a light in the darkness }} mukraam

[FAJR PRIYA DESAI]

it's an echo of wanting to live p e a c e f u l l y

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It was a beautiful day for the winter of London. The sun was high in the sky with only a few clouds scattered about, there was hardly a sign of the snow that had started to melt away, and the rain storm that had passed through had brought with it fresh, crisp air. While it was still a chill, it was an improvement for the past few months. Fajr was grateful when she was sent on errand in the town to fetch a few odds and ends for the young mistress of the house's return. For whatever reason, she had not been allowed to accompany Danielle to meet her future husband, and she had a suspicion it had to do with her way of dressing.

Fajr was a very traditional girl in her homeland and religion. Perhaps they simply hadn't wanted to risk offending him with her presence. Not everyone in England was kind to the idea of a foreigner living in their midst. If those of other European ethnic backgrounds thought they faced prejudice, she could guarantee it wasn't anything like she and others like her faced. They could never understand why she chose to hide her face and dressed so modestly- and even then, her colors were often vibrant, bright, and very non-Western in nature.

However, after the death of her young mistress's lover, Fajr had taken it upon herself to support the other girl in mourning, wearing muted colors for her benefit. She didn't quite understand the process, but she felt it was the least she could do- no one else had supported the eloping of the two young lovers. In her opinion, she couldn't say she had fully supported it- she had been raised to believe her parents knew what was best for her and would have been quite happy in an arranged marriage, but because she no longer had that to rely on, she understood better how one could fall in love on their own.

As it was, she was happy to be able to start wearing her other outfits again. Today she had chosen white for the first time in awhile. It wasn't the brightest color, but she was getting back into dressing normally, and at least it wasn't black. She was very obviously not from London- her darker skin and attire screamed that. It was thickly embroidered with beads, as was customary as well. She really stuck out like a sore thumb, so to speak, but she didn't very much care. She didn't dress the way she did for attention, but she saw no need to conform, either, and sacrifice what she believed in.

Of course, it was as she was trying to make a small purchase for herself (she had decided to buy a hot bun from the bakery), one of the many pick pockets grabbed her coin purse and started to make off it it. Unfortunately, that coin purse also held the money she was supposed to use to buy goods for her young mistress. Someone else had taken it upon themselves to yell "thief" and she could have sworn it was the baker- probably only helping her because he recognized her as a servant of the White family. But seeing that she was a foreigner- "brown" they would call her- no one really bothered trying to help her.

"Get back here!" she cried out, doing her best to catch up to them, but the crowds of the marketplace were heavy that time of day, and if they lost her line of sight, they would make an easy get away.

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CREDIT TO OH HAI JENNERS ?! OF CAUTION 2.0

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[MUKRAAM ALI KHAN]

Mukraam was in a bad mood. But then again, when wasn't he? He'd been foul ever since he was shoved into this Jahannam of a place years ago. His patients were as bigoted as ever and he'd missed a prayer thanks to an "emergency." Although, Mukraam called it more of an overreaction. Really, the guy could have gone for two more hours before he bled out. What was the big deal? Mukraam had his spiritual well being to consider.

And what else was making his mood worse was the bloody weather. It should not have been allowed to get so cold. Many people thought Jahannam was hot, but Mukraam was convinced, he was living in Jahannam right now. So, he was dressed head to to in Western clothes - his Indian clothes weren't as well made for cold weather. He was practically the poster boy for assimilation. Really, he just wanted to get home and pretend he was in a rather ugly house in Chandigarh.

So, really, when he heard someone yell "thief!" he was hankering for a fight anyways. And apprehending a beating a thief to near death around here wouldn't be entirely frowned upon. Maybe he should be more wary since he was a minority and probably more likely to get thrown in prison for pulling something like that...but the urge to let off some steam by beating someone's head into stone.

Londoners, being the snobbish gits they were, completely ignored the call for help, so Mukraam gripped his medical kit tightly and started running after the perpetrator. Of course, the criminal knew how to navigate the streets well - he probably pickpocketed several times a week in the same place. However, Mukraam was obscenely fast - not only did he have at least half a foot height advantage on the guy, he used to run all the time (because there was actually room in India to do so).

Mukraam caught up to him quite quickly and when the thief was only an arm's length away, he swung his medical bag at the man's head and nearly knocked him down. This gave Mukraam an advantage, however, and he grabbed the thief by the collar and punched him in the nose. The criminal stumbled back a bit and tried to escape, but Mukraam grabbed the back of his coat and used both clasped hands to hit him in the ear and knock him to the ground.

The thief threw the feminine coin purse at him, seeming to hope to appease him, but Mukraam hadn't been there for the damned purse in the first place. And besides, he'd obviously stole from a woman, and that just managed to piss Mukraam off more. So this guy's head was going to meet the concrete. Again. And again. And again.

[FAJR PRIYA DESAI]

it's an echo of wanting to live p e a c e f u l l y

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When she had seen the thief duck into an alleyway, she was certain that she was going to lose him. After all, the backstreets of London were not her specialty. She'd never been mostly due to the rumors of thieves and street walkers she had heard rumors about. On top of that, anyone trying to make a quick buck may try to sell her off to pirates who would undoubtedly try to take her to the Ottoman Empire and try to pass her off as a concubine- something she desperately hoped would never come to pass. No, she preferred to stay out in the market if only for her own safety.

That's why she was surprised when she saw two men who appeared to be fighting not that far down the alley. On top of that, she could see a very familiar change purse on the ground. While she thought at first they may have both been thieves fighting over the prize, another glance at the other man told her he was well-off, perhaps not rich, but still above petty theft, and his medical bag was indicative of his profession. If she was estimating right, this man had stopped the thief.

Tentatively, she moved forward and winced as she saw the man's head get bashed against concrete. He may have deserved that, seeing as how he had just stolen from her, after all, but the man attacking him didn't seem to be letting up. She couldn't just stand by while mindless violence kept happened. The thief had been taught a lesson, a harsh one, but she doubted he would be trying such a thing at least in broad daylight. It was a shame that even passive beggar of London had to sometimes resort to thievery for survival. She doubted it had little to do with greed.

But then again, if it was not to do with greed, they would be content in the donations given to them by charitable citizens. Even she had donated very small amounts that she could afford from her own salary when she saw someone particularly in need. There were other solutions, but some tried to take a quick way out of their situation and it either succeeded amazingly or failed miserably. This would be the latter.

"Stop it!" Fajr intervened when she couldn't stand to see it anymore. Hopefully, she had done so in time to keep the man from killing the poor fellow who seemed to be ebbing in and out of conscious. "He's had enough! Th-that's my coin purse! If he's returned it, then I forgive him.." She hoped that the man wouldn't turn on her, but he was a doctor, right? And surely she couldn't have done anything to anger him by asking him to stop. Besides, Allah would smile on him for being merciful.

"Please..." she added. Her voice carried with it an accent from India, though on the other hand, it was evident that she had been in London long enough to lose most of it- granted, she would never lose it all, but her annunciation was clearly foreign.

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CREDIT TO OH HAI JENNERS ?! OF CAUTION 2.0

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[MUKRAAM ALI KHAN]

Mukraam never much cared for reasoning. Especially not the kind that let a thief get away with a woman's coin purse because he was "starving." He could be on his death bed for all Mukraam cared, but theft was a crime. A man who would rather die in agony than commit a crime would be rewarded in Jannah, and that's all there was to it. And if he chose to commit a crime, Mukraam could see to it he suffered in life before suffering in Jahannam.

And besides, this guy's face just bugged him. Then again, most British people's faces did. But some woman was screaming at him to stop. Probably the one who'd been robbed. No one else seemed to care about the fight happening right in front of them. He hated fighting in front of women, but it was unavoidable in such a crowded city.

However, something did make him turn to look at her. He wasn't sure what - he normally wouldn't have cared enough to stop. He turned his head slightly to see a girl out of the corner of his eye and his hands stilled. Mukraam turned once again, actually going all the way around this time. And when he saw Fajr, his heart stopped.

He hadn't run into any Muslims in London at all since he'd been there, let alone a beautiful niqabi. Her warm eyes carried a strange beauty that entranced him as he rose to his feet. In her white niqab, she radiated a brilliant white that would have made the moon shy away. Her look made him fall apart and now the only prayer in his heart was to drown in her eyes.

He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He knew what he wanted to say. But the words couldn't seem to form. Instead, he held the coin purse out to her mutely. Now if only he could get his lips to move. Insha'Allah.

[FAJR PRIYA DESAI]

it's an echo of wanting to live p e a c e f u l l y

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Fajr was too distracted by the man who had salvaged the coin purse to notice the thief escape off into the alleyway. At least, perhaps, he had been taught a lesson whose effects would fade with time. She didn't bother to look to see how much injury he had sustained, but that was partially because she never could stomach violence well, that was one of the reasons she preferred to lead the quiet life of a servant girl. And perhaps, in some ways, she was grateful to live in her conditions.

The man was, noticeably, not a native Londoner. Well, that was her assumption at least given his ethnic appearance. However, he could have easily been born and raised in the city, she couldn't know that for sure. But even so, it was rare to see someone other than those of the typical European background even in the city, and she had to assume that even if he had been raised in the town, perhaps he wouldn't be too put off by her appearance- his parents would have taught him better, right?

She smiled, the expression reaching her eyes, as he held the coin purse out to her, and she took it gratefully. In truth, she only really needed her eyes to show emotion- because of her customs, she had grown very good at relaying how she felt through them without so much reliance on her lips as so many others did. It was strange... in India, where she had grown up, this type of thing wasn't uncommon, yet here it seemed to be the most foreign thing a person could think of.

"Thank you... this means a lot to me," now she would not be yelled at or blamed. She could continue her shopping, hopefully in peace. However, the man still hadn't spoken to her, and she wanted to find out how she could possibly repay him. After all, he had done her a great service by fetching the coin purse for her whether he knew it or not. Perhaps he had done it for her, and perhaps he just hated thieves, but in the end, he had done something good even if she couldn't quite approve of the violence.

Perhaps he would be kind to her now that he knew the woman who he had saved. "My name is Fajr Priya Desai... may I ask your name?" she asked, so accustomed to being formal that she didn't realize she likely didn't need to be in this situation, given that he wasn't a noble. But then again, he did deserve her respect. The fact he had given her the coin purse at all had been a bit of a surprise. The racism in the city... was challenging at best. And yet, for some reason, the Englishmen claimed to adore India, but apparently that did not apply to the people.

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CREDIT TO OH HAI JENNERS ?! OF CAUTION 2.0

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[MUKRAAM ALI KHAN]

Now Mukraam's heart was pounding in his ears. She was expecting him to speak. But what could he say? That seeing her was a ray of sunshine in a gloomy, distant city? Could he tell her she was more beautiful than Jodhabai could have even dreamed of being? That she could stop wars? Of course not. Because he was a Londoner now. And if Londoners said any of that, they were crazy.

His chest was as constricting as his western clothes. What he wouldn't do for a pathani suit. Or at least some pants that didn't ride up. Or something that breathed. Just a little. At least he wouldn't feel like he was suffocating when she took the coin purse from him.

His name? Oh, god, she was asking his name. What was the proper response. He swallowed and tried to look elsewhere, maybe his brain would kick into gear if he did so. "I'm Mukraam Khan," he finally forced out.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Mukraam apologized. A woman shouldn't have to witness violence, and it was ten times worse for a modest Muslim woman to have to see him like that, to see that violence in the world. Although he really wanted to kill that thief now. But it seemed he'd gotten away. He picked up his medical bag and took a long pause to get his thoughts together. "Will you need an escort home or anything?" He asked weakly.