The Departure
The flight from Dehradun had landed in Delhi just after sunrise, but Zehra’s heart hadn’t quite arrived. As she stepped out of the airport terminal, the city greeted her with its usual indifference. Horns blared. People rushed. The air was thick with ambition.
Her fingers still smelt faintly of baby oil, almonds, and roses - the scent of her new-born niece, Aafiyah.
Zehra had spent the last ten days in her brother Faizan’s home, where time had slowed to the rhythm of lullabies and whispered prayers. Aafiyah had arrived like a divine interruption, tiny and fragile, yet powerful enough to rearrange the emotional architecture of Zehra’s heart.
She had held her for hours, memorising the curve of her cheeks, the way her lips puckered in sleep, and the flutter of her lashes.
Faizan had laughed, "Tum toh Fufu se zyada maa ban gayi ho."
And maybe he was right. Something primal had awakened in her, a tenderness she hadn’t known she possessed.
But now, Delhi awaited. Her office is on the seventeenth floor of a glass tower in Connaught Place. Her desk, her deadlines, her team. The world where she was Ms Zehra Khan, Senior Strategy Consultant. Efficient. Polished. Unshakeable.
The cab ride from the airport to her apartment was uneventful. The city was loud and indifferent. No one noticed the woman in the back seat clutching a pink rattle as if it were a relic.
Her apartment was clean and cold. She placed the rattle on her desk, next to her laptop. A symbol. A rebellion. A reminder.
The next morning, she walked into her office with practised grace. Her colleagues greeted her with smiles, unaware of the storm beneath her calm. She opened her inbox. Forty-seven unread emails. A client pitch is in two days. A team review tomorrow.
But her mind was still in Dehradun.
She remembered the way Aafiyah had gripped her finger. The way her sister-in-law, Samira, had looked at her with exhausted gratitude. The way her Ammi had whispered,
"Allah ne tumhe ek nayi zimmedari di hai."
Zehra felt guilty. Guilty for leaving. Guilty for not staying longer. Guilty for wanting both worlds.
At work, Zehra was a force. She led presentations with precision, negotiated contracts with poise, and mentored junior associates with warmth. But no one saw the weight she carried.
No one saw her pause in the restroom to wipe away tears after a call from home. No one saw her fingers tremble as she typed emails while replaying Aafiyah’s voice note in her mind. No one saw her skip lunch to video-call Samira, just to catch a glimpse of her niece sleeping.
She didn’t speak of it. Women rarely did.
She remembered Ammi’s words:
"Auraton ka dard aksar chhup jaata hai, Zehra. Na dikhai deta hai, na samjha jaata hai."
She had grown up watching Ammi carry the emotional weight of the household quietly and gracefully. Now, she was doing the same and balancing spreadsheets and sorrow. Strategy decks and sleepless nights.
One evening, Faizan sent a photo. Aafiyah was wrapped in a yellow blanket, her eyes wide open, her tiny fist raised like a warrior.
Zehra stared at it for a long time. Then she cried.
She remembered the moment she boarded her flight. Samira had hugged her tightly, whispering,
"Tumhari zarurat yahaan bhi hai, aur wahan bhi. Par Aafiyah tumhari yaadon se
kaise kaam chalayegi?"
That sentence haunted her.
She began writing again. Letters to Aafiyah. Long, emotional ones. She wrote about her childhood, about Faizan’s mischief, and about the stories Ammi used to tell under the neem tree. She wrote about sacrifice, about longing, about love that stretches across cities and time zones.
She saved them in a folder titled 'Fufu ki Mohabbat'.
One night, Zehra dreamt of Aafiyah. In the dream, the baby was walking, wobbly and determined, and Zehra was behind her, arms outstretched, whispering encouragement.
She woke up with tears on her pillow.
That day, she skipped her usual coffee stop and went to a bookshop instead. She bought a children’s book in Urdu, one with illustrations of birds and stars.
She wrote inside the cover:
"Aafiyah ke liye, jise main har din thoda aur pyaar karti hoon. – Fufu Zehra"
She mailed it that evening.
These small acts became her rituals. A way to stay tethered. A way to honour the bond that had reshaped her.
It had been four months.
Four months of video calls, voice notes, and pink packages wrapped with care. Four months of missed milestones and quiet tears. Four months of Zehra whispering "Aafiyah" into the silence of her Delhi apartment, hoping the name would echo back.
Now, she was on a return flight to Dehradun, this time with a suitcase full of gifts and a heart full of anticipation.
As the plane descended into the valley, the air changed. It smelt of pine and memory. Zehra leaned toward the window, letting the view settle into her chest. Her dupatta fluttered slightly as she stepped out of the terminal, like a flag of return.
She reached Faizan’s home just before Maghrib. The house was lit softly, the scent of biryani wafting through the air. Samira opened the door, her smile tired but radiant.
"Aafiyah is sleeping. But she’s grown, Zehra. She recognises voices now."
Zehra stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room for the cradle. It was there, near the window, draped in a soft green cloth. She walked over slowly, her breath catching.
Aafiyah stirred.
Zehra whispered, "Assalamualaikum, meri jaan."
The baby blinked. Then smiled.
Zehra gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. Tears welled up, uninvited but welcome.
"She knows you," Samira said softly. "She hears your voice every night. Faizan plays your letters for her."
Zehra knelt beside the cradle, her fingers trembling. She touched Aafiyah’s hand. The baby curled her fingers around Zehra’s, just like before.
But this time, it felt like a promise.
Later that night, after dinner, Zehra sat with Faizan on the terrace. The stars were out, scattered like blessings.
"You’ve changed," Faizan said. "You’re softer. But stronger."
Zehra smiled. "She changed me."
Faizan nodded. "You know, when we were kids, I used to think you’d be the one to leave and never look back. But you’ve built a bridge between worlds, Zehra. That’s harder than leaving."
She looked at him, her eyes glistening. "I still feel torn sometimes. Like I’m failing both sides."
"You’re not. You’re showing Aafiyah what it means to love deeply and live fully.That’s a legacy."
The next morning, Zehra woke early. She sat beside Aafiyah, who was babbling softly.
Zehra began reciting a poem she had written:
"Tere naam ki khushbu se roshan hai meri rooh.
Tere muskaan mein chhupi hai meri dua.
Fufu hoon main, lekin teri maa se kam nahi.
Tujh mein hai meri pehchaan, mera wajood, mera khuda."
Samira entered quietly, listening.
She placed a hand on Zehra’s shoulder.
"She’ll grow up knowing she’s loved by a woman who chose her every day, even from afar."
When it was time to leave again, Zehra didn’t cry.
She kissed Aafiyah’s forehead, placed a new book beside her pillow, and whispered:
"Main har din lautungi, chahe sirf yaadon mein hi sahi."
Faizan hugged her tightly. Samira handed her a small envelope.
Inside was a photo of Aafiyah holding the rattle Zehra had sent months ago.
On the back, Samira had written:
"She holds your love like a lifeline."
Back in Delhi, Zehra returned to her desk. The photo of Aafiyah smiled at her. The rattle was still there. But something had shifted.
She wasn’t just surviving the distance. She was shaping it.
She began a blog titled Fufu Diaries. She wrote about emotional labour, invisible sacrifices, and the quiet strength of women who love across boundaries.
She received messages from women across the country – mothers, aunts, and sisters – thanking her for giving voice to their silent ache.
Zehra replied to each one. With warmth. With empathy. With poetry.
One night, she wrote a letter to Aafiyah she knew she’d read aloud years later:
Meri Aafiyah,
Tumne mujhe badal diya.
Main sochti thi ke zindagi sirf kaam aur zimmedariyon ka joda hai. Par tum aaye, aur maine seekha...rishtay bhi roshni dete hain. Tumhari har muskaan ne mujhe ek nayi Zehra banaya. Fufu hone ka matlab sirf ek rishte ka naam nahi, ek jazba hai jo har doori ko pyaar se bhar deta hai.
Main door hoon, lekin har din tumhare paas lautti hoon...ek dua ke zariye, ek yaad ke saath.
Aur tumhare liye, ek shayari:
Tere hone se hai roshan meri har subah,
Tere naam se hai pur-sukoon meri har raat.
Fufu hoon main, door sahi,
Par teri har khushi mein meri har baat.
Tumhari,
Zehra Fufu
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