The sprawling Khan family compound in Lahore was a symphony of laughter, the scent of biryani, and the rustle of silk during Eid celebrations. At its heart were two cousins, born a month apart. Zayan, with his confident smile and eyes that held the mischief of a summer storm, was the sun around whom many orbits revolved. Aaliyah, quieter, with a thoughtful gaze that seemed to absorb the world, was the steady, gentle moon.
“Aaliyah, come see the new motorbike Uncle got me!” Zayan called across the courtyard, where children chased each other and elders sipped kahwa.
Aaliyah looked up from her book, a small smile playing on her lips. “In a minute, Zayan Bhai. Let me finish this chapter.”
“Always with the books,” he laughed, striding over. He plucked the novel from her hands. The Forty Rules of Love and pretended to examine it. “So serious. You need to live a little.”
“Living isn’t just about noise, Zayan,” she said softly, reclaiming her book. But her heart, traitorously, beat a little faster at his proximity. This had been the pattern for years his loud, affectionate teasing, her quiet, composed retreats.
Their grandmother, Dadi Amma, watched from the veranda, her wise eyes missing little. “The river does not boast of its depth,” she would murmur cryptically. “It simply flows.”
As they turned eighteen, Zayan’s attentions became more pronounced, more public. During a family trip to the Shalimar Gardens, he insisted on being Aaliyah’s personal photographer.
“Smile, cousin! You look like you’re solving the world’s problems,” he teased, camera clicking.
“Maybe I am,” she retorted, but finally gifted him a genuine smile. He captured it, then showed her the screen. “See? The world is brighter already.”
Later, by the fountains, he grew uncharacteristically quiet. “Aaliyah… what do you think of NUST? The engineering program?”
She was surprised. He rarely asked for her opinion on serious matters. “It’s the best, Zayan Bhai. Very competitive.”
“I want to go there,” he said, determination hardening his features. Then, he looked at her, his expression softening. “It would be… better if I knew someone else was trying for it too. Someone smart. Like you.”
The words, simple as they were, felt like a key turning in a lock deep within her. For the first time, she didn’t look away. A fragile hope, delicate as a jasmine bud, began to unfurl in her chest. Perhaps his teasing wasn’t just cousinly affection. Perhaps it was something more.
The pretence, for Zayan, had begun as a harmless game. Aaliyah was always so serene, so unmoved by the dramas of youth. He wondered what it would take to fluster her, to get a reaction. But somewhere along the line – the shared laughter during late-night study sessions at his house, her patient help with his mathematics, the way her face lit up during Milad-un-Nabi celebrations when she helped decorate the house – the game blurred.
He’d call her late at night. “Just checking if you’re awake and studying. Can’t have you outdoing me, can I?”
“Go to sleep, Zayan. You need your rest more than I do,” she’d chide, but her voice was warm.
For Aaliyah, the world reshaped itself around this new possibility. She began to dream in scenes of us and we. She saw herself walking with him on the NUST campus, their families celebrating their joint admission, a future where his loud energy was balanced by her quiet strength. Her prayers during Tahajjud took on a new fervour: “Ya Allah, let this feeling be true. Let our paths be together.”
She studied with a burning focus she’d never known, not just for herself, but for the dream of standing beside him. Her mother, Farah, noticed the change. “Beta, you look tired. This NUST goal… it is for you, isn’t it?”
“It’s for the best future, Ammi,” Aaliyah would reply, her eyes shining with a secret light.
The months flew by in a whirl of textbooks, family weddings, and stolen moments. At their cousin Sana’s valima, Zayan pulled Aaliyah aside near the rose bushes.
“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. She was in a deep emerald sharara.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her breath catching. The air between them hummed with unspoken words.
“Next year,” he said, “it could be us celebrating like this. After NUST.”
He didn’t say what would be celebrated, but the implication hung in the fragrant air. Aaliyah felt her knees go weak. She simply nodded, a world of promise in that single gesture.
The day of the university entrance exam results arrived. The Khan compound erupted in joy. Aaliyah had secured a top position. Zayan had also been accepted.
“Masha’Allah! Two brilliant stars in our family!” Dadi Amma proclaimed, showering them with dua and dried dates. Zayan hugged everyone, lifting his mother off her feet. When he reached Aaliyah, he gave her a quick, brotherly squeeze. “Well done, bookworm,” he said, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. The sun, for a moment, seemed to hide behind a cloud.
The first sign was the unanswered message. Aaliyah sent a link about NUST hostel details. Hours passed, then a day. Finally, a one-word reply: “Busy.”
Then, he missed their weekly family dinner. “Zayan has gone to see a friend in Islamabad,” his mother explained.
At a community iftar the following week, Aaliyah saw him across the hall, surrounded by new friends from his college prep course. He was laughing loudly. She gathered her courage and walked over.
“Assalamualaikum, Zayan Bhai.”
“Waalaikumussalam,” he replied, his smile polite but distant. “Excuse me, everyone, I need to refill my plate.” And he was gone, leaving her standing alone amidst the chatter.
The avoidance was systematic. No more late-night calls. No more seeking her out at gatherings. If their paths crossed, his greetings were formal, his conversations brief. The warmth was gone, replaced by a chilling courtesy.
Aaliyah was adrift. The future she had built in her mind—their shared books, their walks, their life—crumbled brick by brick. She retreated into a shell, her academic success feeling like ashes. Her friend, Hira, tried to console her. “Maybe he’s just stressed, Aaliyah. Men are strange creatures.”
But Aaliyah knew. The language of absence was painfully clear.
Dadi Amma fell ill. The family gathered, worried. Aaliyah, seeking solace in duty, was at her bedside constantly, reading the Quran. Zayan visited, but his visits were short, perfunctory.
One afternoon, as Aaliyah was adjusting Dadi’s pillows, the old woman grasped her wrist with surprising strength. Her voice was a frail whisper. “The heart is a strange traveler, beti. Sometimes it journeys where it should not. Do not let another’s journey destroy your own path. Your light is your own.”
Tears welled in Aaliyah’s eyes. Dadi saw everything.
Part II – https://fmfblog.com/whispers-of-the-heart-part-ii/
Written By: –
Mrf Rukaiya
Faculty of Managment and Finance
University of Colombo
Design By: –
Rtr. Kawindra Wickramasinghe
(Junior Blog Team Member 2025-26)
