The Last Queen (Review)


Theme: A lifelong battleship of a heiress of Spain: the last queen of Spain, Juana [Classical fiction]

Development of my thoughts…

The best time to review a novel, is immediately after you have met through the last bytes; to comprise less with the memory-pitfalls. When I perceive anything worth-sharing, I feel enthusiastically responsible to bring justice, while pouring on the readers with a careful selection of my words and truthful perspectives.

Taking this book in my hands, was not the first time to have a classical read; the first classical book “The Bruar’s Rest”, had to be slipped away from my hands, due to official clearance formality—I regretted not reading it.  Although reading a novel, translating hundreds of centuries ago into a fictional language, may seem a tiresome experience, however, I found it breathtaking from the starting till the end.

It took six sweating years of researches and consecutive edits, when the novelist, C. W. Gortner executed this embroidered piece of history with the gap-filling fiction—mainly because the evidences lacked some necessary portions of real-tale.

Frankly speaking, this novel serves as a treasure, to history-lovers; secondly, the stiffed-vocabs abundantly appear on each page, are distracters or tended to distract me—you may disagree, but I have a genuine point. Nevertheless, the flow of the novel, speaks categorically about the bejeweled arts of love, trust, betray, battle, throne, relations, distances, imprisonments, alliances and governance, centuries ago.

A crown on the head, of the true heiress as a queen of Castilian, Spain: was a matter behind love between a loyal wife to his betraying husband, from an obedient daughter to her ruling mother, from a trust-blinded daughter to his unfaithful—advantage seeking, father. Later her son, disregards her behests and left her to continue her imprisonment on her birth soil. All in all, it’s a heart-drenching tale, one must read.

Lessons I encountered:

There were important chunks of lessons, I feel useful to share:

  1. The life of royal people, is a continuous battle— designing tactics to entangle the deserving ones.
  2. A woman as a queen, is a woman first: with instinct spiritually loyal towards her husband, family and land.
  3. When it comes to power, none cares for any other. A father imprisoned his daughter for believing in him; a husband in crushing her blind trust beneath his quest of crown.


Post Script:

I review any novel, and claim its perspectives according to my fairly-supporting gumption. There can be many other ideas, I left out; but, as I said memory-picks must be a priority. The gist of “lessons” is argumentative, just because I derived them from the novel, and I don’t feel responsibility to any disagreement.


Karachi you’re killing me! (A reader’s glance)

The online-book venturing makes it strangely easier to choose a book for reading, due to immediate reviews—I have a seldom tendency relying on , though I perceive my own conclusions. I am quite used to of online book-fetchers, to get the books laid at my home; yes, I am so relaxation-addicted person. For years, I have been stocking the books, before finishing up with the previous ones. I usually do not pay the wallet-emptying amount for purchasing, never ever: I use pirated books. I adhere, a minimum bucks that have the affordability of carrying maximum range of books, is a true love for me; you may differ and I care mine only :P. By now I am a tempted person, who sees the books with dacoit- eyes; I am satisfied until I have satiated my shelf, however, my mother is the mostly irritated being—seeing her shelf’s lessening compartments. Pirated quality had been my first choice of purchasing: obviously what do I have to do with original quality—the only perception in my mind about originality that prolonged.

However there came a day, when an anonymous’ written-chunk transformed my price-preference. It implied as: “You never pay the price of a book, in terms of return to the turmoil behind each word, each idea, the edition, the plot, the misery pertaining to mental blockages; and the hardships of running after agents and publication houses. You will never see the sweating series of utmost commitment and devotion, the mourning and crying calamities. On the squeeze—as a gist, you just pay for the quality of paper and the publication house—in case the authorship belongs to a newbie.”

It hit me more than being a reader—who I do have a business most probably. A writer in me, tended to judge the cost of a book, when clinched a book in my hands. The book since then, felt heavier irrespective of its physical mass. For the first time, I realized why books worth more than just books, declaring piracy is a crime. Hey! Don’t take me wrong, m not a person carrying tedious lectures against piracy or free eBooks, in my pocket.

Instead of cooking up your brain more, let me tell you that I found and ordered the book “Karachi you’re killing me”. The prominent attractions were: Karachi, my city; a new author, wo bhi Pakistani; and what does she state inside the book—favor or against.

Initial sights of the book…

And I confronted this book, “Karachi you’re killing me”, with a cover having a pistol-palm and random funky-red lipsticks flowing up, yes! You heard me right, flowing up to the sky having an upside down building.

An indian publication house’s name, took me to expect anti-Pak material inside the book.

“Why only Karachi? And why is it killing her?” may be its not. Maybe be she is taking up the credit of speaking “killing darlings” of Karachi. You never know what inside is written, until you stop judging a book cover.

You must be imagining, why I din’t waste my time, in reading the backdrop: the synopsis, oh yeah! I did it too, and it reflected the same.

Inside the book…

My journey to land and stay in a book, is boosted from initial fifty pages; yeah, otherwise I either jump, or crawl, or sometimes skip. Mmm yes! Leaving the book is anyhow, not right; I regret doing in the past. And yeah, I am a bookaholic-shopaholic-homeholic-readaholic person now, and this I really mean it.

Khair! The prominent features of the book, I found and want to share are:

  1. The craze of alcoholic-journalism

You must be feeling weird right now, if not! I did though,  I liberated my weird thoughts to flutter away and never show me the face, until I am done.

Saba’s leading girl, Ayesha has been shown as a devoted journalist who has a kind of endeavor insanity towards her profession. She doesn’t see the light of the sun turning to the light of the savor; and she holds her mind in abiding by Kamran—her boss to the newspaper and both hands in liquor.

I personally noticed that “Asians” specifically highlights “Alcohol” as one important asset of their character. Maybe it’s not in the exasperating life. The terms used for alcohols, indeed raised my knowledge especially when a simple middle-class could only read- to-drink. We have no dance bars around usually, but the prolific numbers out there, in posh areas.

I have read a great no. of novelists and local-alcoholic-bloggers, won’t name anyone; but there was no show-off content-features of branded or unbranded mighty alcohols.

  1. The sexual-dating process…

A severe desperation, is found in the girl-journalist. And more and more is provoked by her friend-type-lmao girl, Zara. This is again as an Asian-style-desperation towards modernization.

Seeing every second guy, there was a lust and temptations boiling up issues.

Reading to the foreigners, takes me not to think about their ritual more n more. It’s just their part of hangout. I did not feel the energizing doze, ever instead when they spoke about intense love.

  1. A hustle-bustle encore of relations…

A point which stirs me and every young soul, is the dilemma. Truly, a dilemma! When we call a word “friend” to any face, we meet and keep no insignificance, to who genuinely a “friend” is…

A number of great many popular movies and series, speak about the love-hidden-behind-true-friendship, which reveals after number of incidental parts. Well, it’s a never-flop-plot in every era  😛 –people die unknowingly on their criminal part of scrutinizing the new-born doubts of love among their friends.

On the serious note, yeah m serious at times too   😛 . The silently crushed feelings beneath respecting the care of the beloved ones, is an utmost sacrificial and it takes longer.

I find that saying “friend” every time doesn’t make you a friend, some feelings need a great deal of distinguishable clarity.

  1. Exceptional metaphoric tone…

Yeah, it happens to be a writer’s part, plotted secretly to sink down the readers.  And keep them swimming until they meet the shore.

I was deeply immersed into the interactive trifle of delicious metaphors, she has co-linked her relative observations and experiences. It is the ferociously greatest part of the novel.

Writers like me, can learn how to adopt the beauty of adding likewise incidents.

  1. Bold slangy voice…

Like many disagreeing points, I won’t feel new or strange to read “English slangs” as a part of writing their usual-speech-stuff. We too adhere in practicing more or less; as Asians. But Romanizing the “urdu slangs” into literature, has created a non-domestic part in her writing.

It amazed me several times.

No. it doesn’t pertain to enjoying such things. But I feel the boldness that encompasses over the heads, with in complying needs of domestic spoken-language.

  1. Sarcastic Humor…

This part speaks a lot. From a common man to a high-profile celebrity, her tone remained sarcastic—disguised in comedy, which made me laugh at times, reading while walking in silence. She did it properly, when one feels the hindrance of shooting right on the forehead, with no risk of regretting the shot.


  After words…

As I mentioned, initial fifty pages tries on my patience level.  In this book, the fifty plus pages challenged my genre of reading. But I kept reading foremost, due to the frankly-dramatized tone of Saba Imtiaz. Her words never allowed me to think of daring to shut the book off. Her interaction to Karachi’s environment is deeply submissive. There is a buzz of calamities each after one; she reflected many truths in her sarcastic comedy.

Her daring to speak through her puppet-characterizations, suffices the prolonged –haste of truth. I recommend it to the people, with a dare to bare the extra peculiar tone of Saba Imtiaz.





What blocks me is, the fearless fear ~ time to rethink!

What do you always read about Block or Blockage every single time?

What is it?

A ghost?

A nightmare?

A hindrance that drives you away… farther from your goals?

Is that what hinders the progression of my plans turning to the practicality?

I have read almost dozens of dozen posts, comprised of Writer’s Block: the kinds of blocks, escaping routes and ways to minimize its effects. But they all did something very evil i.e. they created a negative impact, out of the whole shell. Now, you would be thinking that I am putting my ink, in sailing the writers’ ship to the coast. No, it’s not.

Sometimes we all are kind of uttered, nerdy—pertaining to creativity. Isn’t it? We all get stuck to a point, where we feel: hammering the nail into the head, can only give us the right solution.  But it’s not correct! It is even not progressive, when you stress over and over again, as a shuttered-obligation. We all possess the capacity to respond, which our purpose asks for. We never pay back to our imaginative quality, the best we could—we always stand a step behind. But this is not something to curse… it’s all natural.

On the contrary, sometimes we are blessed to have, way more tremendous ideas and implications, which we had not been able to imagine, at the first place. Things do behave in a U-turn, showing the different path of what you have anticipated and struggled for.

This is actually diversity, and it leads to transformation.

I candidly state that a block, does not block you or me, it’s the fear that frightens us!

Witnessing a road barrier in your path, you are going to lift it up?  It sounds foolish.


You are going to stay still, till someone gets merciful on you? My answer is: You have to have mercy on yourself. Right!


A reverse gear? Not a fruitful idea.

That’s what my point is…

Blockage is our own birth of fear that stays restless inside us.

Change the side of blockage. Take it positive even when it hurdles in your way, seemingly stop you. The second side speaks of exploring other ways, which you call alternate options. Be adaptable and flexible to the challenging options.

See things can’t be productive on the conventional smooth roadway, driven by a decent driver, all the way long to its destiny. Not every way is even, smooth and straight. The skill of a driver is measured on the diversifying nature of handling.

We do call God-gifted skill has the form of unassembled, continuous revelation. We being humans: sort, and assemble the revelation, and then modify.

Sometimes literary meanings have such a powerful impact on lives that we often forget the true essence of perspective, it takes in itself.

Simply saying: Block is not any stop sign. Instead, you are suggested to take alternate: much focused and modified. Consequently, you are way more variant to enhance quality and productivity.

We are well familiar with a word “Rejection”, we have often dealt with. Many of us, feel the blocking as another name for rejection, from our own inner brain-nerves. But a coin even possess the two faces. I suggest negativity, actually redirects.

I personally toss this word, to see its positive side i.e. acceptance.

I would like to share my theory in this regard:

“I love being blocked or rejected, because it works like a catalyst that regenerates my passion beyond my limits (fears).”

A fear that chooses to frighten us, asks the bravery from us.

And so, a block asks to get yourself free from trivial journeys/techniques.

Letters in her letter!

   Again she half shut the door, again boiling up my agression inside me; again crushing my honor under her feet. She continued to practice, at mightnight, having spied, me and our son asleep. She hid a box, excusing through  the breadth of her dupatta and left the bed-cover in the fine crease; as she was never with me: being with me.
For several nights, she has withdrawn herself,  silently moving  out my life. I never had the courage to assasinate my trust: to doubt her character.
She used to sit with a sleek-aluminium box, in the study room, with a low watt  lamp on. She never saw me chase her. She used to pick to read from a folded paper: letters. Sometimes she smiled reading it; other time she seemed worried; then I saw a mischievious silent-laugh, which she managed to keep herself.

‘To whom she is reading?’ was the question that escalated my eruption. She needs to leave me n my son, if she has something to cook inside her head…I won’t let her assassinate our relation, with her knife. I cannot tolerate this more.
Each passing day, I became harsh and rude on her. I began hating her; I wanted  to reveal it anyway. However, she had questions, which gobbled my soul, I was unable to meet them, as a noble person. I had nothing left, for her.

A day, let me an excuse to disclose what made my life worsen. I found her gone to the market. I don’t want to lose the chance and hastily I entered the study room, and found the box, right besides the books. I did not found any secrecy there, and immediately grabbed it. I sat down, crossed my legs on the floor, with the heart to farewell my betraying better-half.

Inside it, there were number of letters… and I tesfified all papers as love letters–it made me feel ashamed: greatly ashamed of being an honorless man, an unawared and opportunity-giver.

I opened the top most letter: a reckless writing on a pink, single-lined paper. The volcano that shook me, for the no. of nights, began cracking me down to tears. I managed to absorb my tears, with a hand on my face to soak the tears.                        

Each letter brought tides of regretion…the last letter completely shatterd me, a different writing from the previous ones. It said: 

My love Sarfaraz,

I kept all your letters safely, to remind me the love, you had for me once. Your husbandship is a practical approach, where you lost all emotions, the ability to read my emotions… and I too was afraid to remind you: our love. I tried to rewake our love in you, but your each screech, held me back, to abide by your each word. 

I found peace in your letters; I relive the life, we lagged behind. Sitting besides you, makes me feel a faithful wife, but not a woman who got her desired man. I hope to share your words some day, with you.
Your wife, 

Eiliya Sarfaraz

Personalization speaks to the peak!


“Although she is running a successful business, but she still possess the potency, to bring out the topnotch product.”

“As a regular employee, I had to job for eight hours, rare one-on-one interaction with the clients, due to which I remained unaware of my individual productivity needs.”

You are already coping with life’s tragic-circles, allow yourself to believe in you; and produce the difference in the society.”

You may have observed the three different pronouns, I have used.

What is my purpose???

~ Pronouns!



Take few moments, away from my question. Ask yourself to arrange the pronouns in their ascended form—from closest to farthest.


Done? Or Stuck?

I, You and She. Right!

Why am I asking for this ordinal arrangement?

~ Magnitude of distance, is clearly channelized here.

What is the use of this magnitude? How does this work?

~ Here I go:

  • I is the closest and nearest pronoun.
  • You comes after and,
  • She is the farthest one.

The magnitude is measured, when speaker tends to influence the audience.

Am I speaking grammar?

~Oh no! I really have nothing to drag it beyond. 😉

  • When I stood as a teacher, and began to encourage my students, to solve the story sums, they resisted. They resisted until I cracked the nuts; not really I did so, but yeah, I did one thing—characterized myself to break their problems into simpler fragments. They really responded in a positive tone.
  • I joined dozens of face-book groups pertaining to entrepreneurship. From initial till the time I quit my regular job, I kept battling myself… on a definite income-provision. At time, I was convinced to quit my regular job.There was girl, who single-handedly performed many jobs, in an appropriate work-home balance way. Her narration, was quite close to our daily challenges. It doesn’t say that I am easily driven away into hers!It means, I worked with my best possible extent till I stood, to recognize my potential in the field of online-entrepreneurship.
  • A healthy and fit, dietitian involves her own figure-collage, to stimulate the people’s minds towards treasure of health. Why she exemplifies her own? ~ To declare the great achievement merely, but more to help common folks, until they breakaway the fears, that corroded their minds. So that, they can believe in their efforts.

What is the gist of all bulleted- examples above?

~ To introduce the height of personalization in marketing…

Yes, you took it right. I am not here, to speak the formalities of personalization, but yea, I get the need to speak about Personalization itself.

Is this a trouble? A marketing trouble?

~ No. It’s a demanding marketing tool.

It makes easier, in fact comfortable, in testifying your transformation from a nodding-turtle to a fluttering pigeon.

These are not just the words, but a technique. It is involved in every single discipline, by respective experts, to trigger-enhance their productivity; and to better help out the alike-solution seekers.

Most of us, possess common interests; our challenges become common; our failure tracks get to the same way; skills  get  common, our languages, choices, skills, and so, many other things. Any of the similarity above, makes us search the like-minded person or people of a community, where we can meet the challenges together and grow. Thus creating a chain, which would work from one hook to the rest of the knots, establishing companionship and family zone.

This helps in making fellowship and hence, your product maps down through people, speaking out the quality.

I by person, find least gravitation in listening to others’ success tales. I do get touched, by listening to personal transforming catalysts. How they boom their lives!

How it helps?

  • It functions over one-to-one interaction.
  • It creates relations and understanding, among social connections, colleagues and mentors.
  • It marks up the label of authenticity (trustworthy), on your product: most importantly your profile.
  • Inactive people find it easier to avail the services, you offer. They usually observe, the most and then step forward. A comfortable host can better welcome, to a feast.
  • Consequently, it has broaden the paths for entrepreneurship and customization.
  • Independency is the triumphed outcome; where one feels the encouragement and appreciation.
  • A bridge leads to other sub-bridges—making interconnections easier and feasible.

Therefore, I would say Personalization takes from ownership to the heights of empowering: the beings on their self-arms.

And yea, Pronouns do speak about magnitude of personalization.










Her name is Shumaila Khan!

She is…..

Hey there…!!

The girl, whose words you are going to be familiarize with, is Shumaila Khan; she dwells inside me.

She is qualified being a Masters in Applied Mathematics. Don’t think of the year! It might give an indication to her most personal asset: age.

Earlier she was eager of teaching, just after her education. Don’t know what stuck her mind doing so?

  • Earning could be one of the reason.
  • Or spending some definite time out of the home.
  • Or a fixed income every month.
  • Or appraising her life-style in terms of showing her up-graded class.
  • Or maybe all the reasons.

So, whatever hit her the most, sometimes she was happier than the clown. Other time, she was as gloomy as a candle.

You see, we are having different masks at the same time.

Oops! By masks, I don’t mean about being disguised. Its like we have numerous wings to rely on…

Am I getting too riddled?

Well I am more this way, when I speak good (infact some evils too :p) about her.

I love her and like her way more… because she is my Self.

She kept on teaching (cheating) on her best until she comes up with very interactive, and personized way of expression.

And guess what?

She began to pen down her emotions into the form of writing.

‘Whoa! What a change!’ everyone spoke out.

‘You are a drowned reader and so, I welcome a new writer.’

‘Shumaila you have a good flair  in writing…’

‘Is this something you wrote? Great ideas and convincing talent.’

‘When I am having your book in my hands?’

O’ my Ghosh! It’s like she begins to fly in the air. She is praised by everyone. She is rejoicing her words…

She has taken herself so rightly, that actually pleased me.

She has some more interests too…

She is maliciously eager of reading books, and collecting them. She has read many novelists:

  • Paulo Coelho
  • Sydney Sheldon
  • Elif Shafak
  • Khaled Hosseini
  • Åsne Seierstad
  • Nicholas Spark
  • John Green
  • Jhumpa Lahiri and
  • P.D. James

She keeps her collection away from her mom’s sight. Why? Because she does not want to see her reading. And what if she has begun writing too?

Well answer to this must be: ‘Do whatever you like. But make the use of it.’

Now, that’s far … far relaxing!

And she is a melodious singer too… She has a born-voice in her, which when she throws out; she has the ability to capture the whole environment. Believe it! She will going to sing some day 😉

Forgot one craze in her, she is a burglar-foodie. She is fond of everything, every type. No matter what is kept in front, seconds later, it will be disappeared. 😛

Her genres of reading and writing are…

She enjoys: motivational stories, romantic stories, crime-based, suspense and thriller; fiction, and tragic stories; non-fictions.

She is now persuading her dreams…

She says: ‘Within an instance, I began grasping the idea of creating stories and creating plots myself. I saw the answers of my character-ambiguity surrounding me around. I began feeling myself, as the owner of my story and therefore, I have started writing to pursue as my dream line.

Initially I wrote for my own blog, then a summary for my teacher, few articles for an on-line magazine, and now working on my draft, which will be a published novel in sha Allah.

This has been a year, when I am pursuing my career as a writer.  I feel lovely, while talking to people having same interests. I am perfectly a book-sick, who wanders to insanely read the synopsis of the unread books.

Well m too talkative, when meet with the words that I choose to introduce myself.’

Articles, that have been published:

The published articles are:


Let’s take her ambition in her words: ‘I am a creative writer, who writes through an ink of passion. No matter, where I belong to… my devotion and honesty will take me to higher opportunities. In Sha Allah.. I am working on my dream to be recognized as a novelist in the coming years.

Along with that I can write:

  • Blogs and articles
  • Reflective writing
  • Summaries
  • Review (on a novel or anything)
  • Rephrasing
  • Story
  • Copy-writing
  • Paraphrasing
  • Precise writing

I am looking forward to dwell in the sincerity of my passion.’

Concluding words by her…

‘Self-recognition is never late. Find in you, the one who is curtained behind fear.’

My name is Sana!

She was already getting late. She hardly gulped a weak sip from the glass of warm milk, her mother kept on the center-table.

‘Sana! At least drink it whole.’ urged Sana’s mother seeing the daughter hastily moving.

‘You know, I am late ….very late.’ She spoke while reading the minute-hand-tale, to let her mother empathize her hastiness.

‘Whatever! It will take seconds. You rarely get late, so it doesn’t matter much.’ Her mother tried to defend her.

‘Maa! Catching the taxi, is another mission; it will even take time, so it’s a big no!’ she completed her point whilst tying the laces of her favorite shoes, across the pierces.

Sana was reside of middle-class vicinity; however, she was a dutiful daughter and a supervisor-cum sister to her only younger sister. They were the two sisters. Altogether, they were three at home: all females. She used to observe veil, before confronting to any strange sight. Sana and her younger sister Sidra, both had entirely different attiring features. Sana usually covers herself in the veil followed by yasmak; on the other side, her sister used to stretch a thin dupatta over her head. Although, Sana had lectured Sidra million times, about her wearing convention, but there were no marks of crawling lice on her head. It made no difference to her at all.

‘Sidra! Are you coming? I am gonna leave…’ yelled Sana standing towards the staircase.

‘Here I am…’ she was almost running down the stairs, with dupatta in her hands.

‘Hey! Look at you…’ Sana pointed her way to make her realize.

‘I know…I am wearing it.’ Having pronounced her words, she took dupatta around her shoulders. ‘Let’s go…’

Sana’s eyes opened widely but remained silent. She was closer to speak again, and to give her a quick lecture. But everything could get in vain. She utterly swallowed down her words and was ready to move with her. Even after a great number of concerns, Sidra showed no sign of interest and remained as constant as a rock.

‘Allah Hafiz Maa!’ they rhythmed in chorus and went together.

The twin-main roads were followed by two lanes: a shorter, but deserted; and longer, but crowded. They always chose the longer path and walk with high paces to meet the time in any possible way. It was their daily ritual that they followed. It was Sana’s idea, to pass by a flock of people, is a wiser practice. She felt herself comfortable moving through a hotchpotch and crowded area; she thought it would be easier to ask somebody for help, in case something non-sense happens.

Like every single day, they were on their way to rush the stop, Sana used to observe something. She fancily kept her eyes, to a small stair-case leading to a shuttered-down shop. Over there, there was a boy, who had been sitting there for past few days. She felt from her noble soul, not to make any notice. But what she could witness every time unignorably, that he seemed to look at her and drop her through his eyes, till her stop. Why he keeps observing me? Why he stares at me seeing a pardah-observer? Maybe he looks something else and that coincides with me. But what to say about his sights which are as erect as an arrow that penetrate through my burka to my conscious. This is not graceful, instead shameless. This has to be fixed. She keeps thoughts in her mind to resolve, but forgot getting into her work. She did not feel it appropriate to discuss with Sidra; she felt ashamed doing so.

That day and days after like that, kept on passing. Sana grew more curious each day, nevertheless on being right, she never stood to the boy to question nor she bothered her sister. What if he does not do/say anything wrong? The measure of his evil, needs to be addressed if he attempts. Why not I change my route? Yes, its better. This will solve the matter. Later that day, she asked Sidra to adopt the shorter route from the following day. And she affirmed with the change, in a slight reluctance. She was almost relieved to get rid of his daily- chasing-sights.

Next day, when they both passed by, there happened to happen only two to three heads on the road, and as they reached the stop, they were all gone. She was pleased inside, letting herself show her happiness through her gesture.

‘Any good news? What has made you so much chill?’ Sidra asked Sana in astonishment.

‘Nothing especial… the weather is so pleasant and cloudy. We have escaped from the sunlight.’ She was speaking, not to reveal the truth.

Three days ahead, something entangled her imaginations with a knot. She was lesser happy now, his absence of sights licked out her certainty. She was tensed and bitter. She was gloomy inside; therefore, this could be truly judged by her silence. To the family, she famed that the burden of work at school, has been increased due to exams. But her conscious was pinching her soul. There emerged a second-being’s voice inside her head and it spoke till Sana began to feel guilty like a thief. What if he was interested in me? I should have walked more in front of him. Sooner or later, he could have expressed. She tried to shut her mind by speaking in a whispering tone: ‘What a disgrace is to think and welcome such talks!… I need to shut all such shamelessness about this.’

‘Are you fine? Looking weaker these days?’ asked mother in curious tone. Her eyes were thirsty to know the answer.

‘Yea, actually assessments are going on…I told you already, didn’t I? And escape is not possible! You understand well Maa…’ she mentioned to let her mother revisit her past profession.

‘Just assessments?’ she seemed slight stubborn when asking and tone stressed.

‘Ofcourse! What else?’

‘Acha listen! I have one news. There are some people who want to see, Sidra! And they are asking for an appropriate day, what you say?’

‘Wow! Call them any day… ok how about this Thursday?’ said in a suddenly active mode.

‘Fine! You have to come early from the school, to help me in managing things.’

‘It goes without saying…’ said when she landed her head on her shoulder. ‘May Allah bless her, with everything best.’


The next day, Sidra points towards the route and mentions the under-going construction on the road, after the maintenance of electric cables. Sana got confused for a moment and makes up her mind to the previous route.

She did not see the boy again, but her eyes were searching him. His absence was now marked each time. She was cursing the time, she changed her route. As the thirsty land, asks for water. She was considering herself as a guilty, and battling for anything which never happened; however, she was desperate for it, to happen.

On Thursday, Sidra find an excuse to take an off from the work. She had to be at home, for preparation. Whereas Sana was committed to take an early leave. She found the guy staring at her, throughout her way. She suddenly stopped, to concentrate the voice.

‘Hey listen Lady! Please wait.’ A male-voice stopped her.

She turned back and found the staring-guy close, her heart started leaping up and down like a balloon when effuses the air out of it. ‘Yes…you asked me?’

‘Yeah… actually I wanted to say, I have asked my parents for you… and they will visit at your dwelling tonight. You may have many questions… but seeing your nobility, I never bothered you directly.’

‘Sorry! What you…?’ she hesitated between her affirmed-doubts and nervousness.

‘But…’ she spoke incompletely to mention the truth.

‘No but or anything! I am Naved, an engineer. And I liked you… your body-language and grace, actually convinced me about you…’

She liked him too, but remain entangled between his intentions and the situation her mother mentioned. She was badly puzzled by the waves that just hit her mind and she wanted to settle enough to make him clear.

‘I am in hurry… I am leaving.’ He turned back to move, but suddenly remembered something he left, ‘I have seen a noticeable approval in your eyes… as they searched for me … I am not wrong, Sidra!’ and ran far after his friend, leaving her deaf and dumb.

What he named just cleared the idea, but she was mistaken or he has mistaken or mother was having confusion. Is it right to mention the truth? A mistake can appear as a lie in all three lives. But you can’t be selfish, having seen a happiness…after father’s death and financial crises. You are not going to correct, yet jealousy is ruling on you… you better dig it here….

Five years later, after finishing her chores, she stood in the balcony, listening to the chirp and language of nature. She was so engage, that a sound hit her ears twice…

‘Sana! Don’t you remember? Someone is on the way to see you… and your sister and brother-in-law have already arrived. Get ready nicely….’

‘But why?’

‘You are 36 now and will not find any one of your match on further delay. Stop weaving your dreams of a prince.’

‘Prince!’ there was an echo inside her.

Some moments later, she was in front of the person, who came for her. After formal discussions. The boy wanted the girl to introduce herself, by volunteering himself first.

‘My name is Sana and I am Sidra’s sister. My age is 36 and being so true…means no confusion should be petted any side….’

Listening to the name, strikes his ears and hosts the regression. He was ashamed of being true to her and never appreciated his eyes to glance her sister-in-law again… he buried his choice against his parents and he never mentioned anything to anyone during those years. But with her name, he still had some ashes…