Qawwali Night
"At a late-night qawwali in Birmingham, Zoya locks eyes with Rehan—a qawwali singer whose voice has haunted her dreams. When he sings directly to her, the spiritual becomes sensual."
Qawwali Night
The hall was packed, bodies pressed together in devotional ecstasy as the qawwali group reached the peak of their performance.
Zoya had come for the music. For the way qawwali made her feel close to something greater, something divine. She hadn't come to fall in lust with the lead singer.
But then Rehan looked at her.
He was beautiful in the way classical musicians often were—intense eyes, elegant hands, a voice that seemed to reach inside her chest and squeeze. When he sang about divine love, she felt it in her bones.
When he looked at her and sang about earthly desire, she felt it somewhere lower.
"You were watching me."
She'd gone to get air, and he'd followed. The courtyard was empty except for them, moonlight silver on his face.
"Everyone was watching you," Zoya said. "You're the performer."
"Everyone watches. Not everyone sees." He moved closer. "What did you see when I sang?"
"I saw... someone searching. For something more."
His breath caught. "Most people say they see devotion. Spirituality."
"That too. But underneath..." She met his eyes. "Hunger."
"You're perceptive." His hand reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "My singing is my prayer. But tonight, when I saw you... the prayer changed."
"Changed to what?"
"Tujhe dekha toh ye jaana sanam," he sang softly. "When I saw you, I knew what love meant."
"That's from a Bollywood movie."
"Doesn't make it less true." His fingers traced her jaw. "I don't do this. I don't follow women outside. I don't—" He laughed softly. "I sing about love but I've never felt it. Until tonight."
"You don't know me."
"Then let me learn." His forehead touched hers. "Stay. After the program. Let me sing for you. Only for you."
The private qawwali was nothing like the public performance.
Rehan sang with his eyes locked on hers, every word a caress. Songs about union, about longing, about two souls recognizing each other across lifetimes.
By the time he finished, Zoya was trembling.
"Come here," he said, setting down his harmonium.
She went.
His kiss tasted like chai and devotion. His hands on her body were as skilled as they were on his instrument, finding notes in her she didn't know existed.
"Meri mahbooba," he breathed, laying her back on the cushions. "Let me make music with you."
"That's a terrible line."
"I'm a poet, not a comedian." He smiled against her neck. "Let me show you instead."
His mouth traced down her body, and Zoya understood why qawwali was said to bring people closer to God—because what Rehan was doing with his tongue felt distinctly holy.
"Rehan," she gasped as he brought her to the edge. "Please—"
"Sabr," he murmured. "Patience. Let it build."
He kept her there, suspended in pleasure, until she was begging. Only then did he rise above her, sliding inside with a groan that echoed off the walls.
Their rhythm matched the beat of the qawwali still echoing in her mind. Rehan sang against her skin—fragments of Rumi, of Ghalib, of poetry she didn't recognize but felt in her soul.
When she came, it was like the climax of his performance—overwhelming, transcendent. He followed with her name on his lips like a prayer.
"Qawwals don't usually do this," Zoya said later, wrapped in his shawl.
"Qawwals are still men." He kissed her temple. "And you are... extraordinary. I meant what I sang. Every word."
"We barely know each other."
"Then let's change that." He turned her to face him. "Come to my concert next week. In London. Meet me properly, publicly. Let me introduce you to my family."
"Your family?"
"They'll love you." His smile was soft. "My mother's been asking when I'll find a woman who understands the music. Who understands me."
"And you think I do? After one night?"
"I think you see me," he said simply. "And I think I could spend a lifetime letting you see more."
Their story became legend in the British qawwali community—the singer who found his muse in the audience, who wrote his best songs for her, who married her in a ceremony where he sang every ghazal himself.
The poetry of their love was evident in every performance.