Farhana was alive, but only just.
Faraz wouldn’t leave her side. Ignoring repeated questions about his own bruised and swollen face and the wound under his eye, he insisted on riding with Farhana in the ambulance. He stayed with her when she was admitted to hospital, while she was given blood, while doctors ran tests, while her heart monitor bleeped and bleeped.
His parents tried to get him to take a break, to have something to eat, to calm down but he wouldn’t hear of it. The guilt sat churning in his stomach as he looked at the bloodied cuts on her face, the ugly bruises on her arms, the neck brace and the cast that covered one of her legs.
This is all my fault. If I hadn’t fallen in with Skrooz, if I hadn’t gone after Maj, if I’d said something earlier, if I’d just been stronger, none of this would have happened …
At last, he agreed to let the staff dress his wounds and the hospital agreed to allow him and his mother to stay with Farhana overnight.
Ummerji cried quietly, holding her daughter’s hand, her handkerchief balled tightly in her fist. She kept looking from her son to her daughter and back again, almost unable to recognise them.
“What happened, Faraz? Who did this to you, to your sister?” she asked through her tears.
Faraz looked at his mum and was reminded of how different her world was from theirs. She had no clue about the trials he and Farhana had faced, this Ramadan and before that. Whose fault was it? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that it wasn’t right. Some things were going to have to change, even if some painful truths needed to be told. But not now. Now she needed him to be strong for her, to be the brave son she had always wanted.
“Shh, Ummerji,” Faraz soothed, rubbing her back. “We’ll talk about it in the morning, OK?”
At last, she fell asleep at the side of the bed. Faraz found a blanket and tenderly laid it over her, smoothing her hair off her forehead.
That night, Faraz felt as if his own heart had caught Farhana’s rhythm. If there was any interruption to its beat, his heart leapt in time. He spent every moment of the night talking to her, praying, crying, whispering ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again.
Auntie Najma came as soon as visiting hours opened the next day. She held her elder sister-inlaw for a long time, tears slipping down both their cheeks. All the tension of the previous weeks had disappeared – they were family again. Then Auntie Najma turned to Faraz and ran her hand down his face, her eyes full of questions.
Faraz shook his head and aunt and nephew embraced.
“I’ll stay for as long as you need me, Uzma,” she said to Faraz’s mum.
Ummerji nodded.
* * *
The next morning, they all sat down with the doctor in one of the private meeting rooms.
“She’s stable,” said the doctor in charge of Farhana’s care. “Her arm is broken and there are multiple fractures in the leg. She was fortunate – her bag appears to have broken her fall or we would be talking about head injuries, possible brain damage.”
Faraz and his dad held his mum as she let out a gasp and swayed slightly in her chair. “Brain damage?”
“So far, she is responding well and we are pleased with her progress. Please rest assured that we are doing all that we can for her.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Faraz’s dad, shaking his hand.
The doctor then looked at Faraz pointedly and coughed.
“We have also spoken with the police. There is concern among the staff that this accident was not random. That it was premeditated in some way – perhaps your son would know something about that?”
Ummerji’s head snapped round to look at Faraz, who looked down. She turned to the doctor.
“My son?” she said, incredulously. “I’m sure you don’t mean my Faraz. He has no idea how this all happened I can assure you.”
The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Well, the police will be back this afternoon and they have said that they will be wanting to speak to him. Maybe you should speak to him before they do…” And with that, he left the room.
Faraz’s mother was furious. She turned to her husband. “Did you hear that, Mahmood? How dare they try to imply that Faraz might know something about what happened to Farhana!”
“I’ve no idea, beta, it must be some mix-up, and you know how the police can be with young Asian boys…”
“Mahmood, Uzma,” said Auntie Najma, standing up, “I’m going to check on Farhana, see that she’s OK. You take all the time you need…” She looked at Faraz then. She tried to keep her expression neutral.
Faraz took a deep breath. This was it.
“Ummerji, Dad, I’ve got something to tell you…”
And then, haltingly at first, Faraz spoke to his parents, with more honesty than ever in his life, about Skrooz, the lads, Maj, the fights, the car crash.
They were in that room for a long time. There were questions, shouts, accusations, and, finally, tears.
“I thought I knew our children, Mahmood,” said Ummerji, sniffling. “But I was wrong… I was wrong.”
“We were both wrong,” said Dad, putting one hand around her and another on Faraz’s shoulder.
Faraz looked at his dad, the man he had tried all his life to please and saw, for the first time, acceptance in his eyes instead of criticism. And he saw love.
“Oh, Dad,” he whispered and, in a moment, they were all holding each other, tears running down their faces.
On the way back to the ward, they were stopped by a couple of police officers who asked to speak to Faraz. Remembering Imran’s comments the night before, Faraz spoke to the police and told them all he knew about the accident.
The police took all the details and thanked him. “We often have trouble obtaining information about these people,” said the officer in charge. “You’ve done a courageous thing, young man. What these lads did was despicable and we are going to make sure that they don’t get away with it.”
When they got back to the ward, Faraz told Auntie Najma what had happened. She slipped her arm around Faraz’s and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I knew you’d come through, masha Allah,” she said softly. “I knew you’d do the right thing.”
* * *
Sitting next to Farhana on the ward, Faraz thought back to that first Ramadan morning when they had stayed up, just the two of them, reading and reciting the Qur’an, building each other up, sharing a feeling beyond words.
He thought about how those feelings had grown and strengthened, only to be swept aside by a moment of weakness. By wanting to fit in, rather than staying true to himself. By putting other people’s opinions and expectations before God’s, before Allah.
But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? It’s about striving and never giving up, even when you’re knocked back. Cos there will always be tests, temptations, things that threaten to blow you off course, sacrifices to be made. You just have to stay strong and keep fighting. That’s what it’s all about.
* * *
Faraz didn’t go to school for the whole week. So he was there when Farhana opened her eyes for the first time, just after the dawn prayer on the last day of Ramadan.
Faraz jumped up from his prayer mat and rushed to her side and took her hand, looking into her eyes, searching for a spark of recognition.
Farhana hesitated as she looked into his face and, for one awful moment, he thought that she didn’t know who he was. Then her face eased into a smile and she squeezed his hand gently.
“Asalaamu alaikum, little brother,” she whispered softly, her voice rough and parched but tender all the same. “You look a bit rough.”
Faraz could hardly speak, he was so happy.
“You don’t look so hot yourself, you know,” he smiled. Then his face changed, softened. “You’re going to be just fine, sis, just fine,” he murmured. “I spoke to Mum and Dad. I told them everything. Things are going to be different from now on.”
Farhana smiled and nodded, a tear trickling from her eye. “Insha Allah…” she whispered.
“I’m going to go and get them, OK?” Faraz turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, Shazia came to see you yesterday and she brought you this letter. Didn’t say who it was from but said to give it to you as soon as you came to.” He handed her a small white envelope then went out of the door.
Farhana struggled a little opening the envelope. But when she saw the handwriting, she stopped. Carefully, she pulled out the card. There was just a short message. Just a few lines.
Farhana, did you think I would let you go, just like that? You must think me a bigger fool than I am. Wait for me. I’m going to get myself sorted, then I’ll be back for you. Someone like you only comes by once in a lifetime. I’m not about to lose you.
Insha Allah,
M.
So, when the rest of the family came in to see her, they found Farhana beaming, her eyes bright, almost as bright as the sun that rose outside the hospital window, shining on the urban Islamic mural that blazed across the wall on the other side of the road.
Shukr, it said: gratitude.
And on that last day of Ramadan, the day before Eid, Faraz, Farhana and their mother and father realised just how much they had to be grateful for as they embarked on the next stage of their journey, together.