That morning Lahore felt different. It was December __kind of winter when the cold winds hum thier own quite songs, and the mist drapes the city in a soft white veil. Steam curled from the tea stalls on street corners, the aroma of hot naan drifted from the tan doors, and the old heart of the city seemed wrapped in a rare kind of peace.
Janat ul Mawia pulled her black shawl tighter around. Her house was in an old neighbourhoods of Lahore where doorway has a pot of jasmine, wall carried lines and cracks like old stories and the rooftops alive with fluttering peigons. After her dawn prayer, she had whispers along plea to Allah :
"ya Allah... if Muhtasim was never meant for me... then grant me some one better... Someone who can protect my honour my soul, and my prayers".
The weight in her chest felt lighter, but her eyes still glistened. She was walking pass the mosque she saw him and the one glance, something shifted inside her. He was stepping out from the court yard of the mosque. Tall broad shouldereds, with the kind of strength that comes only after prayer. His Hazel eyes has depth she had never seen before no noise no demand... Just protection. For the briefest moment, his gaze met hers. No smile no words just an un spoken assurance that she was safed in that moment. Janat never felt such a sense of security in the eyes of a stranger. Her heart whispered silently,
"Allah... Is this, your answer?"
Arhan khan the bad boy the famous bike rider from Badaber peshawar who spoke little but acted more than words would carry, walked past without knowing that his single glance had unlocked doors in a girls heart that had been closed for a years.
The Road back to Peshawar
Leaving the mosque Arhan heading straight to his jeep His home was on the edge of Badaber, where the earth was the colour of clay, but the hearts were as golden as the wheat fields Children played cricket narrow lanes, elders sat over steaming cups of tea sharing old tales, and every guest was welcomed with warm bread and sweet, strong tea.
Arhan lived by simple rules, taught by his father
, Umar Khan:"Son, honor and peace are gifts from Allah... and it is a man's duty to protect them."
Perhaps that was why his every glance, every movement, carried the weight of quiet protection.
The First Heart beat
That evening, Jannat stood by her window The cold breeze brushed her face again, but the warmth she felt inside had different sources today Every prayer she made now seemed to have one face lingering between her words - that stranger that protection.
In her diary she wrote :"I don't know how you are... but I feel you might be the first answer from my Allah."