Best 34 quotes of Ruth Ahmed on MyQuotes

9/11 forced us to build another identity, to look deep and say who are we and what do we believe and is killing in the name of Islam part of that religion? No. No. No.

Are you happy?' she asked. 'Honour... I've been happy since the moment I met you.

As the days dwindled towards the end of the week I knew only one thing: I couldn't return to our old life. Haroon had taken Honour and Al with him,

Do you ever look up at the stars and try to contemplate the ends of the universe?

Do you have a girlfriend?' 'No,' I said quickly. Deny Honour again. Peter only denied Jesus three times. I must have denied Honour like three thousand times.

Five words that were the hardest words I would ever have to say, Five pillars of my faith that couldn't save him that day. Five rivers, the Panj Aab, that didn't flow through his veins. Five minutes that changed our world forever.

He looked straight at me and winked. On anyone else it would have looked ridiculous - 1996 had moved beyond the language of winking at girls.

Her English was sweet, an effort for her, anachronistic and unpractised.

Honour and I would have to create our world, live by our own rules. My family wasn't ready for her just yet. I didn't know if they ever would be.

Honour, in her modern self-confidence, had grown up never having to face actual raw, passionate, drop-down-dead-hostility. She didn't really understand what was going to happen,

Honour looked so much like a child herself, confined to bed, a white nightgown, like one of those maudlin Victorian dolls. Her cheeks were red, like someone had painted them, but I knew it was from rubbing, wiping away her melancholy.

I closed my eyes tightly and hoped that love was enough.

I couldn't help but think of Al's pre-ordained betrothal to Billo and of how hard the match-makers had worked to find the girl beautiful enough to match this extraordinary man - this extraordinary man of mine.

I drank in his smell, I'd missed him so much more than I'd realised. Despite dreaming of him every night, besides my secret habit of writing Honour Hussain in curled scripts on every scrap piece of paper, I surprised myself by how much I needed him.

I had to be an adult, be a father without a son, so for one last moment I needed to be a son who needed his mother.

I needed a fresh start, away from the memories that we had made for him, away from the home that didn't feel like my own anymore. Away from the people that had been ready to welcome him. Away from Honour and Ali.

I said I love you about a million times. Maybe not the actual words, but in every other way.

I steadied by guitar against the table, and steadied myself with it. And forgot every rule I had ever known.

I wanted my eternity in carbon molecules, in being part of the trees, the sky, air itself

Look, my son, she is so beautiful, she has fair skin and green eyes and brown hair.' 'She's English?' I asked cheekily, holding the cheap photo print with trepidation. Which unfortunate victim had they found for me to marry in what backwater, unbeknownst that my heart was not for trading? Honour would quote Shakespeare to make a point; for me, it was always Rumi. 'La hawla wala kuwwat... May God protect us from such misfortune... you think I have lost my senses that I would marry you to a white girl?' My mum used the word gori as an insult and yet when she talked about Billo she said 'Look how gori she is.' Oh, Mum, the irony. 'Well, you seem pretty obsessed with green eyes and skin colour,' I mumbled. 'She is gorgeous.' Mum went on ignoring me. 'Think how beautiful your children, my grandchildren, will be? They will have cats' eyes, just like Billo.' Honour has fair skin and green eyes too, and just think how beautiful your grandchildren will be if they're mixed race, I thought. I didn't say that to my mum, obviously.

My father then presented Honour with a cheque, "This is from our family for you, only you. Put it in a bank and if my son ever treats you badly, use this to leave the idiot," he said. I was laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes. The haque mehr was traditionally given to the bride on the wedding day by the groom, it was an amount that would be hers for her lifetime to keep in case things went wrong and she needed to stand on her own two feet. Dad had done his little trickery, and in his head and everyone else's, we had done all that was required from a nikah.

My heart was in my mouth. I realised that I had no desire to know any more about her past. What was behind her made me feel sick, petrified. Only the future mattered now.

People don't really change, they just adapt to circumstances.

Ruby clapped her hands in glee and gave a comedic wiggle of her head, Bollywood style. I know the song now, can even sing it, but back then all I heard was the verdant Punjabi, the striking primary colours of the five rivers, the intricate history of a complex land.

The alternatives in my life went through my mind. Unemployed, alone, despairing, watching daytime TV. That couldn't end well. Or helping people, like genuinely making a difference. Imagine waking up and doing that every day?

The drugs took over and she fell asleep then. Only her face was visible, the medical equipment acting as some hideous hijab for her.

The fires of hell were seventy times hotter than the fires of the iron.

The fire within her, and her soul, were eclipsing my own.

There is something so special in the early leaves drifting from the trees - as if we are all to be allowed a chance to peel, to refresh, to start again.

There was a time when I was lucky enough to believe that 'There's this girl in Pakistan' would be the worst five words that Al ever said to me. Years later, they would be totally eclipsed by 'They can't find a heartbeat'.

The sadness began later, in waves as crushing as the contractions had been,

They say some couples are joined in heaven, and on Earth they look for their partner soul to be with. I knew I had found mine in her. And who can fight heaven?

When I was a child I burnt the back of my right hand on a hot iron. I can't recall the pain, but there's an eye-shaped scar as testament to it. As a teenager I used to think it was the all seeing eye of the anti-Christ and that I was the devil incarnate. Or at least a minion. It was my right hand, innit? What I do remember though is my father, or Dad as we called him, abandoning the polite Abbu, telling me not to cry and to be patient because the fires of hell were seventy times hotter than the fire of the iron.

You feel well, Ali? You have a very faraway look on your face, beta,' my dad said. 'Like you have left your heart behind.' He fixed me with eyes as liquid black as mine and for a moment I felt exposed, like he could see right through me. That irrational childhood thought that he could read my mind maybe. 'What nonsense, his heart is here with his mother and his family. Tell him, Ali,' my mother said. 'Begum, this generation of boys and girls, you know how they are.' My dad never said my mother's name; she was always Begum, the generic term for 'wife'.