🌊 Whispers of the Bosphorus - Episode 5
- Sasteria
- Dec 12, 2025
- 11 min read
Updated: Jan 2
➡️ Malay Translation : Click Here ➡️ Lyric (Tea and Understanding) : Click Here
🌅 Episode 4 – Tea and Understanding
(SasteriaWorld Original — English Version)
Leila hesitated at the café door, her hand resting on the handle as the scent of roasted coffee and cardamom drifted out to meet her. Outside, Aberdeen’s sky was its usual grey—more cloud than colour—but inside the small place glowed with warm yellow light. Condensation pooled along the windows where the rain had traced restless paths, and soft Turkish music played low in the background, a ney weaving gentle notes around the murmur of voices.
Andrew was already there, seated at a small table near the back, his coat folded neatly over the empty chair beside him. He looked oddly out of place and yet strangely comfortable; an academic in a world of steaming cups and quiet conversations. When he saw her, he stood at once, pushing his glasses up his nose in that slightly nervous way she had started to recognise.
“Leila,” he said, a little too formally, as though they were still in the library. “Thank you for coming.”
She offered a small smile. “You chose a good place,” she replied. “It reminds me of… somewhere between home and here.”
He seemed relieved, as if her approval mattered more than the choice of café itself. “I did some research,” he admitted. “Apparently, the owner used to live in Istanbul. They serve cardamom tea.”
At the mention of tea, a memory passed through her: her mother’s kitchen in Khartoum, steam rising from glasses as clear as river water, the clink of spoons against glass. She drew in a breath and stepped fully inside, letting the door swing shut behind her.
They ordered tea—hers with cardamom, his with too much sugar—and for a few minutes they spoke of ordinary things: the weather, the difficulty of finding good bread in Aberdeen, the strange comfort of hearing distant languages in supermarkets and bus stops. The conversation moved awkwardly at first, like someone learning to walk on unfamiliar ground. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, it steadied.
“Leila,” Andrew began after a pause, “I wanted to apologise if my questions the other day were… intrusive.” He looked down at his cup as he spoke. “I’ve been thinking about what you said—about mercy, about not bargaining with God. It’s stayed with me.”
She stirred her tea, watching the ripples fade. “You don’t need to apologise,” she said quietly. “Questions are not an attack. Sometimes they are a kind of respect.”
He looked up, surprised. “You see it that way?”
“In Sudan,” she explained, “when someone visits with a question about faith, we do not think they are trying to break us. We think they are standing at the door, knocking. It is up to us whether we open that door with kindness or with fear.”
“And you?” he asked, leaning forward. “Did you feel any fear?”
She thought of the night she had written in her notebook, the words about mercy and bitterness. Of the dream of Samir at the gate, the forgiveness in his eyes. “I felt… exposed,” she admitted. “Like a book suddenly opened in the wrong chapter. But fear?” She tilted her head. “No. Not with you.”
A flush of colour climbed into his face at that, and he reached for his tea too quickly, nearly spilling it. She pretended not to notice, giving him the dignity of his own clumsiness.
“You said something in the library,” he continued. “About trusting God’s wisdom even when He conceals it. I keep returning to that line. How can you trust what you don’t understand?”
Leila looked past him, to where rain drifted lazily down the window. Outside, the river lay like a sheet of dull silver, the world blurred by mist. “When I was young,” she said, “my father used to wake us before dawn to drive out to the Nile. He would stand at the bank and say, ‘Look at the river in the dark. You cannot see its end, but you know it is there.’”
She sipped her tea, the taste of cardamom rich and familiar. “Trusting Allah is like that. You do not see the end of the river. You see only the part beneath your feet. But you know the water continues, that it has a source and a destination.”
Andrew’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “And when… when you lost your husband?” His voice softened on the last word. “Was it still possible to trust the river then?”
The café around them faded into a distant hum. For a moment Leila simply listened to her own breathing, steady and fragile. “No,” she said at last. “Not at first. I stood on the bank and saw only darkness. I thought the river had turned against me.” Her fingers tightened around the warm glass. “But grief is noisy at the beginning. It shouts so loudly that you cannot hear anything else. Slowly, over time, the shouting becomes a whisper. And sometimes—only sometimes—you can hear the water again.”
He said nothing, but his eyes held hers with a kind of quiet sorrow. There was no pity in it, only a human recognition of loss.
“Samir was a good man?” he asked gently.
“A patient man,” she replied, and felt the corner of her mouth lift. “He used to say I argued like a lawyer and prayed like a poet. He believed more in my strength than I did. When he died, I thought I had to carry both our faiths. It was heavy.”
“And now?” Andrew asked.
“Now,” she said slowly, “I realise faith is not a weight you carry for someone else. It is a light you carry beside them. When they are gone, the light is still yours.”
A comfortable silence settled between them. The owner passed by their table, refilling their glasses with steaming tea. From the speakers, a ney traced a melancholic line over a soft rhythm, something between a lullaby and a farewell.
“Leila,” Andrew said after a while, “may I ask you something more personal?”
She raised an eyebrow. “More personal than death and faith?”
He gave a brief, embarrassed laugh. “Fair point. I just mean… when you dream of Khartoum, as you did last night—does it make you want to go back?”
The question hung between them. She thought of the courtyard, the jasmine, the way Samir had stood at the gate in her dream, smiling without blame. She also thought of Aberdeen: the wet stone, the library, the quiet man before her who treated her faith not as a curiosity, but as a doorway to understanding.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Sometimes I feel that Khartoum is a place I carry inside me, not a place I can return to. And sometimes I think Allah has written another chapter for me here, in this cold city with its stubborn rain.”
Andrew nodded slowly. “I hope,” he said carefully, “that if this is your next chapter, it will be a gentle one.”
His words landed softly, like a hand reaching across a table without quite touching. She felt no pressure, no expectation—only a kind of hope that did not ask for anything in return.
Leila wrapped her hands around the warm glass, letting the heat seep into her fingers. “Gentle chapters are written with understanding,” she said. “And understanding often begins with tea.”
He smiled at that, a real smile that reached his eyes. Outside, the rain began to thin, and somewhere beyond the grey, a faint light waited for its moment to break through.
➡️ English : Click Here
🇲🇾 🌅 EPISOD 5 – Teh dan Pengertian
(Terjemahan penuh dalam Bahasa Melayu)
Leila teragak-agak di pintu kafe, tangannya berhenti seketika pada pemegang ketika bau kopi panggang dan kapulaga keluar menyambutnya. Di luar, langit Aberdeen seperti biasa—kelabu, lebih banyak awan daripada warna—tetapi di dalam, ruang kecil itu bercahaya dengan cahaya kuning yang hangat. Wap memenuhi tingkap di mana hujan meninggalkan jejaknya, dan muzik Turki yang perlahan mengalun di latar belakang, bunyi ney lembut melingkari suara-suara pelanggan yang sedang berbual.
Andrew sudah pun berada di sana, duduk di meja kecil di bahagian belakang, kotnya dilipat rapi di atas kerusi kosong di sebelahnya. Dia kelihatan janggal tetapi dalam masa yang sama kelihatan seakan berada di tempat yang betul; seorang akademik dalam dunia cawan-cawan panas dan perbualan perlahan. Apabila dia melihat Leila, dia segera berdiri, menolak cermin matanya dengan cara gugup yang mula dikenali oleh Leila.
“Leila,” katanya, sedikit terlalu formal seolah-olah mereka masih di perpustakaan. “Terima kasih kerana datang.”
Leila tersenyum kecil. “Tempat ini pilihan yang baik,” balasnya. “Ia mengingatkan saya kepada… sesuatu di antara rumah dan di sini.”
Andrew kelihatan lega, seolah-olah persetujuan daripadanya lebih penting daripada pilihan kafe itu sendiri. “Saya buat sedikit kajian,” katanya. “Pemiliknya dulu tinggal di Istanbul. Mereka ada teh kapulaga.”
Mendengar tentang teh, suatu kenangan melintas: dapur ibunya di Khartoum, wap naik dari gelas kaca jernih, bunyi sudu mengetuk tepi gelas. Dia menarik nafas perlahan dan melangkah masuk sepenuhnya, membiarkan pintu tertutup di belakangnya.
Mereka memesan teh—Leila dengan kapulaga, Andrew dengan gula yang terlalu banyak—dan untuk beberapa minit mereka bercakap tentang perkara biasa: cuaca, betapa sukarnya mencari roti yang sedap di Aberdeen, dan keanehan mendengar bahasa-bahasa asing di pasar raya dan perhentian bas. Pada mulanya perbualan agak kekok, seperti seseorang yang cuba belajar berjalan di tanah yang asing. Tetapi perlahan-lahan, tanpa disedari, ia menjadi lebih lancar.
“Leila,” kata Andrew selepas satu diam seketika, “Saya ingin meminta maaf kalau soalan saya tempoh hari terlalu… peribadi.” Dia menunduk melihat cawannya. “Saya asyik terfikir tentang apa yang awak katakan—tentang rahma, tentang hati yang tidak boleh tawar-menawar dengan Tuhan. Ia… melekat dalam fikiran saya.”
Leila mengacau tehnya, melihat riak kecil pada permukaan air sebelum ia hilang. “Awak tak perlu minta maaf,” katanya perlahan. “Soalan bukan serangan. Kadang-kadang ia tanda hormat.”
Andrew mengangkat wajahnya, kelihatan terkejut. “Awak melihatnya begitu?”
“Di Sudan,” jelas Leila, “kalau seseorang datang bertanya tentang agama, kami tidak fikir mereka cuba mematahkan kami. Kami fikir mereka sedang berdiri di depan pintu, mengetuk. Terserah kepada kami sama ada mahu membukanya dengan ihsan atau dengan takut.”
“Dan awak?” Andrew bertanya, sedikit condong ke hadapan. “Awak rasa takut?”
Dia teringat malam dia menulis dalam buku catatannya—tentang rahmat dan kepahitan. Dia teringat mimpinya tentang Samir di pintu pagar, renungan pengampunan di matanya. “Saya rasa… terdedah,” katanya jujur. “Seperti buku yang tiba-tiba dibuka pada bab yang salah. Tetapi takut?” Dia mengelus hujung cawannya. “Tidak. Bukan dengan awak.”
Pipi Andrew memerah sedikit, dan dia mencapai cawan tehnya terlalu cepat, hampir menumpahkannya. Leila pura-pura tidak perasan, memberi dia ruang untuk menyimpan maruahnya sendiri.
“Ada satu lagi perkara yang saya asyik fikirkan,” sambung Andrew. “Tentang mempercayai hikmah Tuhan walaupun kita tidak faham. Bagaimana… bagaimana seseorang boleh percaya sesuatu yang dia tidak nampak?”
Leila memandang keluar tingkap, melihat hujan yang turun perlahan-lahan. Di luar, sungai kelihatan seperti helaian perak kusam, dunia kelabu oleh kabus. “Ketika saya kecil,” katanya, “ayah saya selalu bangunkan kami sebelum Subuh untuk pergi ke tebing Nil. Dia akan berdiri di sana dan berkata, ‘Lihat sungai dalam gelap. Kamu tak nampak penghujungnya, tetapi kamu tahu ia tetap ada.’”
Dia menghirup teh—rasa kapulaga memenuhi mulutnya, hangat dan akrab. “Beriman kepada Allah begitu juga rasanya. Kamu tak nampak penghujung sungai itu. Kamu hanya nampak bahagian yang berada di bawah kaki kamu. Tetapi kamu tahu air itu terus mengalir, ada sumbernya dan ada destinasinya.”
Andrew termenung lama. “Dan ketika… ketika awak kehilangan suami awak?” suaranya melembut. “Adakah masih mungkin untuk percaya pada sungai itu?”
Suasana kafe menghilang buat seketika. Leila hanya mendengar nafasnya sendiri. “Tidak,” jawabnya akhirnya. “Tidak pada mulanya. Saya berdiri di tebing dan nampak hanya gelap. Saya rasa sungai itu berpaling daripada saya.” Tangannya mengepit gelas panas itu sedikit lebih kuat. “Tetapi dukacita itu bising pada awalnya. Ia menjerit begitu kuat sampai kamu tak dengar apa-apa lagi. Perlahan-lahan… jeritan itu jadi bisikan. Dan kadang-kadang—cuma kadang-kadang—kamu boleh dengar bunyi air itu semula.”
Andrew tidak berkata apa-apa, tetapi matanya membawa satu pengertian yang tulus—bukan simpati kosong, tetapi pengakuan bahawa dia juga pernah kehilangan sesuatu.
“Samir seorang yang baik?” dia bertanya perlahan.
“Seorang yang penyabar,” jawab Leila, bibirnya terangkat sedikit. “Dia kata saya berhujah seperti peguam tetapi berdoa seperti penyair. Dia percaya dengan kekuatan saya lebih daripada saya sendiri. Bila dia meninggal… saya rasa saya perlu membawa iman kami berdua. Ia terlalu berat.”
“Dan sekarang?” Andrew bertanya lembut.
“Sekarang,” kata Leila perlahan, “saya sedar iman bukan beban yang kamu pikul untuk orang lain. Ia cahaya yang kamu bawa bersama mereka. Dan apabila mereka tiada, cahaya itu tetap milik kamu.”
Kesunyian hangat terisi di antara mereka. Pemilik kafe melintas, menambah air panas ke dalam gelas mereka. Dari pembesar suara, ney meluncur perlahan—antara lagu tidur dan ucapan selamat tinggal.
“Leila,” Andrew berkata selepas beberapa minit, “bolehkah saya tanya sesuatu yang lebih peribadi?”
Leila mengangkat kening. “Lebih peribadi daripada kematian dan iman?”
Andrew ketawa kecil, malu. “Adil,” katanya. “Saya cuma… bila awak bermimpi tentang Khartoum, seperti malam tadi—adakah itu membuatkan awak mahu pulang?”
Soalan itu menggantung di udara. Leila teringat halaman rumah ibunya, bau melur, dan Samir yang berdiri di pintu pagar dalam mimpinya, tersenyum tanpa menyalahkan. Dia juga teringat Aberdeen—batu basah, perpustakaan, lelaki yang sedang duduk di hadapannya, seorang lelaki yang memperlakukannya dengan hormat tanpa cuba memecahkan imannya.
“Saya tidak tahu,” katanya jujur. “Kadang-kadang saya rasa Khartoum itu tempat dalam hati saya, bukan tempat yang boleh saya pulang. Dan kadang-kadang… saya rasa Allah telah tulis bab seterusnya untuk saya di sini, di kota sejuk dengan hujan yang keras kepala ini.”
Andrew mengangguk perlahan. “Saya harap,” katanya berhati-hati, “kalau ini bab seterusnya awak… ia menjadi bab yang lembut.”
Kata-katanya jatuh perlahan seperti tangan yang terhulur tanpa menyentuh. Leila tidak rasa tertekan—hanya harapan yang tidak meminta apa-apa sebagai balasan.
Dia membalut jarinya pada gelas panas itu, membiarkan kehangatan meresap ke dalam kulitnya. “Bab yang lembut ditulis dengan pengertian,” katanya. “Dan pengertian itu sering bermula dengan secawan teh.”
Andrew tersenyum, senyuman sebenar yang sampai ke matanya. Di luar, hujan mula berhenti, dan jauh di balik awan kelabu, cahaya halus menunggu untuk muncul.
✉️ Teaser – Episode 6 - Letters from Home
Some letters do not ask for answers.
They ask only to be remembered.
As voices from Leila’s past return, faith is tested quietly —
not through loss,
but through distance, memory, and unanswered questions.
And sometimes, understanding begins
not in what is said,
but in what is patiently listened to.
📘 Episode 6 coming soon.
📺 YouTube: @sasteria1
🎵 TikTok Premiere — Stay close for the next
🔔 CTA – Continue the Journey
Read all episodes + songs → SasteriaWorld.com/music
➡️ English Translation : Click Here
🎵 LYRIC SECTION — Tea and Understanding – شَايٌ وَفَهْمٌ
Verse 1
Rain on the window, whispering slow,
a quiet café, a glow in the cold.
You ask about mercy, the way hearts heal,
and I breathe the truth I try to conceal.
وَيَسْكُنُ فِي صَدْرِي صَبْرٌ قَدِيمٌ
(wa-yaskunu fī ṣadrī ṣabrun qadīm — An old patience resides in my chest)
A patience I’ve carried through every storm.
Pre-Chorus
And somehow the silence feels safe tonight,
tea between us, warm and bright.
Chorus
يَا رَبِّ، اِهْدِنَا فِي الطَّرِيقِ
(yā rabb, ihdinā fī al-ṭarīq — O Lord, guide us on the path)
Guide our hearts through what we cannot speak.
Every whisper in the falling rain
brings two worlds softly close again.
رَحْمَتُكَ تَمْسَحُ جُرُوحَ القَلْبِ
(raḥmatuka tamsaḥu jurūḥa al-qalb — Your mercy wipes the wounds of the heart)
Your mercy heals the deeper pain.
Verse 2
You ask about loss, the weight of the past,
how faith survives when love doesn’t last.
I tell you of rivers no night can drown,
how light still rises when hearts fall down.
فِي الحُلْمِ، رَأَيْتُ وُجُوهَ الغَائِبِينَ
(fī al-ḥulm ra’aytu wujūha al-ghā’ibīn — In the dream I saw the faces of those who are gone)
Smiles of the ones I’ve lost remain.
Pre-Chorus
And somehow the questions don’t frighten me,
they open doors I thought were sealed.
Chorus
يَا رَبِّ، اِهْدِنَا فِي الطَّرِيقِ
(yā rabb, ihdinā fī al-ṭarīq — O Lord, guide us on the path)
Guide our hearts through what we cannot speak.
Every whisper in the falling rain
brings two worlds softly close again.
رَحْمَتُكَ تَمْسَحُ جُرُوحَ القَلْبِ
(raḥmatuka tamsaḥu jurūḥa al-qalb — Your mercy wipes the wounds of the heart)
Your mercy heals the deeper pain.
Bridge
In the warmth of this tea, I find release,
a place where sorrow can turn to peace.
اللَّهُمَّ، طَمْئِنْ قَلْبِي بِآيَاتِكَ
(allāhumma, ṭam’in qalbī bi-āyātika — O Allah, calm my heart with Your verses)
And maybe understanding starts this way—
two hearts learning how to be whole.
Final Chorus
يَا رَبِّ، اِهْدِنَا فِي الطَّرِيقِ
(yā rabb, ihdinā fī al-ṭarīq — O Lord, guide us on the path)
Guide our steps through what we fear to say.
Every tear that ever fell before
leads us gently to an open door.
رَحْمَتُكَ تَحْمِلُنَا إِلَى النُّورِ
(raḥmatuka taḥmilunā ilā al-nūr — Your mercy carries us to the light)
Your mercy carries us to the light.
Outro
And in the quiet after the rain,
we find a moment
of understanding.
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