Duniyata Compelet Book

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Translation (English)

"Mama.......please mama, Abbee is very sick, you know this mama...... If you leave, who is going to look after us? If you leave, mama, who is going to look after Abbee?"

The voice belonged to a boy who could not possibly be more than thirteen years old. It came out in a soft, intensely fragile tone. Even if you were not told, even if you did not look at his face which was drenched in tears, and even if you did not look at his trembling hands supporting the dirty rag positioned right between his thighs, you would immediately understand that he was in a state of absolute shock, panic, and sheer terror.

His eyes were fixed directly on her, hoping to hear those precise words: "I have called off the trip" from her lips. This was despite the fact that there was not a single indication, no matter how small, hinting that she might pull back. Instead, she adjusted the edge of the scarf draped over her head, bent down, and began stuffing the rest of her remaining clothes into her front black bag.

"Please, Mariya....... not for my sake....... at least for the sake of these children, please have mercy....... stay and hold them close to you. My condition is light; I am certain I only have a few days left, but these children are the ones who need looking after......"

The man—whom illness, poverty, and the pressures of life had combined to ravage every single part of his physical existence—spoke with immense difficulty. He forced out breaths as if his breath was being ripped away from between his chest and his lungs.

He looked away from the face of the man who was his FATHER and redirected his gaze to hers. His heart melted with a profound, consuming pity for themselves—for everyone except HER! The beating of his heart intensified with extreme agitation and an unusual wave of compassion, as if it was about to burst his chest wide open.

He had waited for a long time to hear certain words slip from their father's mouth—words he had not heard in roughly ten full days. He had spent countless nights straining his ears to catch the faintest sound from him... and now, today, those lips had finally opened. But they had opened because of the sheer disaster and panic she was about to plunge their lives into, not with the intention of speaking to them with those wonderful words of affection he was never shy to shower upon them.

His eyes were filled with the hope that her heart would soften at their father's words—especially because of the word death that the man had uttered about himself, a word that made him wish he had never spoken, wish he had stayed silent despite the mountain of desires and hopes that filled his heart to speak.

While he was lost in this maze of anticipation and hope, he heard the raspy, breathy, volume-less voice of his father once again, mustering all his remaining endurance to say:

"Mariya...... if you leave, who is going to take care of them?"

Furious, she spun around and shot him a fierce look as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

"Did I come into this world with them? I met them right here, and right here I will leave them! Even a mother whose newborn dies the very day it is delivered—those babies are out there living by the millions, let alone children who have reached thirteen and eight years old!"

With that, she started lifting her feet, bidding the room a final goodbye—a clear proof that she was dead serious! She was not going to relent. It seemed nothing on earth could make her relent!

He didn't know what to think, for at that moment his brain was far too small to process all these heavy realities, let alone sort out which course of action was right and which was wrong. Before he knew it, he found himself right in front of her, clutching her legs and crying with all the strength a child of his age could muster.

She looked at him as if she wanted to wrench her leg free, but then she reached out, pulled him up, and made him sit down, saying:

"Right here is your mandatory place. Here is where you will live, whether things are sweet or bitter, whether there is hardship or ease. If I say I will continue to stay too, all of us—you and I—will end up old and ragged, lying helpless, and your father is already like that. It is better that I step out; perhaps our breakthrough lies ahead."

Her words struck his heart like the thrust of a spear. His eyes could vaguely see his father tightly closing his eyes in defeat. He tore his gaze away and fixed it instead on his younger brother, who had scrambled to his feet to follow her as she stepped out the door of the room.

A piercing shout—one far too fierce for his tender years—erupted from him:

"Come back and sit down!...... We are going to survive!...... We are going to live with our father!...... We will live through hardship or through ease!...... We will live with happiness or without it!...... We are each other's only obligation now!...... We have no one else except ourselves and our father!"

He finished the speech panting heavily, his chest rising and falling violently.

She stopped dead in her tracks and looked back. Their eyes locked into one another. It wasn't a matter of knowing him for a year or two, nor was it about livestock. She knew his temperament—a disposition that mirrored that of a man who had traversed long epochs of time or centuries across the breadth of the earth... traits that often plunged her into absolute wonder.

Yet, in the wildest corners of her imagination, she had never expected such intensely piercing words to flow from his tongue. Words so perfectly structured and laden with meaning, as if he had been storing them for a long time, or as if they had been written down for him to practice over a lengthy period before finally uttering them.

The way she pulled her eyes away from him was the exact way he pulled his eyes away from her. He immediately poured all his remaining energy into trying to settle his father into a more comfortable sleeping position. His body felt heavier and completely drained. Yet, his breathing still shallowly escaped his nostrils, leaving his mind blank, incapable of processing anything else.

He no longer had any HOPE left in her... but his mind simply refused to let go of her. He kept mentally tracking the sound of her footsteps as she walked out of their house—footsteps that refused to leave his memory, footsteps that still inflicted a burning, agonizing pain, and footsteps that he inextricably linked as the root cause and KEY to every single hardship and pressure of their lives.

His eyes—narrowed and sunken deep into their sockets from relentless weeping, emotional distress, and terror—fluttered open. He cast his gaze to his left, fixing his eyes upon the flat, smooth mat spread on the floor.

It was the exact mat that, just three days ago, belonged to its owner—his Jadda (grandmother), who had passed away three days prior. Just three days ago at this exact hour, they were sitting right here with her. She had been a mother to them, a grandmother, standing as their ultimate wall, pillar, and lean-upon after the passing of their father.

To this day, he still hadn't brought himself to roll up and store that mat, nor had anyone else bothered to remove it. Who cared about them anyway, let alone the objects inside the house? They were nobodies; they had nothing to offer the people coming to offer condolences. They had no standing, no influential figure to step up and share the grief of losing the grandmother with whom they had spent three grueling years living through intense and fierce struggles—a relentless race between hardship and momentary relief.

The tears that refused to dry up in his eyes surged forth once again. To this day, it felt like a bad dream; to this day, it felt like Jadda would walk back through that door. Her passing reopened the raw scar of his father's death, making it feel as though he had passed away only today, as though today was the day they bade farewell to the world, as though today was the day MAAMA had walked out and abandoned them—a departure that fueled his father's failing health and felt as though it had stolen the very soul and life from their home.

He brought one hand up and tightly gripped his own neck, as if he were about to choke himself. Thick, knotted veins protruded across his scalp and forehead in rigid lines. The color of his eyes turned bloodshot crimson. A hot, agonizing wave of crying and weeping overtook every single fiber of his body and soul. Extreme, unadulterated hatred for the woman who gave birth to him surged through his veins.

"Hamma..... Ham—"

The young boy who burst into the room cut short the name he was repeating. Caught in that dark state, he turned his head to look at him, causing the younger boy to step back in fright. He was deeply terrified by how drastically his brother's face had transformed. It was a mood that struck deep fear into him; whenever he saw his Hamma like this, he felt as though he was looking at a complete stranger rather than his own brother.

Noticing this, he pulled his hand away from his neck, gathered thick, viscous saliva in his mouth, and swallowed it with immense difficulty, like swallowing jagged stones. He pushed his emotions deep down, adjusted his tone, and tossed a question at him:

"What is it?"

With a voice and body still trembling slightly, the boy began to speak:

"It's Abba... Farouq's father said you should come, he is waiting in the corridor."

As those words landed, he felt a sudden wave of mercy and relief wash over his heart. The single person left in the world whose very sight or voice signaled the arrival of goodness, relief, comfort, or a temporary reprieve from their miserable condition.

As he walked, he felt as though his feet weren't touching the ground. He walked feeling as if he were suspended between the earth and the sky, light-headed from severe emotional shock, hunger, and thirst. Not even once since the death had he been able to properly swallow regular food, surviving only on the occasional meals tossed their way by neighbors. Dragging himself along the wall, his eyes scanned the open courtyard of their house—a yard that had turned into a barren, desolate arena, collapsing further upon them and reminding him yet again that they had just lost yet another protective wall and pillar.

An elite gentleman of impeccable composure, whose chronological age on earth could not possibly exceed forty-five years. Yet, his appearance clearly showed that he possessed a well-built, robust physique capable of withstanding the test of time.

He was dressed in a pristine, hand-embroidered kufta outfit that added to his commanding presence. He had pushed his cap back, and his feet were slipped into Medinah slippers—a trademark habit of his whenever he stepped out for locations as close as the neighborhood mosque or a nearby street, whether driving or walking.

In fragile vulnerability, they looked at each other—he and the boy. The sight of the boy filled the man's heart with a fresh wave of deep compassion. As he prepared to bend down and greet him, he gently supported him:

"Get up, get up...... well done for your endurance, well done for your patience...... is there anything from inside the house that you need to take along?" he asked, looking down at him.

The boy did not fully grasp what Abba meant, so he stared at him intently.

"I am taking you all to my house. You cannot be left sleeping and waking up in an empty house all by yourselves."

Opening his mouth with a voice deeply warped by hardship and confusion, he replied:

"Just our clothes."

"Pack whatever is easy and lock up the house," the man said, taking the hand of the younger brother standing nearby.

As he packed the few clothes he had, the four corners of his heart were tangled in a web of turbulent thoughts. Were they moving to Abba's house? Farouq's house? Of course, Farouq and his siblings were undeniably privileged children. Yet, the kind of privilege they enjoyed came with a massive, yawning gap and distinct flaws—a privilege that lacked a foundational pillar and support system, a privilege that sometimes turned bitter and sour. It was a privilege that often failed to live up to its name. Even with all their lack of material wealth and worldly comfort, he and his siblings still possessed something the wealthy kids lacked: the FREEDOM TO BREATHE AND RELAX.

Does this mean they were going to live with Momy? Would they fall under her shade and rule just like her other children?

He dropped the rest of the clothes from his hands, slid down, and sat flat on the floor. That single thought alone shattered what little energy he had left.

His mind scattered in all directions. Yet, relief had found him through Abba—a truly noble elder who made it his lifelong mission to help and support every vulnerable soul. Ever since the days when their father and mother were still alive, Abba’s hands, pockets, and time had always been dedicated to assisting them. The passing of their father had only made him double down on his kindness. He had taken their entire lives and Jadda's care into his hands with both palms, and now, he was about to shoulder their entire weight completely.

"If you cannot pack the clothes, just come out and let's leave them until tomorrow, okay?"

Abba's voice invaded his ears, forcing him to stand up and gather whatever he could manage. Dragging his feet out of the room, his eyes roamed across the nooks and crannies where he and Jadda had spent years struggling together in the wake of their father's death three years ago. The sum total of all those hardships amounted to a total age of FIFTEEN YEARS on earth.

He held tightly onto his hand in a firm grip filled with empathy and care. Following closely behind them, carrying their bundled clothes pressed against his chest wrapped in a faded scarf.

Every single step he took was accompanied by the heavy thumping of his heart. A wave of doubt regarding their entry into that house consumed him, filling him with defeat, vulnerability, and utter uncertainty. Just then, Abba turned around calmly as they reached the entrance of the estate's gate.

Abba flashed him a gentle, reassuring smile designed to calm his nerves. He understood that a thousand thoughts were racing through the boy's mind about entering the house. Moving into that house was a chapter from the past that had ended nearly two years ago.

"Relax your mind; doing so will help your younger brother relax his mind too. Think of it as your father returning. I will be a father, a wall, and a pillar for you as long as breath flows through my body. Tell yourself that you no longer have any problems or orphanhood, you hear?" Abba said, placing his hand gently upon the boy's head as love and pity radiated through him.

He had watched the boy over various days, times, and locations within the neighborhood. He had long known that this boy stood out differently from other children; everything about him was unique. His composure and maturity often made you think he was far older than his years. Abba could not recall a single time—nor would he ever remember—any neighbor coming to complain about the boy acting unjustly. If you ever heard anyone crying or complaining about him, it was invariably because he had been provoked, pushed, or because someone had encroached upon his boundaries.

Whenever such a case was brought to him while the boy's father was still alive, the father would always say:

"Let me punish him even if he is in the right. He is too hot-tempered, too stubborn, and unyielding. None of these are good traits; he needs to change for the sake of life."

Abba would simply smile, look into the boy's face, and reply to the father:

"Thank God. No one ever brings complaints against him for being in the wrong. Even when complaints are brought, you always find he is the one in the right. What more could you possibly want or ask for?"

Their father was an extremely soft-spoken man who would only turn his head away and smile. To him, Abba surpassed everything—a neighbor of such rare nobility that finding his like was nearly impossible. That was why he held him in the highest esteem, not because of his wealth or material possessions, but simply because he truly deserved it.

"Are you listening to me?" Abba asked again to pull his attention back.

The boy quietly nodded, looking back at Abba.

"Alright, let's go inside. All of them, including Saddiq, are inside, I'm sure by now."

He didn't object. He walked ahead of Abba, who followed behind him while he playfully teased his younger brother, who had finally loosened up. Happiness was visibly plastered across the little boy's face. Apparently, his youth and innocence shielded him from anticipating or imagining what could possibly go wrong—near or far, good or bad—regarding their lives and their entire WORLD.

They continued their walk into the compound, a vast courtyard paved with interlocking stones. A single glance at the house told you that comfortable living abided within. While you wouldn't call it the home of a crazy billionaire, he undoubtedly belonged to the upper echelon of wealthy, well-to-do people whose resources had long outpaced basic survival, distancing themselves from poverty by miles upon miles.

"Open up for us," Abba instructed when he saw the boy halt without opening the main parlor door leading into the actual interior of the house.

The boy stepped forward slightly, twisted the door handle, pushed it open, and stepped inside the air-conditioned parlor.

And there she was.

She was the very first woman his eyes landed upon. He didn't know whether it was because of how glaringly repulsive her presence was to him, or because he instinctively despised entering her space just as she openly and fiercely despised and rejected them? Whatever the reason, she was the absolute first person he saw.

"Hey, stop right there! Where do you think you're going? Whose presence are you coming into? Didn't I ban you people from walking into this house with such raw audacity as if it's your grandfather's house? What even brought you here with a bundle of rags in your hand?"

"I am the one who brought him," Abba—who stood right behind them, his blood boiling at her words—interrupted.

She froze momentarily. It wasn't that she was startled by his voice, but rather out of sheer bitterness and the sudden realization dawning on her.

"Absolute disaster inside this house, nothing else," she muttered internally, pulling her eyebrows together into a harsh scowl without an ounce of mercy on her face.

The young boy, who had been huddled quietly on the edge of the carpet, shrank into himself even further—a sign that he was retreating into his shell in the face of her terrifying mood shift.

"Ah...... so it's you today? Did you actually dare to step foot back into our house?"

Another boy, emerging from the house kitchen, spoke with genuine joy lighting up his face as he locked his gaze on the person he was addressing. He was holding a tray; from his hands down to his legs, his trousers and shirt sleeves were rolled up.

"You! Why are you so brainless? Are you going to bring that tray and drop it or what?"

The formidable woman seated on the parlor sofa barked harshly at the boy. As if he had completely forgotten what had brought him out of the kitchen in the first place, his entire attention shifted to the visiting boy who had just walked in—someone who looked to be of the exact same age as him.

He turned toward her to drop the tray, but that didn't stop her from shooting him a venomous glare, her eyes bulging as if they were about to pop out of her skull:

"Scatterbrain, looking at him like he's your own uncle! I will deal with both of you soon," she fumed in anger.

He retreated slightly backward, setting the tray down while silently praying that her hands wouldn't reach him—though he knew that was unlikely, given the presence of their father's friend.

"Musaddiq...... go on, take the things from his hand and take them to your room, both of you."

Without waiting any longer, the boy who had been cowering between the sofas bolted upright.