The accused-1

The Accused


She was an extremely beautiful Musalmān girl in burkah.

I did not think she was more than 32, and less than 28.

She had raised the naqāb of her burqah.

What a fashion in Muslimahs !

Why did they wear burkah ab initio if they want their extremely beautiful faces to be revealed?

Perhaps by way of habit!

Perhaps because pressure from her guardians/society/husband.

I didn’t know, neither I cared to.

I was interested in her beauty, not in he reason why she was reveling it.

“Hello!” I addressed her.

She turned to look at me.

Her eyes became cold,


“Excuse me, please!”


“I’m not sure, but it maybe I’ve seen you in Anwar’s house.”

“What do you want?” her voice was ice cold.

She had opened her purse, taken out her mobile and was ready to punch some number.

“Nothing, if you don’t know Anwar and your name is not Raziyah.” I said politely.

“Want me to call the Police?”

“Sorry, perhaps I’m mistaken.”

“You are certainly not.”She said curtly, “you are trying to cultivate me. I know you.”

“I’m honored, madam, that you know me.”

“Get lost.”

“Sure. I’m sorry not to have perfect knowledge about you.” I said and really meant it.

She was really that much beautiful.

There was no need now to offer lift to her.

It was useless.

She was modern, yet not interested in me.



It’s also not impossible.

There might be so many reasons.

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