Author’s POV

Saudi Arabia, August 2024

“Sukoonath Gaah.”

The nameplate on the apartment door bore this inscription, accompanied by a smaller engraving underneath: Siddharth Azim

Inside, the atmosphere was thick with stillness, broken only by the faint scratch of a pen. Seated at a writing desk was a man whose very presence seemed steeped in despair. His disheveled hair fell haphazardly across his forehead, his face hollow with grief.

This man was Siddharth Azim.

The diary before him lay open, its leather cover worn with time and use. Siddharth’s fingers trembled as they traced its edges, lingering over the embossed title: Sukoonath Gaah.

The room around him blurred, consumed by the words scrawled on its pages. Every stroke of ink carried the weight of his emotions—love, regret, and prayers whispered into the silence of the night.

Flipping to the first page, he caressed the words written in delicate Urdu:

Page 1

Dedication:

“Meri pyaari biwi, aur uska novels’ se pyaar.”

A faint, broken smile tugged at his lips, but it faded almost as quickly as it came. His gaze shifted to a photo frame resting on the desk. His hand trembled as he picked it up.

The photograph was a glimpse into a life once filled with joy: Siddharth held a woman tightly in his embrace, while she cradled a small, 10-month-old child in hers. Their smiles were radiant, bright enough to light up even the darkest days of anyone. 

“Shehnaaz…” he whispered, his voice cracking. The name escaped his lips like a prayer, accompanied by tears that fell freely. His fingers caressed the face in the photograph before moving to the image of the baby. “Saad… Mera bacha…”

Clutching the frame to his chest, Siddharth broke down. His body shook as sobs wracked through him, raw and unrestrained, like a child desperate for comfort. He cried as though the photo could anchor him to the happiness he had lost.

Later That Day, 10 PM. 

It was the hottest day of August in Makkah. Siddharth had just completed his Umrah pilgrimage with his cousin Saqib. His legs throbbed with pain from the rituals—circling the Kaaba seven times and running between Safa and Marwah. Despite this, his heart felt heavier than his body’s exhaustion.

After completing two rakats at the holy mosque, Siddharth found himself drawn back to the Kaaba.

The crowd surged around him, pilgrims moving like waves in the ocean, but Siddharth stood still. He stepped closer until his fingers could graze the sacred cloth draped over the Kaaba.

Placing his forehead against its cool surface, he pressed his hand flat against the wall. The whispers of the crowd faded away as his tears began to fall as he fell on the floor holding the kaaba like a child crying to his mother. 

“Ya Allah, main jaanta hoon maine bahut gunaah kiye hain. Main bahut bada gunehgar bashar hoon aur iss duniya mein apna bahut sa waqt zaaya kiya hai, ibadat par dhyaan nahi diya, bahut haram kaam kiye hain maine. Jaanta hoon Shehnaaz ke itne paas aana nikaah se pehle wo bhi galat tha. Par tu to dilon ko achhe se jaanne wala hai na. Maine Shehnaaz ke liye kabhi kuch bura nahi socha, kabhi nahi, main mohabbat karta hoon usse, bahut karta hoon. Jitni mohabbat koi insaan chahata hai na ke koi usse kare utni. Main jaanta hoon yahan bahut log aaye honge apne haram, na-mahram mohabbat ki sifarish karne par, humari mohabbat to nek hai na Allah. Humne iss rishte ko halal naam diya hai aur ab ek shohar tujhse apna adha hissa, apni biwi ko mangta hai… Please mujhe meri naazo dedo. Main maar jaaunga uske bina, nahi reh sakta main. Mere Rab, tu Rehman-o-Rahim hai (most gracious and merciful), 70 maaon se zyada pyaar karta hai. Please mujh par thoda sa reham karde, please Allah, Tu hi mera Rab hai, main aur kisse kya mangunga…”

His voice cracked, and he sobbed harder, his tears soaking into the cloth of the Kaaba. People passed by, some stopping to whisper, others offering a sympathetic glance, but Siddharth remained oblivious.

The heavens seemed to mirror his anguish as rain began to fall. Heavy drops mingled with his tears, streaking his face. Siddharth looked up at the sky, a faint, pained smile curving his lips.

“Meri naazo aayengi na? W-Wo mujhe m-maaf karengi na? Mujhe m-maaf karengi wo—”

Two security officers approached him quickly, their expressions concerned as they gently took hold of his arms. Siddharth resisted weakly, his body trembling with exhaustion.

Saqib, who had been nearby, rushed to his cousin’s side, his voice panicked. “Bhaii!! Aap thik ho?” Saqib knelt beside him, wrapping his arms around Siddharth’s frail shoulders. “Bhaii, please uthoo!!”

Siddharth didn’t respond. His head lolled to the side, his lips dry and cracked. His skin was pale and cold despite the rain. Months of neglect—barely eating, rarely sleeping—had taken their toll over him. 

The leather bag containing his diary slipped from his grasp, landing softly on the wet ground. A security officer retrieved it carefully, holding it close to ensure it wouldn’t get damaged.

Siddharth’s body went limp, his breathing shallow. His cousin’s desperate cries blurred into the background as darkness overtook him.

And as he slipped into unconsciousness, the words he had whispered to the heavens echoed faintly in his heart:

“Meri Naazo… mujhe maaf kar dena.”