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Once, Naz said to Jeda,
"I am weary of this confinement now. At least take me out for a stroll once, or show me a film. I will not run away."
"No," Jeda replied. "A car is waiting for you—waiting only for your consent."
Jeda's attitude remained a puzzle to Naz. At night when he came, he would open the drawer of the table, take out a diary, flip through its pages, write something, then busy himself with something else. Naz knew well that Jeda was a pickpocket, a robber, a murderer—but she did not know that in another part of the same house, Jeda used to train young boys in the tricks of theft, snatching, and knife-play.
She was aware that Jeda was a man beyond morality and law, yet her heart grew more and more certain that somewhere in him there was sympathy for her. Jeda was a mysterious man, but within that mystery she felt a strange attraction—an attraction that itself was a mystery to her.
During this period, nothing outwardly changed around Naz, but inside herself she began to feel a transformation—one she both liked and disliked, one that carried sweetness and bitterness, comfort and torment.
If she dared, she could open the window at any time and escape the room. Once or twice the thought crossed her mind, but she never found the courage. Whenever such an idea rose in her brain, a voice inside her whispered:
"Do not open it, Naz."
Startled, she would step back and glance around the room as though that warning had truly been spoken aloud.
The loneliness of the locked room brought back countless memories—long-forgotten tales, stories from before Jeda had caught her, from even earlier times, from a life long gone. Carefree childhood, innocent girlhood, the stormy days of youth, her brothers' waywardness, gifts from admirers, premature loves, self-deceptions, fashions—everything came rushing back to her.
And then, her parents.
Her mother's gentle voice echoed in her ears:
"Daughter, never forget the veil… the world is cruel."
She remembered how her mother taught her verses of the Qur'an, softly telling her:
"These words will protect you from every evil."
And each time Naz stepped out of the house, her mother would press her warm lips against her cheek, recite Ayat al-Kursi, blow upon her, and whisper:
"May Allah keep you safe, my child."
The memory made Naz smile faintly. She thought,
"How happy I was in that world… where my mother would struggle with all her heart just to fulfill a single wish of mine."
But the smile broke when the glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor. The sharp sound snapped her out of those sweet memories, reminding her: that beautiful world was gone forever.
Disgrace had forced her into captivity. And the bitter realization made her weep endlessly—that even if she were freed, she could never face the world again. She had run away from home; everyone knew. In this society, there was no place left for her.
Now there was only one place—and Naz was sitting in it.
At times, her state of mind became that of a refugee. In such moments, the thought of Jeda became her only shelter.
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To be continue.....