DEDICATION :
My first english story is dedicated to the CREATOR OF THIS UNIVERSE,ALLAH (SWT),TO WHOM I BELONG AND TO WHOM I SHALL RETURN.'∞
First of all,
I want to thank Allah for everything.For guiding me, always.It is not difficult to write a story.But it is very difficult to write a good story. I hope you'll love it and I hope that it will stay with you forever.
-----------------------------
'Who would care
when such an air
Comes blowing up the Seine?
Beside her window-pane,
When it's Paris, it's Paris,
And spring-time's come
again."
By Sara Teasdale
✨✨✨
I dont know what is wrong with me.Arrghh.
Why am I not able to face him?
As if I did something wrong.
Why can't I look straight into his eyes?
"JANE ARE YOU PLANNING TO STAND THERE ALL DAY LONG? "Suddenly Ma'am Jen's voice danced at my ear drum & I came out of my trance.
"Umm,No Ma'am, May I come in? " I saw him hiding his face behind Chalres Dickens's "A tale of two cities''
He must be laughing. He IS laughing. I can bet my life. I roll my eyes.
I.. I was about to explain my self when my chain of thoughts was broken by the ring of bell.
I missed the whole lecture on Mr. Dickens. again.
Allah!
"Ask Hashir to guide you." Ma'am Jen says as she leaves the class. Also she passed me a very very ugghhh kinda look.
"Sure thing Ma'am. Thankyou."
I say in an embarrassed tone.
I quickly sit on my seat which is next to him, because of Sir Yahya.Allah bless him.
Bloody handsome Lunatic. I confess silently.
'Assalam'o'Alaikum.' he says and passes me a genuine smile.
'Walaikum assalam' I reply and plaster an extremely fake smile.
I'm quiet an actor.
Because I used to watch a lot of dramas at the age of 3. (Confession.)
He is staring at me, again. Why Oh WHY?
"So, Err Can I have your notes, umm Hashir? "
His name is Hashir... Hashir Mustafa.Yes. (You must be wondering why my name is Jane. I'll confess it later but I'll just make half of the confession which is that it is not my real n a m e. Take a chill pill.)
"Yeah Sure, He seems confused, a little bit". Maybe after what happened he should seem confused. I roll my eyes unintentionally.
So, few days ago Sir Yahya assigned us a project in which we had to make a book jacket of any of our favourite Novel & we had to write an essay on Greek theory of evolution.
(He's teaching us Fine Arts and Greek theory of everything as a side subject).
He said that I and Hashir, will work in a group.
So, I decided (in my mind) that we'll go to one of the local parks near my home because I that love park And I think that parks are very cool alsothey give me hope.I'be been painting in that park since eleventh grade.It's more like a part of my life.
When Sir Yahya left the class room, I went to his desk (at that time we were not sitting together but after the groups were assigned, we had to.
'Hey Hashir, so we're partners. 'I smiled. Why do I always try to act cool? Never mind.
'Hey! Yes. That's amazing. "
He seems good. I concluded. I like to jump to conclusions.It's my thing.
'So.. ahh.. I've decided the place and everything.' I told him while looking at his nose. Beautiful Nose tho.
'Wow.' He seemed shocked.
'So what have you decided? '
He looked at me with that amused yet horrified expression which left me a little concerned.
'Actually there's this park near my house and it's very beautiful,I guess we'll go there tomorrow and paint our book jackets, I'll go with 'Paris Twilight' by Russ Rymer. ( He doesn't know about my crazy dream, yet.) & you can decide what you're going to paint,then we'll go to our homes,write our essays and share them through E-mail.'
I stopped talking and looked at his face.
He was staring at me, what's up with this staring thing?
'Hashir? 'I was a little concerned... about his reaction?
'You want to go to a.. P a r k? ' He looked at me like I was the most alien thing he had ever seen.
' What's wrong with it? 'I tried to support my idea. Which sounded a little Insane.
'Because,he took a deep breath.
'This is Paksitan and here you can't just go out with a girl or a boy to some park to paint, people notice, gossip and God knows what other stuff they do.
Also, there's no peace in parks and I need peace to paint.
Plus this is totally Isnane.
The idea.
And about the essay, we have to write it together, not separately and then share it through E-mails. I respect what you said but we need to be a little more rational."
He said this whole thing calmly and tried to persuade me with his kindness, but it didn't get through my thick skull.
"Hashir,I've been painting in that park since last four years. "
"What is my fault then? I haven't. " he kind of.. kind of.. had that 'I'm going to smash my head on that wall behind YOU RIGHT NOW' tone.
'Can't you compromise? For once? '
"Listen, Can we go to my place or yours? " he pleaded, well kind of.
"No! Please we'll work on essay tomorrow here in university's library because of what you said but about the jacket.. Please? 'I made my 'see-I'm-a-cute-girl' face (Mama says it works because of my Hijab, it makes me look innocent. Which I'm, I guess.)
"But Why?" He was raising an argument now and I wanted to punch him but he's cute.
I have low temper. (Confession)
"Because I like parks and specially that park and it's my habit."
"Is that the only reason? "
"Seems to be."
"Do you have any idea how much Paksitani parks.. SUCK?"
Not again Hahsir Mustafa.
Allah..
"See Hashir I LIKE TO PAINT UNDER THE VEIL OF SKY IN THE PRESENCE OF TRESS AND BEAUTIFUL BIRDS SPEAKING THEIR OWN LANGUAGE OF LOVE SOMEWHERE NEAR ME.. AND SINGING ME SONGS AND TELLING ME THE STORIES OF THEIR OWN WORLD. WHEN THE SKY LOOKS AT ME AND THEN SMILES BECAUSE I UNDERSTAND THE LANGUAGE OF SILENCE AND HOW BEAUTOFUL THAT FEELING IS.. THEY ALL.. THEY ALL.. GIVE ME.. HOPE." I waited for a minute. And took in all the oxygen near me.
He was silent for an eternity, I guess.
"I can't bring my stuff there,please be rational." He tried his luck again.
"I'll bring everything for you. "
"You can? " he was amazed?
"I can. "
He was silent for a moment.
"Okay then. Park tomorrow. At three'o'clock. (It's December so, yeah. )"
"Thankyou. "I took a deep breathe.
He was watching me intently. Starring again.
I looked at him and then looked away, at the white board.
I could feel his stare.
"So. Umm Okay. See you tomorrow, give me your e-mail so I can send you my address."I was looking at his sneakers. Bloody freak.
"Yeah, sure. "He opened his register and tore a small piece of paper, then he opened his pouch to take out a pen which he's been using since his childhood, I guess.
Wrote quickly and gave me.
I looked at the paper.
"iHashirMustafa@gmail.com"
'Your hand writing is beautiful. ' I complemented him.
"But you're more beautiful. 'He looked at me and smiled.
God Damn it!
'Hmm. ' I smiled at him ( my eyes had this expression : Stop flirting jerk)
And his eyes had this expression : (It was a compliment?!? )
'See you tomorrow, Bye'
I stepped down and ran out of the class as fast as I could.
'Bye. 'He shouted at my back.
-----
When I was in the corridor I suddenly felt free.. And mean while realised how hungry I was.
So I went to the cafè.
I'm quiet famous in my cafe. Because of my Paris-Obsession.
As I entered I heard The girl on the counter saying "Oh-Paris-Let-me-come, let me come." And smild heartily. She's such a sweet heart.
'What do you want, hun'? She asked.
'Umm.. I thought for a moment, A chocolate bar, A packet of chips and a Shawarma". I told her, smiling.
She quickly gave me the stuff, I paid, shoved the things in my bad and left the cafe.
-----------
Sitting on the ground, at my favourite spot near the back wall of university where probably only I sit plus the birds.
I opened my bag and took out my journal.
This journal is my entire life.
I've named it Paris.
It is brown in colour, I used glittering foaming sheets to write "Paris, I love you." on it.
I smile at my craziness.
This is the only worldly thing I love.
I love Allah the most.
But when it comes to this world, this earth.
I love Paris.
I open the journal, the first page is kind of very vintage.
I remember it took me four days to decorate this page.
I used every kind of beads, glitters, markers and paints to accessorize it.
And 24 hours to sketch the Eiffel tower.
Then the next page,
It's a little introduction about me,
I was thirteen when I started to like.. Paris.
And on the top is written
"Zarafshan loves Baba"
So maybe now you know what my real name is.
I don't like my name at all. My Aunt named me Zarafshan and I used to cry.
Then once I was reading a novel and read this name; Jane. Since then I call myself Jane.
My name is Jane on all social web-sites.
Even on my website where I'm writing a novel about Paris.
And Ma'am Jen calls me Jane because she's close to me, 0.1% and I begged her, literally.
Everyone in the class knows that Jane is not my real name but they call me Jane anyway.
Also, I don't interact with many people so yes.
She knows everything about my Paris thing.
I remember my father used to get angry when ever I asked him to call me Jane.
He used to say this is an anti-Muslim behaviour. Ha!
Past tense.
He left me when I was fourteen and my relationship with my mother is just Okayish. Let's not go in to details, at the moment.
When ever I think of my father, a lump in my throat is formed, it becomes difficult to breathe as if someone sucked all the air left in my body.
He promised me he'll take me to Paris.
He'll make my dream come true.
Because he was a writer too and he knew the craziness, madness and obsession of dreams.
But he died.
----------
Not a visible enthusiasm but a hidden one, an excitement burning with a cold flame.
Patrick Süskind, Perfume: The Story of a Murderer
❇❇❇
@iHafsamUsmani.
