In 2016, I wrote:
“Playful banter between Sultan Memo and Sultana Zaza has me feeling giddy over how cute their sibling relationship is.”
↓ Transcript
Efraim raises his brows. Now this is interesting. He had assumed Selim wanted to talk about something else. “Huh, Zeynel has been blessed with plenty opportunity. So far, he has not complained. Just last month, he confirmed to me his intention on pursuing an imamship.”
Efraim pauses for a moment, blinking, suddenly unsure of the truth of his son’s words.
He shrugs. “That is... if that is truly what he desires. I can’t tell him what to do. He’s sixteen. He should know himself better than anyone, better than I.”
Efraim narrows his eyes. The intensity of the grey-blue remains striking even as a sliver. “Personally, I'd prefer he continue his studies. There are… reasons why, that he and I both understand. I do not think he is cut out for the merchant life.”
Efraim places his nose between his steepled fingers, saying with some resignation. “It would be a waste of his education otherwise.”
Selim quietly listens to Efraim with no argument, and quickly they move on to other topics. He makes a subtle gesture of his shoulder towards the door, where, having listened to the entirety of that conversation, Ayse’s mind is constructing an alternative plan.
----
Upstairs in his room, Zeynel recites a hadith under his breath, pairing words to his fingers.
“Narrated Amir bin Al-As: I came to the Prophet SAW and asked, “Who is the most beloved person to you?”
Thumb, first finger, second, third, last. Repeat.
He learnt this technique years ago, from a teacher during his younger days of school. It has done him a world of good since; he knows instantly when to correct himself if a word fell on the wrong finger as he memorised, speeding up the process. Reading quickly is a vital skill, as scholarship requires the reading of hundreds of texts, in addition to the most important text of all: the Quran.
A knock on the door breaks his concentration. The door opens to reveal his twelve year old sister, Zahra, holding a tray of tea. Like Zeynel, she is cut from the same cloth as Efraim, but more so. Zahra has their father’s sharp angles and a clear dark-eyed glance that cuts into someone’s inner thoughts; a glance befitting of a future lawyer.
She smirks at him, in a teasing singsong voice. “Yoo hoo, room service. Tea, brother?”
Zeynel laughs mockingly. “What, Zaza? Has the sky turned red You’re being kind to me now.”
Zahra places the tray on the table, snorts and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right! The tea isn’t from me, dumbo. It’s from…”
She places a hand on her chest and continues with playful cadence. “Your habibti.” Referring to Ayse.
Efraim pauses for a moment, blinking, suddenly unsure of the truth of his son’s words.
He shrugs. “That is... if that is truly what he desires. I can’t tell him what to do. He’s sixteen. He should know himself better than anyone, better than I.”
Efraim narrows his eyes. The intensity of the grey-blue remains striking even as a sliver. “Personally, I'd prefer he continue his studies. There are… reasons why, that he and I both understand. I do not think he is cut out for the merchant life.”
Efraim places his nose between his steepled fingers, saying with some resignation. “It would be a waste of his education otherwise.”
Selim quietly listens to Efraim with no argument, and quickly they move on to other topics. He makes a subtle gesture of his shoulder towards the door, where, having listened to the entirety of that conversation, Ayse’s mind is constructing an alternative plan.
----
Upstairs in his room, Zeynel recites a hadith under his breath, pairing words to his fingers.
“Narrated Amir bin Al-As: I came to the Prophet SAW and asked, “Who is the most beloved person to you?”
Thumb, first finger, second, third, last. Repeat.
He learnt this technique years ago, from a teacher during his younger days of school. It has done him a world of good since; he knows instantly when to correct himself if a word fell on the wrong finger as he memorised, speeding up the process. Reading quickly is a vital skill, as scholarship requires the reading of hundreds of texts, in addition to the most important text of all: the Quran.
A knock on the door breaks his concentration. The door opens to reveal his twelve year old sister, Zahra, holding a tray of tea. Like Zeynel, she is cut from the same cloth as Efraim, but more so. Zahra has their father’s sharp angles and a clear dark-eyed glance that cuts into someone’s inner thoughts; a glance befitting of a future lawyer.
She smirks at him, in a teasing singsong voice. “Yoo hoo, room service. Tea, brother?”
Zeynel laughs mockingly. “What, Zaza? Has the sky turned red You’re being kind to me now.”
Zahra places the tray on the table, snorts and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right! The tea isn’t from me, dumbo. It’s from…”
She places a hand on her chest and continues with playful cadence. “Your habibti.” Referring to Ayse.
