Ep 5 | IZZAT: The Name of My Cage | By Bint-e-Azhar

• EPISODE 5 •

~ INOSENT ~

RECAP:

The first aid box sat atop another—this one wrapped in glittery gift paper.

What could it be?

Could I open it? Would Amma allow me?

Every bit of the box screamed : I am mysterious.

Curiosity always brought the worst out of me.

I stole a glance at Iman—busy on his phone, maybe checking emails— and opened the box with a soft click.

The world around me stilled.

And my lungs locked mid-breath.

Folded in it with great care were my stupid childhood drawings—ones I had left behind in my room’s dustbin the night I’d fled. Now they blinked back at me, narrating a silent story of how Amma had picked them out of the trash and placed them here with sheer love and care.

But that wasn’t the only inhabitant of this mysterious box.

There was a paper and a pencil too.

Which was the greatest joke of the century. Because Amma didn’t know how to write.

Time and again, I had tried to teach her. But she would always pinch her nose and say, “Mujh buddhi ko likhna seekh kar kya karna hai?”

I picked up the paper and opened it with trembling fingers, my breath already fast, wondering what I’d see there.

A choked sound escaped my lips.

Because written in childish scribble—bad handwriting—was:

Ramal

Ramal

Ramal

Ramal

Ramal

Ramal

And then, in the wrong spelling:

Inosent

I gasped. I’d been blessed with the most loving letter of the century. No lover could ever muster this articulation, this precision, this raw love.

I kissed the paper. I kissed my mother’s childish, shaky scribble again and again. Then I folded it into my dupatta.

This was mine to keep.

Mine to draw energy from.

Mine to remember that, all those years, someone was convinced of my innocence.

That someone had missed me.

I could always read this paper when I returned.

A knot formed in my stomach. Return? Was I ready to go back? To abandon my loved ones again?

“Did you get the first aid box, Ram?” Iman called out softly.

“Yes.”

I swallowed the ball of emotions bouncing in my throat and brought the first aid kit to Iman.

He didn’t look at my face. He didn’t need to.

“Does it hurt?” he asked as he applied gel on my knuckles. But something in his voice hinted that he’d seen me crying in front of the almirah.

“A little bit.”

Iman nodded and gently draped the dressing on my fingers.

“Wounds always hurt. Make you cry. But eventually they heal. Leaving behind a stronger you.” Then in his softest voice, he added, “It will heal, InshaAllah.”

Perhaps we both knew he wasn’t talking about the wound on my knuckles, but the wounds on my soul.

“InshaAllah,” I whispered, and glanced at the sleeping form of Amma. Her duvet rose and fell with the rhythm of her breath.

There was something peaceful beyond words in seeing a mother sleep.

“Mr. Ali,” I called back to Iman. He was on his phone again.

“Yes, Mrs. Ali?” He lowered his phone and gave a mock bow.

“Recite something for me?”

“Gimme a min? Boss is online.”

I nodded and drew my knees to my chest, placing my head on them.

And then—a voice, like dusk melting in dawn—poured liquid gold into my ears, flowing into my veins and curling around the tendons of my heart.

"قَالَ لَا تَخَافَا ۖ إِنَّنِي مَعَكُمَا أَسْمَعُ وَأَرَىٰ "

(He said, “Fear not. Indeed, I am with you both; I hear and I see.” — Surah Taha 20:46)

He was reciting my favorite surah.

This time, I didn’t stop my overflowing tears. My Rabb’s words were already beginning to soothe my scorching heart.

"لَّا يَضِلُّ رَبِّى وَلَا يَنسَى"

(My Lord neither errs nor forgets. — Surah Taha 20:52)

I hiccuped. Tears flowed like a soft waterfall—a waterfall I had never allowed anyone to see. My soul bled through my eyes.

Iman’s fingers gently stroked my hair through my dupatta.

"مِنْهَا خَلَقْنَـٰكُمْ وَفِيهَا نُعِيدُكُمْ وَمِنْهَا نُخْرِجُكُمْ تَارَةً أُخْرَىٰ"

(From the earth We created you, and into it We will return you, and from it We will bring you forth once more. — Surah Taha 20:55)

Iman’s voice slowed.

I didn’t look up.

I didn’t want him to see how undone I was at the moment.

Or how, ayah by ayah, his recitation was stitching me back together.

“Do you want me to recite my favourite ayahs, Ramal?”

I nodded, unable to look up.

He cleared his throat and began.

"إِنَّ ٱلَّذِينَ جَآءُو بِٱلْإِفْكِ عُصْبَةٌۭ مِّنكُمْ ۚ لَا تَحْسَبُوهُ شَرًّۭا لَّكُم ۖ بَلْ هُوَ خَيْرٌۭ لَّكُمْ"

(Indeed, those who came with the false accusation are a group among you. Do not think it bad for you; rather, it is good for you. — Surah An-Noor 24:11)

I inhaled a sharp breath. My nails pierced into my palms.

"لَّوْلَآ إِذْ سَمِعْتُمُوهُ ظَنَّ ٱلْمُؤْمِنُونَ وَٱلْمُؤْمِنَـٰتُ بِأَنفُسِهِمْ خَيْرًۭا وَقَالُوا۟ هَـٰذَآ إِفْكٌۭ مُّبِينٌۭ"

(Why, when you heard it, did not the believing men and women think good of themselves and say, “This is an obvious lie”? — Surah An-Noor 24:12)

He was talking about me.

My Allah was talking to me. 

Iman had deliberately chosen to recite these ayahs.

“They called you be-kirdar. Api.”

“They said you ran away for a lover.”

"إِذْ تَلَقَّوْنَهُۥ بِأَلْسِنَتِكُمْ وَتَقُولُونَ بِأَفْوَاهِكُم مَّا لَيْسَ لَكُم بِهِۦ عِلْمٌۭ وَتَحْسَبُونَهُۥ هَيِّنًۭا وَهُوَ عِندَ ٱللَّهِ عَظِيمٌۭ"

(When you received it with your tongues and said with your mouths that of which you had no knowledge, and thought it was insignificant while it was, in the sight of Allah, tremendous. — Surah An-Noor 24:15)

Two years. Eight hundred days.

Of exile.

And... buhtan.

“Even maids are not supposed to serve you.”

“You tainted our izzat, our ghairat.”

"وَلَوْلَآ إِذْ سَمِعْتُمُوهُ قُلْتُم مَّا يَكُونُ لَنَآ أَن نَّتَكَلَّمَ بِهَـٰذَا سُبْحَـٰنَكَ هَـٰذَا بُهْتَـٰنٌ عَظِيمٌۭ"

(And why did you not, when you heard it, say, “It is not for us to speak of this. Exalted are You \[O Allah]; this is a great slander”? — Surah An-Noor 24:16)

I couldn’t contain it anymore.

The dam broke inside me. I hiccuped and sobbed, drawing closer to Iman’s lap.

I sobbed into his lap like a child.

“I used to boast how my sister was the most pakdaman girl in the whole village. And you became a who—”

"يَعِظُكُمُ ٱللَّهُ أَن تَعُودُوا۟ لِمِثْلِهِۦٓ أَبَدًا إِن كُنتُم مُّؤْمِنِينَ"

(Allah warns you never to return to the likes of this \[conduct], if you should be believers. — Surah An-Noor 24:17)

Tears and snot stained my face.

For the first time in years, I allowed myself to grieve.

To cry like a normal girl.

I didn’t try to be strong.

I was just… seen.

I was just… consoled.

Not with apologies or sympathy—

But with words only the soul understands.

And I was spoken to.

So intimately, so precisely—

Like the verses were revealed for me just now.

I wasn’t comforted by the world that broke me.

I was comforted by Rabbus Samawati wal Ardh.

The Lord of skies and secrets.

The One who witnessed it all.

The One who never believed the lies.

He spoke. And I shattered.

He saw. And I began to heal.

Somewhere between Iman's voice and my Rabb’s words… sleep finally found me.

~ ~ ~

I dreamt of that night.

Of Naail’s attempt.

Of Taya’s warning.

Of how it shattered the nineteen-year-old me.

How I had run—

Out of fear.

Fear of Abba finding out.

Of Adn finding out.

Fear that now, with his father’s backing, Naail would try again—

Unafraid this time.

And then came a strange bravery, born from sheer fear.

Bravery to run.

To protect myself.

Because my actual muhafizeen couldn’t.

I ran to the city.

And I was chased.

By Naail.

By Abba.

By Adn.

At the time, I didn’t know what they had told Abba and Adn—

What lies had turned them into solid fire.

What made them so furious…

That they actually fired at me.

But I dodged. I hid.

And I took a bus to the nearby city—

To the home of my youngest uncle.

Abdullah.

My father’s milk-brother.

Technically not a Chaudhary.

And thankfully,

He didn’t have any sons—

No new monsters for a girl like me.

He had two daughters.

And he loved me like one too.

To such an extent

That his wife started to grow jealous.

But I was too deep in trauma

To even care for love.

I learned to stay invisible.

To fade into the background.

I didn’t give her a single reason to complain.

Those six months…

Were the most brutal era of my life.

I’d cry in my sleep,

Night after night.

After six months,

Ayesha Api—his elder daughter—

Enrolled me in an Islamic course.

And I devoured it.

Clung to it

Like a drowning girl clings to wood.

It became my escape,

My coping mechanism,

My lifeboat.

After a year,

When both her daughters were married,

Chachi finally accepted a rishta for me.

Until then,

Any proposal that came for me

Was gently—or not so gently—redirected to her daughters.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t even want to get married.

I didn’t know what I wanted from life.

And then—

One day, Chacha proudly told me that Iman was marrying me…

Because of my Haya,

Because of how I practiced Hijab.

And that…

Was the cruelest joke of all.

The ridiculous irony.

As the days to the wedding inched closer and closer,

I waited for any call or message from Iman’s side to call it off.

Because they’d found out about my past.

The label I was given.

Because they didn’t want a runaway bride.

But it never came.

I hated it.

And I actually panicked on the Nikah day.

Any moment and I’d be stripped of it all.

The adornments.

The party.

The celebration.

Hell, even the ethereal lehenga Iman had chosen himself.

I fainted.

Just after the Nikah, even before Rukhsati,

Iman had to come and assure me that my past didn’t matter to him.

That to him, I was the most ba-kirdar and ba-haya girl.

Even after days of the wedding,

I waited for his taunts.

His family’s remarks.

But they never came.

Only: Tawakkaltu ‘Alallah.

Uhibbuki fillah.

And also the boxing lessons.

A shudder ran through me as the muazzin’s call pierced the dawn, pulling me from the ruins of my dreams.  

"Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar!"

The words were a rope thrown into the pit of my memories. I clutched them.  

Last night, I had wept into the Qur’an’s pages. Now, the Adhan echoed its promise:  

He had heard me. He had seen.  

My lips cracked as I whispered back:  

"Allahu Akbar."  

Not a reply. A testimony.

The lies of Naail, the silence of Abba, the scars of the haveli—none of it was greater than this.  

  

~~~•••~~~

To be continued...

Written by:

© Bint-e-Azhar ✒️

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