Room 101 — 4:30 AM
The room was dark.
Soft breathing filled the silence — the gentle rhythm of sleeping girls, tangled in blankets, lost in dreams.
C opened her eyes.
She didn’t need an alarm anymore.
Her body had learned a new rhythm — wake before Fajr, pray, study, survive.
She slipped out of bed, her bare feet touching the cold floor.
The washroom was empty.
She performed wudu — the cold water waking her up, grounding her.
Some things don’t change, she thought.
Wherever you are, wudu is the same.
Prayer is the same.
She came back to the room, spread her small prayer mat on the floor, and prayed.
Fajr.
Soft whispers.
Bent knees.
Forehead touching the ground.
Ya Allah, give me strength.
Protect my family.
Help me study.
Help me remember why I’m here.
When she finished, she sat on the mat for a moment, her hands in her lap.
The room was still dark.
The girls were still asleep.
Then she heard movement.
Aminah’s bed creaked.
C turned her head.
Aminah was sitting up, her dupatta wrapped around her head, her eyes still heavy with sleep.
“Baji,” C whispered.
“Assalam o Alaikum.
How are you now?
How is your leg pain?
Can I press it again?”
Aminah stared at her for a moment.
This girl, she thought.
This fragile, quiet girl.
Woke up before everyone.
Prayed.
And now — now she’s asking about my pain.
She opened her arms.
C hesitated — then leaned in.
Aminah hugged her.
Warm.
Tight.
Sincere.
“Thank you, little girl,” Aminah whispered.
“You are so sweet.”
She pulled back, still holding C’s shoulders.
“One request.”
“Jee, Baji.”
“Can you make tea for me?”
C blinked.
“Jee, Baji.
Where is the kitchen?”
Aminah smiled.
She pointed to the small table near the window.
“No kitchen.
Just here.
Electric kettle.
Milk powder.
Sugar.
Tea bags.”
She showed C how to use the kettle — plug it in, fill with water, press the button.
The water began to heat, soft bubbles rising.
C measured the milk powder.
Added sugar.
Waited.
The way Ami makes tea, she thought.
The way Ami taught me.
When the water boiled, she poured it slowly, stirring gently.
The smell of tea filled the room — warm, familiar, like home.
Aminah went to the washroom.
When she came back, C handed her a cup of tea — hot, sweet, perfect.
And beside it, a small plate of cookies.
Aminah stared.
“What is this?”
C smiled shyly.
“My Ami made them.
Before I left.
She packed them in my bag.
They are called gunzakhy — fry cookies.
Famous in our area.”
Aminah took a bite.
Her eyes widened.
“So yummy,” she said, her mouth half-full.
“So so yummy.”
She ate another.
Then another.
C watched her, a small smile on her lips.
My Ami’s cookies, she thought.
Making someone happy.
Even here.
Even far away.
Aminah finished the tea.
Finished the cookies.
Leaned back, satisfied.
“Why didn’t you make tea for yourself?” she asked.
C shook her head.
“I’m fine, Baji.”
Aminah looked at her — this girl who gave and gave and never took.
Too pure, she thought.
Too pure for this world.
C took the cup, washed it in the washroom, dried it, and put it back in the cupboard.
Everything neat.
Everything clean.
Then she came back to Aminah’s bed.
“Baji, lie down.
I’ll press your legs.”
Aminah lay back.
C began pressing — gently, carefully, the same way she had done for Ami, for Anita D, for anyone who needed help.
Aminah closed her eyes.
“C,” she said softly, “are you engaged?
Or do you have someone special in your life?”
C’s hands paused.
She didn’t understand the question.
Someone special?
“No, Baji.
No fiancé.
Anita Baji is engaged.” She thought for a moment.
“And special — my Baba.
My Ami.
Hamad Bhai.
Bisma.
Anita Baji.”
Aminah opened her eyes.
She looked at C — truly looked at her.
So innocent, she thought.
So pure.
She doesn’t even understand what I’m asking.
She thinks family is the only love.
Aminah smiled and closed her eyes.
“Sleep, Baji,” C said softly.
“I’ll stop now.”
Aminah’s breathing slowed.
C covered her with a blanket and walked back to her bed.
The Laundry Problem
C sat on her bed.
She looked at her bag — the dark blue one, worn at the corners.
She had dirty clothes now.
Four days’ worth.
She needed to wash them.
She went to the washroom, looked for a bucket.
Nothing.
She checked under the sink.
Nothing.
She came back to the room, looked around.
The other girls were still sleeping.
Riya with her red hair spread on the pillow.
Yasmin curled on her side.
Neha with her headphones on.
Who should I ask?
she thought.
I don’t want to wake anyone.
She lay back on her bed.
I’ll ask later, she decided.
When everyone is awake.
She closed her eyes.
Sleep came quickly.
The Villa — 6:00 AM
Azhan walked through the front door.
The house was quiet — too quiet.
His cousins were still asleep, their voices absent, their chaos absent.
He climbed the stairs to his private floor.
Sunday.
His day off.
He should rest.
He should sleep.
He should prepare for the week ahead.
But he didn’t want to rest.
He didn’t want to sleep.
He wanted —
He didn’t know what he wanted.
He sat on the edge of his bed, still in his hospital clothes, and pulled out his phone.
His fingers moved before his mind could stop them.
Riya
Hi Riya.
How is the scholarship girl C?
Is she settled?
He stared at the screen.
The words glowed back at him — innocent, simple, dangerous.
What did I just do?
He pressed send before he could stop himself.
Then he froze.
The phone slipped from his hand onto the bed.
He stood up.
Walked to the window.
Ran his hands through his hair.
Oh shit, he thought.
I asked about a student.
Why did I ask about a student?
Why do I care?
She’s just a favor.
Just a name.
Just a girl with brown eyes and a soft voice and —
He started moving.
Pacing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
His heart was loud.
His mind was louder.
What is wrong with me?
He looked at his phone, lying on the bed, the screen dark.
Maybe she won’t reply, he thought.
Maybe Riya won’t notice.
Maybe —
The phone buzzed.
He stared at it.
Don’t check, he told himself.
Don’t.
Just leave it.
He walked to the phone.
Picked it up.
Riya’s name glowed on the screen.
He opened the message.Room 101 — 8:00 AM
The morning light was soft — pale gold, filtering through the curtains.
Riya was awake, scrolling through her phone.
Her red hair was wild from sleep, but her green eyes were sharp, alert.
Then she saw the message.
Azhan: Hi Riya.
How is the scholarship girl C?
Is she settled?
Riya stared at the screen.
Azhan?
Asking about a girl?
Voluntarily?
She smiled.
Riya: Hi bro.
Why are you asking?
The Villa — 8:02 AM
Azhan’s phone buzzed.
He read her message.
His jaw tightened.
Why am I asking?
Because I can’t stop thinking about her.
Because I dream about her.
Because her eyes —
He typed quickly.
Azhan: Well, uni assigned her to me.
So how is she?
Did she need anything?
He stared at the screen.
Then he started pacing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
What am I doing?
he thought.
Why can’t I stop?
Room 101 — 8:03 AM
Riya read his message.
She smiled wider.
Oh ho, she thought.
Bro is asking about a girl.
Impressive.
She typed back slowly, enjoying herself.
Riya: Ok ok.
Bro is asking about a girl.
Hmmm.
Impressive.
The Villa — 8:03 AM
Azhan’s phone buzzed.
He read her message.
His hand tightened on the phone.
Azhan: Riya, stop.
Nonsense.
He threw the phone on the bed.
Then picked it up again.
Room 101 — 8:04 AM
Riya laughed softly in her bed.
She looked at C — asleep across the room, her dupatta wrapped around her, her face peaceful.
So pure, Riya thought.
So calm.
So different from us.
She typed.
Riya: Well, she is a very sweet girl.
Tomorrow I will show her uni.
So pure.
Relax.
Polite.
Like she is not fit in this fast world.
She paused.
Should I tell him?
She added:
Riya: By the way, she is single.
The Villa — 8:05 AM
Azhan read the message.
She is single.
His heart jumped.
He smiled.
Then he caught himself.
Why am I smiling?
Why do I care if she’s single?
He kept reading.
Riya: She prays 5 times.
Wakes early.
Still reads her books.
No social life.
No Insta.
No phone use.
So simple, bro.
Azhan closed his eyes.
He imagined her — praying at dawn, head covered, voice soft.
Reading her books, lost in another world.
No phone.
No distractions.
Just her and her dreams.
Simple, he thought.
Pure.
Like an angel.
Riya: Bro, are you sure?
She is not like us.
Different.
Pure like an angel.
Azhan stared at the words.
My angel, he thought.
Then he froze.
No.
No, no, no.
I picked her up.
That’s it.
She’s a student.
A favor.
Nothing more.
Not my angel.
Just an ordinary student.
He put the phone down.
Went to the washroom.
Splashed cold water on his face.
Looked at himself in the mirror.
Get a hold of yourself, he told his reflection.
You’re a surgeon.
A professional.
You don’t fall for strangers at airports.
He went back to bed.
Lay down.
Closed his eyes.
But sleep didn’t come.
He picked up his phone again.
Read Riya’s messages again.
She is single.
Pure like an angel.
He read them again.
And again.
And again.
The Dream
He fell asleep.
And he saw her again.
The garden.
The golden-pink sky.
The flowers blooming everywhere — white, pink, yellow.
She was there.
The same white dupatta.
The same covered head.
The same soft presence.
She was praying.
Her mat was spread on the grass.
Her forehead touched the ground.
Her lips moved — soft whispers he couldn’t hear.
Azhan sat on the wooden bench and watched her.
Beautiful, he thought.
Even like this.
Especially like this.
She finished her prayer.
Looked up.
Their eyes met.
Brown.
Blue.
Time stopped.
He stood up.
Walked toward her.
“Hi,” he said softly.
Her voice was soft, barely a whisper.
“Jee.”
His heart beat faster.
“You are beautiful,” he said.
“Like my angel.”
She didn’t reply.
She looked down — at his rings, at his hands, at the ground.
Shy, he thought.
Even in dreams, she’s shy.
“C,” he said gently, “I’m here.
Contact me, okay?”
He remembered — in the car, he had forgotten.
He hadn’t given her his number.
He tried to give it to her now.
But she didn’t take it.
She stepped back.
Farther.
Farther.
Fading into the garden, into the light, into the distance.
“C —”
He reached for her.
But she was gone.
The Awakening
Azhan’s eyes snapped open.
His heart was pounding.
His hand was reaching toward the ceiling — toward nothing.
He lay there, breathing hard.
Just a dream, he thought.
Just a dream.
But his heart didn’t believe him.
The Knock
His phone rang.
Saim.
Azhan picked up, his voice rough.
“Hi.”
Saim’s voice was sharp — he knew Azhan too well.
“You okay?”
“Frustrated,” Azhan muttered.
“Who?” Saim asked immediately.
“Who frustrated you?”
Azhan was quiet.
“Bestie,” Saim pressed.
“Last time you called, you were nervous too.
Who is she?”
“There is no ‘she,'” Azhan said.
“I’m sleeping.
Bye.”
He ended the call.
The Knock
A knock on his door.
Azhan didn’t move.
“Sleeping.”
The door opened.
Saim walked in.
Tall.
Six foot one.
Green eyes.
Sharp nose.
Stylish but simple — no earrings, no lip ring, just clean American confidence.
He was handsome — but next to Azhan, he knew he was the less beautiful one.
Azhan was something else entirely.
Saim sat on the edge of the massive bed — the Ferrari of beds, long and sleek and expensive.
“Bestie,” he said.
“Who is she?
Last call, you were trouble.
Now you’re trouble again.
Who is she?”
Azhan closed his eyes.
“No one.
I’m sleeping.”
Saim lay down on the other side of the bed.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me.”
Azhan sighed.
But he didn’t say anything.
And Saim — patient, loyal Saim — waited.
Room 101 — 8:30 AM
C opened her eyes.
The room was brighter now.
Girls were waking up — stretching, yawning, climbing down from bunks.
She saw Riya awake, scrolling through her phone.
C sat up.
Her dupatta was still wrapped around her head, her long kameez shalwar still neat.
“Baji,” she said softly.
“Assalam o Alaikum.
Where is the bucket?”
Riya looked up.
“What bucket, little girl?”
“For washing clothes.
Anita D and I — we soaked clothes in a bucket first.
Then we washed in the machine.”
Riya stared at her.
So pure, she thought.
So innocent.
She doesn’t know.
Riya smiled.
“Well,” she said, “there is no bucket.
But I will show you the magic room.
You want to see?”
C blinked.
“What is magic, Baji?”
Riya laughed softly.
Oh God, she thought.
So pure.
My bro is already in trouble.
He asked about a girl for the first time.
I saw his eyes the day he dropped her.
Yes, she thought.
He fell in love.
She looked at Sophia, who was climbing down from her bunk.
“Come, junior.
I’ll show you the magic room.”
Sophia laughed.
“I already saw it.
But let’s go.
Let C see.”
C looked between them, confused but curious.
“Come,” Riya said, grabbing her hand.
The Basement
They walked downstairs.
Through the hallway.
Past the study room.
Past the game room.
To a door at the end of the corridor.
Riya pushed it open.
LAUNDRY ROOM
C stepped inside.
Her eyes widened.
Rows and rows of washing machines lined the walls — huge, white, gleaming.
Dryers stood beside them, metal drums humming softly.
Students sat on benches, waiting, scrolling through their phones.
C looked at Riya.
“How…
how do girls wash and dry?”
Riya grinned.
“Magic, little girl.
Magic.”
The Laundry Room — 9:00 AM
C stared at the massive machine.
Metal drum.
Glass door.
Buttons and lights and sounds she didn’t understand.
“How do they wash?” she asked again, her voice small.
Riya grinned.
“Magic, little girl.
Watch.”
She took C’s clothes — the small pile of dirty things C had been carrying — and placed them inside the machine.
Then she poured a small amount of washing powder into a slot.
“See this?
You put the powder here.
Then you close the door.
Then —”
She pressed a button.
The machine beeped.
“Then you put one dollar coin here.”
She inserted the coin.
The machine hummed to life.
C watched, wide-eyed.
Water, she thought.
It fills itself.
It washes itself.
Without a bucket.
Without soaking.
Without scrubbing.
Riya turned to her.
“One hour.
It will be done.
Then you dry.”
C reached into her small purse.
“Baji, take my money, please.”
Riya waved her hand.
“It’s a dollar.
It’s okay.
On me.”
She smiled and left, her footsteps fading down the hallway.
C stayed.
Sophia stayed too, leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone.
The machine hummed.
Water swirled behind the glass door.
C’s clothes tumbled — round and round, like they were dancing.
One day, she thought, I will buy this magic machine for Ami.
One day.
The Question
Sophia looked up from her phone.
“So, C,” she said casually, “do you have a boyfriend?”
C blinked.
“What?
I have…
what?”
Sophia laughed — a soft, kind laugh.
She understood.
She doesn’t even know the word, Sophia thought.
“Boyfriend,” Sophia repeated.
“Are you engaged?”
C’s confusion deepened.
“No.
I don’t have a friend.
Boy.
Even girl friends — I didn’t have in college.
Or school.”
She paused, thinking.
“Books were my friends.
Studies were my friends.”
Sophia looked at her — this fragile, innocent girl who had never been hugged outside her family, who had never been asked about boyfriends or engagements or love.
“So what am I to you?” Sophia asked softly.
C looked at her.
Really looked.
“You are my hostel friend,” she said simply.
“My first friend.
All you girls — Riya Baji, Aminah Baji, Yasmin, Neha — you are like my sisters.”
Sophia’s heart melted.
She hugged C — warm, tight, sincere.
“Oh, cutie pie.”
C stiffened for a moment — then relaxed.
“Why do you all hug each other so easily?” she asked, her voice muffled against Sophia’s shoulder.
Sophia laughed.
“Because we like each other.”
“Who do you hug?” she asked.
C pulled back, thinking.
“My Ami.”
Sophia smiled.
Of course, she thought.
Only her mother.
Only family.
C turned back to the machine.
Her clothes tumbled behind the glass door.
One day, she thought again, I will buy this for Ami.
She won’t have to scrub anymore.
Her hands won’t hurt anymore.
The Question Back
Sophia leaned against the wall.
“C, ask me.
Do I have a boyfriend?”
C looked at her, confused.
“Why would I ask that?
That’s too personal.”
Sophia laughed.
“Ask anyway.”
C pouted — a small, childish pout.
“No.”
“Please,” Sophia begged, grinning.
“Then you answer,” C said, crossing her arms.
Sophia laughed again.
Then she hugged her — again.
“My innocent girl,” she said.
“I wish I had a brother.”
C looked at her, confused.
Why would she wish for a brother?
she thought.
Brothers are normal.
Everyone has brothers.
She doesn’t have a brother?
She didn’t understand.
But she didn’t ask.
Sophia pulled back, still smiling.
“Well,” she said, “I have a boyfriend.
His name is Peter Stewart.”
C’s eyes sharpened.
Stewart.
The same last name as Riya.
“Stewart?” she asked.
“Like Riya Baji?”
Sophia nodded.
“Yes.
Peter is Riya’s cousin.
They’re from the same family.”
C filed the information away.
Peter Stewart, she thought.
Riya’s cousin.
Sophia’s boyfriend.
She didn’t know why she remembered.
But her memory was sharp — always sharp.
She didn’t ask more.
The machine hummed.
The clothes tumbled.
And C watched the water swirl, thinking of Ami’s hands, and magic machines, and a future she was only beginning to imagine.The Laundry Room — 10:00 AM
The machine stopped.
The humming faded.
The water drained.
The glass door clicked open.
C peered inside.
Her clothes were dry.
Not wet.
Not dripping.
Not heavy.
Dry, she thought.
Like they had been hanging in the sun for hours.
She pulled them out slowly, touching the fabric, feeling the warmth.
“How…?” she whispered.
Sophia laughed.
“Magic, remember?”
C didn’t understand.
But she smiled anyway.
She folded each piece carefully — neatly, precisely, the way Ami had taught her.
Corners aligned.
Creases sharp.
Stacked in perfect order.
Sophia watched her.
“You’re a neat freak,” she said.
C looked up, confused.
“Neat freak?”
“Meaning — you like everything clean.
Organized.
Perfect.”
C thought about it.
Yes, she thought.
I do.
She smiled and finished folding.
Upstairs — Room 101 — 10:15 AM
They came back to the room.
The morning light was brighter now — gold and warm, spilling through the curtains.
C cleaned her bed first.
Straightened the sheets.
Fluffed the pillow.
Arranged her dupatta neatly at the foot of the bed.
Yasmin and Sophia helped too — wiping surfaces, organizing the small table near the window, sweeping the floor.
The room felt lighter.
Cleaner.
Happier.
C saw Aminah awake, sitting up in her bed, her dupatta wrapped around her head.
“Baji,” C said softly, walking to her.
“How are you?”
Aminah smiled — a real smile, warm and grateful.
“I’m good, thank you.
The cookies…
do you have any left?”
C nodded.
She went to her cupboard, opened the small bag Ami had packed, and took out four more gunzakhy — the fry cookies, golden and crispy, smelling of home.
She brought them to Aminah.
Aminah took one.
Bite.
Chewed.
Closed her eyes.
“So yummy,” she said.
She broke the rest into pieces and handed them around.
“Here.
You all try.”
Riya took a piece.
Sophia took a piece.
Yasmin took a piece.
Neha took a piece.
They ate in silence — chewing, nodding, eyes widening.
Riya looked at C.
“What is this called?”
“Gunzakhy,” C said softly.
“Fry cookie.
It’s famous in our area.”
“It’s so yummy,” Riya said, reaching for another piece.
“Do you know the recipe?
Did you cook it?”
C shook her head.
“No, my Ami made it.
But I know the recipe.
I helped her with chopping.
I watched her make it.”
Neha leaned back.
“That’s good.
One day we go to Riya’s house.
You make, okay?”
C blinked.
Riya’s house?
Riya grinned.
“Sure.
I told you — my cousins live there too.
They all come to my home.
One day, we all go.
Okay?”
C didn’t know what to say.
Cousins, she thought.
Azhan’s cousins.
Azhan’s house.
She felt something strange in her chest — a flutter, a heat, a confusion.
She pushed it away.
She looked at Aminah.
“Baji, should I make you tea again?”
Aminah laughed — a soft, happy laugh.
“C, I’m thinking…
one day, your man will be so lucky.
The way you care for me — I wish I had a single brother.”
C looked at Sophia, confused.
Man?
she thought.
What man?
Why does everyone keep talking about men?
Her confused face made all the girls laugh.
The Message
Riya picked up her phone.
She broke a piece of the cookie, placed it on a napkin, and took a picture.
Riya: Bro, her Ami is a chef.
This thing is really tasty.
Well.
She pressed send.
The Villa — 10:20 AM
Azhan’s phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
A cookie.
Golden.
Crispy.
Unknown.
Riya: Bro, her Ami is a chef.
This thing is really tasty.
Well.
He smiled.
Then he typed quickly — too quickly.
Azhan: What is this?
Riya, did she know the recipe?
Saim was lying on the other side of the bed, watching him.
“Bestie,” Saim said slowly, “you’re texting.
Who?”
Azhan didn’t look up.
“Riya.”
Saim raised an eyebrow.
“Why?
Is she the one?”
Azhan’s jaw tightened.
“Bestie —”
Saim laughed.
“I know your taste.
It isn’t that bad.”
Azhan finally looked at him.
“I don’t have taste.”
Saim closed his eyes.
Sure, he thought.
Sure you don’t.
The Jealousy
Another message came.
Riya: Yeah, she knows the recipe.
By the way, in this room, half the girls wish they had a brother.
Azhan stared at the screen.
Half the girls wish they had a brother.
Why?
What brother?
Whose brother?
He typed.
Azhan: ???
Riya: Nothing.
Azhan stared at the word.
Nothing.
But it felt like something.
Something he didn’t understand.
Something that made his chest tight.
He put the phone down.
Saim was watching him.
“Bestie,” Saim said softly, “who is she?”
Azhan closed his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
“I don’t know who she is.”
But I can’t stop thinking about her.
He didn’t say that part.
But Saim already knew.
He asked about her — just one text, A simple question, nothing next.
But hearts don’t follow logic’s rules, Especially not this surgeon’s jewels.
She looked for buckets, looked for soap, A world she’s learning how to cope.
He dreams of gardens, dreams of eyes, She wonders at the machine’s surprise.
Two worlds apart, two hearts confused, One gently loved, one long abused— By silence, walls, and years of cold, A story waiting to unfold.