Do not be satisfied with the stories that come before you. Unfold your own myth."
— Rumi
Chapter 38
I Dreamt That I Was Floating—But This Time, Not on Water
I was suspended in the vastness of space, weightless, drifting through a cosmos of endless wonders. Around me, galaxies stretched like glowing rivers, and constellations shimmered like celestial chandeliers. The darkness was not empty but alive, humming with the energy of the stars. I reached out, and my fingertips brushed against the shimmering dust of a nebula, soft as silk.
It felt peaceful. Limitless. As if I had become one with the universe itself.
Then, I felt a shift—a tug, an unseen force pulling me downward. The weightlessness faded, replaced by the sensation of falling. Stars blurred past me, streaking like comets, as I plummeted through space at an impossible speed. Panic seized me, but there was no ground, no end in sight—just an infinite free fall through the void.
Just as the terror reached its peak, the scene shifted. I landed—not on hard ground, not on any planet, but in the middle of a vast field of golden grass. The sky above was no longer black but a deep, fiery orange, as if the sun was setting across an alien world. The wind whispered through the grass, calling my name.
My sleepwalking had finally led me to the edge of the cliff.
To death's door itself.
If it hadn't been for one of the night guards who had noticed an unusual form in the water, I would have drowned long before Fajr.
By the time I was led back to my bedroom, wrapped in a warm blanket, I was shaken, and not just from the cold. It felt like I was truly possessed by something I had no control over.
"Zeynep, let me take you to see my Imam," madam Maria said, worry etched all over her face. Over the years, she had substituted her spiritualists for a series of Islamic scholars, each one reminding her of the importance of ruqyah and dhikr. "This is not just sleepwalking. You've been fighting unseen forces for too long. We have to fight them back with Qur'an and du'a."
I nodded listlessly. At that point, I was ready to try just about anything. It frightened me how vivid this experience had been, but, even more so, how unwilling I had been to fight for my life. I knew then that I couldn't allow my sleepwalking to continue much longer.
Later that morning, the minister and I made our way to downtown Boston, where Dr. Waverson's hospital was located.
A modest three-story building, it had been the town's only means of healthcare, with the amiable doctor happy to attend to patients from 7 a.m. to midnight. The old man lived for his practice and was beloved by the entire community, in and outside of Boston. When he died, his young protégé took over, but he had neither the patience nor the temperament to continue.
With the old doctor barely charging his patients a cent, there wasn't much money to be made from the place, a truth the new doctor found too bitter to accept. And so, less than a year after taking over, the hospital was shut down and had remained desolate in the three years since.
But from the look of things, Dr. Jacobi waverson had grand plans for the place.
The building wore a fresh coat of paint, and modern fittings had replaced the forlorn windows and rusty doors that had been there before. Inside, even the old furniture had given way to contemporary and functional seating.
I looked around, on one hand impressed by the calming hues of cream, mint, and lavender, and the tasteful pieces of Islamic calligraphy hanging on the walls, verses of the Qur'an inscribed beautifully in gold. "And We send down in the Qur'an that which is a healing and a mercy to those who believe." (Surah Al-Isra 17:82).
But on the other hand, I couldn't help but scoff at the pretentiousness of it all. Why do all this for a small town clinic, where he could only charge patients so much? It didn't make sense.
"Assalamu alaikum, Sir. Wa alaikum salam, Ma'am,"Jacobi greeted, walking out of his father's old office. "I saw you arrive from my window."
"Where are your nurses? Are you the only one here?" The minister asked.
Jacobi smiled. "I'm still in the process of hiring suitable hands. Remember, I did tell you it would be at least a few weeks before we can attend to patients."
"I like what you've done with the place, though," the minister remarked, looking around. "But isn't it a bit much for the local people here? It looks like you have spent a lot of money."
"I've had a good deal of support," Jacobi answered. "A few of my colleagues back in the U.K. have partnered with me on this project, more as a way for us to give back. Some of them will even be flying in occasionally, to treat the patients here for the sake of Allah."
"For the sake of Allah?" The minister repeated, confused.
"Yes, charity (sadaqah). It's an obligation for us as Muslims to give back," Jacobi answered.
"Is your wife one of these doctors? When is she coming to join you?" the minister asked.
"Very soon, Sir."
"With your family? Your children?"
"All of them," he answered, a bit too hastily, before turning around to lead us to his office.
Inside, I smiled at the large portrait of his father hanging on the wall. He had been one of the kindest human beings I'd ever met in my life, and even though I'd been relieved I would no longer be pumped with drugs in his failed attempt to contain my illness, I'd been genuinely upset when he passed away.
"I'm sorry for the mess," Jacobi said, shifting aside a huge pile of folders. "In between conducting interviews, I've been trying to convert old records to a digital and easier accessible format. It's easier to track and monitor a patient's history that way."
"Doctor, let's focus on the real issue here. She is not very fine, as you can see," the minister retorted, getting impatient.
"We need to rule out any case of delayed drowning, Sir. This happens in a lot of cases," Jacobi answered firmly.
"I've heard you. But let's pay more attention to the trigger, if not, maybe it's every day we will be treating this 'delayed drowning'!" the minister insisted.
Jacobi looked through a worn paper folder on his table and shook his head. "Sir, after our discussion yesterday, I went looking for your wife's file. Frankly, I can't understand why my father had her on such a high dose of anti-depressants and tranquillizers. It makes no sense to me. Did they even work at all?"
I shook my head. "Only the first night he prescribed them. After that, they had no effect. Nothing changed."
Jacobi pondered over that. "Zeynep, are you a practicing Muslim?"
I hesitated before nodding. "Yes."
"Have you tried seeking ruqyah from a qualified scholar?" he asked. "Sometimes, what we suffer is not just of the mind, but of the soul."
I thought about madam maria's insistence, about the Qur'anic verses she had played on repeat in my room.
"Doctor, we are here for medical solutions, not superstitions," the Minister cut in.
Jacobi sighed. "Sir, Islam itself promotes medicine. The Prophet (peace be upon him) said, 'There is no disease that Allah has created, except that He also has created its treatment.' But sometimes, healing requires both physical and spiritual intervention."
I looked down at my hands, unsure what I believed anymore.
Maybe it was time to seek healing from all angles.
"Minister, I don't think I have the expertise to treat your wife's condition, and, may Allah grant him Jannah, neither did my father from all indications. Maybe she could see a clinical psychologist or an occupational therapist…"
"My wife is not a majnūnah," the minister retorted. "She has a problem, yes, but it hasn't gotten to that stage yet."
"Frankly, I think her 'aql is just idle. She does nothing from morning to night and just roams around the compound all day, playing with flowers. I think that's what is wasting away her mind."
Jacobi glanced at me again before shrugging. "I'm no expert, and I have yet to come across any empirical correlation between idleness and mental health. But I guess it wouldn't be a bad idea to get her engaged in something. Maybe if she is busy during the day, she might be too tired at night to sleepwalk."
"Exactly!"
Jacobi started to write. "So, Ma'am… are there any things you like to do? Any activities you'd want to sign up for? Swimming? Tennis? Or maybe you could become active in one of your religious societies? Maybe a women's halaqah or charity work?" He shrugged again. "Or you could come help out here as well. That way, I'll be able to keep a closer eye on you."
I almost burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. As if the minister, a man who wouldn't even let me have a mobile phone, would allow me to leave the ranch to get an actual job.
"I like that. I like that suggestion," the minister said, to my surprise. "You don't even have to pay her. Let her just be able to leave the house and make herself useful. In fact, thinking about it, I'm very sure that's what she needs."
"Ma'am will most definitely be paid, Sir," Jacobi answered, smiling. "I just hope what the hospital can afford won't be an insult to her."
The minister hissed. "If that's the only problem, then we have no problem!" he declared, rising to his feet. "She can even start now."
I looked up at my husband in a state of panic. "I don't think the doctor is ready for me…"
"Nonsense. Didn't you see how he was struggling with all those files?" The minister answered before turning to Jacobi. "Unfortunately, she is not very educated, so you just have to make do with her limited capacity."
Jacobi looked my way, clearly embarrassed for me. "From what I have observed, I think she is more than smart enough."
"Great," the minister beamed. "Zeynep, my lovely wife. I'm sure you can find your way back home. And please, don't argue with the doctor about any work. Whatever he says he will pay you, collect. Wallahi, I would even gladly pay him if this will mean that your rubbish will stop."
I looked on, mouth agape, as Jacobi saw the minister out and was still like that when he returned to the room. For someone who had kept me caged like an animal for decades, this sudden push into the wild was something I had difficulty wrapping my head around.
"So, Ma'am…" Jacobi began, taking his seat.
"My name is Zeynep," was my curt answer.
He nodded and smiled. "Apologies. So, Zeynep, I find it hard to believe you're as uneducated as your husband said. There aren't many illiterate people who know the meaning of pro bono."
I shrugged. "Well, he said the truth. I'm not educated."
"You didn't go beyond primary school?"
I scowled at the insult. "I left school a few weeks shy of starting my ICSE (Indian Certificate of Secondary Education)."
"That's not at all illiterate," he said. "Why didn't you finish?"
"I got married," was my matter-of-fact answer.
He nodded, though I could see several questions still on his face. "Do you know how to use a computer?"
"No," I answered, suddenly angry with myself for not teaching myself with the one in the house study. "But I know how to type. I can use a typewriter very well."
Well, as well as anyone who hadn't touched the machine in twenty years could.
Jacobi pondered over that. "Well, I guess that's fair enough. The same basic principles… in a way." He looked up at me. "So, you mean you've never worked before? Never had a job in your life?"
I would have been stiff at this question, but… I had learned long ago that certain answers kept the peace.
"I used to work for my neighbors during the holidays," I answered quickly, forcing a smile. "I watched their small business and also helped them with bookkeeping."
It wasn't entirely a lie. I had helped out when I could—before marriage took everything from me. Before my husband decided my only purpose was to be his wife and nothing more.
Jacobi arched his brow. "Impressive."
"I was also best in Mathematics, Chemistry, Physics, and Geography," I added, the words spilling out before I could stop them, desperate to make myself sound useful—valuable.
I held my breath, waiting for him to react, half-expecting the usual look of doubt or dismissal I had grown accustomed to. The one that always preceded a scolding, or worse.
"So why on earth didn't you go to university?" he asked, leaning forward in his bewilderment. "Your parents couldn't afford it?"
All my defenses immediately went up. "Something like that," I answered, my tone and body language now stiff.
Catching on to the change in my demeanor, he thankfully changed the topic. "There really isn't that much to do here. I've already hired an administrator who will be starting work in about a week or so. I guess you could start by helping me with some small data entry. Transferring information from these," he patted the large pile of folders, "to that," he added, pointing at his laptop. "You know how to type, so it shouldn't be a big deal."
I looked at the laptop like it was the devil, sick to my stomach about making a fool of myself.