of them made it to their aunt’s house twenty minutes before the Eid Sermon was going to begin. Zohra was relieved to hear that the Masjid was only a five-minute walk from the house. She admired the vibrant, green trees and sleek, modern houses that lined the streets. Her home was in the quieter suburbs of Faisalabad, where life was slower and simpler. Every visit to her aunt’s felt like entering a different world, the bustling, cosmopolitan city always left her in awe. She glanced down at her sandals, now dusted with the sand from her home, an obvious contrast to the smooth, clean pavements here.
“Zohra!” Her aunt beckoned her toward her with open arms.
“Khala,” she shyly embraced her. As she pulled away, she noticed the similarities in her aunt’s smile and her own father’s.
“Did you feel the bump?” Yusuf whispered to Yasmeen.
She nodded. “How far along do you think she is?”
Yusuf shrugged, “two, maybe three.”
Zohra and Adam exchanged looks and then she noticed the swell of her aunt’s belly, the soothing rub of her hand over it.
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar
Zohra looked up, trying to catch the sound of the Adhan.
Ashhadu alla ilaha illallah, Ashhadu alla ilaha illallah
It always started softy, like a whispering wind that grew louder, stretching out into the whole neighbourhood.
Ashhadu anna Muhammader Rasulullah, Ashhadu anna Muhammader Rasulullah
Her heart seemed to follow the rhythm, like it was breathing with the words. The voice echoed through the streets, curling around the houses, and slipping between the trees.
Hayya ‘alas-Salah, Hayya ‘alas-Salah
It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for the last note to fade away.
Hayya ‘alal-Falah, Hayya ‘alal-Falah
It was a sound she knew well, even if the voice was always new, one that made the air feel different, like it belonged to something much bigger than just the dusty streets of her home, even bigger than the earth.
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar
La ilaha illallah
Zohra grabbed her grandfather’s cane from Haider.
“Here, DadaAbu,” her eyes lingered on the bag of presents her father was holding.
Her distraction erupted a chuckle from her grandfather, he took his cane from her and pinched her cheek.
Zohra rubbed the side of her face as she watched her grandfather move slowly, his steps careful, as if he was trying to make each one count. His hands, usually so steady, now gripped the cane tighter, the knuckles pale and strained. He didn’t say anything, but she noticed when he sat in the car, he winced for just a second, like the world had shifted beneath him, she saw it in his eyes – a quick flash of something he didn’t want her to notice. His face remained calm, but Zohra could tell his body was aching, the way his shoulders tensed and the way he avoided standing too long, especially this morning on the rooftop.
She quickly tugged Haider’s sleeve. He looked down at her, concern was etched onto his features as she tiptoed up to meet him halfway.
“I think maybe DadaAbu, and I should listen to the Eid Sermon at Khala’s house.”
She watched as Haider’s eyes discreetly landed on their grandfather. He placed a hand on her head and nodded.
“Okay, I will let Abba know,” he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear so he could see her jhumka. “Do you want me to stay with you?”
She shook her head. Though the temptation was tugging at her to say yes, she wanted to show her big brother that she could look after herself and their grandfather without him.
“Yasmeen?”
Zohra shook her head again, “I will be fine by myself.”
Haider looked as if he wanted to say something else but kissed her forehead instead.
“We will be back soon to open the presents.”
“Do not open them without us,” Yusuf gently pulled her braid from behind. Zohra spun, her lilac lehenga flared like a blooming flower, the gems shimmered under the searing sunlight. The delicate embroidery caught the eye, reflecting tiny flecks of gold that danced along with her movements. The hem of the fabric grazed the ground in gentle waves, giving her the appearance of floating.
“Can we eat first?” Adam placed a hand on his stomach.
Yasmeen flicked his nose. “That is why I told to have more roti.”
“I was not hungry then,” he frowned.
“Khala said she made chicken biriyani,” Haider teased.
Yusuf and Yasmeen laughed as Adam groaned.
“Not fair.”
“Khala and Abba are walking off without you all,” Zohra pointed at their distant backs.
Her brothers began racing towards them only stopping once they realised Yasmeen was still with Zohra.
“Take out two cold drinks for yourself and DadaAbu,” Yasmeen began readjusting Zohra’s kameez and dupatta. “Khala said she has mangoes in the fruit basket, slice one for both of you, if you feel hungry.”
Zohra nodded and nudged her towards their brothers who were still waiting for her.
“Go, baji.”
Yasmeen looked over Zohra once more and stood still so that her sister could finish her inspection and leave.
She fiddled with her colourful churiyan on her wrists as she watched her siblings rush towards the Masjid.
*
Zohra slouched on the sofa; her hands still sticky from eating three mangoes. Her grandfather held a tasbeeh in hand, his thumb rolled over each prayer bead as he recited the ninety-nine names of Allah.
She closed her eyes as she listened to his soothing voice. The Sermon was nearing its end and soon it would be time for Zuhr Salah. She left the room to perform ablution and as she returned to her spot on the sofa, the Sermon ended.
She listened to her grandfather’s recitation of the Quran whilst they prayed their Salah and followed his lead as she knelt down to prostration.
Zohra’s forehead pressed one last time against the softness of the prayer mat, her whispered words of devotion flowing steadily – until a sharp, deafening crack split the silence. Her body jolted, instinctively flinching as her heart leapt into her throat. The distant echo of gunfire sent shivers down her spine, and she was frozen in prostration. The silence from her grandfather – as he took a minute longer to continue leading them both, had her small hands trembling against the fabric beneath her. The world around her seemed to still, save for the pounding of her pulse and the faint, chilling reverberation of the shots in the air.
Her grandfather’s voice remained steady, the deep, measured recitation rose above the unease that gripped her chest. Even as the rapid shots of gunfire continued, and the distant blood-curdling screams were muffled by her ears.
Her heart raced with each passing second.
Zohra’s gaze darted nervously to him from beneath her lashes, but his calm presence didn’t falter, his movements deliberate and unwavering as he led them both through the final part.
She clenched her fists against the mat, willing herself to focus. Each minute that stretched by felt endless. Her body taut with unease. A cool sheen of sweat began slipping down her back, prickling at her skin as she struggled to drown out the trembling whispers of fear in her mind. She fixed her thoughts on the final moments of Salah, repeating the words with desperate devotion, waiting for the safety of its conclusion.
Her knees were now tucked under her as she sat in seating position. Her head turning to the right.
Assalamu ‘Alaikum wa Rahmatullah
Her head turned towards the left.
Assalamu ‘Alaikum wa Rahmatullah
As soon as her grandfather uttered the final Salam, Zohra shot to her feet, her heart pounded against her ribs. Without waiting she darted towards the nearest window, the hem of her lehenga brushing against the cool tiles in her haste. Her fingers gripped the windowsill tightly as she pushed aside the curtain, her breath hitching.
The sun’s blazing rays stretched out before her, bathed in sunlight, but her eyes scanned frantically for the outline of the Masjid. It stood tall in the distance, its minaret rising like a beacon. She squinted, searching for any sign of chaos – a flicker of flames, panicked figures, or the dreaded wail of sirens. The silence outside, heavy, and still, did little to comfort her racing thoughts.
“Please, no,” she whispered, her voice trembled as she leaned closer to the glass, hoping against hope that the gunshots weren’t coming from there.
Her grandfather’s laboured steps echoed softly against the tiled floor as he limped up behind her, his hand settled gently on her shoulder. Zohra turned to face him, her wide eyes brimming with fear. His face, lined with age and pain, held a calm she couldn’t quite trust.
“Pray,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the slight tremor in his body. “And wait for them to return home.”
The words settled heavily in her chest, their meaning ambiguous and unnerving. Did he mean here, in their khala’s home, or in heaven? The weight of it pressed against her short frame, her hands tightening into fists, scrunching her lehenga as worry clawed at her insides.
Her grandfather moved slowly to the window, taking her hand in his. They stood side by side, their eyes fixed on the distant masjid. His grip was firm yet warm, grounding her even as her thoughts spun. Behind them, the low hum of the TV droned on, barely registering in her mind.
If she looked back, she would’ve seen the headline rolling below a presenter as he spoke with urgency:
“…reporting live in Model Town, a devastating attack has just occurred at Bait-ul-Noor Masjid, where gunmen stormed in during Eid prayers just minutes ago.. Initial reports have yet to be confirmed…”
Zohra’s heart plummeted with each passing second, too afraid to turn around and let the TV confirm her fears. Her breath hitched as she looked away from the window and turned her gaze back to her grandfather, his expression was unreadable. His lips moved silently, forming words she couldn’t hear but instinctively knew were prayers.
They stood there, frozen. The presents were scattered on the table beside her, their bright colours mocking the deathly silence in the room.
Zohra’s fingers curled tighter around her grandfather’s hand, seeking comfort.