🌧️
Zayan did not cry for long.
Not because he was strong — but because grief had not yet taught him its alphabet.
He sat at the kitchen table, legs swinging uselessly, feet never touching the floor, staring at the empty chair where his mother once sat. Her chai cup remained there, a faint lipstick stain like a ghost that refused to fade.
Then came Nani Rahima — not merely a grandmother, but a woman who seemed to belong to a kinder timeline.
She smelled of cardamom, old paper, and rosewater prayers whispered at dawn. She moved slowly, deliberately, as though rushing would fracture something invisible.
She poured him chai — extra sugar, extra cardamom — and draped a warm blanket over his shoulders like ceremonial armor.
"Why didn't they take me?" Zayan asked, his voice thin, distorted, like a radio losing signal.
Nani Rahima sat beside him, tracing the rim of her cup with one finger.
"They didn't leave you because you were too small," she said.
"They left because you were too heavy. Too much love. Too much responsibility. Too much truth about who they were becoming. They thought you'd weigh down their wings."
She stirred the tea slowly, as if turning time backward.
"But listen, habibi. In the Kingdom of Noor, children don't wait for parents who may never return. They build their own castles. With broken bricks. With stolen dreams. With laughter that echoes louder than silence."
"Did Princess Noor have parents?" he asked.
Nani Rahima smiled — the kind of smile that carried stars behind it.
"No. She had the sky. And a dog named Muffin. And a notebook full of spells that turned sorrow into songs. She wrote once:
'I am the child no one chose — but I chose myself.'"
She handed him an old notebook — frayed, incense-scented, waiting.
"Write your spells here," she said.
"Not anger. Not revenge. Only truth."
That night, Zayan drew a boy on a mountain, holding a stethoscope, stars above him spelling:
I AM ENOUGH.
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🌸 DAILY LIFE WITH NANI — AGE 6 TO 8
Life settled into rituals.
Morning chai.
Evening stories.
Night prayers whispered into his hair:
"May you find your purpose before you lose your heart."
She taught him to cook lentils slowly, to let flavors bloom. To fix broken toys with patience. To laugh deliberately — because laughter, she said, was the only weapon that never scarred the wielder.
At school, they called him orphan, ghost, forgotten.
At home, he was Zayan.
There was a guy in school named Rohan who bullied zayan and said that he is a brat with parents who left him alone...
Those times the teachers listened but stayed silent... Didn't say a word .... Because Rohans parents were rich and gave the school funds....
Meanwhile there was Lia who stayed with him fought for him.... And Aryan who rode bicycle to school and then home... He was called the silent rider.... Aryan stayed behind being a protective shield for Zayan.. Without him noticing....
One afternoon, after Rohan stole his lunch yet again, Zayan returned home with silent tears streaking his cheeks.
Nani Rahima listened without interrupting. Then she said:
"Rohan doesn't steal your food, Zayan. He steals your belief that you deserve it. But you do. You deserve space. Warmth. Dreams. Even if he can't see you — I can."
She handed him a small clay pot. Inside lay dark soil and pale seeds.
"Plant these," she said softly.
"Every day, water them."
Zayan looked up.
"And if nothing grows?"
Nani Rahima smiled.
"Then you will still have learned how to care for something.
And one day, when someone trusts you with their heart — you will know how to stay."
He planted the seeds.
And without knowing it yet,
he began growing himself.