The Conversation That Refuses to Touch the Past
Chapter 6 — The Conversation That Refuses to Touch the Past
The morning after Jabal Nur, Aleem woke with a body that complained and a heart that refused to be disciplined.
His calves ached as if the mountain had left a fingerprint on his muscles. His shoulders were stiff. His skin still held the faint, sun-warmed soreness of effort.
But it was not his body that unsettled him.
It was the softness.
It had returned too easily.
As if his heart had been waiting all these years for a reason to un-lock itself.
Aleem lay still for a moment, staring at the hotel ceiling, listening to Malek’s quiet movements as he got ready. The air-conditioning hummed steadily, indifferent to the storms people carried.
Aleem told himself, firmly, that yesterday was nothing.
Just exhaustion.
Just altitude.
Just a mountain forcing strangers into the same rhythm.
He told himself nostalgia was a liar.
He told himself he was not going to be foolish.
Then he sat up, and the memory returned anyway—Almahirah saying her name, her laughter slipping out like something she did not plan, the brief warmth of skin against skin when he steadied her.
Aleem pressed his palm against his face.
Control yourself, he thought.
Not because he wanted to be cold.
Because he wanted to be safe.
Malek glanced at him while tying his shoes. “You are thinking loudly again.”
Aleem lowered his hand. “I am fine.”
Malek’s eyes narrowed slightly, not convinced, but he did not push.
Instead, he sighed as if surrendering to Aleem’s stubbornness. “Come. We should go early. The Haram will be crowded later.”
Aleem nodded.
He followed.
Outside, Makkah moved with the steady rhythm of pilgrims.
Men in white ihram cloth, women in modest layers of fabric, people from every corner of the world stitched together by one intention. The streets around the Haram were alive with footsteps, with vendors calling out quietly, with the occasional honk of a car trying to navigate through devotion.
Aleem walked beside Malek, keeping his gaze forward.
Today, he told himself, he would be disciplined.
Today, he would not search for her in the crowd.
Today, he would not let softness trick him.
He would worship.
He would keep the past behind him like luggage left in a different city.
But as they entered the mosque precinct and the human tide swallowed them, Aleem saw her anyway.
Not because he was searching.
Because she existed.
Almahirah stood beside her mother, listening to the ustaz, her hands clasped at her waist. Her posture was composed. Her expression calm.
She did not look toward Aleem.
She did not linger.
She was not playing the part of someone trying to be noticed.
That detail unsettled him again.
If she had looked desperate, it would have been easier.
If she had looked guilty, it would have justified his anger.
But she looked… present.
Like a woman who came here for Allah, not for a man.
Aleem felt something shift in him.
Not affection.
Not forgiveness.
Just a reluctant respect.
Malek leaned close. “If you keep staring at the same problem, you will start believing the problem is the centre of your life.”
Aleem’s jaw tightened. “I am not staring.”
Malek gave him a look that said he would not argue now.
They moved on.
The day unfolded in softer pieces.
Prayer.
Rest.
A short reminder from the ustaz about intention—how the most dangerous thing was to let worldly baggage attach itself to worship until worship became merely a backdrop.
Then small errands.
Buying water.
Picking up simple food.
Collecting items the group needed.
It was not a dramatic day.
It was the kind of day where life tried to return to normal even inside sacred places.
And it was on one of these ordinary errands that the second coincidence arrived.
Not as a thunderbolt.
As a simple shift.
The group needed more supplies—small bottles, extra sandals for someone who had torn theirs, basic toiletries for an aunty who had forgotten hers in the rush.
Malek volunteered to go with Aleem.
On the way out, an older man called Malek’s name.
“Anak,” the uncle said, breathless, “can you help me? I cannot find my wife. She went to the toilet earlier.”
Malek’s expression changed instantly. “Of course, Uncle.”
He looked at Aleem. “Go ahead. I will catch up.”
Aleem wanted to object.
Not because he needed Malek.
Because he disliked being separated.
But Malek was already moving.
Aleem sighed and continued toward the shops.
He had barely taken ten steps when he realised someone was walking beside him.
Almahirah.
The distance between them was polite.
Not intimate.
Not avoidant.
Just… there.
Aleem’s heart tightened out of habit.
He told himself to keep walking.
But there was nowhere to escape without making it obvious.
They were in the same flow again.
The city of Makkah did not care about his discomfort.
And perhaps Allah did not either.
Not because Allah was cruel.
Because Allah was teaching.
Almahirah spoke first, voice quiet.
“You are with Malek?” she asked.
Aleem nodded. “Yes.”
She paused. “He is… kind.”
Aleem let out a small breath that almost became a laugh. “He is persistent.”
Almahirah’s lips curved slightly. “That too.”
The soft smile startled Aleem.
It looked like something he remembered.
He looked away.
They walked in silence for a few moments, the crowd around them thick with movement.
Then Almahirah asked, cautiously, “How is your work? Still… busy?”
Aleem glanced at her, surprised by the sincerity.
“Yes,” he said. “Always.”
“What kind of projects?” she asked.
Aleem hesitated.
He could keep it vague.
He could make it short.
But something about her tone—present, adult—made shortness feel childish.
“I handle software development,” Aleem said. “A lot of maintenance, debugging, new features. Some days are fine. Some days feel like I am chasing problems that keep changing shape.”
Almahirah nodded slowly, understanding in her eyes.
“People think tech is clean,” she said. “But it is still… dealing with things that break.”
Aleem looked at her again.
She was not flirting.
She was not performing.
She was making an observation.
He found himself answering honestly.
“Sometimes I like the clarity,” he admitted. “Because if something is wrong, it has a reason.”
Almahirah’s gaze softened. “And people?”
The question landed gently, but it still landed.
Aleem swallowed.
“People do not always have reasons,” he said quietly.
Almahirah looked forward again.
“I think people always have reasons,” she replied softly. “They just do not always have courage.”
That sentence sat between them.
Aleem’s grip on his plastic shopping bag tightened slightly.
They reached the shop area, waited while another pilgrim negotiated prices, stepped aside to let others pass.
Aleem noticed Almahirah’s movements—careful, patient, as if she had spent years moving in spaces where you had to make room for others.
Nursing,
he thought.
Then, without meaning to, he asked, “How are your shifts? Still heavy?”
Almahirah blinked, surprised that he had asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Some weeks… I come home and I feel like my mind is still in the ward.”
“What do you do when that happens?” Aleem asked.
Almahirah’s lips pressed together briefly. “I sit. I breathe. Sometimes I cry.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He had not cried in a long time.
Not because he did not feel.
Because he did not allow himself to.
Almahirah continued, voice quiet as if admitting something private. “There are patients who hold your hand as if you are the last stable thing in their world. And when you leave your shift, you realise you are carrying their fear with you. Even when you do not want to.”
Aleem stared at the ground.
The marble reflected light.
He wondered how many fears he had been carrying without wanting to.
They finished buying supplies.
Aleem lifted one bag, then noticed Almahirah struggling slightly with the weight of hers.
He reached out, took the heavier bag without asking.
Almahirah stiffened for half a second, then let it happen.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Aleem kept his eyes forward. “It is fine.”
The words sounded neutral.
But inside him, something softened again.
Care.
It rose like an old reflex.
And that frightened him.
Because care was how the past began.
As they walked back toward the hotel, the air grew warmer.
The streets hummed.
Vendors called out quietly.
Pilgrims moved like streams heading toward different destinations.
Almahirah’s voice returned, softer.
“Umrah feels different when you are older,” she said.
Aleem glanced at her. “How so?”
Almahirah hesitated, as if choosing her words.
“When I was younger,” she said, “I thought worship was about being good enough. Now I realise it is about… being honest enough.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
The sentence felt like it was aimed at him even if she did not mean it that way.
Almahirah continued, still not looking at him. “Some people only realise what they damaged when they grow older.”
Aleem’s heart skipped.
The past rose.
Not as a memory.
As a living thing.
He wanted to grab it.
To demand.
To ask.
To force her to say it plainly.
He also wanted to protect himself by pretending he did not care.
But he did neither.
Because something in him—perhaps tawaf, perhaps Sa’i, perhaps the sheer humility of being among millions—refused to let him weaponise pain.
He swallowed.
“And some people,” Aleem said quietly, voice controlled, “only realise they built cages when they are older too.”
Almahirah looked at him then.
Her eyes held something he could not name.
Not pity.
Not romance.
Recognition.
Then she looked away again.
They walked on.
The conversation refused to touch the past directly.
But the air between them changed.
As if the past was now standing closer.
Waiting.
When they returned to the hotel lobby, Malek was there already, slightly breathless but grinning.
“Uncle found his wife,” Malek announced proudly, as if he had completed a heroic quest.
Aleem nodded. “Good.”
Malek’s gaze flicked to Almahirah briefly, then back to Aleem.
A question lived in Malek’s eyes.
Aleem answered it with a subtle shake of his head.
Not yet.
Nothing happened.
And yet Malek’s expression softened, as if he understood that something had.
Almahirah thanked Aleem again for carrying the bags, then walked back toward her mother.
Aleem watched her for a second longer than necessary.
Then he looked away, annoyed at himself.
Malek leaned close. “You look unsettled.”
Aleem exhaled slowly. “I am.”
“Why?” Malek asked.
Aleem stared at the floor.
He could have said many things.
He could have said her name.
He could have said betrayal.
He could have said complicated.
Instead, he said, honestly, “Because I do not know if my softness is mercy… or stupidity.”
Malek’s eyes softened. “Softness is not stupidity,” Malek said. “Softness without dignity is.”
Aleem swallowed.
That sentence lodged itself in him.
Because dignity was the one thing he refused to lose again.
That night, inside the Haram, Aleem prayed alone for a while.
Not far from crowds.
But far enough to feel like he had space.
He lowered his forehead to the marble.
He made dua with his chest heavy and his mind quiet.
Ya Allah… if this is a test, make me dignified.
If this is mercy, make it clean.
He did not ask for Almahirah.
He did not ask for a reunion.
He asked for something more difficult.
A heart that did not lie.
When he rose, the world looked the same.
The crowd moved.
The lights shone.
The air remained warm.
But inside him, a boundary formed—quiet, firm.
He would not chase.
He would not punish.
He would remain respectful.
He would remain honest.
And the past—whenever it was ready—would have to be faced with a clean heart.
Not a hungry one.
Not a bitter one.
A clean one.
Aleem returned to the hotel with Malek, tired and thoughtful.
In the elevator mirror, he caught his own reflection.
He looked older than he felt.
But maybe that was not a tragedy.
Maybe that was the beginning of adulthood.
The conversation with Almahirah had refused to touch the past.
Yet the past was no longer a distant thing.
It was standing at the edge of his life again.
Waiting.
And Aleem—unsettled, cautious, strangely hopeful—did not know whether he was ready.