The rust-colored sky stretched over Karachi like a worn blanket, heavy with unshed rain. I sat at the edge of the rooftop, arms wrapped tightly around myself, trying to quiet the storm inside my chest. Somewhere in the alley below, a child was laughing. The sound tugged at me — soft, like a hand brushing my shoulder — but I remained still, staring out over the uneven skyline.
I hadn’t prayed maghrib yet. It was waiting inside the small living room, like everything else I had abandoned since Mama passed.
Grief had cracked me open quietly. It wasn’t one loud sob or sudden collapse. It was a slow erosion — one late message unanswered, one prayer skipped, one meal eaten in silence. The heart breaks in simple, subtle ways. You don’t always hear it.
I didn’t talk to anyone much now. My sisters sent messages — blue-ticked but unanswered — and I would listen to Mama’s voice saved in old voicemails, closing my eyes just to feel her laugh inside my ribs.
That night, I watched the first raindrop land on the rooftop edge beside me. Then another. The wind moved, cool and unexpected, lifting the corner of my old dupatta.
I don’t know how long I sat there, soaked, until my memory reached back to a story Mama once told me, her hands steeped in flour, rolling out dough for paratha.
“It gets heavy sometimes, beta,” she said, tugging gently on my braid. “But Allah never forgets the ones bowed under weight.”
I had scoffed then, young and agitated. “Doesn’t feel like help when everything’s falling apart.”
Mama had smiled. “Didn’t you learn the ayah? ‘Verily, with hardship comes ease.’ Not after. With. It’s already written beside it. You just haven’t seen it yet.”
That verse surfaced now, whispering in the corner of my mind: Fa inna ma’al usri yusra. The sky opened above me, and the rain became steady, each drop a small punctuation against my skin.
I clung to that verse like a raft.
I whispered it aloud under my breath — not a recitation, not a performance, just me and the words I needed: “With hardship comes ease.”
I climbed down the stairs slowly, towel-drying my hair, and turned on the warm desk lamp. The light flickered softly in the quiet room. I spread out my prayer mat, still slightly damp from an earlier spill, and stood there for a long moment.
I wasn’t ready to feel healed. I wasn’t expecting miracles.
But I wanted to be seen. I wanted to believe there was still a place in Allah’s mercy for me, even if I had shut every door in the house.
I lifted my hands and whispered the opening takbir. The words landed gently this time — not perfect, not rehearsed. But real.
That night, I asked Him for one small thing: heal a heart too tired to ask properly.
I didn’t wake up better. But I did wake up. And when the Fajr azan curled through the morning silence, I leaned into it — a small bow, the ache almost tender now.
Because alongside the wound, I had been given this: the quiet knowing that I wasn't alone in the breaking.
And that was enough for now.
---
Qur'an & Hadith References:
The rust-colored sky stretched over Karachi like a worn blanket, heavy with unshed rain. I sat at the edge of the rooftop, arms wrapped tightly around myself, trying to quiet the storm inside my chest. Somewhere in the alley below, a child was laughing. The sound tugged at me — soft, like a hand brushing my shoulder — but I remained still, staring out over the uneven skyline.
I hadn’t prayed maghrib yet. It was waiting inside the small living room, like everything else I had abandoned since Mama passed.
Grief had cracked me open quietly. It wasn’t one loud sob or sudden collapse. It was a slow erosion — one late message unanswered, one prayer skipped, one meal eaten in silence. The heart breaks in simple, subtle ways. You don’t always hear it.
I didn’t talk to anyone much now. My sisters sent messages — blue-ticked but unanswered — and I would listen to Mama’s voice saved in old voicemails, closing my eyes just to feel her laugh inside my ribs.
That night, I watched the first raindrop land on the rooftop edge beside me. Then another. The wind moved, cool and unexpected, lifting the corner of my old dupatta.
I don’t know how long I sat there, soaked, until my memory reached back to a story Mama once told me, her hands steeped in flour, rolling out dough for paratha.
“It gets heavy sometimes, beta,” she said, tugging gently on my braid. “But Allah never forgets the ones bowed under weight.”
I had scoffed then, young and agitated. “Doesn’t feel like help when everything’s falling apart.”
Mama had smiled. “Didn’t you learn the ayah? ‘Verily, with hardship comes ease.’ Not after. With. It’s already written beside it. You just haven’t seen it yet.”
That verse surfaced now, whispering in the corner of my mind: Fa inna ma’al usri yusra. The sky opened above me, and the rain became steady, each drop a small punctuation against my skin.
I clung to that verse like a raft.
I whispered it aloud under my breath — not a recitation, not a performance, just me and the words I needed: “With hardship comes ease.”
I climbed down the stairs slowly, towel-drying my hair, and turned on the warm desk lamp. The light flickered softly in the quiet room. I spread out my prayer mat, still slightly damp from an earlier spill, and stood there for a long moment.
I wasn’t ready to feel healed. I wasn’t expecting miracles.
But I wanted to be seen. I wanted to believe there was still a place in Allah’s mercy for me, even if I had shut every door in the house.
I lifted my hands and whispered the opening takbir. The words landed gently this time — not perfect, not rehearsed. But real.
That night, I asked Him for one small thing: heal a heart too tired to ask properly.
I didn’t wake up better. But I did wake up. And when the Fajr azan curled through the morning silence, I leaned into it — a small bow, the ache almost tender now.
Because alongside the wound, I had been given this: the quiet knowing that I wasn't alone in the breaking.
And that was enough for now.
---
Qur'an & Hadith References:
