As we checked into our hotel room, the portrait on the wall grabbed my attention. There was such a phenomenal difference between myself and the girl in the portrait. With my green abaya and khimar I felt like a queen, with no one being able to judge me by my body.

A stolen glance,
A flicker of the eyes,
A gaze upheld
When better it is to be blind.

If not in Ramadhan then when will you begin to see?
That the life you live is like an ephemeral tree.
A seed sown, cultivated, beautiful to see,
Soon to be withered, dead, enclosed by soil and sea.

But something went wrong yesterday. My hijab backfired on me. Usually I keep a distance with males, and I speak only when it is necessary and avoid engaging in random chit chat. When I do converse I maintain a stern demeanor and try to lower my gaze.

My (somewhat colourful) past is gnawing away at me like a particularly troublesome termite that nibbles stealthily inside a piece of furniture. I stand dangerously like the infested chair, threatening to fall at any moment as I brood pensively, my mind entangled in a host of memories best left forgotten.