VERY BEAUTIFUL & AMAZING STORY !!!

VERY BEAUTIFUL & AMAZING
STORY !!!
Once a man saw in his dream, that a
lion was chasing him. The man ran
to a tree, climbed on to it and sat on
a branch. He looked down and saw
that the lion was still there waiting
for him. The man then looked to his
side where the branch he was sitting
on was attached to the tree and saw
that two rats were circling around
and eating the branch. One rat was
black and the other one was white.
The branch will fall on the ground
very soon.
The man then looked below again
with fear and discovered that a big
black snake had come and settled
directly under him.The snake opened
its mouth right under the man so that
he will fall into it. The man then
looked up to see if there was
anything that he could hold on to. He
saw another branch with a
honeycomb. Drops of honey were
falling from it.
The man wanted to taste one of the
drops. So, he put his tongue out and
tasted one of the falling drops of
honey. The honey was amazing in
taste. So, he wanted to taste another
drop and then anotherand as a result,
he got lost into the sweetness of the
honey. He forgot about the two rats
eating his branch away, the lion on
the ground and the snake that is
sitting right under him.
Suddenly when the branch broke he
remembered all the dangers woke up
from his sleep. Since this was an
unique dream, the man went to a
pious scholar of Islam to know its
meaning.
The scholar said "The lion you saw is
your death. It always chases you and
goes where ever you go. The two
rats, one black and one white, are the
night and the day. Black one is the
night and the white one is the day.
They circle around, coming one after
another, to eat your time as they take
you closer to death. The big black
snake with a dark mouth is your
grave. It's there, just waiting for you
to fall into it. The honeycomb is this
world and the sweet drops of honey
are the luxuries of this world. We like
to taste a little of the luxuries of this
world and it's very sweet. Then we
want to taste little more and then
more. Meanwhile, we get lost into it
and we forget about our time, we
forget about our death and we forget
about our grave."
May Allah wake us up from the sleep
and save us before it's too late.
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Being a Syed-zaadi wasn’t a matter of pride for me, it was a curse!

Hamza convinced his family and
within a few weeks his mother and
aunt came to my home to ask for my
hand.

I was born into a Syed family. Since
childhood, I’ve been told that this is
a blessing as we are the direct
descendants of Prophet Muhammad
(PBUH). Therefore, all Syed girls had
a status equivalent to that of
mothers of Ummah. Thus, it was
forbidden for us to even consider
marrying a non-Syed man. Everyone
called the girls of our family bibi jee
and, while growing up, this was a
matter of pride for me.
I was in my early teens when I first
realised that there were a number of
unmarried women in our family,
belonging to all age groups. Due to
family restrictions, finding a match
for Syed girls was extremely difficult.
For this reason, many of my cousins’
husbands were a complete
mismatch. To make matters worse,
most of my male cousins preferred
marrying outside their caste as the
men have no such restrictions.
We were three sisters and one
brother. My brother (who was two
years younger) was the most
important person in the house. His
birth sparked frantic celebrations in
contrast to rather muted welcomes
accorded to my sisters. From that
point onwards, he received
preferential treatment when it came
to food, clothes and was later
admitted to the top boarding school
in our area.

Time passed and I turned 18. I was
fair, tall and slim – ticking all the
right attributes conventionally
expected of an attractive girl. As I
was coming of age, some of my
female cousins were getting older; a
few in their 30s and others in their
40s. Some still hopeful, others left
with no dreams – trying to kill time
within the walls of their homes.
In a male dominated society, such as
Pakistan, finding a suitable match for
a girl over the age of 30 is
challenging. And for us Syed-zaadis,
it’s almost impossible.
Some of my male cousins in their
40’s were able to find girls half their
age. Most of their brides were non-
Syed, and in my heart I used to
wonder, if the Syed girls were given
the status of mothers of Ummah,
does it not make all Syed boys the
fathers of Ummah?
The decade I was growing up in was
the mobile and internet era. The
world around me was changing at a
much faster pace, but life in my
house was still anchored in the 18 th
century. In my family, not many girls
were allowed to go to school or
college. But my mother (who was
also non-Syed) insisted my father let
me go to college.
The only reason my father permitted
my attending college was so I could
find an educated husband. Most of
my class fellows were non-Syed and
had never faced the same restrictions
that I had. There were times when the
pressure of being a ‘bibi jee’ was too
much for me to handle.
And then I met Hamza; a boy who
used to wait for me outside my
college every day.

I didn’t want to speak to any man. I
resisted talking to him for a long
time, but he was persistent and I
liked the attention of this young,
handsome man. So, eventually I gave
in and we started talking and
exchanging notes. One day he
handed me a mobile. I accepted his
gift, not realising that it would
change my life forever.
We started talking to each other. He
was different from all the men
around me. He was supportive and
encouraged me to study hard and
follow my dreams. I wanted to dream
but I was scared. Hamza was the
only ray of hope in my life.
One day, my aunt (my father’s
unmarried sister who lived with us)
saw me texting on my mobile. She
immediately handed it to my father
who read all of my text messages.
My family threw a tantrum and
everyone blamed my mother for
allowing us freedom. My college life
was also held accountable. Soon
after, they decided to pull all my
sisters out of school. But the worst
was not over yet.
I requested a friend of mine to
contact Hamza and tell him about the
whole situation. Hamza convinced
his family and within a few weeks his
mother and aunt came to my home to
ask for my hand in marriage. My
family took that as an insult; after all,
how dare a commoner ask for the
hand of a Syed-zaadi? My
grandmother insulted Hamza’s
mother by telling her that she would
rather marry me to a dog than her
son.

I realised that being a Syed-zaadi
wasn’t a matter of pride for me
anymore; it was my biggest curse.
Everything around me was falling
apart and the only option I had was
to kill myself. I thought of running
away from home but I was too
scared. I would bring a bad name to
my family. I thought about how it
would impact my sister’s futures.
Weeks turned into months. My only
contact with the outside world was
my friend, who used to visit every
weekend and bring messages from
Hamza.
My father arranged my marriage with
a cousin of mine who was 42-years-
old. My brother moved back home
and started medical college. Every
man around me was selfish. They
only cared about themselves. If the
men in our family ever cared, they
would have never married any non-
Syed girl.
I prayed to my Creator every day,
“Oh my Allah, why do you bring
daughters into this family? The
ones you do, don’t give them a
heart. Don’t give them brain.”
I used to think about my aunt, the
one who spent her entire life taking
care of her brother’s children. I also
used to think about the many cousins
I have who are too old to find a good
husband. Every single woman in my
family was suffering.

I was being forced to marry a man
twice my age; all my hopes were
dying. Ten days before my wedding, I
received a message from Hamza
asking me to run away with him. This
was my only chance of getting out of
this cage, so I decided to be as
selfish like the men of my family and
leave home.
It was my last day. I was depressed
about having to leave my family, and
scared as well. I waited for everyone
to go to bed. At midnight I quietly
walked towards the back door of the
house. But, before I could open it, I
heard my father’s loud voice asking
me to stop. He was shouting from
his window and his voice woke up
my entire family who came running
towards me. My brother stood with
my father, a pistol in his hand. My
grandmother started cursing me and
crying.
Before I could say anything, I saw my
brother pointing the gun at me; a
loud bang, followed by extreme pain
in my chest. My mother came
forward to hold me, but it was too
late. I was already taking my last
breath.

The next morning the village people
were told that my father accidently
fired the gun while he was cleaning
it. My whole family chose to remain
quiet. No one reported the incident to
the police; no one said anything to
my brother. They all thought that he
saved their pride.
My family and other so-called
respectable families have got a lot of
blood on their hands. Death is not
always physical; there are countless
women who die every day by the
misery inflicted upon them by the so-
called respectable men in their
families. For 100s of years, in a
feudalistic society like ours, men
have used religion as a tool to
protect their lands and keep it within
the family. When Prophet Muhammad
(PBUH) can give his daughter’s hand
in marriage to Usman (RA), who was
not from his own family, then why
can’t we grant that same right to our
women?


Disclaimer: The post is a piece of fiction
inspired by a true story