Khuda Aur Mohabbat

In the narrow, ancient streets of Lahore, where call to prayer echoed through crumbling mosques and time seemed to slow with the rhythm of old-world life, lived a man named Hammad — a quiet soul with a heart full of poetry and an old leather journal always tucked under his arm. He belonged to a wealthy, aristocratic family — heirs of land, power, and tradition.

But Hammad’s heart longed not for riches or recognition. It longed for something eternal.

Then came Iman — the daughter of a humble cleric, born of modest means, veiled in simplicity and grace. She walked the same streets, visiting the mosque with her father, teaching Quran to young girls in the madrassa. The first time Hammad saw her, she was adjusting her dupatta, her eyes lowered, her presence quiet — yet it struck him with the force of revelation.

It was not just her beauty that shook him; it was her stillness — a kind of peace he had never known.

At first, he watched from afar, writing verses about her in his journal. But soon, words were no longer enough. He started frequenting the mosque where her father gave sermons, sitting in the last row, pretending to seek God when in truth, he was seeking her.

And yet, something unexpected happened.

The more he sat in the mosque, the more the words of Iman’s father pierced his soul. He began to question his life — the parties, the empty praise of society, the wealth that came with no peace. Iman had led him to the mosque, but something greater held him there: faith.

One quiet evening, Hammad finally approached Iman’s father with a trembling voice and said, “I wish to marry your daughter.”

The cleric, a wise man hardened by the trials of life, looked up slowly. He saw the sincerity in Hammad’s eyes but also the impossibility of the request.

“My son,” he said gently, “your world and ours are oceans apart. Iman has grown up with values that may be suffocated in your world. This is not just about love. It is about khuda… and the path you are choosing.”

But Hammad insisted. “I have changed. I no longer drink, I no longer roam. I pray. I have found God… through her.”

The cleric sighed. “Then if your love is true, you will not pursue her. Let it purify you, not possess her.”

That night, Hammad stood under the stars, broken. For the first time, he felt what true love really was — not the love that wants to own, but the kind that sets free. He stopped seeking Iman and instead immersed himself in the path of faith. He spent days in silence, weeks in prayer. He fasted, he gave away his wealth, and he wrote no more poetry — only duas.

Years passed. Iman heard stories of a young man who left everything behind — who now cleaned the mosque, who sat barefoot in the cold, who had the eyes of a lover but spoke only of God.

Her heart ached. She had loved him too, in silence, with modesty. But she obeyed her father, never expressing it.

One day, Lahore mourned. News spread that Hammad had fallen ill. He lay under a neem tree outside the same mosque where it all began, thin and fragile, his journal now filled with verses not of love, but of surrender.

Iman came, covered in white, her eyes red with tears.

He looked up weakly and smiled. “Iman,” he whispered, “I found Him… through you.”

She knelt beside him, tears falling like rain. “And I lost you… for Him.”

He reached for her hand but did not touch it. “Maybe that’s what love is — not finding each other, but helping each other find God.”

And with that, he closed his eyes.

The next morning, the call to prayer echoed through Lahore with a stillness not heard before. Hammad was buried in the courtyard of the mosque. Iman never married. She continued teaching the Quran, living a quiet life of prayer and remembrance.

But every Friday, she visited his grave, leaving a rose and a verse from his journal:

“Tujh mein Khuda dekha, phir Mohabbat bhi rooth gayi.”

(I saw God in you, and then even love faded away.)

The End.

Khuda aur Mohabbat — a story of love that did not end in union, but in transcendence.