It was a bright and pleasant Friday morning in Willesden. The sky, unusually clear for London, wore a soft blue. The crisp air carried a sense of lightness that only a coming weekend could bring.
Washma felt a subtle shift in her mood. The past few days had been heavy, strange, and at times, deeply unsettling—but today, there was something else. Excitement. Comfort. A growing sense of belonging.
Ali Bhai and Amna Bhabhi had made a special plan for the Saturday evening: they were taking her for high tea at the" The Ritz" London, one of the most prestigious five-star hotels in the city. It was to be Washma's first real outing in a place of luxury, and her heart fluttered at the idea of dressing up, sipping tea in delicate China cups, and feeling, for once, a part of something elegant.
That morning, she sat in the living room on the wide beige sofa. The TV was off, the house unusually quiet. Across the room, Uncle Rehmat was seated at the dining table, his newspaper unfolded but his focus on her.
"You look happier today," he said warmly.
Washma smiled, tucking her long hair under her scarf. "Maybe I am. I'm getting used to things here now, slowly."
"I'm glad," he nodded. "You remind me of your grandfather when you smile—there's something noble in it."
Washma blushed, her heart swelling with warmth. "Uncle, I'm going to make tea for you today."
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "You know how to make tea?"
"I'm learning," she giggled. "But you'll have to guide me."
He laughed and told her his preferences—strong tea, one sugar, no cardamom.
She moved to the kitchen, humming softly. As the water boiled, she felt something close to peace—a rare emotion in this new country.
Just then, the front door slammed.
Adeel entered the living room, his steps rushed, his expression dark. His hair was unkempt, and his jaw clenched in frustration.
"Dad, I need some money," he said sharply.
Uncle Rehmat looked up calmly. "What's wrong?"
"Had an interview. Didn't get the job," he said, irritated. "Whatever. I've invited my friends tonight. We're doing sheesha, snacks, maybe a few drinks. I need cash."
Uncle sighed, setting the paper aside. "If you don't have money, maybe it's not the right time to throw a party."
"I don't need a lecture," Adeel snapped. "If you don't want to give me, I'll ask Saliha."
"How much?" Uncle asked quietly, already reaching for his wallet.
As Adeel muttered the amount, Washma walked in with two steaming cups of tea. She stopped, sensing the tension. Her gaze flicked between father and son.
Adeel glanced at her—cold, unreadable—and walked past without a word.
She handed the cup to Uncle, who offered her a weary smile. "You made it just right," he said.
But Washma could still feel the sharpness of Adeel's eyes.
She tried to shake it off. Tomorrow evening was supposed to be different. Something beautiful was waiting. A glimpse of another world—a better one.
And she wasn't going to let Adeel's bitterness dim her light.
---
A House That Never Slept
Evening fell, and with it came the dark side of the house.
The moment the sun dipped below the rooftops of Willesden, Adeel's energy changed. He was busy in the kitchen earlier, pulling out packets of snacks, drinks from the fridge, and setting up the sheesha in the living room. His friends began to arrive one by one—loud voices, laughter too big for the space, their casual presence claiming the house like it was theirs.
By 9 p.m., the living area was drowned in clouds of fruity sheesha smoke, the smell of burning coal mixed with energy drinks and cheap aftershave. The curtains were drawn, the windows half-opened, but the air had turned heavy, suffocating.
Washma sat quietly on her thin mattress in the bedroom she shared with Uncle Rehmat and his wife. But that night, the room didn't feel safe. It was noisy, full of tension, and most of all, not hers.
From the gap under the door, flashes of coloured lights slipped in—coming from the TV screen blasting music videos. Adeel's friends walked freely in and out of the hallway, going to the bathroom, grabbing drinks from the fridge, even wandering towards the bedrooms as if the house belonged to all of them.
And twice, Adeel himself entered the room where Washma was supposed to rest—without knocking. Once he claimed he was looking for a charger, the second time just glanced around and said, "Oh sorry, I didn't know you were here."
But Washma knew better. The way his eyes swept over her—the slight smirk, the lack of apology—it wasn't just ignorance. It was discomfort turned deliberate.
She wrapped herself tighter in her shawl, her back against the wall, pretending to scroll on the spare mobile Ali Bhai had given her.
She could hear laughter and coughing, a glass breaking, someone shouting over music. There was no peace. No corner in the house she could escape to. Not even the children's room—Ali Bhai and Amna Bhabhi's room—was an option. It was already packed with their three daughters on the bed and mattress.
That room, despite its noise and toys, felt like the safest place in the house, but it wasn't available to her.
The only thing Washma could do was wait. Wait for the music to stop. Wait for Adeel's friends to leave. Wait for the house to sleep.
But the house never really slept that night.
And neither did she.
---
A Different World
The next morning, rays of sunlight pierced through the kitchen window, bouncing off the steel sink, and for the first time in days, Washma felt something close to relief.
After a sleepless night filled with discomfort, smoke, and loud music, Washma woke up with a tired face and heavy eyes. The warmth of Amna Bhabhi's morning smile as she returned from a short grocery trip made things a little easier.
Ali bhai came into the living room and noticed Washma's drained expression. "You didn't sleep well, right?" he asked softly.
Washma gave a hesitant smile and nodded. "It was a bit noisy…"
Ali bhai sighed, "I'm sorry for that. But forget that now — we're taking you out today! Get ready for some royal vibes. We're going to The Ritz London for afternoon tea."
Washma's eyes lit up. "The Ritz? The real one?"
Amna bhabhi smiled warmly. "Yes, the real one. You'll love it."
It was Washma's first outing to a place so elegant and iconic. She quickly went to change into one of her favourite modest outfits — a soft pastel-coloured dress with a delicate scarf that matched her personality. She carefully added a light touch of makeup, her nerves beginning to settle as excitement replaced tension.
---
Arrival at The Ritz
As they reached Piccadilly, the grand white building of The Ritz stood like a dream — ornate golden doors, polished doormen in top hats, and a red carpet rolled out like royalty awaited.
The girls gasped in excitement.
"Is this a palace?" Hania whispered, eyes wide.
"No," Haya corrected her, "It's better — they have cake!"
Washma couldn't help but laugh. For a moment, her heart felt light. She took in the marble floors, the grand chandeliers, and the way the hotel carried a timeless elegance — like stepping into a different era.
They were escorted into the iconic Palm Court, where golden wall sconces glowed warmly, and the soft sound of a live pianist played in the background. The ceiling was high, carved delicately, and giant floral arrangements filled the corners with soft fragrance.
The table was set with crisp white linen, polished silverware, and dainty porcelain teacups with gold rims. The girls sat like little princesses, their hair tied in ribbons, hands folded in their laps like Amna Bhabhi had taught them.
---
A Royal Treat
Soon, a tower of treats arrived:
– Delicate finger sandwiches filled with cucumber, smoked salmon, and egg cress.
– Freshly baked scones, still warm, with clotted cream and strawberry preserve.
– Tiny pastries and tarts that looked like they belonged in a jewellery box.
The girls clapped their hands.
"This is like a tea party in cartoons!" Hania said, dunking her mini scone in tea.
"Let's take pictures!" Haya giggled, reaching for her mom's phone.
Ali Bhai poured tea for everyone like a practiced gentleman, and Amna Bhabhi looked lovingly at her daughters — and then at Washma, who sat a little quietly, taking it all in.
"This feels like a new chapter," Washma said softly, mostly to herself.
"Because it is," Amna replied, touching her shoulder.
---
Evening Reflections
The sky turned golden as they walked out of The Ritz. The girls hummed and skipped ahead with their tiny purses swinging by their sides. Washma stayed back slightly, walking beside Ali Bhai and Amna Bhabhi. She turned once to look back at the grand hotel, now glowing under the London sunset.
"Today was special," she said.
"And many more will come," Ali Bhai replied with a reassuring smile.
It wasn't just tea. It was a memory. A pause in the heaviness. A glimpse of joy.
---
A Quiet Sunday, A Deeper Bond
The sun peeked through the soft curtains of the living room as Washma opened her eyes. It was early, and for once, the house felt peaceful. No loud music, no heavy footsteps. Just silence — the kind that felt like a blessing.
She got up, tidied her bedding, and quietly moved toward the kitchen, where the soft sounds of Uncle Rehmat and Aunty's voices carried. They were getting ready to visit some relatives. Adeel had already left the house for another weekend with his usual group of friends — a routine that had become all too familiar.
Soon, Saliha and her daughter also left to attend a community gathering. Now, the house was occupied only by Ali Bhai, Amna Bhabhi, their three daughters, and Washma.
After breakfast, the children busied themselves with their toys and cartoons, while Amna Bhabhi invited Washma into the kitchen.
As they cooked chapattis together in the kitchen, Amna Bhabhi gently said:
"You should learn how to make chapatti today."
Washma looked hesitant.
"I can make a little... but not perfect."
"Then today is a good day to practice," Bhabhi smiled, encouraging her.
While showing her how to roll and cook, she glanced at Washma and added softly:
"I know you feel a little lonely here sometimes… but things get better with time."
Washma was touched by her kindness.
Then, without prompting, Amna Bhabhi opened up:
"You know, I was very different before I got married."
Washma looked up, surprised.
"Really?"
"Yes. I didn't wear a scarf. I used to wear jeans and shirts to work. I was very modern."
"How did that change?" Washma asked curiously.
"I met Ali in the office. We worked in the same team. He was simple, grounded... and what I liked most — he was serious about his faith, but never judged anyone. He never asked me to change."
"But his character, his honesty... it changed something in me. I felt — if I ever marry someone, it should be him."
There was a soft smile on her face now.
"After we got married, I started wearing the scarf by choice. It gave me a sense of comfort... and respect."
"And you won't believe this — but before all this, I used to be a belly dancer!"
"What?!" Washma's eyes widened.
Amna Bhabhi laughed, pulling out a small velvet pouch from a drawer and opening it to reveal a sparkling belt with hanging coins and beads.
"This was my first performance belt," she said, placing it in Washma's hands.
"But I left that life completely. Now, this — my daughters, Ali, and my faith — this feels more complete."
Washma held the belt gently, deeply touched.
"I'm so inspired by you," she said softly.
"I used to think women had to choose between religion and expressing themselves… but you found both."
Amna Bhabhi gave her a kind, knowing smile.
"Everyone has their own journey, Washma. But no matter what, always stay soft… even when life gets hard."
That afternoon, as the chapattis piled up, and the laughter grew warmer, Washma felt something strange… something peaceful. Belonging.
---
That night, after dinner and some quiet time with the girls, Washma returned to her bedding in the corner of Uncle Rehmat's room. The house was finally still — no loud music, no visitors, no chaos. Just the soft hum of the heater and distant sounds of traffic through the tightly shut windows.
With quiet determination, she took out her small cabin bag and began arranging her documents. Her passport, admission letter, ID, and timetable — she lined them up carefully on a folder. She then pulled out her carefully chosen dress for the big day: a soft pastel kurta with delicate embroidery and a scarf her mother had placed in the bag before she left Pakistan.
As she laid it out on the chair near her bedding, Ali Bhai knocked gently at the door and peeked in.
"Washma, everything ready for tomorrow?" he asked kindly.
"Yes, bhai," she smiled faintly, trying to hide her nervousness.
"I'll go with you in the morning," he added casually. "First days can be confusing — the trains, the bus passes, the campus buildings. I'll make sure you're settled and wait until your classes end. You won't be alone."
Washma was taken aback by his kindness. Her eyes softened.
"Thank you so much," she whispered.
After he left, Washma sat on her bedding, the room dimly lit with a night lamp. She stared at her documents and outfit and thought to herself:
"Yes, life has changed. It's not what I imagined — some things are difficult, even painful. But in this strange place, far from my home and my Ammi's warm kitchen, there are still people like Ali Bhai. Sincere. Kind. Unexpected blessings in a cruel world."
She lay down with a mix of anxiety and hope tucked into her heart, knowing tomorrow would be a big step toward her future.