🌊 Whispers of the Bosphorus - Episode 2

✨ Episode 2 – The Questions That Open Doors

🌅 A SasteriaWorld Original Story Inspired by “The Translator”

✨ Read Episode 1 first → https://www.sasteriaworld.com/post/whispers-of-the-bosphorus-episode-1

🇬🇧 English Section

✨ Episode 2 – The Questions That Open Doors

Whispers of the Bosphorus — A SasteriaWorld Novel

By Raffi Rahman

The rain had a soft way of speaking in Aberdeen. Not loud, not dramatic, just a quiet tapping against stone pathways, as if the sky remembered something tender and could not hold it back. Leila walked with her umbrella held close, breathing in the cool damp air. It carried the scent of old books, wet grass, and the faintest trace of the sea. This city was still unfamiliar, yet slowly—just slowly—it was beginning to soften around her.

She arrived at the university library early. She always came early. It gave her time to steady her thoughts before the professor arrived. She set her bag down at their usual table—the one near the window where a tall lamp cast warm light over the wood.

Her hands smoothed the stack of Arabic manuscripts she had brought. She had translated several passages the night before, staying up later than she should have. There was something calming about the work. Something healing. The words from centuries ago reminded her that human hearts had always wrestled with the same questions: faith, loss, longing, hope.

She touched one of the pages gently. “Ya Allah… make my heart steady,” she whispered.

She didn’t hear him approach until his voice startled her out of her thoughts.

“You’re early again,” the professor said gently.

Leila looked up, offering a small, polite smile. “I prefer to prepare the work ahead.”

He sat down across from her, shaking the rain off his coat. He had a manner of sitting—calm, respectful, never hurried. She appreciated that. Men who moved slowly made her feel safe; they gave her room to breathe.

For a moment, they simply organized their papers. The rain outside played a soft rhythm.

Then he asked—quietly, but with intention:

“Leila… what does mercy mean in Arabic? Not the dictionary meaning. I mean… to you.”

Her breath paused.

He always asked questions like this—questions that didn’t open books, but opened hearts.

She looked down at her hands. “Mercy?” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“It’s… something alive. Something that moves.” She hesitated. “It’s like the rain.”

He blinked, surprised. “The rain?”

She nodded. “It comes from above. It cleans, it softens, it brings life. Even when you don’t ask for it.”

He folded his hands on the table, listening as though her words were precious.

“And Allah,” she continued softly, “describes Himself as Ar-Rahman, Ar-Raheem. Not just merciful… but infinitely so. Mercy that surrounds, mercy that heals, mercy that—”

She stopped. She didn’t know why speaking about faith in English still made her throat tighten. Maybe because it felt too vulnerable, like walking barefoot over a familiar landscape but in a foreign tongue.

The professor nodded. “You speak of it beautifully.”

She looked away. Praise made her uneasy. Praise made her feel seen.

He shifted slightly. “Leila… may I ask another question?”

She tensed instinctively. Questions were dangerous; they opened doors she wasn’t always ready to unlock.

Still, she said, “Yes.”

“When you left Sudan… did it feel like losing part of yourself?”

Her fingers curled.

She didn’t expect that.

She took a breath, steadying the tremor inside. “It felt like leaving one version of myself behind. The girl who thought the world was small. The girl who believed she had everything planned.”

“Do you miss her?”

Leila thought about the hibiscus courtyard, the sound of her mother’s voice calling her for tea, the softness of Sudanese evenings. She thought of the life she had sketched—simple, predictable, close to home.

“Yes,” she whispered. “But… maybe I needed to lose her. So another part could grow.”

The professor leaned back slightly, as though absorbing every word.

“Sometimes,” he said, “the doors we are afraid to open are the ones that set us free.”

She looked at him—really looked at him—and for a moment she felt something shift. Not attraction, not yet, but a recognition… a soft light between two people who understood that life wasn’t only built from certainty, but from questions that shape the soul.

The lamp beside them flickered, casting shadows across his face. He cleared his throat.

“Would you like to show me the translation you worked on?” he asked gently.

She nodded, grateful for the return to familiar ground. She passed him the manuscript with careful hands.

He read silently for a long moment. The warm library lights reflected in his glasses.

“This part here,” he said, pointing, “the phrase yatafattahu al-qalb… you translated it as ‘the heart expands.’”

“Yes.”

“Could it also mean… ‘the heart opens’?”

She paused. Her breath caught at the word.

Open.

Something about it resonated too deeply, too accurately.

“It could,” she admitted.

He smiled, a soft, knowing smile. “Perhaps both meanings are true.”

She wasn’t sure why the translation suddenly felt less like academic work and more like a mirror held gently in front of her.

The rain eased outside. A sliver of pale winter sunlight emerged, brushing her cheek through the window. She caught him noticing the light on her face, and she turned away shyly.

“Leila,” he said softly, “I meant what I said last week.”

She didn’t respond. Words from last week echoed in her memory:

“If you ever feel lost here… you’re not alone.”

She swallowed. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He nodded once, respectfully, as though understanding that her gratitude carried weight.

Together, they returned to the manuscripts, but the atmosphere had shifted. The air felt warmer, the silence more comfortable. Slowly, gently, something unspoken was forming—a bridge not just of words, but of trust.

And as she wrote translations and he took notes, one thought kept circling her mind:

Doors open not only with keys.

Sometimes… they open with questions.

The kind that reach the soul before the mind.

And sitting there under the soft library light, Leila realized something quietly profound—

Her heart was opening.

Not to him.

Not yet.

But to life again.

And that was the first door she needed to walk through.

Leila sits with Professor Andrew in a sunlit library, studying Arabic manuscripts together.

🇲🇾 Bahagian Bahasa Melayu

✨  Episode 2 – Soalan-Soalan Yang Membuka Pintu

SasteriaWorld Novel — Whispers of the Bosphorus

Hujan di Aberdeen seakan mempunyai cara tersendiri untuk berbicara. Tidak kuat, tidak dramatik, hanya ketukan lembut pada jalan batu, seolah-olah langit mengingati sesuatu yang halus dan tidak mampu menahannya. Leila berjalan dengan payung rapat di sisi, menghirup udara lembap yang dingin. Baunya membawa haruman buku lama, rumput basah, dan sedikit bau laut yang jauh. Bandar ini masih asing baginya, namun perlahan—sedikit demi sedikit—ia mula melembut di sekelilingnya.

Dia tiba awal di perpustakaan universiti. Dia memang selalu tiba awal. Memberi ruang untuk menenangkan fikiran sebelum profesor muncul. Dia meletakkan beg di meja biasa mereka—yang berhampiran tingkap, di mana sebuah lampu tinggi memancar cahaya hangat di atas permukaan kayu.

Tangannya merapikan manuskrip Arab yang dibawanya. Semalam dia menerjemah beberapa halaman, tidur lebih lewat daripada sepatutnya. Ada sesuatu yang menenangkan dalam kerja ini. Sesuatu yang menyembuhkan. Kata-kata berabad lalu ini mengingatkannya bahawa hati manusia sentiasa bergelut dengan persoalan yang sama: iman, kehilangan, kerinduan, harapan.

Dia menyentuh salah satu halaman perlahan. “Ya Allah… tenangkanlah hatiku,” bisiknya.

Dia tidak menyedari kehadiran seseorang sehingga suara lelaki itu mengejutkannya.

“Kamu datang awal lagi,” ujar profesor itu dengan lembut.

Leila mengangkat wajah, memberikan senyuman sopan. “Saya suka bersedia lebih awal.”

Profesor duduk bertentangan, menepuk ringan kotnya yang basah. Cara dia duduk selalu tenang, tertib, tidak tergesa-gesa. Sikap itu membuat Leila berasa selamat. Lelaki yang bergerak perlahan memberi ruang untuk bernafas.

Beberapa saat mereka menyusun kertas masing-masing. Hujan di luar bergema seperti irama halus.

Tiba-tiba, profesor bertanya—perlahan tetapi dengan maksud yang jelas:

“Leila… apa maksud rahmat dalam bahasa Arab? Bukan maksud kamus. Maksud… pada kamu.”

Nafas Leila terhenti seketika.

Inilah soalan-soalan yang selalu ditanya lelaki itu—soalan yang bukan membuka buku, tetapi membuka hati.

“Rahmat?” dia mengulang.

“Ya.”

“Ia… sesuatu yang hidup. Sesuatu yang bergerak.” Dia terdiam sesaat. “Seperti hujan.”

Profesor mengangkat kening sedikit. “Hujan?”

Leila mengangguk. “Ia turun dari atas. Ia membersihkan, melembutkan, menghidupkan. Walaupun kita tidak memintanya.”

Profesor itu mendengar, seperti kata-katanya sesuatu yang bernilai.

“Dan Allah,” sambungnya perlahan, “menyifatkan diri-Nya sebagai Ar-Rahman, Ar-Raheem. Bukan sekadar pengasih… tetapi tanpa batas. Rahmat yang menyelubungi, menyembuhkan, dan—”

Dia berhenti. Berbicara tentang iman dalam bahasa Inggeris masih membuat tekaknya terasa ketat. Mungkin kerana ia terlalu peribadi, seperti berjalan tanpa kasut di tanah yang sangat dikenal, tetapi dalam bahasa yang asing.

Profesor tersenyum kecil. “Kamu jelaskan dengan sangat indah.”

Leila memalingkan wajah. Pujian membuatnya gelisah. Pujian membuatnya berasa dilihat.

“Leila… boleh saya tanya satu soalan lagi?”

Dia menegang sedikit. Soalan ialah pintu—dan pintu kadang-kadang menakutkan.

Namun dia mengangguk perlahan. “Silakan.”

“Ketika kamu meninggalkan Sudan… adakah kamu rasa seperti kehilangan sebahagian diri kamu?”

Jari Leila menggenggam halus.

Dia tidak menjangka soalan itu.

“Rasanya… seperti meninggalkan satu versi diri saya. Gadis yang percaya dunia ini kecil. Gadis yang fikir hidupnya sudah tersusun.”

“Adakah kamu rindukan gadis itu?”

Leila teringat halaman rumah Sudan, suara ibunya memanggilnya untuk minum teh, kelembutan senja Afrika. Hidup yang ringkas, tenang, dekat dengan tanah yang dikenali.

“Ya,” bisiknya. “Tapi… mungkin saya perlu kehilangan dia. Agar bahagian lain dalam diri saya boleh tumbuh.”

Profesor bersandar sedikit, menerima kata-katanya dengan penuh perhatian.

“Kadang-kadang,” katanya, “pintu yang paling kita takut untuk buka… ialah pintu yang membebaskan.”

Leila memandangnya—betul-betul memandang—dan ada sesuatu yang berubah, walaupun kecil. Bukan cinta, bukan tarikan, tetapi satu pengiktirafan senyap… seolah-olah cahaya lembut mula terbentuk antara dua jiwa yang memahami bahawa hidup bukan dibina oleh kepastian, tetapi oleh persoalan-persoalan yang membentuk hati.

Lampu di sisi mereka berkelip, melemparkan bayang halus ke wajah profesor. Dia membersihkan kerongkong perlahan.

“Boleh saya lihat terjemahan yang kamu buat malam tadi?”

Leila mengangguk, bersyukur dia kembali bertanya tentang kerja, bukan hatinya. Dia menyerahkan manuskrip dengan hati-hati.

Profesor membaca senyap untuk beberapa minit. Cahaya lampu memantul di cermin matanya.

“Bahagian ini,” katanya sambil menunjuk, “ungkapan yatafattahu al-qalb… kamu terjemah sebagai ‘hati mengembang.’”

“Ya.”

“Bolehkah juga bermaksud… ‘hati terbuka’?”

Leila terdiam.

Terbuka.

Kata itu seolah-olah mengetuk pintu yang dia sembunyikan bertahun lamanya.

“Boleh,” jawabnya perlahan.

Profesor tersenyum lembut. “Mungkin kedua-duanya betul.”

Buat pertama kali, terjemahan itu terasa bukan sekadar tugas akademik… tetapi cermin yang dipegang ke arah dirinya sendiri.

Hujan di luar semakin perlahan. Cahaya matahari musim sejuk menembusi tingkap, menyentuh pipinya. Dia perasan profesor melihat pantulan cahaya itu, lalu dia menunduk malu.

“Leila,” kata profesor, “saya maksudkan benar apa yang saya katakan minggu lepas.”

Leila diam. Kata-kata minggu lepas bergema kembali:

“Jika kamu rasa hilang di sini… kamu tidak keseorangan.”

“Terima kasih,” jawabnya perlahan.

Mereka kembali bekerja. Tetapi suasananya berbeza—lebih hangat, lebih selesa. Ada jambatan senyap sedang terbina—bukan daripada perkataan, tetapi daripada kepercayaan.

Dan ketika dia menulis terjemahan dan profesor membuat catatan, satu hakikat muncul dengan jelas di dalam dirinya:

Pintu tidak selalu dibuka dengan kunci.

Kadang-kadang… ia terbuka dengan soalan.

Dan ketika duduk di bawah cahaya lampu perpustakaan, Leila sedar sesuatu—

Hatinya mula terbuka.

Bukan kepada lelaki di hadapannya.

Belum.

Tetapi kepada hidup ini… sekali lagi.

Dan itulah pintu pertama yang perlu dia lalui.

🌉 Next Episode – Coming Soon

The journey continues in Episode 3: “The Bridge of Words”, where trust begins to breathe under the arches after rain.

[Perjalanan diteruskan dalam Episod 3: “Jambatan Kata-Kata”, di mana kepercayaan mula bernafas di bawah lengkungan selepas hujan.]

🎵 Next Song – Revealing Soon

Episode 3 will release together with a new song from the Whispers of the Bosphorus album — a soft Turkish–Arabic fusion titled “Beneath the Arches.”

[Episod 3 akan dikeluarkan bersama lagu baharu dari album Whispers of the Bosphorus — gabungan Turki–Arab lembut bertajuk “Beneath the Arches.”]

🔔 Don’t miss it.

Follow the full journey here: SasteriaWorld.com/music

[Jangan terlepas. Ikuti perjalanan penuh di sini: SasteriaWorld.com/music]

✍️ created by Raffi Rahman (Sasteria)

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