Her mother had exposed Fizza to herself, and that too without intending to. She wondered if that was the power of the worship that she frequently indulged in. Her mamman (mother) was one that was longing for the affection and comfort of her creator – a strange amalgam of pain and hope, intricately crocheted onto the choicest of fabrics that intends to envelop our entire existence: religion. Deen – it was something we all closely associated with, to varying degrees. But the more she saw the woman in front of her, profoundly mired into the light of her Lord, she realised that the silhouette of the woman she saw before her, wasn’t her mother. For a brief moment, in her worship, she had been summoned by God, away from the world where she was a mother, a wife and a sister. For that brief period, she was a servant. A beggar. A child with the obsessive diligence woven beautifully into a slave’s submission. It looked like she had ascended to the Heavens to meet and greet her Lord. Almost like she had relinquished the grievances of her troublesome life in the way of her Saviour. She kept those arms high above her head. Straight. Motionless. Like she was a lowly beggar at the feet of the throne of her monarch and a slight movement would cause the ruler to dismiss her plea – a slight movement could cause such dismissal in the court of a monarch. But every now and then, very cautiously, she would make calculated movements and shake her hands, back and forth, so as to re-emphasise on the list of requests she had brought in the court of the monarch that presided over the entire mankind. She would quickly push back any wisps of hair that tried to sneak out of her hijab (scarf), in a rather apologetic manner, as though she was sorry for not being in the proper attire – a demeanour that reflected on how staunchly and stalwartly she clung on to the tenets of her faith. She closely watched her mother, or the woman who had broken away from all worldly ties to connect to her God in a regular act of worship; she saw her ascend on her spiritual journey. She admired it, no doubt. She wished she could be more like her mother in faith. Remarks that her brother had made all those years, came back to her. Riveted her attention. Echoed in her ears. Appeared in block letters before her eyes, blurring her vision of the beautiful act of worship that she witnessed. They were innocent remarks, meant as a tease or a comeback for when she teased him for eating too much or not having soaked up the words of wisdom that their father seldom delivered at the dinner table. The remarks were of how she wasn’t really biologically related to them; how she had been picked up from a dumpster at a very young age. She knew it was a lie. She had the obsessive tendencies of her beautiful mother that were hereditary; a greater proof than any DNA test she’d ever need. But that didn’t matter. Because she lagged behind in faith. It was not that she did not understand God, or did not attempt to comprehend His graciousness. She simply did not know how to make herself pliable enough to fit into the crafting mould of religion – to turn out like a perfectly shaped cake – a perfect Muslim – a perfectly baked Muslim cake, with no rough edges that she took great pride in. They gave her a streak of individuality that she had found so hard to give up. She managed to put aside all the tricks that those remarks played on her mind. She re-summoned her attention and saw that the woman that sat before her, with the conviction of a true believer, was still in the position that she had left her in before the remarks of her beloved brother appeared before her eyes in life-sized letters – like a troupe putting on their best, most rehearsed performance. But the more submission she saw in the elevated hands of her mother, pointing to the ceiling and the heavens at large, posed an enigmatic notion before her. How could the woman before her, who had birthed the woman who closely watched her bearer’s act of devotion, be so starkly different? The former need not question the rules of God, but they bothered the latter much too severely. A notion of doubt that had filled her up with questions and doubts which were eschewed by the more rigid and zealous, more or less illiterate and self-proclaimed scholars of the deen. She knew she could question. Her brother had told her that God did not want believers that believed blindly. He had enough of submissive angels in the heavens to do that for Him. He wanted our wholehearted, well-researched conviction and submission. But how could she reach that without the questions she couldn’t find the answers to? And without the answers, how could she ever truly find Him? She knew that a detour was necessary. She had to go away from God in order to find her way back to Him. To be able to believe in His rules because SHE, not the world, wanted that of her. She wanted to submit to her Lord the way her mother did; to ascend to the heavens amidst her daily rituals. To feel the presence of God and consolation every time she stood before Him on the prayer mat, facing the Kaabah. But this detour was risky. What if she could never make her way back to her God? Would her mother be disappointed? Would she love her the same? Would she fall to the clutches of Satan? Would it water the roots of the remarks her brother had innocently made when they were young? Would she lose herself if she lost God? She knew she needed a detour but she also knew that her eventual and final destination was God. Her soul was His. It had to return to Him no matter how many detours she took on the way. But her heart was content with the fact that she was not going away from God but was coming closer. Every step on the path of that detour brought her closer to her Lord. Does she sit on the prayer mat with her hands hoisted above her head, making frequent ascensions to paradise? Probably not. But she’s closer to God than she was before. She never really went too far to become unable to trace her footsteps back to Him. She always stayed within reach. Or maybe, HE always did! The blogger – a student of International Relations at the Kinnaird College – is a feminist to the core. She is passionate about global affairs, education and gender equality.