Aaliyah scanned through the morning paper before passing it to her father. She gave him his chai, and he kissed her forehead softly.
"Good morning, abu," She sang, and he replied. On the front page was a prize drawer entry. Her father read it out, and Aaliyah listened with her ears peeled.
"Should I apply?"
She spoke jokingly.
"I don't see the harm in it, even if you don't win anything."
Aaliyah nodded. This was always her father's philosophy, one she'd adopt when she grew older.
'You should always try because if you don't, it'll be a no by default'.
Aaliyah took out her phone. It was an old brick , and she dialled the number signing up by her name. She did not think much of it and forgot about it entirely in a few hours.
Aaliyah's phone rang, and she picked it up. She was cleaning the attic whilst her sister was preparing popcorn for their weekly episode of the drama that was currently on air. By the time they'd sit down, they'd have either spent the entire episode getting ready or the electricity would go out, one way or another they'd miss the episode especially if it were the finale.
"Assalamu alaikum?"
She continued rummaging through her old books.
"Wa alaykum asalam, is this Aaliyah Malik?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, who's speaking?"
"Miss Malik, congratulations, you have won the prize in our lucky draw."
Aaliyah looked dumbfounded at the phone.
"Prize draw?"
It must be a scammer she thought hanging up, whilst making her way downstairs,her phone rang again. She answered,.
"Miss Malik, you won the prize draw. Will you not be accepting it?"
The lady from the other side spoke, Aaliyah bit the inside of her lip trying to remember, her eyes landed on the newspaper, and it clicked
"Is this from the draw which was in the newspaper a few weeks ago?"
"Yes, it is, we have your prize at the centre for you to pick up."
The lady gave Aaliyah the address, and she wrote it down her body barely containing her excitement. She hung up the phone and ran to her father.
"Abu, we won! We won!"
She jumped up and down whilst everyone else looked in confusion.
"Won what?
"The raffle from the paper, this is the address"
Aaliyah wafted the paper, and Malik Hussain took it into his hand, inspecting it. He smiled and stood up.
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go get your prize." Malik Hussain gave his daughter a soft look and walked with her watching her pure joy.
"What about the series?"
Gulnaz walked in with the popcorn.
"It can wait," Hamza's voice called from behind.
The prize was a beautiful gold set with Ruby pearls, which spoke of elegance and radiated confidence. It was a piece that Aaliyah would cherish deeply. Her father watched her proudly as she held it in her hands.
***********
Sultan sat on the rooftop with his brothers. They laughed and told stories to one another, a cigarette in each of their hands. All of Sultan's brothers smoked regularly. However, it was not something Sultan was particularly interested in. When they sat together on evenings like this, he would also take one to join in , the smoke rose from his mouth and Sultan leaned on the rocky wall of the rooftop. He heard a familiar voice from outside and stood up to see who it was.
"Sultan, uncle!"
He looked up over the edge and saw Hussnain standing outside their gate, the orange tree in the middle almost hiding him. Asad smiled, watching them.
Hussnain was wearing a black shalwar kameez, and his helmet was in hand standing next to his red bike. Sultan took a whiff of the cigarette that had been resting in his hand, and his mouth lifted in a smirk. He knew what Hussnain was going to ask.
"Do you want to go for a ride?"
Sultan raised an eyebrow, dropping the cigarette bud to the ground and putting it out. Hussnain nodded, the same smirk mirrored on his face.
"You're gonna leave me for my son?"
Asad spoke jokingly, and Sultan apologised, running down the stairs.
The flight of stairs merged together with his speed until Naiima stopped him.
"Chachu, how many times have I said I also want to come?"
Sultan placed his hand on her head in a caring manner and spoke.
"Naiima, you don't have a bike."
Naiima scrunched her nose.
"Why don't you buy me one? You know I'm a quick learner."
Sultan shook his head
"You know I have no problem with that but I need your father's permission, I've told you before you should ask him first,"
"He's your brother. Can't you talk to him?"
Hussnain walked in, wondering what's taking Sultan so long, and placed his helmet on Naiimas head.
"Is she bothering you again?"
She passed a glare at her brother, who pulled a face at her in response.
"Api, we'll take you tomorrow, I'll take you on my bike, okay?"
"You say this every day."
Naiima took off the helmet and gave it back to him.
"Right now, I only have one helmet. Tomorrow I'll buy you one, and we'll take you,"
Naiima held out her pinkie to Hussnain, who took it. A pinkie promise was a promise set in stone. no one dared to break it.
They walked outside and Hussnain ran a hand through his hair, he had been growing it out and now it was just about long enough to tie up. Sultan took his bike and put on his helmet. The black glaze shone in the darkness, they often went on late night rides, abusing the silence of the roads and speeding till the limit. They would race each other until they were both exhausted , everything felt surreal in the darkness it was a blanket they hid under. When Hussnain was younger Sultan would ride on his own, when he became old enough Sultan taught him how to ride. He saw how it meant to Hussnain as much as it meant to him. As soon as they put their helmets on it seemed as though the entire world went quite, as well as their own minds. They would then sit in the tunnels and Hussnain would tell Sultan if there was something on his mind, Sultan would do the same. In these late night adventures no one was older or younger no one was wiser they were both equal. That's what made their bond so strong.
They sat in the illuminated tunnel, the dust blowing up into the air. Their helmets rested on their laps and the bikes stood patiently.
"Chachu"
Hussnain was looking at his knuckles where a wound was healing. Sultan replied with a hum.
"Why do we pray? I mean I know we should and its important I just want to understand why".
He seemed to stumble on his words and Sultan thought for a second looking at his nephew.
"The first thing we need to understand about prayer is that yes we pray to Allah but Allah does not need our prayer. He has all of the angels to praise him he does not lack in praise. Prayer is not for him it's for us. It's a gift from him to us. Some people think that if they don't pray Allah will punish them, they don't know that not praying is the punishment"
Hussnain listened with focus and curiosity. He nodded along to what Sultan was saying with enthusiasm.
"How does prayer benefit us, what do we gain from prayer?"
Sultan smiled at the question.
"Purpose. Prayer gives us purpose, it gives us peace. Allah calls us 5 times a day towards him, who else calls to check up on you 5 times a day? He gives you the opportunity to ask him to receive from him. You gain a routine to remember him, for if you remember him, he will remember you. Not to mention what you lose, you submit to Allah you lose arrogance, you lose pride and with trust in Allah you lose anxiety and lighten your burden. ٱللَّهِ ۗ أَلَا بِذِكْرِ ٱللَّهِ تَطْمَئِنُّ ٱلْقُلُوبُ Only through the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest."
***********
Outside Sultan's home, there was a sort of stone passage, it led down to a room with a padded floor. It was dimly lit with a single bulb, which hung from the ceiling. By the side sat multiple weights and a boxing bag took its rightful position in the centre. Hussnain stood in his black sleeveless shirt, his feet firmly planted on the floor. His fists hit the bag one after the other, relentlessly bashing it His muscles tense and relaxed with the motion, his veins tracing down his arm like the branches of a tree. A deep red liquid dripped from his knuckles and decorated the punching bag, which lacked acknowledgement. It transferred from his knuckles to the joints in his finger with every punch.
Sultan walked into the room his jacket slung over his shoulder and took one look at Hussnain pursuing his lips. The boy was unaware of his uncle's entrance and the sound of the impact continued to echo through the room. Sultan made his way towards his nephew and stood next to him watching as he jumped slightly.
"Chachu" he broke his rhythm breathing elevated looking at his uncle. The bag swayed for a minute and Sultan looked at the state of Hussnains hands.
"How many times have I told you to wear gloves?"
The lonely gloves lay at the other side of the room slumped against the wall. Hussnain said nothing while looking at his hands. Clenching and unclenching them, he had tore through the skin of his middle knuckle and the rest of them were sore and red.
"Sit down"
Hussnain did so and watched as his uncle left, only to return with disinfectant and a wipe as well as sudocrem. He sat next to his nephew taking his hands into his own.
"Chachu there's no need for this"
Sultan gave him a glare and he ate his words.
"Who are you training to box to death?"
Sultan looked up at him with a raised brow. Hussnain chuckled nervously.
"Noone"
"You go at it even when your wounds haven't fully healed, it's going to leave a scar."
Sultan cleaned Husnains knuckles and he winced.
"I don't mind a scar"
Hussnain smirked and Sultan flicked his nephew's forehead, shaking his head.
"You're unbelievable, you're lucky it wasn't your mother who found you like this you'd worry her half to death".
Hussnain sighed, wincing again as sultan applied the sudocrem.
"I'm just punching the bag, I don't think it's that big of a deal it's just some blood"
He turned his gaze to the bag which was covered with his blood.
"I'm gonna have to clean that," he muttered.
"It's not about you boxing Hussnain" Sultan looked up at him, his eyes a deep brown, their slanted shape outlined by his long lashes.
"You don't look after yourself and so many people care about you. It scares them, the way you aren't afraid to get hurt, that's why your mother gets worried when we go out on our bikes at night and that's why she tells you off when she sees your blood-covered knuckles, you idiot."
Sultan closed the lid and walked over to the bag, wiping it.
"It's fine chachu I'll clean it"
Sultan shook his head and finished wiping off the blood.
"I'm happy you have an outlet for your emotions Hussnain, but you need to know your body's limits"
Sultan knew this was something he himself struggled with and he felt as though he were giving advice to a mirror. Hussnain was known for being reckless with his health, if he wanted to get something done he would, even if it were at the expense of his well being and Sultan just hoped it'd be a trait he'd outgrow.