35. Raees
35
Raees
I hate dawats.
I hate them with every fiber of my being.
If there’s a hell tailored just for me, it’s a dawat.
Growing up, they were always a three-ring circus, and Baba was the ringmaster, cracking the whip and showing off his prized acts—his exotic cars, his bulging bank account, and the latest multi-million-dollar home he sold to whichever socialites he loved surrounding himself with. He’d parade Mama around like his greatest trophy, never mind that she was his partner in the business, the engine keeping it running.
No, in Baba’s world, her accomplishments were just an extension of his.
Ramishah and I had our own roles in this freak show: the star attractions for the aunties and uncles. Cheek-pinching fodder for relatives who still saw us as toddlers, even when we were teenagers. “Beta, how’s school? What are you studying? Why aren’t you engaged yet, Ramishah? What’s your five-year plan?”
Interrogations that turned every conversation into an interview.
Meanwhile, our cousins got to run around outside like actual kids. Not us. We were stuck, held hostage in the living room, sitting up straight, asking for permission to go to the bathroom, terrified that leaving mid-conversation would offend some Aunty who thought she had the right to dictate our futures.
And then, once the aunties had emptied every dish, the uncles had downed the chai, and the cousins had left crumbs all over the carpets, the real show began: Baba’s scolding.
If we were lucky, it was just verbal: criticizing our posture, our inability to fake interest in whatever sports or political debate was happening.
If we weren’t lucky . . . well, Ramishah would storm out of the house before it got ugly. Mama would take the hits, both verbal and physical. And I stood in the line of fire.
So, there you have it. I’d wipe the whole tradition off the face of the earth if I could.
Zinneerah tugs at my sleeve, holding up a spoonful of cream custard. Her dark-brown kurtha, threaded with gold and black floral embroidery, glints under the kitchen light. A crown braid rests neatly on her head, her loose side-bangs curled just so.
Her inquisitive, obsidian eyes search mine. “What’s wrong?”
I force a smile. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
No point dodging. I exhale, raising a hand that shakes just enough to betray me. “Fine. I’m nervous. See?”
“Why?”
“These parties . . . nothing good ever comes from them.” I tip my chin up, silently asking her to feed me the custard she’s been fussing over. She obliges, sliding the spoon into my mouth. The sweet, creamy taste lands like a sugar bomb on my tongue, and I hum appreciatively. “Incredible.”
She grabs a napkin and leans in to dab at my mouth, like I’m some spoiled prince incapable of wiping my own face. I let her. Why not?
“You know my social battery drains faster than most people’s,” I say. “But I’m not about to leave you alone with those vultures. That’s a promise. After the dawat is over, I’ll stick around to clean, and make sure you’ve eaten something before bed. Deal?”
Her pupils dilate, her lips part, and a flush of red creeps up her cheeks.
I love that sort of reaction. Especially to my confession last night. She looked like a cherry pie left too long in the oven, ready to blow. And then, she bolted. No words. Just a blur of motion as she fled the kitchen.
I didn’t take it personally. I’ve been collecting her signals for a while now. I’ve got a jar full of them, and it’s overflowing. It’s only a matter of time before she comes clean.
Before she admits she loves me, too.
Until then? I’ll wait patiently.
Ding!
The doorbell pops our bubble. It almost feels like the opening bell of a boxing match I forgot to train for. Game face, Raees. This is it.
“Hey.” Zinneerah finds just the tips of my fingers. “You’ll be fine.”
“ We’ll be fine,” I say, because the idea of going into this alone is unbearable.
She hooks her pinky around mine. “Together,” she promises.
I maneuver around the gesture, and intertwine our fingers, holding on.
And then I open the door.
Shahzad’s waiting on the other side like the human embodiment of a guard dog—a glowering, broad-shouldered sentinel armed with what might be the deadliest glare known to mankind. Or, more accurately, my kind.
“Raees,” he clips out.
I smile. “Shahzad, how are—”
Before I can finish, he brushes me away like I’m a house fly, and wraps his sister in a bear hug. “Hey, sweetheart!”
I didn’t know it was possible for him to sound . . . jolly?
He doesn’t stop there. He starts signing, and none of it’s meant for me. I want you to know, you are welcome to divorce this ass and come live with me.
I scoff before I can stop myself. The sound escapes loud enough to draw his attention. This ass can understand you.
“ How ?” he asks, clearly not expecting the answer he’s about to get.
I smile because at this point, what else can I do? “I learned ASL last year so I could communicate with Zinneerah.”
My wife stands at my side, blushing. “He’s better than me.” “No one’s better than you at anything,” Shahzad fires back, dropping the grizzly-bear act for all of three seconds to soften his voice. Then, just as quickly, he pivots, eyes back on me like a hawk circling its prey. “You cooked everything?”
“I did.”
“From scratch?”
“Yes.” Sir? General? Mr. Arain? I feel like I should address him formally. “I hope you enjoy it.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” He holds my gaze like this is some kind of standoff. Then, with a puff of his chest, he marches off into the living room like a commander inspecting enemy territory. But before he’s out of earshot, he tosses one more grenade over his shoulder. “You two still sleeping in separate rooms?”
I sigh. “Ye—”
“No,” Zinneerah cuts in. She steps forward, arms crossed, daring him to challenge her. My darling wife, everyone. “We’re not. He’s my husband. Get that through your thick head or I’ll personally kick you out of my house.”
A moment of silence for Shahzad’s ego.
He glares, his jaw tightening like he’s biting back about fifty different arguments. But, to my surprise, he doesn’t push it further. Instead, he grumbles something unintelligible and storms off, probably to sweep the living room for hidden cameras or poison traps.
Zinneerah exhales and taps my shoulder. I’m sorry.
“No, don’t be,” I tell her, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sure he’ll be distracted the entire night dealing with our families.”
Her face falls slightly. They don’t like him.
“Oh.” I think back to the scraps of information Dua mentioned about how Shahzad had distanced himself from the Arain family after their father passed. The details were murky at best, but it was clear the split had left scars.
I glance toward the living room, where he’s currently inspecting a bookshelf with a frown, and something inside me shifts.
I’ll do my best. I’ll make sure no one gives him a hard time tonight. If that means I have to block, tackle, or charm my way through a few conversations, so be it. Friendship points if it earns me some extra goodwill with him.
Soon, the doorbell’s working overtime, chiming like a broken record as wave after wave of guests flood in. Some of these faces are straight out of my childhood—fixtures from my mother’s dawats. Others are strangers from Zinneerah’s side, faces I’m still working to match with names.
I’m running a relay between the front door, the kitchen, and the dining room, but the one constant? Zinneerah’s hand in mine.
“You want some water?” I ask as we duck into the kitchen for a moment of peace.
She nods, looking like she’s on the verge of collapsing. I grab her mug and toss in some ice cubes.
There’re a hundred conversations in every corner of the house, the air-conditioning is doing its damnedest to keep our anxiety at a low, and we’ve been poked and prodded by aunties and uncles with their usual, private questions.
“Zinneerah beta, when’s your voice going to get better?”
“So, kids? How many? I suggest three. Boys, of course. Cheaper that way.”
“No honeymoon? Are you running low on money?”
“Raees, you’re going to let her work? But she’s a musician? Haye, no income in that. Better to stay home like a good wife.”
“And teaching, Raees beta? Is that really going to support a family? I have a nephew in IT. I could pull some strings. Just say the word.”
Oh, and then the cherry on top: “Your father would be so proud of you.”
I keep Zinneerah tucked into the corner of the kitchen, shielding her from the crowd like a bodyguard. She sips the water, but her hands are trembling, and she spills a little on her kurtha.
I grab a napkin, wiping the spot, then gently dabbing at her chin.
“How much longer?” she whispers.
“I’m asking myself the same question.” I sigh, leaning against the counter. “But we haven’t even served the food yet. Brace yourself.”
She rubs her temples. “Food. Now. Or I’m taking hostages.”
I smirk. “On it.”
The second I lift the dish covers, the kitchen transforms into a war zone.
Mostly thanks to the stampede of sugar-fueled kids tearing through like we’re rationing food in an apocalypse. Zoha’s the only polite one in the lot, actually shaking my hand and greeting me like a civilized human being, no parental arm-twisting required. I almost want to give the kid a medal.
“Great party, you two!” chirps Dua, already juggling a plate stacked with kebabs and pulao. She sniffs at her food. “The flavor’s almost suspiciously competent. Did you follow Alina and Azeer’s method?”
“We cooked it ourselves, believe it or not,” I say proudly.
Dua grins and sniffs her plate again. “Well, it’s either really good or I’m starving. I’ll let you know in my mental Yelp review later.” She slaps my shoulder and skips off toward the living room, where— oh, man.
Shahzad’s staring at me with those deadpan eyes of his. I can’t tell if he’s plotting a murder or just spacing out. He leans toward Azeer, muttering something under his breath, and then they both give me the once-over. Slowly . It’s high school all over again, and I’m the guy who just walked into the cafeteria butt-naked.
“Zinneerah, meri jaan!” Maya Aunty sweeps in, wearing a lime-green shalwar-kameez blinding the room. Sequins, glitter, dangling beads—she’s a human disco ball. She plants kisses on both of Zinneerah’s cheeks, her ruby lipstick leaving evidence of her affection. “You’ve outdone yourself with the food,” she coos, stepping right in between us. “You should’ve told me you could cook this well. It would’ve saved me all the time I wasted teaching you.”
I see Zinneerah open her mouth to deny the claim, but before she can, I rest a hand on her shoulder.
“And how are you, Raees?” Maya Aunty turns to me now, hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes, however, are on the crowd, scanning for some minor social infraction to pounce on.
“I’m great, Ammi-ji.”
“Good, good. And is Zinneerah giving you any trouble?”
I glance at my wife. Her shoulders are hunched, fingers fidgeting nervously. All I want to do is take her hand, kiss it, and whisk her upstairs where we can breathe.
“She isn’t capable of it,” I say.
Maya chuckles wryly. “First time I’ve ever heard anyone say that,” she mutters, craning her neck to stare at the couch. “Why are those two here?”
I follow Maya’s glare across the living room. Alex and Ophelia are sitting with our family friends, chatting animatedly, while Juliette and Zoha are sprawled on the carpet with a couple of other kids, eyes glued to their Switches.
Maya gives Zinneerah a little shove on the shoulder, making her stumble forward. My jaw clenches, and it takes every ounce of self-control I’ve got not to step between them or shove her right back. “Go tell them to sit outside.”
Zinneerah stammers. “I can’t, Mama. They’re my friends.”
Maya’s lips curl into that disapproving frown she’s been perfecting for decades. “ Friends ?” She says it like it’s a dirty word, her chin jerking toward Alex, who bursts out laughing at something Alina just said. “What did I tell you about that one? Drugs, drinking, shaytani music every day—those girls ruined you. They’re the reason you can’t even talk anymore.”
“Mama,” Zinneerah whispers. “I never drank. I never did drugs. And they’re not the reason. Alex and Ophelia are like my sisters.”
“You have one sister, Zinneerah. Just one. And even she’s turning into one of them.”
That’s my breaking point. “I think you’re mistaken, Ammi-ji. Dua is an exceptional student and a talented volleyball player. And as for Zinneerah’s friends, they’re some of the kindest, loyal, and down-to-earth people I’ve ever met.”
Maya’s sharp eyes narrow on me, but I don’t back down. I even throw in a smile. It’s petty, but it feels good. “Where’s your father, Raees?”
And there goes my confidence.
Damn her. She knows how to land a blow.
“Your mother and sister gave me the same look earlier,” she adds.
Zinneerah steps between us before I can even respond. “He couldn’t make it, Mama.” Then, in a move that makes my chest swell with pride, she lifts her chin. “And I need you to stop insulting my friends, and Dua. This is my house you’re standing in, and I won’t have you disrespecting the people I care about here.” She falls into a fit of coughs, and presses a hand to her mouth.
Instinct kicks in, and I guide her gently toward the kitchen. “Let’s get you some water.” I cast a glance back at Maya. “We’ll talk later, Ammi-ji.”
“Stay,” Maya orders. My feet annoyingly freeze.
Zinneerah gives me a frustrated sigh, and signs, It’s okay. The sooner you listen to her, the sooner she’ll leave us alone. She throws her mother a tattered, pained look before quietly heading to the kitchen by herself.
My chest hurts hearing her cough, but thankfully, Shahzad is already by her side, his hand on her arm, guiding her to sit. At least she’s not alone here.
“I know my daughter is lying to me about you both consummating,” Maya says.
I choke from her very bold statement.
I wish my mother was here to handle this woman. She wouldn’t hesitate to put her in her place. But no, she and Ramishah are busy entertaining our relatives at the dining table, laughing and pouring chai as if everything is rainbows and sunshine. So, it’s just me standing here, trying to keep my cool. “With all due respect, Ammi-ji, what happens between me and my wife is nobody’s business but ours.”
Maya doesn’t flinch. Instead, she gives me one of those patronizing, no-nonsense smiles that makes my blood pressure spike. “I’m her mother, Raees. It is my right to know if my daughter is fulfilling the obligations of her marriage.”
“I can assure you that Zinneerah and I are content in our marriage. And, respectfully, whether we are or aren’t is not anyone’s business. No matter the familial ties involved.”
“She’s almost thirty, Raees,” she hisses. “Everyone’s asking why she hasn’t announced a pregnancy yet. Tell me, how many people here have asked you that question tonight?”
I meet her gaze head-on. “I didn’t marry Zinneerah to turn her into a child-bearing machine,” I state firmly. “And it’s not my decision to make. I’ll wait as long as she wants me to. However long that may be.”
“We’re not getting—”
“‘Any younger’? Right. Noted,” I interrupt, my patience finally starting to fray. “But that’s not my problem, Ammi-ji. Your daughter is my wife. She’s under my care and protection now. And if you ever stopped treating her like livestock for five seconds, maybe you’d see what I see—a talented, ambitious, incredible woman who deserves better than the way you speak to her.”
Her eyes thin, head shaking in disappointment. “I don’t remember you being this disrespectful, Raees,” she says, a slight sneer tugging at her lips. “I hope for her sake you don’t speak to Zinneerah like this.”
I can’t help the dry smile that pulls at my lips. “The only person I hold higher than my mother and sister is my wife.” I take a step forward, placing a hand on her shoulder, and leaning down so we’re eye-to-eye. “And speaking of respect, let’s review, shall we? Tonight alone, you’ve disrespected your daughters, her friends, her privacy, and, if you ever push my wife again, it’ll be the last time you walk through our door.”
Her mouth opens, maybe to snap back, but I raise a brow—just one—and she clamps it shut.
“Respect is a two-way street, Ammi-ji. If you want it, learn how to give it,” I say, fixing her dupatta in place. “Now, have a great rest of your evening.”
Without waiting for her to recover, I turn and walk away.