She hurried to the venue, having missed the first bus and getting off at the wrong stop in the second. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her brow with all the walking around trying to locate the correct turn.
"Who keeps a carnival in the end of this Dunya? You're supposed to have it in easy locations," she complained to Google maps with bitter annoyance.
She glanced around helplessly again as her frustration teetered dangerously close to the edge of panic. Any other day, she would have staunchly opted to find the way herself without asking for help, but not today. She tried calling Hafsa first and then Musa, who picked up on the second try.
"Assalamu alaikum, what's wrong?"
This is how you greet, Mister.
"Wa alaikum-us-salaam. Musa, I think I lost my way."
"Parks, shut up for a minute. Sidra, where are you, now?"
To the best of her ability she gave him a rough location
"...and there was mall, I think. And-"
"Sid, Sid, wait. Give me a landmark. An obvious one."
"Uh..." she looked around desperately, "Ugly blue monument of a man on horseback?"
"Does it have a name?"
"Wait...." she squinted thinking how weak her eyesight was growing. "John Cooper."
"Okay. Stay right next to that. I'm still in the jam closer to home than the venue. Stay tight."
"Okay."
She hung up with an irate huff, scolding her phone and the internet and everything technology got wrong. A couple minutes later Musa called her again.
"What are you wearing?"
"Blue abaya, cream hijab. Same as last week."
"Sorry. Forgot the dress code."
"Where are you?"
"Just entered the highway."
"Ya Rabbi..."
"I'll call you, okay? There's a cop in front."
"Fine."
_______________
Two whole minutes later, he showed up in the same pale pink jersey, hanging on the phone and waving to her across the road.
Cautiously and self-consciously she approached Ayaan who greeted her with a half smile.
"Musa called. Sorry I couldn't come any earlier. Just arrived myself."
"Sorry for the trouble," she planned Musa's murder behind the smile. "I just....I'm not good with roads."
"Never mind, you made it pretty close."
He led her past a few closely constructed boutiques, across a street or two and finally up the small hillock atop which the perimeter was set.
"You could've seen it if it wasn't for that big building," he pointed out as she trailed behind. "And this is the back entrance. Sorry again. Which bus did you take?" She replied. "Oh. You should've taken (route number) they come right down the main road and literally drop you off at the gates."
Sidra was extremely thankful he was still in front and wouldn't see the embarrassment which turned her face pink. Like a lot of things she screwed up, she just didn't take the time to look up a different route to get where she wanted to be. Now at the top, she saw how much easier things would've been had she set off on time and preplanned the transport without hopping on the usual commute with blind confidence.
He led her right up to the tent where only Hafsa was sitting dejectedly and were joined by their two colleagues minutes later while Ayaan sat on his haunches and chugged water.
"You said you were in the bus," Josh clapped him on the back.
"I was," he admitted but refused to elaborate.
"JazakAllah khair taking the trouble," Musa shook his hand, "You saved me time. Though personally, I wouldn't mind if she was kidnapped, either."
The gentlemen effortlessly ignored the glare Sidra sent her friend, to the point of oblivion.
The day passed slowly with no more than five sales from their tent and finally tapered to an end as the fireworks died out. One by one, tents were collapsed and boxes transported back to wherever they were stocked until only a handful of stall keepers remained, waiting for rides. But Sidra's thoughts were occupied elsewhere, waiting for the Tech girl to show up.
Meera Singh was an Indian with an elitely Australian accent and a measured tone of speech. Greetings later, they were going over a few leaflets Meera had brought and discussing more details than they'd done over the phone.
As the conversation dragged on, Sidra started to feel herself ill-suited to every degree program, and fought really really hard to push down the disappointment that accompanied the realisation. Hope which bubbled inside her until minutes ago, slowly evaporated, once again leaving her cauldron of dreams empty and dry.
You're not getting anywhere with this, her mind spoke.
Don't rush, she thought back.
You weren't meant to be a techy. Your calling was in science.
Sidra, focus. Meera is not done talking.
This is stupid, her mind repeated. Look at all the eligibility criteria. You don't have anything!
Shut up. Shut up.
"Is everything alright?" asked Meera.
"Yeah," she lied, "I'm absorbing the deets."
In the end however, as Meera bid farewell and left, Sidra wanted to cry. She had placed so much hope in this.
She thought she'd finally found a handhold. But just like highschool, this dream was crushed.
Don't cry. Don't cry.
But I'm so lost.
Pray.
That's all I ever did!
Hafsa's fingers gently clamped on her shoulder and the girl's voice was full of concern when it came
"What's wrong, darling?'
"Nothing. Just...." Sidra smiled, "Nothing."
"Lying is haraam. Tell me."
"Haffi, there's nothing."
Hafsa gave her friend's face a thoughtful stare, "You're looking into degrees, aren't you?"
How do you even do this, girl?
Sidra nodded. "How do you always know?"
"Well, doesn't take Einstein to figure out why you're speaking so long to a college girl."
Sidra sighed without an answer, so Hafsa squeezed her shoulder reassuringly
"Allah has already written a route for you. Just look around. You'll find it."
Twenty plus college rejections later? she wanted to ask, but didn't. As always, she diverted the topic to shallower waters and kept her mouth working to stop her mind from overworking.
_________________
Time flies when one is not watching; yet, a snail defeats the pace of time when all you're waiting for is its quick passing.
The second hand crawled sluggishly from five to six with Sidra's vacant stare fixed upon the clock face, and her mind gone on one of its classic trips into her past. She relived the excitement which coursed through the veins on results day and her loss of appetite caused by sheer anxiety. It was exactly 23.27 when her phone beeped with the news, sending her fingers flying over the keyboard and eyes darting wildly from character to character she entered.
Excitement imploded into disappointment and unbelievable pain blinded her vision when the results made sense, so much, she felt physical pain constrict her throat and a hot pin drive into her tear ducts.
She remembered swallowing down the tears, shoving a fist in her mouth and prostrating to her Rabb, because surely there was good in His Decree even if she couldn't see it. She repeated to herself from among her favourite ahadith
“Wondrous is the affair of a believer, as there is good for him in every matter; this is not the case for anyone but a believer. If he experiences pleasure, he thanks Allah and it is good for him. If he experiences harm, he shows patience and it is good for him.”
Source: Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim 2999
She raised her head with a shaky breath and schooled her features. It took a lot of trying to stop her lower lip from trembling before they finally obliged to the desperate request of the mond. Yet, tears continued to splash on her prayer mat, drop after drop after drop...
Should I be ashamed I am not satisfied with His Qadr? Is my Imaan even worse than I realised?
Several botched attempts and plenty of supplication later, she lifted herself off the ground, put one foot in front of the other walked down the dark corridor, down the stairs and onto the lower landing from where she could see her parents' room door ajar. Amanah was awake.
Quietly, her daughter entered with the softest smile the girl had ever given the mother and spoke in a strangely detached tone
"Failed. Alhamdulillah."
At first Amanah couldn't believe her eyes. Did her ears fool her? Or her eyes all the past years? But as a mother, her duty was to her child first. Gently she told Sidra to check again, perhaps a typing error had caused the deception? Sidra admitted to trying four times before she herself finally accepted the truth.
"It's okay, darling. Alhamdulillah. Let's talk in the morning," Amanah caressed her daughter's tangled hair. "Allah knows best."
The most shocking thing that night for Amanah wasn't the way her daughter's hardwork had gone down the drain; it was how detached and calm Sidra behaved. Sidra, the most sensitive of her children. Sidra, the girl who would cry if she couldn't remember one answer. Sidra, who always claimed it's better to be six feet under than fail Highschool after costing her parents years worth of money.
Was it really this girl though? There was no trace of a break down.
That night opened Amanah's eyes to a new and terrifying side of her daughter's life. If Sidra could so expertly hide an obvious pain her mother's gut detected behind the façade, then what else had she hidden? For how long had she hidden? Just how much did she bear in silence?