"Better to be awakened by a painful truth than lulled to sleep by a seductive lie."
—Dr. Phil McGraw
"Why did you bring so many suitcases home?" Damien asked, stepping into the dimly lit room where I had sequestered myself. His voice carried the weight of exhaustion, but I refused to acknowledge it.
"How long are you here for?"
"I'm not going back," I answered curtly, my fingers tightening around the fabric of my dress. "Orion is dead. Is there any real reason for me to return to America?"
Damien exhaled sharply. "The Minister is your husband, Zeynep," he implored, his eyes pleading. "And he has been good to papa."
"Really?" I scoffed, a hollow sound escaping my lips. "Even though he hasn't sent you anything in years? Every rupee you've spent recently has come from me." I leveled him with a hard stare, my voice dropping lower. "Do you even care about our marriage? Do you really?"
A long silence stretched between us. For the first time in my life, I saw doubt flicker in his eyes, like a flame struggling against a cold wind. He looked away first, muttered something beneath his breath, and left the room. I let out a slow exhale, feeling a weight in my chest that had nothing to do with grief.
Sitting on the bed, my gaze fell on Orion's multi-colored bed blanket. It still smelled like him—like the scented oils he loved, like the warm safety of a brother's embrace.
My heart clenched. From a family of five, we had become three. And somehow, the only ones left were the broken ones.
Death, in Islam, is not an end but a transition—a passage from this world to the next. When a Muslim passes away, their loved ones do not delay in fulfilling their final duty: laying them to rest in accordance with the sacred traditions of their faith.
As soon as a person breathes their last, those around them softly whisper, "Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un"—"Surely, we belong to God, and to Him, we shall return." These words are not uttered in despair but in acceptance, for death is but a return to the Creator.
I said mine when I entered the house.
His body was carefully handled, never left unattended, and was prepared for its final journey with the utmost respect.
Before burial, a crucial rite must be performed: ghusl, the ritual washing. This act is a final purification, a farewell cleanse before meeting the Almighty.
Men wash the bodies of men, and women wash the bodies of women, unless it is a spouse performing the task. The body is washed an odd number of times—three, five, or more if needed—each time with pure water, sometimes mixed with camphor or lotus leaves. The washer gently cleanses the deceased, ensuring dignity is preserved.
Once purified, his body was dressed in the kafan, a simple white shroud. There are no extravagant garments, no adornments—only plain white cloth, a symbol of the equality of all souls before God. Men are wrapped in three sheets, women in five, each layer secured with strips of fabric. The shroud serves as a reminder: no wealth, no status follows into the grave—only faith and deeds remain.
His body was then transported to the mosque, where the Salat al-Janazah (funeral prayer) is performed. Unlike regular prayers, there is no bowing or prostration, only supplications. The congregation stands in silent reverence, seeking God's mercy for the departed.
"O Allah, forgive our living and our dead," the prayer leader recites. "Grant them ease in the grave and light in the darkness."
The next day, we traveled to Delhi (jadid qabristan) to bury him.
The grave was then filled, the earth gently covering his body, until all that remained was a mound. No grand tombstone
The air was thick with unspoken words. My father, Damien and I barely exchanged more than a few sentences, each of us drowning in our own ocean of guilt and blame.
In the village, mourners whispered in hushed voices, casting pitying glances in our direction. It was a quick funeral, nothing like our mother had been, she was merely thrown in the ground and covered in sand. My father, ever pragmatic, wasted no time announcing our return to Mumbai.
"Sitting in the cemetery and crying won't pay the bills," he muttered, barely concealing his irritation.
"And this one that Zeynep has chosen to leave the minister to join us in our condition, we can't afford to sit down doing nothing."
Neither Damien nor I argued. There was no point. The harsh reality of survival was all we had left.
Back in Mumbai, I barely had time to settle before diamen came to me.
"I'm going back to school tomorrow," he said, standing stiffly at the door.
I frowned. "It's almost Christmas. School isn't in session."
He avoided my gaze. "I just can't stay here, It will eat me alive. Let me go back to the UK . I still have one more session to go, and now that you've left that man's house, I know money will be tight—not just for my fees, but for food, for everything."
I resumed unpacking, unwilling to let guilt sink its claws into me. Everything the minister had given me, I had hidden in case of emergency.
"Is it true?" Damien asked hesitantly.
I turned to him, wary of his tone. "Is what true?"
He shifted uncomfortably. "Some people have been saying awful things... about you and his first son."
I froze. A chill crawled up my spine. "Who's been saying that?"
"Everyone," he admitted, his voice low. "It started with uncle and dad , but now it's everywhere. They say you were caught in some kind of web between the minister and his son... something about you sleeping with them."
Before I could respond, my father entered the room. The way his eyes darted around, restless and questioning, told me he had started the same rumors. My breath came out in short bursts.
"You also spoke?" My voice shook with suppressed rage. "You knew the minister and Ibrahim were abusing me, and you kept quiet about it?"
He sighed, her face unreadable. "I thought you enjoyed it? Why should I care what you did?
I let out a hollow laugh. " Enjoyed? Did you also hear that it was Ibrahim, not his father, who took my virginity? Did you hear how he raped me every night, beating me black and blue? How, for years, they took turns using me like a worn-out toy?"
Diamen punched the door, his body shaking with fury. "You mean they really did that to you?" His voice was raw, breaking with every syllable.
I felt nothing. Just an eerie emptiness. "I was their slave. It had nothing to do with rituals. It was just a father and son feeding their lust. When Ibrahim finally married, and the minister moved on to another woman, they left me alone."
"Who is she?" my father asked, her voice tight.
"Amanda," I answered. "The minister's new woman. There have been plenty of them."
My father sucked in a sharp breath. "Heiiii! You mean that man took my daughter only to turn her into an object of ridicule?" He wailed, hisgrief finally manifesting. "He let his son sleep with you? And now, after all that he didn't send More money?, no man will ever come for you! You will die here, a spinster!"
I watched him cry in mockery, watched as diamen wiped his eyes, and for the first time, I saw it—the helplessness buried beneath my brother's anger. The guilt that had eaten him alive for years.
Diamen stayed through the New Year. We spent long hours talking, trying to reclaim lost time.
I told him everything, every dark detail of my past, and with each story, I saw his rage grow. Strangely, it comforted me. His anger meant I wasn't alone.
"Zeynep, don't worry. I'll take care of you," he promised. "Once I finish school, I'll make sure you never suffer again."
For the first time in years, I believed him.
But after he left for the UK , the walls of our flat pressed in on me. My father, once nonchalant to have me at home, became restless.
The bed was his again, leaving me to sleep on the floor or the sofa in the living room.
Some nights, as I lay awake staring at the decorated ceiling, I could almost hear my father's voice, sharp and impatient, reminding me of my place.
And on those nights, when the past felt too close, I would close my eyes and pray—to forget, to disappear, to become someone else entirely.
But the past had a way of holding on, sinking its claws deep, refusing to let go.