Hello my sweet beautiful readers

Ik some of u will be disappointed as i didnt upload the chapter early but ur author was very sick Alhamdulillah i am better than before noww and yeah in the end there is a note make sure u read it.

Enjoy!

After their heartfelt morning worship, Inayah and Sifna worked side by side, their movements quiet and purposeful as they cleaned the room. The faint scent of rosewater lingered in the air from the prayer session, blending with the fragrance of the jasmine oil Sifna had applied to her hair earlier.

Inayah folded the last of the prayer mats with practiced care, her long fingers smoothing out the creases before placing it gently on the low wooden shelf. Her movements, graceful and deliberate, carried an air of quiet authority—an unmistakable quality of an elder sister who had shouldered responsibilities far too early.

Sifna, her younger counterpart, busied herself with dusting the wooden furniture. Her delicate hands moved over the intricate carvings of the mirror frame, her mind drifting aimlessly until she suddenly spoke.

“Didi, breakfast main bana leti hoon,” Sifna said, her soft voice breaking the silence. (sister, I’ll make breakfast today.)

Inayah turned to her with a raised eyebrow, amusement flickering in her dark eyes. “Tum? Bilkul nahi. Tumhari tabiyat theek nahi hai, Main bana lungi.” Her tone was firm, though her lips curved into a slight smile. (You? Absolutely not. You’re not well, I’ll make it.)

Sifna frowned, placing her hands on her hips in a gesture of mock defiance. “Main theek hoon, didi. Aur yeh kaam mujhe karne chahiye,” she argued, determination lacing her soft words. (I’m fine, sister. And I should do the work.)

Inayah tilted her head, her expression playful yet protective. “Tum apni zidd kab chhodo gi, Sifna?” she teased, though the affection in her voice was unmistakable. (When will you let go of your stubbornness, Sifna?)

The debate escalated into a full-blown sibling argument, their voices overlapping in playful insistence. “Main banaungi!” “Nahi, main banaungi!” They went back and forth until, finally, their laughter filled the room, a rare sound of joy that momentarily banished the weight of their realities.

“Thik hai, chalo saath mein banate hain,” Inayah relented, linking her arm with Sifna’s. (Alright, let’s make it together.)

The two descended the staircase, their footsteps light on the wooden stairs. As they reached the living room, the clock struck 8 a.m., and the muted chime echoed softly. Their parents were already seated at the dining table. Their father, with his salt-and-pepper beard and wire-rimmed glasses, was immersed in the morning newspaper, Their mother, however, sat upright, her piercing gaze darting toward the younger sister

Sifna froze. The mere sight of her mother sent a wave of fear crashing through her. Memories of the previous evening replayed in her mind—her mother’s harsh words had always stung, but last night, the anger had escalated into something far worse. The blows had been relentless, leaving bruises not just on her skin but on her fragile spirit.

Her breath hitched, and instinctively, she moved behind Inayah, clutching the back of her elder sister’s kurta like a frightened child. Her wide eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and her heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Inayah felt the tug on her kurta and stopped. She turned slightly to glance at Sifna, immediately noticing the fear etched on her younger sister’s face. Her own heart twisted painfully, but she masked it with a calm expression. Reaching back, she took Sifna’s trembling hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

“It’s okay,” Inayah said softly, her voice steady and reassuring. “No need to be scared, baby. Main hoon na? Tumhare saath kuch galat nahi hoga.” (I’m here, aren’t I? Nothing bad will happen to you.)

Sifna nodded hesitantly, her grip on Inayah’s hand tightening.

Inayah’s gaze shifted to their mother, her expression hardening. Taking a deep breath, she spoke with quiet authority. “Ammi, kal jo kiya, woh dobara nahi hona chahiye.” Her words were measured, her tone unwavering. (Mother, what happened yesterday should not happen again.)

Their mother’s eyes flickered—anger, passed through her in a fleeting moment. But she said nothing as yesterday inayah clearly declared one more shouting or even a single scratch on her younger sister and she will not do the marriage. The greed that she have can only be fulfilled when inayah will marry in malik's house. So she was quiet. Their father, oblivious to the tension, continued flipping through the pages of his newspaper.

Without waiting for a response, Inayah guided Sifna toward the kitchen. The moment they entered, the atmosphere shifted. The bright sunlight streaming through the large window bathed the marble countertops in a golden glow. The scent of fresh mint from a small potted plant on the windowsill filled the air, offering a comforting contrast to the heaviness that had lingered moments ago.

Inayah turned to Sifna, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Tumhe mere hotai huwai kabhi darne ki zarurat nahi, Sifna. Main hamesha tumhare saath hoon, samjhi?” Her voice was soft yet firm, a promise wrapped in love. (You never need to be afraid when I’m here, Sifna. I’ll always be with you, understand?)

Sifna blinked back her tears and nodded, her lips trembling into a faint smile. “Thank you, dida.”

Inayah smiled back, pressing a gentle kiss to her sister’s forehead. “Thank you ki koi zarurat nahi. Tum meri chhoti behen ho. Tumhari hifazat karna mera farz hai.” (There’s no need for thank you. You’re my younger sister. Protecting you is my duty.)

They began preparing breakfast together. The kitchen soon came alive with the sounds of chopping, the sizzle of oil in the pan, and the soft hum of their chatter. Inayah kneaded the dough for parathas, her hands moving with practiced ease, while Sifna expertly sliced tomatoes and onions for the curry.

As they worked, the warmth of their bond filled the room. Inayah occasionally teased Sifna about her knife skills, earning playful glares in return. By the time they finished, the dining table was a feast of flavors—golden parathas, a vibrant vegetable curry, and cups of steaming chai that filled the air with its rich aroma.

When they carried the dishes to the table, Sifna’s unease lingered, but the reassuring squeeze of Inayah’s hand gave her the strength to sit beside her sister, her fears momentarily forgotten. The elder sister’s silent promise echoed in her heart: no matter what storms life brought, Inayah would always be her anchor. And after that both sisters sat together and started having breakfast









On the other side

Authors pov

The early morning light seeped through the thick curtains of Hamad’s luxurious apartment. The room was serene, save for the muffled snores of Haroon and Ibrahim sprawled on the other side of the bed. The bond between the three was palpable, their closeness evident in the casual sharing of space that spoke of years of friendship and unspoken trust.

Hamad stirred awake, stretching lazily as his gaze fell upon his sleeping friends. The sight brought a faint smirk to his lips—a rare moment of ease on his otherwise stern face. He pushed the silk covers off his torso, his shirtless frame revealing the disciplined regimen he followed. The cold air grazed his skin, but Hamad paid no mind as he slipped off the bed.

The door to his private gym chamber beckoned, and Hamad moved with silent purpose. As he entered, the room greeted him like a haven, its ambiance exuding both power and tranquilityAs Hamad entered his private gym chamber, the air shifted—a mix of tranquility and strength enveloped the space. The room exuded luxury, a testament to his taste and discipline. The rich, wood-paneled walls radiated warmth, their earthy tones grounding the expansive space. Recessed lighting from the intricately designed ceiling cast a golden glow, illuminating the room with an understated elegance.

The floor, covered in black rubber matting, was both practical and luxurious, ensuring comfort for rigorous workouts. Along one wall stretched a row of full-length mirrors, their reflective surfaces amplifying the sense of space while allowing Hamad to perfect his form during exercises. The opposite wall housed a rack of polished dumbbells, each gleaming under the soft light, arranged meticulously by weight.

To the left stood state-of-the-art cardio equipment: an advanced treadmill and an elliptical machine, their sleek designs blending seamlessly with the room's aesthetic. In the corner, a small yet sophisticated section held stability balls and neatly stacked mats, catering to functional training needs.The gym was silent except for the steady rhythm of Hamad's breaths and the faint creak of the polished wood floor beneath him. His body lowered and rose in perfect cadence, each push-up highlighting the raw power in his frame. His broad shoulders flexed with every movement, the chiseled muscles of his back shifting fluidly under his skin like steel cables coiled with precision.

A bead of sweat formed at his temple, glistening under the warm overhead lighting before it traced a slow path down the sharp line of his jaw, disappearing onto the curve of his neck. His jaw tightened, the subtle clench of determination evident as his arms strained, veins prominent against his bronzed skin. The heat of exertion radiated off him, his breaths growing heavier, mingling with the faint scent of leather and wood that filled the gym.

The muscles in his arms and chest rippled with each rise, their definition amplified by the golden sunlight streaming through the windows. His core remained taut, the ridges of his abs perfectly sculpted, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat that dripped steadily onto the mat below. His body was a testament to discipline, years of relentless effort evident in every contour and shadow.

Hamad paused at the bottom of a push-up, his muscles quivering slightly as he held himself there, sweat pooling at the curve of his collarbone. His dark eyes flickered briefly to the mirror in front of him, catching his own gaze—a silent acknowledgment of the strength he carried, both physically and mentally.

As he pushed himself back up, a droplet of sweat rolled down his broad chest, tracing the defined line of his pecs before disappearing at the waistband of his track pants. His breathing was controlled yet deep, the sound filling the room like a steady drumbeat. Every movement spoke of power held in check, a ferocity honed into discipline.

By the time he finished his set, his body glistened under the light, the faint flush of exertion coloring his sharp cheekbones. Standing upright, he ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back as droplets clung to his fingers. The mirror reflected a man in his prime—a living portrait of strength, control, and an intensity that bordered on magnetic. Hamad was in the middle of another set of push-ups, his body glistening under the warm light, when the door creaked open. He didn’t look up, but the sound of footsteps made him aware of the arrival of Ibrahim and Haroon. The two men stepped into the luxurious gym, their expressions groggy but ready to start the day.

“Bhai, kitna early uthta hai tu,” Haroon mumbled, yawning as he headed to the treadmill. Ibrahim simply smirked, grabbing a pair of dumbbells to start his set.

Hamad, unfazed, continued his workout. His focus was sharp until Haroon’s rhythmic steps on the treadmill broke the silence. Without pausing, Hamad finally spoke, his voice steady but carrying an air of authority. “Ibrahim , jaldi se jaldi tayar bhi ho jaana. Humein nikalna bhi hai.”

Ibrahim, still half-asleep, responded lazily, “Haan, janta hoon, yaar. Tu tension mat le.”

Hamad’s eyes flickered toward Haroon, his expression neutral but with an unmistakable sharpness in his gaze. He stood up, grabbed a towel, and wiped the sweat from his face and chest. The air in the room shifted as he turned to Haroon again, his voice colder now. “Yahaan sab sambhaal lena.”

Haroon, ever the joker, chuckled and replied in a playful tone, “Ok mere jaaneman, sab sambhaalunga!”

The room fell silent for a moment as Hamad’s piercing glare met Haroon’s teasing grin. Haroon, realizing he’d pushed his luck, quickly shrugged it off with a sheepish laugh and got back to his workout. Ibrahim snorted softly, shaking his head as he focused on his dumbbell curls, muttering under his breath, “Kabhi toh serious ho ja, Haroon.”

The three men continued their routines, the air thick with a mix of camaraderie and quiet discipline. The clinking of weights, the hum of the treadmill, and the occasional exchange of words filled the gym. Hamad, ever the perfectionist, finished his final set, his movements precise and deliberate.

Exactly thirty minutes later, Hamad grabbed his towel and water bottle, his routine completed to the second. Without a word, he exited the gym, leaving Ibrahim and Haroon to their exercises.

Descending to his private room, he headed straight to the bathroom. The cold shower hit his heated skin, sending a refreshing jolt through his body. The water cascaded down his toned physique, washing away the sweat and exertion of his intense workout. He stood under the stream for a moment, letting the chill calm his racing heart.Hamad’s cold shower ended as the steam curled gently around the mirror. The icy water had invigorated his body, washing away the tension from his rigorous workout. Wrapping a soft, white towel around his waist, he wiped the misted mirror with a firm swipe and locked eyes with his reflection. His gaze was sharp, his features hardened, and his every movement spoke of discipline.

Walking into his walk-in closet, the luxurious atmosphere greeted him like an old ally. Dark mahogany shelves stood against the walls, illuminated by soft, golden spotlights. Rows of immaculately tailored suits, coats, and crisp shirts were arranged with almost military precision. The centerpiece was a marble island adorned with velvet trays holding watches, ties, and cufflinks, each piece radiating opulence.

Hamad’s eyes fell on the black ensemble—a commanding long coat tailored to perfection. The fabric was rich and textured, its subtle sheen exuding elegance and power. It was the kind of coat that didn’t just complement a man; it elevated him, wrapping him in an aura of dominance.

He reached for a jet-black shirt first, its fine fabric sliding smoothly over his toned physique. As he buttoned it up, the dark shade emphasized the sharp lines of his broad shoulders and strong chest. The shirt fit him like a second skin, structured yet comfortable, its perfection mirroring the man wearing it.

Next, he slipped into a pair of tailored black trousers that highlighted his tall, commanding frame. The fabric fell neatly over his legs, emphasizing his powerful stance. He completed the look with a sleek, black tie, knotting it with practiced precision before turning his attention to the centerpiece—the long black coat.

The coat was a work of art, its sharp lapels and elegant length adding an undeniable edge to his appearance. Hamad slid his arms into the sleeves, the luxurious fabric draping over his shoulders effortlessly. It reached just below his knees, its cut emphasizing his towering stature and exuding authority with every fold. The coat moved with him as though it was tailored not just for his body but for his presence.

Hamad chose a pair of polished black leather shoes that gleamed faintly under the light. From the drawer in the marble island, he retrieved a set of onyx cufflinks, securing them with deliberate care, and then clasped a sleek black watch around his wrist. The watch’s understated design—a black dial with silver accents—added a refined touch, its elegance a quiet contrast to the commanding dominance of his attire.

Standing before the full-length mirror, Hamad adjusted the collar of his coat and ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back. The reflection staring back at him was a man who didn’t just wear power—he defined it. The all-black ensemble, paired with his sharp features and cold, piercing gaze, made him look like a force of nature.

With a final glance at himself, Hamad stepped out of the closet. His polished shoes clicked against the marble floor, the sound echoing softly in the room. His long coat swayed subtly with each step, every movement deliberate and controlled.

He was more than ready for the day. Dressed in black, he was a shadow of dominance and precision—a man who commanded respect with just his presence. The world outside awaited, but Hamad Malik was already a conqueror in every sense.

Hamad descended the grand marble staircase, his long black coat swaying with each step, the polished shoes clicking softly against the steps. The dining room awaited below, bathed in warm sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a perfectly manicured garden. The morning light played off the gold accents of the chandelier hanging above the long oak dining table, adding a touch of opulence to the scene.

The aroma hit him first—spices, butter, and sweetness mingling in the air, teasing his senses. As he entered the dining room, he saw the table spread like a feast. Each dish was arranged with care, the colors and textures making the meal look like a masterpiece. The rich smell of paneer parathas wafted up from a silver platter, their golden, flaky layers glistening with a sheen of butter. Beside them sat a porcelain pitcher of steaming black coffee, its deep, robust aroma cutting through the richness of the spices.

A tiered stand in the center displayed cinnamon brioche French toast skewers, their caramelized edges glinting in the sunlight, accompanied by small bowls of fresh berries and whipped cream. To the side was a plate of aloo puri, the fried bread puffed and golden, paired with a vibrant potato curry spiced to perfection.

Another tray held neatly arranged masala dosas, their crisp edges curled around spiced potato filling, with small bowls of coconut chutney and sambar lining the side. The table was nothing short of indulgent, each dish reflecting the care and tradition of the household.

Ibrahim and Haroon joined soon after, their banter filling the room as they pulled out chairs beside Hamad. Ibrahim, as usual, was the first to crack a joke, nudging Haroon as he eyed the food. "Haroon, control yourself. You’re drooling already," Ibrahim teased, earning a playful shove from Haroon. "Shut up. You know I’ve been dreaming of aloo puri all night!" Haroon retorted with a grin before grabbing a plate.

The rest of the family was already seated, their chatter a comforting hum in the background. Plates clinked, and steam curled up from cups of black coffee as they poured and served one another. Hamad, always the composed one, sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding without words. He reached for the paneer paratha first, pairing it with a small dollop of chutney and a steaming cup of coffee.

The lively chatter around him was almost soothing. Ibrahim and Haroon continued their playful back-and-forth while the rest of the family discussed everything from the weather to upcoming events. Haroon’s exaggerated reaction to the masala dosa earned a round of laughter. “Who knew breakfast could make you this emotional?” Ibrahim teased again. “What can I say?” Haroon shot back dramatically, taking a bite. “This dosa is life-changing.”

Hamad allowed himself a small smirk at their antics. Despite his cold exterior, moments like these—a lively breakfast, the warm hum of family, and the smell of home-cooked food—were grounding.

His eyes occasionally flickered to the family members, observing quietly. Though he didn’t always show it, this morning ritual reminded him of stability, a rare moment where the world’s chaos seemed to pause. The long black coat draped over his chair and his commanding attire seemed slightly softened in the glow of the morning, as he sipped his coffee and listened to the rhythm of his family.



Paneer paratha



Masala dosa



Aloo puri



Cinnamon brioche french toast skewers



Black coffee

Sifna’s POV

The morning was quiet, and for the first time, I found myself sitting at the breakfast table in peace. Ammi, Abbu, and Inayah di were all here, the air thick with the aroma of warm, freshly made parathas, and the comforting hum of a morning routine. Before today, I had always shared breakfast with them, but the silence had been different. There had always been something sharp in the air—harsh words, taunts, and the weight of unspoken resentments that lingered after every meal. Today, however, it felt different. For the first time, I could taste the food without the bitterness of harshness, the kindness in my parents' eyes something I had not experienced in what felt like forever.

I silently thanked Allah for this fleeting peace. The simple act of having breakfast with my family, without the usual sharpness, felt like a blessing.

But then, as if on cue, Ammi's phone rang. She picked it up, her tone immediately changing as she spoke in a quieter, more formal voice. The conversation lasted for about ten minutes. I glanced at Inayah di, who was unusually quiet today, her eyes focused on the phone call as well.

When Ammi finally hung up, she turned to Inayah di and said, “Tumhare sasural wale aarhe hai dupher ko.” (Your in-laws are coming in the afternoon.)

Inayah di froze for a moment, a piece of food caught in her throat. Her face paled as she quickly took a sip of water to clear it. “Kui aarhe hai shaadi mein? Abhi 15 din hain,” (Why are they coming? The wedding is in 15 days.) she asked, her voice faltering slightly.

Ammi's reply was straightforward, “Ek rasam hoti hai.” (There’s a ritual.)

“Kaunsi rasam?” Inayah di asked, her brow furrowed, the confusion clear on her face.

I answered calmly, “Di, ek rasam hoti hai, jaise Salatul Istikhara hoti hai.” (There is a ritual, like Salatul Istikhara.)

I could feel the quiet tension building as I spoke. Salatul Istikhara is the prayer performed to seek Allah’s blessings for marriage, an official announcement of the union. It was something we had already done during the engagement, but now it was time for something more.

"Ye toh kabki hogayi thi na, sagai ke waqt hi. Ab iske baad Imam Zamin hoti hai." (This had already happened, during the engagement. Now, after that, it’s the Imam Zamin ritual.)

The Imam Zamin was a pre-wedding tradition, involving a visit from the groom’s mother to the bride’s home. She would bring gifts, sweets, and an ominous coin wrapped in silk, which would be tied around the bride's wrist, marking her formal acceptance into the family.

“Achaa, I understand,” Ammi said, a soft nod following her words.

Then, her focus shifted to Inayah di. “Jaa jakar ache se kapde le aa, khud ke aur is man...” (Go and get some nice clothes, for yourself and this girl...) She paused mid-sentence, and I could see the words she was about to say, ones meant to hurt, to wound, but they never left her lips. Inayah di shot her a glare that was sharp enough to make Ammi swallow her words and fall silent.

"Is ladki ko kamre mein band kar de," (Lock this girl in her room) Ammi finally said, her voice laced with annoyance.

Suddenly, Inayah di snapped. “Ku karu band? Behne hain mere, sabko pata chalna chahiye apki do auladein hain!” (Why should I lock her in? She’s my sister. Everyone should know you have two daughters!) Her voice was loud, and I could feel my heart race at the tension that filled the room.

Ammi stood up abruptly, her voice rising in anger. “Inayah!”

Inayah di roared back, “Chilaye mat! Aur maine jo apko kal kaha, yaad hai na!” (Don’t shout! And do you remember what I told you yesterday?)

Ammi’s face drained of color, and she went quiet immediately, the usual fire in her eyes dimming in the face of Inayah di’s outburst.

After a long, heavy silence, Inayah di calmly sat back down, as if nothing had happened. “Bacha, have breakfast,” she said in a softer tone. “Then we will go somewhere.”

I looked at her, unsure. “Where?”

She smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “A secret.”

We finished our breakfast in silence, the air thick with a mixture of unspoken words and unshed emotions. Despite the calm, I could feel the storm swirling beneath the surface, threatening to break free. It always did, in one way or another.

The car’s engine hummed steadily as Inayah di took the wheel, her hands confidently gripping it as we pulled out of the driveway. I sat beside her, the cool morning air rushing in through the open windows, carrying the scent of the city with it. The quiet between us felt oddly comforting, and for a moment, I let myself relax into the silence.

"Inshallah, jaldī tere sari khushiyan tujhe milegi, Sifu. Theek hai?" (Inshallah, soon all your happiness will come to you, Sifu. Is that okay?) she said, her voice calm but reassuring.

I nodded, a small smile tugging at my lips. Inayah di always knew how to make things feel better, even in the midst of the chaos. I responded softly, “Theek hai, di.” (It’s fine, di.)

As the car moved smoothly through the streets, I felt a strange mix of excitement and nervousness. Where were we going? What was this secret place she’d mentioned? I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Suddenly, my phone rang, its screen lighting up with the name "Sidra." I quickly picked it up, my heart skipping a beat.

"Chirpingly" (in her usual teasing way), Sidra greeted me, “Sif, Sif, Sif! Badi maa jis rasam ke liye dupher ko aarahi hai, main aur Abeeha bhi saath aarhe hain!” (Sif, Sif, Sif! The big ritual, the one they’re coming for in the afternoon, me and Abeeha are coming along too!)

I smiled, the warmth of her excitement making me feel lighter. “Sachmai?” (Really?) I said, my voice full of amusement.

She giggled on the other end, her voice a melody. “Haan, sachmai! Achaaa!” (Yes, really! Okay!)

Just as I was about to respond, Abeeha’s voice cut in through the phone, “Sidraaa, Badi maa bulaarhi hai, aaja!” (Sidra, the big lady is calling, come!)

Sidra chuckled before saying, “chal ma jati hu bulawa aaya hai (Alright, I’ll see you later, the invitation has come!)

I couldn’t help but smile, feeling the comfort of my friends and family surrounding me even though they weren’t physically with me at that moment. The connections between us were stronger than I realized.

Inayah di glanced over at me, her lips curving into a smile as she noticed my reaction. "Kya hua, bacha? Khush lag rahi ho." (What happened, little one? You seem happy.)

I glanced at her, my smile growing. “You know, di, your mother-in-law won’t come alone for this ritual. Sidra and Abeeha will also be brought along.”

She laughed softly, her eyes sparkling with a hint of amusement. “Ye toh achi baat hai.” (That’s a good thing.) Her voice carried a note of approval, her usual calm demeanor making everything feel just a bit lighter.

We continued driving, the cityscape blurring by as I thought about the family gathering that would unfold later. After a few minutes, Inayah di slowed the car and turned into a parking lot.

As the car came to a stop, I looked around, my heart fluttering with curiosity. The place was familiar, but I hadn’t expected it. We had arrived at a mall, its large, glass doors gleaming under the afternoon sun. The sound of footsteps and voices echoed from within as the doors slid open in front of us, welcoming us into its bustling atmosphere.

Inayah di parked the car and turned to me with a smile. “Ready for this adventure, Sifu?”

I took a deep breath, the excitement bubbling up inside me. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Wait wait wait a note is here

Dear Readers,

First of all, I want to thank each and every one of you for your endless love and support. I know how eagerly you’re waiting for the next chapter, especially with all the excitement around the wedding and the rituals that have already begun! As a little compensation for the wait, I’ll be uploading the next chapter the day after tomorrow—just hang tight!

I also know sab ke munh mein pani aa gaya hoga itna tasty khana dekh kar, hehe! (I know everyone’s mouths must be watering after seeing all that delicious food, hehe!) Don’t forget to drop a comment sharing your favorite part so far; I’d love to know what you enjoyed the most.

It’s very, very cold outside, so please, my dear readers, stay warm and take care of yourselves. May Allah Almighty bless you all with good health and happiness. For those who might be feeling under the weather with a cold, cough, or fever, let me share a comforting recipe for kehwa—a soothing drink to make you feel better in these chilly winters.

Kehwa Recipe:

Boil water according to the number of cups you need.

Add 5 crushed cardamom pods and 3 cinnamon sticks, and let it boil for 4 minutes.

Add ginger and 3–4 cloves, then boil for another 5 minutes.

Sweeten it with honey (or sugar if you prefer), and for an extra touch, you can add saffron (optional).

Let it boil for 3 more minutes, and it’s ready to warm you up from the inside out.

And to all my dear students or those preparing for exams—don’t stress too much! InshaAllah, everything will turn out just fine. Study hard, stay focused, and remember that your efforts will bear fruit.

Take care, sweeties, and stay cozy! Sending lots of love your way. Byeee for now!

Warm hugs, [Your author naini]

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