Every Friday, My Sister’s Empty Room Smells of Mehndi

Every Friday, My Sister’s Empty Room Smells of Mehndi

My sister Iqra was the light of our home.

Laughter followed her, and so did the scent of mehndi — henna she applied every Thursday night, a family tradition passed down by our grandmother.

On her wedding day, the whole house felt like it was glowing.

But after the rukhsati, a strange silence settled in her room.

We left it exactly as she had.
Curtains untouched.
Mirror un-wiped.
Even the last pair of sandals still near her dresser.

Ammi said:

> “Don’t change anything. It’s her barakah.”




---

A week passed.

Then another.

Then… on the third Friday, something happened.


---

I walked past her door around Maghrib.

And paused.

A strong, fresh scent of mehndi flowed out.

Warm. Floral. Just like she used to apply.

I opened the door.

The room was empty.
Still.
Silent.

No cone.
No bowl.
No trace.

Just… the fragrance.


---

I asked Ammi if she had gone in.

> “No, beta. I haven’t touched her room.”



I checked the windows.
Shut.
Checked the drawers.
Nothing.


---

The next Friday — same time — it happened again.

But stronger.

I wasn’t the only one to smell it.

My younger brother said:

> “Why does it smell like she’s making mehndi?”




---

We called her that night.

> “Did you put any cone or cloth in your room?”



> “No. I took everything with me. Why?”



We didn’t tell her.

Not yet.


---

On the seventh Friday, something new happened.

I stepped in to check…

And saw a fresh stain on her old prayer mat.

Small. Circular.
Reddish-brown.

Like the dried color of henna.

I bent down to smell it.

Same fragrance.

But no source.


---

We invited a local scholar.

He listened patiently.

Then smiled gently:

> “Some people leave behind more than memories. Her love, her zikr, her presence… perhaps part of it stayed.”



> “But why only on Fridays?”



> “Because Friday is the day of mercy. Maybe this is her soul’s visit. Maybe this is Allah’s gift — to remind you she’s still connected.”




---

That night, Ammi dreamed of Iqra.

She was standing in her old room, hands full of mehndi.

She smiled and said:

> “I still pray here on Fridays.”




---

We told Iqra everything.

She went quiet.

Then said:

> “Sometimes on Friday mornings, I feel like someone’s with me. Like a piece of me never left home.”




---

We’ve kept the room just like that.

Now, we don’t fear the smell.

We wait for it.


---

And every Friday…

As the sun dips below the horizon…

We walk past that door,

Breathe in that scent,

And whisper:

> “Jummah Mubarak, Iqra.”




---

Because some souls don’t haunt.

They just remember.

And sometimes…

So does the room.