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Finding Out
Finding Out
Finding Out
Ebook116 pages47 minutes

Finding Out

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A change of perspective changes hearts in this truly uplifting novel by S. H. Miah, written entirely in poetic verse.

Jannah Begum hates her life. Estranged from her husband Ramin and grieving the loss of her beloved father, she battles her days baking in her uncle's bakery.

But when complications arise, Jannah juggles far more than she can handle. From jealousy and spite to the realities of love, life tests Jannah beyond anything she could've ever imagined.

And for her true self to shine through requires the greatest realisation.

Part romantic, all heartwarming and poignant, this novel by S. H. Miah, written entirely in poetic verse, explores how changing our perspectives can change our lives.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateAug 21, 2023
ISBN9798223724780
Finding Out
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    Book preview

    Finding Out - S. H. Miah

    Finding Out

    An uplifting novel written in poetic verse

    S. H. Miah

    Muslim Fiction Project

    Copyright © 2023 by S. H. Miah

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

    This publication is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

    Contents

    Disclaimer

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    Newsletter

    About MFP

    About S. H. Miah

    Disclaimer

    I ask readers to understand that, in telling any story of mine, a main character may do un-islamic or prohibited things due to their flaws or ignorance. I assure that there is a positive character arc at play in all my stories, and ask of you to remain patient and see it through.

    JazakAllahu Khairan for reading.

    1

    I hate my life.

    Can I just say that, please?

    Gosh, I feel like a sleaze.

    Jannah Begum, brought to her knees.

    By what, you may ask?

    Well, a little something called

    An annoying husband.

    The bane of my existence.

    Ramin is his name.

    Got a lovely face, wide smile—

    No, he's ugly, demonic grin,

    Feral eyes with evil within.

    And I can't stand him.

    Absolute menace.

    Takes the piss,

    If you get what I mean.

    Anyway, I'm sitting here now,

    A week after our divorce,

    Where he gave me the 't' word,

    And all hell broke loose.

    The blinds here are shut like

    They're hiding the outside world.

    This sofa is scraggly, old,

    And makes my back hurt.

    The air smells of dust,

    And pretty much nothing else.

    And it tastes like I've just been,

    By my husband, burnt.

    Oh well, what else is there to do?

    I guess with some things you just have to

    Get on with it. Get it over with.

    Pull up your socks, don't love and let live.

    The living room has a small TV

    On the left, a flat screen that's thick,

    Flimsy as if made from cardboard,

    And every time it turns on it makes a crick.

    The square mirror high on the wall scares me.

    I've been caught out more than once,

    Now that I'm tall enough to see my reflection.

    I look harrowed. Brown eyes more black,

    No smile, not even a little. Tan skin brittle.

    Black hair dishevelled like a hornet's nest.

    Not like I have a husband to look good for.

    I don't dare stand again and stare,

    For I might see something in myself

    I wish I never had. So I sit

    In this sofa more dead than my marriage,

    And wait for the incoming apocalypse.

    2

    Mum's here now, waltzing,

    Into the living room,

    And her eyes find me.

    The room is still dark,

    With the blinds drawn in.

    I feel trapped, as if

    The cream painted walls are closing in.

    And when Mum sits down,

    I can see her thoughts churning.

    She's been thinking about this conversation.

    What she would say, what I'll respond.

    Her responses back. Tit for tat.

    We'll go forth and back,

    Like it's a Wimbledon tennis match.

    And I'm ready, as I dig into this shoddy sofa,

    For the worst of her attacks.

    You need to go back, she says.

    I shake my head, knowing she's

    Merely saying that for her own self.

    Ramin has parents with wealth,

    Though I didn't know at first.

    They're land tycoons,

    Back in Bangladesh, with large stashes

    Of crops to sell, to eventually harvest.

    That yearly income causes Mum

    To latch onto him like her own son.

    Whilst I only want to run.

    Ramin's family never liked me, not even some.

    Mum shifts her body over,

    Her frame creaking the nylon sofa.

    She's a single parent, a lot older

    Than a typical parent with a daughter

    Of twenty-five years. I touch her hand,

    It's warm and feverish. She's ill, I can feel it.

    Don't worry yourself too much, I say,

    And she merely nods her head.

    Some things we know are logical,

    But they just can't get through our brains.

    Trust in Allah, okay. That's what I say.

    Because, truly, what else can we do, instead?

    You made a mistake, Mum says,

    And I feel my heart lurch, like it's a

    Washing machine that's just turned on.

    Spinning round and round around

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