✨ Bayaan – Next Chapter: “The Body Went… The Voice Stayed”
That Saturday, there was something different in the Café.
The girl — the one everyone now called “the Bayaan girl” — was sitting in front of the Map of Silence as always.
But this time, the old book wasn’t in front of her...
Instead, there was a recorder.
A small one, with a blue button.
On it was written a name: “Zayra Fatima”
And below, just a date — “14 July 2004.”
“Does this recorder work?” Naira asked.
The girl smiled,
“No… not anymore. But its voice is still alive.”
Then she played it — not by pressing the button, just by touching it.
And a soft tinkling sound echoed through the Café — as if an old raga had struck the walls.
"If someday my voice remains, and I don’t… then take it as my silence.
Because some stories don’t want words — just existence." — Zayra’s voice
“Those Whose Tongues Are Silent” – Page #21:
That girl added a new story — this time, about a radio jockey.
One who spent her whole life preserving other people’s voices,
but never told anyone that she had been born deaf.
Her eyes used to listen.
Her hands used to feel.
And when she spoke, every word came borrowed — taken from someone else.
"You can’t imagine… when I speak, who is really speaking."
"I have stolen every voice — from a mother’s call to her son,
from a fiancée’s laughter, from an old man’s final prayer."
💔 “The one the world called — the Thief of Voices.”
Now, on the wall of Bayaan Café, there is a new photograph —
a picture of an empty chair with a “Z” carved on it.
Every Saturday, under that chair, a small speaker is placed.
No sound ever plays from it…
Only sometimes, a faint vibration passes through the air —
as if someone said something, but it wasn’t heard.
☁️ The New Question:
Now a new question has been added to the book “Those Whose Tongues Are Silent”:
"Have you ever lived in someone else’s voice?"
People stay quiet,
but the answers are often left before that empty chair —
someone leaves a tear, or just an envelope,
on which it is written:
"Give my voice to the one who still knows how to listen."
🎙️ Podcast Episode Title: “The Voice That Was Borrowed”
Tagline:
Sometimes your voice is the one someone else lost.
🕯️ Bayaan – No. 1: “The Face That Wasn’t in the Mirror”
That evening, soft rain droplets were tapping on the Café’s windows.
Naira was there, as always…
But today, “that boy” wasn’t in front of her.
Instead — there was the page he had left behind.
On it, a single question was written:
“Have you ever seen someone — who never existed?”
Naira kept reading that page for a long time.
Then quietly, she walked toward the mirror —
the same old mirror still standing behind the shelves of books.
There was something strange on its surface…
as if someone had drawn a face with their fingers.
But the face was incomplete —
one eye was missing.
One smile was half.
“This face… it isn’t his,”
Naira whispered to herself,
“Maybe… it’s waiting for someone.”
🔮 The New Mark on the “Map of Silence”
That night, on the Map of Silence, a new line appeared.
Someone — without speaking, without leaving a name — had drawn just a single scar.
It was the kind of scar that remains
when a hand lets go… and something stays behind on the palm.
🎧 The Mysterious Recording
From the old radio kept in the Café, a voice suddenly echoed:
“I’ve come back.
But this time, not to see you — to remember you.”
Naira didn’t flinch.
She already knew —
some voices don’t return, they just change their paths.
💙 A Last Keepsake
On the fourth chair of the Café that day, a blue handkerchief was found.
It had a faint trace of perfume —
as if someone hadn’t said goodbye,
just paused for a while.
Naira picked it up —
and added a new question to “Those Whose Tongues Are Silent”:
“If you had gone away… would your fragrance have stayed?”
Tagline:
Some people don’t appear in mirrors — because they’re not behind us, they’re standing inside us.
On one wall of Bayaan Café hangs a mirror —
small, a little worn at the edges,
but the reflection in it
often looks clearer than reality.
That evening, Naira was alone.
A light blue dupatta was slipping off her chair,
and in front of her sat a cup of tea — cold,
like someone had gotten used to waiting.
She looked at the wall —
and the mirror seemed to breathe.
“You come every day,”
the mirror said for the first time —
its voice silky, like an old song hiding in dust.
Naira didn’t flinch.
In Bayaan Café, strange things often felt familiar.
“Do you want to say something?”
the mirror asked.
Naira smiled, very softly.
“I do speak… by writing.
But sometimes, it feels like no one listens.”
The mirror stayed silent.
Then, on its surface, an old face appeared —
the old man who once recited couplets on Bayaan’s radio,
the one who used to say,
"More than knowledge, what matters is the decency of expression."
“Your voice still echoes here,”
the mirror said,
“on this wall, in this silent tea,
and in the tapes of that recorder.”
Naira quietly asked —
“How many things have you heard?”
Something rippled across the mirror’s surface.
“So many…
that if I begin to speak,
every wall will start to write
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