Chapter 15 - Building Home - II
1639 Words
Part II : The Art of Growing Together
Marriage, Burhan would later realise, was not built on grand moments.
It was built on ordinary mornings.
On shopping lists.
On cups of tea.
On someone remembering where you left your glasses.
On someone waiting for you to come home.
And somehow, without either of them noticing, the little apartment in Abu Dhabi became a world of its own.
There were still a few things left to buy.
Burhan had deliberately kept some purchases on hold.
He wanted Zehra to choose them herself.
After all, this was her home too.
One evening she sat on the floor with a notebook in her hand.
Burhan looked at her.
"What are you writing?"
She continued writing.
"A list."
"What list?"
"Our list."
He smiled.
She turned the notebook toward him.
1. Washing machine
2. Water dispenser
3. Television
4. Utensils
5. Table
Burhan laughed.
"You're making it sound like we are setting up a company."
She laughed too.
"We are."
"What company?"
"Our life."
He looked at her.
Then at the list.
And suddenly even those simple items felt precious.
Because they were no longer buying things.
They were building a home.
Zehra did not drink tea.
At least not properly.
Every morning Burhan would make tea for himself.
And every morning she would appear beside him.
Without fail.
Without invitation.
She would simply sit next to him.
Then steal his cup.
Take one sip.
Then another.
Then dip a rusk into the tea.
Sometimes biscuits.
Sometimes both.
Burhan eventually stopped asking.
Because it happened every single day.
One weekend they went shopping.
She returned holding an oversized mug.
Burhan looked at it.
"What is this?"
"Our tea cup."
"Our?"
She nodded seriously.
"It's bigger."
"I can drink tea."
"And I can share."
He laughed.
Years later that cup would still be in their kitchen.
Slightly faded.
A little chipped.
But priceless.
Because love had lived inside that cup every morning.
Every evening she ironed his office clothes.
At first he objected.
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"Then why do you do it?"
She looked up.
"Because I want to."
There was no answer to that.
Sometimes he would wake up in the morning and find his shirt hanging perfectly pressed.
Tie ready.
Socks arranged.
Everything prepared.
And every single time he smiled.
Because someone cared enough to make his mornings easier.
Weekends belonged to them.
Burhan never liked sitting at home on weekends.
He wanted to show her everything.
Every corner.
Every road.
Every place he had explored alone.
Now he wanted to see those places again through her eyes.
Sometimes they drove to the Corniche.
Sometimes to parks.
Sometimes to shopping malls.
Sometimes nowhere in particular.
They would simply drive.
Talk.
Laugh.
Eat.
And return.
Those became their favourite days.
They were not tourists.
They were explorers.
Together.
Months later he took Zehra to India.
His parents were waiting eagerly.
The moment they saw both of them together, something inside them settled peacefully.
They looked happy.
Genuinely happy.
Not pretending.
Not adjusting.
Happy.
Burhan's mother watched them quietly.
The same woman who had once worried about having a Pakistani daughter-in-law.
The same woman who feared distance and uncertainty.
Now she would proudly tell relatives,
"My daughter is from Karachi."
And somehow she always sounded proud when she said it.
Love had achieved what explanations never could.
Every time they visited India, his parents made the same dua.
"May Allah bless you both with a child soon."
Burhan smiled.
Zehra smiled.
Years passed.
Still they waited.
Allah had been kind to them in countless ways.
He had given them love.
Peace.
Understanding.
Respect.
A beautiful life.
But one prayer still remained unanswered.
The prayer for a child.
Sometimes late at night they would talk about it.
Sometimes they would simply become quiet.
Then one of them would smile.
And life would continue.
Because hope never left their home.
Meanwhile, Zehra had started teaching Islamic Studies at a community school.
She also began pursuing Hifz-ul-Quran.
Burhan supported her completely.
Whenever she revised her lessons, he listened.
Whenever she felt tired, he encouraged her.
Whenever she doubted herself, he reminded her how far she had already come.
She often said,
"If I complete Hifz one day, you will have half the reward."
He always laughed.
But secretly, those words touched him deeply.
Their apartment was in Abu Dhabi city.
The school was far away.
Some days she travelled by school transport.
Other days by public bus.
Very quickly she learned everything.
Bus numbers.
Routes.
Timings.
Nearest stops.
Alternative buses.
Burhan was impressed.
"You know the city better than me now."
She smiled proudly.
"I have a good teacher."
"You?"
"No."
She laughed.
"Abu Dhabi."
Slowly people started knowing them.
At community gatherings, everyone became curious.
"You are from India?"
"And you are from Pakistan?"
"How did this happen?"
The story fascinated people.
Zehra's teaching job made her even more well-known.
Everywhere they went, someone knew someone who knew them.
One evening she came home smiling.
"What happened?"
"One aunty said something."
"What?"
She laughed.
"She said you are a gem of a person."
Burhan stopped eating.
"A gem?"
She nodded.
He leaned back proudly.
"Well… she is not wrong."
Zehra burst into laughter.
From that day onward, he accepted the title.
Whenever he did something helpful, he would say,
"What can I say? I am a gem of a person."
And every time she laughed.
One day Zehra invited her aunt, Insiya Aunty, who had recently moved to Dubai.
It was her first time hosting relatives in Abu Dhabi.
She decided to cook Nihari.
Her first attempt.
She was nervous all morning.
Burhan became official taste tester.
"More salt."
She adjusted it.
"Now?"
"Perfect."
When everyone came, the Nihari became the star of the evening.
Years later, whenever they met, Insiya Aunty would say,
"When are you making that Nihari again?"
And Zehra would laugh.
Then came another beautiful surprise.
Farzana Maa visited Abu Dhabi after returning from America.
Burhan was happier than anyone.
The woman who had loved him like a son in Karachi was coming to his home.
He insisted they stay with them.
Not for one day.
Not for two.
Ten whole days.
Those ten days filled the apartment with warmth.
Stories.
Laughter.
Tea.
Late-night conversations.
It felt like having his mother visit.
And perhaps that was exactly what it was.
Days passed.
Years passed.
Zehra's parents also visited Abu Dhabi after Umrah.
They looked at their daughter.
Looked at their son-in-law.
And smiled.
Their daughter was happy.
Nothing mattered more.
Before they left, Burhan gifted Rizwana Aunty a gold ring.
She looked surprised.
"This wasn't necessary."
He smiled.
"Some things are."
She never forgot that moment.
Time moved quietly.
Seven years passed.
Neither of them knew when.
It felt like yesterday.
They still looked for each other first in crowded places.
Still shared tea.
Still sent messages during the day.
Still waited to eat together.
Still laughed at the same jokes.
Most surprising of all…
They had never really fought.
Small disagreements?
Of course.
But never anger.
Never ego.
Never hurtful words.
Because somewhere along the way, they had learned something important.
Respect protects love.
And understanding helps it grow.
Every year they loved each other a little more.
Eventually, the school promoted Zehra to a full-time position.
She was happy.
Burhan was proud.
But the daily commute became difficult.
One evening he said,
"I found another room."
She looked up.
"Near your school."
She smiled.
"Sharing?"
He nodded.
She shrugged.
"I don't mind."
Because she truly didn't.
Home had never been a location for her.
Home was wherever he was.
But she did have one small dream.
One day…
A separate apartment.
Just theirs.
And perhaps Allah was listening.
Soon, in that same compound, a large studio apartment became available.
Burhan could now afford it.
Years of hard work had changed many things.
They went shopping like newlyweds all over again.
Wall-to-wall carpet.
Curtains.
Television.
Decor items.
Kitchen accessories.
Everything.
They laughed while choosing colours.
Argued about cushions.
Bought things they didn't need.
It felt like starting over.
Only this time they had experience.
And memories.
And seven years of love.
Burhan had another habit.
Every year he gifted something to Zehra.
Sometimes jewellery.
Sometimes books.
Sometimes simple things.
But his favourite gift was always the same.
Photographs.
He took pictures of her everywhere.
At parks.
At family gatherings.
At restaurants.
During ordinary evenings.
During festivals.
During tea.
During laughter.
Then on her birthday he would make a photo book.
Every page held memories.
Moments.
A life.
He also wrote poetry.
Letters.
Small notes.
Words she kept carefully.
Because nothing made her feel more special than knowing someone had turned memories into sentences just for her.
One evening they sat together in their new apartment.
Tea rested between them.
The city lights shone outside.
Zehra looked at him.
"What are you thinking?"
He smiled.
"A lot."
"Like?"
He looked around.
The apartment.
The curtains.
The photographs.
The woman beside him.
Then he said softly,
"Seven years."
She smiled.
"It feels like yesterday."
"It really does."
Silence settled comfortably between them.
Then he looked toward the city.
For the first time in a long time, another thought entered his mind.
He had spent more than ten years working.
Learning.
Selling.
Building relationships.
Understanding people.
Understanding business.
Perhaps…
Perhaps it was time.
Zehra looked at him.
"You have that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get before doing something impossible."
He laughed.
Then looked out of the window again.
Beyond the lights of Abu Dhabi.
Beyond everything he had already achieved.
Somewhere ahead…
Another chapter was waiting.
And for the first time in many years, Burhan was not thinking about surviving.
He was thinking about building something of his own.
- Writer
