Chapter 9 - Closer Than Borders
1534 Words
Closer Than Borders
After the birthday call, something changed quietly between Burhan and Zehra.
Nothing visible.
No announcements. No promises. No dramatic speeches.
Yet both of them woke up every morning carrying a strange happiness they could no longer hide from themselves.
For years they had spoken as friends.
Then they became companions.
Now every day seemed to begin and end with each other's name.
The first message after Fajr.
The last message before sleep.
Somewhere between those ordinary moments, love had settled gently into their lives.
In Abu Dhabi, Burhan had started smiling again.
The dark cloud that followed him after the broken engagement slowly disappeared.
The old Burhan returned.
The Burhan who cooked for everyone at Lasalas Club.
The Burhan who laughed loudly during dinner.
The Burhan who volunteered whenever someone needed help.
One evening Aziz entered the kitchen and found Burhan preparing three different dishes for dinner.
"Who are you trying to impress?" Aziz asked suspiciously.
Burhan laughed.
"Nobody."
"Then why are you cooking like a wedding caterer?"
Everyone laughed.
Only Burhan knew the truth.
Love had made ordinary days beautiful again.
At work, things improved too.
Customers responded positively.
Sales targets were achieved.
Management appreciated his performance.
Even Rajesh noticed the difference.
One afternoon he looked at Burhan and said,
"Whatever happened recently, keep doing it. Your sales are flying."
Burhan smiled but said nothing.
How could he explain that sometimes a single person can make the entire world feel lighter?
Meanwhile in Karachi, Zehra was experiencing her own version of happiness.
University classes felt shorter.
Assignments felt easier.
Even difficult days ended with excitement because she knew someone would ask:
"How was your day?"
And genuinely want to hear the answer.
Every evening she sent Burhan small pieces of her world.
Photographs of rainy Karachi roads.
University corridors.
Tea cups shared with friends.
Sunsets from her rooftop.
Family gatherings.
And Burhan sent pieces of Abu Dhabi in return.
Office coffee.
Desert skies.
Late-night drives.
Lunch he cooked himself.
A random cat sleeping outside a supermarket.
Nothing extraordinary.
Yet both waited for these photographs more eagerly than they admitted.
Because love is often built from ordinary moments.
Not extraordinary ones.
One evening, while helping her mother prepare dinner, Zehra finally gathered enough courage.
"Mummy..."
Her mother looked up.
"Hmm?"
Zehra lowered her eyes.
"There is someone."
For a moment only the sound of boiling tea filled the kitchen.
Her mother listened quietly.
"From Karachi?"
Zehra shook her head.
"India."
The answer carried more weight than either of them needed to explain.
India meant distance.
India meant paperwork.
India meant uncertainty.
Yet her mother noticed something more important.
The confidence in her daughter's voice.
The peace in her eyes.
"Do you trust him?" she asked softly.
Zehra smiled.
Without hesitation.
"Yes."
A mother's heart understands many things before words arrive.
That evening her mother said nothing further.
But she remembered the smile.
A few days later Burhani Ismail came to know as well.
Like every father, he did not rush.
He listened.
Observed.
Asked questions.
Most importantly, he watched his daughter.
And what he saw reassured him.
For the first time in many years, Zehra seemed certain about her future.
Weeks later, during one of their evening conversations, Zehra suddenly said,
"Abbu wants to speak with you."
Burhan almost dropped his phone.
"What?"
She laughed immediately.
"You sound scared."
"I am not scared."
"You are."
He laughed nervously.
And she laughed even harder.
For the next few days Burhan prepared imaginary conversations inside his head.
Questions.
Answers.
Introductions.
Entire speeches.
Then one afternoon, while sitting inside his car between customer visits, a message arrived.
"Abbu is free."
His heartbeat immediately doubled.
A few minutes later he called.
Zehra answered first.
Neither spoke much.
Both understood the importance of the moment.
Then softly she said,
"One minute."
The phone changed hands.
"Assalamualaikum."
"Wa Alaikum Assalam, Uncle."
The conversation began simply.
Family.
Work.
Responsibilities.
Life in Abu Dhabi.
Then came the question every father wants answered.
"If you marry Zehra, will you keep her with you?"
Burhan became quiet for a second.
Not because he needed time to think.
Because he understood what the question truly meant.
Will my daughter be safe with you?
Will she be loved?
Will she matter?
His answer came immediately.
"Yes."
His voice remained steady.
"I will take care of her my entire life."
Then he added softly,
"I will never let her feel alone."
The silence that followed felt warm.
Comfortable.
The kind of silence that appears when sincerity is recognised.
When the call ended, Burhan sat smiling inside his car for several minutes.
In Karachi, Zehra was waiting impatiently.
Finally her father smiled.
"He speaks with respect."
That single sentence felt like a blessing.
That night Zehra messaged:
"Abbu likes you."
Burhan stared at the screen and laughed like a child.
For several minutes he could not stop smiling.
The days that followed became some of the happiest of their lives.
Late-night conversations became longer.
Future dreams entered their discussions naturally.
One night Zehra asked,
"If everything works out, where do you want to live?"
Burhan smiled.
"Anywhere."
"That's not an answer."
He thought for a moment.
Then typed:
"Wherever you are."
For nearly a minute she did not reply.
Then finally:
"Good answer."
Burhan laughed alone inside his room.
Meanwhile, life continued reminding them that dreams sometimes arrive with a price.
Occasionally someone would mention visa complications.
News about political tensions would appear.
Stories about difficult approvals reached them.
Some nights Burhan searched immigration rules instead of sleeping.
Some nights Zehra worried silently after hearing discussions at home.
After Maghrib, she often sat quietly on her prayer mat making dua.
Not asking for miracles.
Only asking for ease.
"Ya Allah, if this path is good for us, make it easy."
Those prayers became her source of strength.
Back in India, another beautiful moment quietly unfolded.
Zehra's sister Husaina and her husband Taher were visiting India.
Through community connections, they met Hakim Saifee.
The meeting happened naturally.
Warmly.
Respectfully.
Hakim Saifee welcomed them like family.
Tea was served.
Stories were exchanged.
Laughter filled the room.
They also met Burhan's mother.
There were no discussions about countries.
No political debates.
No invisible borders.
Only people.
Good people meeting good people.
That evening Zehra sent photographs.
One showed Husaina standing beside Hakim Saifee.
Another showed everyone sitting together smiling.
Burhan stared at those pictures for a long time.
Something felt different.
The relationship no longer existed only inside phones.
Their worlds had finally touched.
Then another message arrived.
"One more step completed."
A few seconds later:
"We are getting closer to our destiny."
Burhan smiled.
His father often repeated a saying whenever life became uncertain.
"Chatti ma likhayu hase toh emaj thase."
If it has been written in your destiny, then it will happen exactly that way.
As a child, Burhan never thought much about those words.
Now they returned often.
Because loving Zehra required faith.
Soon relatives began hearing about the relationship.
Questions arrived immediately.
"What about visas?"
"What about future children?"
"What will people say?"
"These marriages are difficult."
Burhan listened patiently.
Because he realised something important.
Nobody hated Zehra.
They simply feared uncertainty.
Fear often speaks louder than love.
But it is not stronger.
Throughout these discussions, Hakim Saifee remained calm.
Whenever arguments became complicated, he simply smiled.
"If she is a good girl, nationality does not matter."
Then he would repeat:
"Chatti ma likhayu hase toh emaj thase."
And somehow the room always became quieter.
Burhan's mother remained the hardest person to convince.
Not because she disliked Zehra.
Because she loved her son.
One evening Burhan found her folding clothes.
The same hands that once packed his school lunches.
The same hands that ironed his uniforms.
The same hands that waved goodbye at airports while hiding tears.
He sat beside her quietly.
Neither spoke for several moments.
Then softly he asked,
"Mummy... do you trust me?"
His mother stopped folding.
Looked at him carefully.
And suddenly saw not a grown man from Abu Dhabi.
But her little boy.
The child she once carried.
The son she still worried about every day.
Her eyes became moist.
"A mother only fears losing her child."
Burhan felt his throat tighten.
He gently placed his hand over hers.
"You won't lose me."
For a long moment neither spoke.
Then she sighed.
A slow, tired sigh.
The kind that releases fear little by little.
It was not complete acceptance.
Not yet.
But it was love making room for faith.
And sometimes that is how acceptance begins.
Very quietly.
Very gently.
That night, Burhan slept in Abu Dhabi.
Zehra slept in Karachi.
Between them stood borders, governments, visa offices, paperwork, and thousands of kilometres.
None of those things had disappeared.
The road ahead would still be difficult.
But for now, neither wanted to think about obstacles.
For now, there was a girl in Karachi smiling before sleep.
And a boy in Abu Dhabi doing exactly the same.
"And somewhere above both cities, destiny was moving patiently toward them.
One family.
One prayer.
One conversation.
One step at a time".
- Writer
