7. Raees
7
Raees
M y wife made me lunch.
My wife made me lunch.
Lunch .
She made me lunch.
A sandwich, something I wouldn’t typically choose, but if Zinneerah made it, I know it’ll be different. It’s her love in every slice.
Snap!
A quick picture, and into the group chat it goes to Ramishah and my mom.
I finish swiping through my text messages and take a bite of the sandwich, savoring its flavors as I make my way towards the music building. The same building where my wife spent her student days. If I want to understand Zinneerah better without bombarding her with questions, this seems like the right place to start.
It’s a quaint structure with tall, arched windows that let in the afternoon light. The bricks are weathered and layered with ivy, giving the building a sense of history of its first appearance in the 1890’s. A few students pass by, some deep in conversation, others rushing with instrument cases in hand.
Inside, advertisement posters and bulletin boards detailing upcoming concerts, recitals, and music festivals line the walls of the hallway leading to the practice rooms and classrooms. Soft murmurs of students tuning instruments, and the occasional burst of laughter sounds from one of the rooms.
“There they are,” I whisper, drawn to the graduation photos lining the left side of the room.
Immediately, I spot Zinneerah’s gentle smile and dark eyes amongst the sea of still faces. She had bangs back then, but her makeup looks just the same.
“Can I help you?”
I step back from the photo of my wife and hastily stash the remaining half of my sandwich back into the lunch box. A short man with a grey beard and wavy, silver hair approaches me. He’s dressed like me in a cashmere sweater and trousers.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Raees Shaan. I work as a professor in the journalism department.” I instinctively pull out my lanyard badge, just in case he’s suspicious. Even though we’re in a public space.
“Professor Daniels,” he greets, shaking my hand. “What brings you to our department, Professor Shaan?”
“My wife.”
He blinks, looking slightly uneasy.
“She’s not a student anymore!” I clarify quickly. “She used to be here when I was finishing my Ph.D.” My finger singles her out in the first row among the other distinguished students. “That’s her.”
“ What ?” Professor Daniels exclaims, adjusting his glasses. He shifts his gaze between Zinneerah’s frozen expression and my wide smile. “Zinneerah Arain is your wife?”
“Proudly,” I confirm. “Did you teach her?”
“Yes,” he mutters, stepping back with a distant look. “And she was exceptional. I always hoped she’d visit after graduation.” He smiles faintly. “But I suppose she’s been busy with her singing and songwriting?”
My heart sinks at that. I don’t understand how Zinneerah lost her voice—whether it was an accident or something more traumatic that happened after she graduated. And it’s not just her voice that’s missing. It’s like she’s lost herself—the vibrant, rock-and-roll persona she always used to carry whenever I saw her.
But now she’s just . . . she’s just .
And I love her just as much, if not more. There isn’t a limit to my love for her.
I clear my throat, trying to mask my curiosity. “Professor Daniels, what was it about Zinneerah that made her such a standout? She hardly mentions her university days—gets all shy when I ask.”
“That’s unlike her.” Professor Daniels chuckles, and gives me a friendly pat on the back, steering us down the hall. “Ah, well. She was a marvel with any instrument that had strings. Guitar, sitar, even the banjo once, just for laughs. And she wasn’t just playing them, she owned them.” He opens his office door and waves me in, then settles behind his desk. “And her voice . . . well, she’d capture a room. Imagine Amy Winehouse, but with a sense of delicateness that could bring you to tears.” His eyes soften as he remembers. “So much heart in every note.”
Well, one thing’s for certain, she captured me by the very first note six years ago. “I wish she’d tell me all about it.”
He smiles knowingly. “Classic Zinneerah. Humble to a fault. She’s probably the last one who’d ever brag, but the whole department knew how special she was. She poured her soul into everything she touched.”
Pride fills my chest. “Sounds just like my Zinneerah.”
Professor Daniels leans back, reaching into a drawer, and pulls out a small stack of CDs. “I figured you might like to hear some of her work.” He selects a disc and slides it into his computer, turning the monitor so we can both see the screen. “This is from her sophomore showcase. Think of it as an exam, but with an audience of potential recruiters and industry contacts. It’s where she really shone.”
The screen flickers, and there she is—Zinneerah, stepping onto the stage from the left, acoustic guitar in hand. The audience claps, and she gives a shy smile, looking exactly like she does when she’s flustered now: head a bit down, that slight tilt of her chin. She’s wearing a black turtleneck, black dress pants, and the high platform boots she still owns.
She steps up to the mic. “Hello to the Saint Lawrence University music department and everyone who’s joined us today. I’m Zinneerah Arain. A second-year student from Monday to Friday, and a composer every day.”
I find myself leaning in, grinning at the sound of her little laugh.
She adjusts her guitar strap across her shoulder. “I’ll be performing an original today,” she says. “I wrote this at three in the morning on my kitchen floor . . . on my father’s death anniversary. Every song I write is, in some way, for him.” She glances down, clears her throat. “This one’s called House of Gold.”
As soon as her fingers sweep over the strings, the first powerful chord jolts through me, transporting me back to that night, sitting in the front row of Studio 365, watching her pour herself out on the small, circular stage. She begins to sing, and my grip tightens on the armrests, my pulse climbing.
Her voice starts soft, then builds up, the emotion swelling with each verse, the chords growing louder. Each sharp, downward strum makes the guitar jerk slightly, like she’s wrestling with it, wringing every ounce of feeling out of the wood and strings. Her eyes squeeze shut as she sings, her voice catching on parts that clutch at her heart, and in turn, mine. At one point, she smiles, a bittersweet curve, as she sings about a fragment from her childhood in that “house of gold.”
A hand gently touches my arm. “Are you okay?”
I startle at Professor Daniels’ voice. My fingers brush against my damp cheeks as I quickly swipe at my burning eyes. “Yeah. Fine.”
Not fine. Not even close. It wasn’t just Zinneerah’s voice or her confidence that hit me like this—it was the song. The one she wrote for her late father. A song so full of love and admiration that it made me ache for something I never had. I love my wife, but I don’t think I can listen to ‘House of Gold’ again.
“I’m glad Zinneerah is doing well,” Professor Daniels says. “She worried me for a while there.”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
He looks past me, gathering his thoughts. “She wasn’t quite herself that last year. Barely any performances, hardly any recordings I could keep. I thought maybe I’d been too nosy, or asked too many questions, but . . .” He trails off, giving me a reassuring smile. “That’s all history. Just let her know I miss her.”
I make a mental note of his words for later. “Of course.”
“Oh, one more thing.” Professor Daniels shuffles through a stack of papers and pulls out a flyer, passing it to me. “If she’s available, we’re looking for additional guitarists for our summer concert next month. A few alumni are joining, and I’d love for Zinneerah to be one of them.”
I scan the flyer, noting the date—August 31st at the university’s football field. It’s a reunion event, raising funds for the music department, with performances by both current students and alumni. His contact information is there for anyone interested in participating.
“Thank you, Professor,” I say, folding the flyer carefully and tucking it into my pocket. “I’ll make sure she sees this.”
He nods, a fond smile spreading. “It would mean a lot to hear her play again. She’ll always have a place in our department.”
As I rise to leave, he extends a hand, which I shake firmly. “It was really nice speaking to you, Professor.”
“Take care,” he says. “And give Zinneerah my best.”
“I will. Thank you, again, for everything.”
Heading down the hall, I pull out the flyer one more time, picturing the moment I’ll hand it to her. Knowing her, she’ll try to play it cool, but I’ll catch the excitement in her eyes.
The thought has me smiling all the way down the hall.