8. Zinneerah
8
Zinneerah
I stand over Baba’s grave, cradling a bouquet of white roses and a fresh stack of wedding photos that arrived in the mail this morning.
As soon as I tore open the envelope and saw the glossy images, I thought of him. He should be the first to see them before anyone else.
I lay the bouquet on the cool stone, nestling it close to his name carved into the granite. Then I place a single framed photo of Raees and me beside it. He stands with his arm around my shoulder, smiling. I’m beside him, doing the opposite, eyes distant, caught mid-thought. The photographer had kept bullying me to smile, but all I managed was this awkward look. Maybe Baba will find it funny.
Slowly, I sink down onto the grass, hugging my knees to my chest.
I’ve come here often since he passed, stealing quiet moments to share my thoughts and secrets. But with the wedding preparations, and Mama’s constant presence, these visits have become harder to make room for. It’s as if, by getting married, I’ve stepped a little further away from him.
I remember so clearly the first time I came here to tell Baba about Raees. I had pictured him sitting right across from me, his hands wrapped around mine, listening with that familiar spark in his eyes. I’d spoken confidently, like I was making my case in court—telling him how I’d made Raees wait a whole year, how he was Dua’s professor, of all people, and how he talked and talked once he got going, but only when he was asked. I told Baba how patient he was, how he never pushed, never rushed me, as if he had all the time in the world.
I can almost feel myself blushing again when I described his lopsided smile, those honey-brown eyes that crinkle up into half-moons behind those flimsy glasses of his.
And Baba, he was smiling, too. I could see it in my mind as clearly as if he were right there. He knew I wasn’t holding back this time, that this man was different.
He would’ve wanted to meet Raees, I know it. He would’ve been eager to sit him down, look him in the eye, and give him the classic father’s speech about taking care of his eldest daughter. He would’ve teased me, too, warning Raees that I can be clingy, that he’d better watch his tone because Baba would come back from the dead if he ever dared to raise his voice at me. I can almost hear his laugh, that smooth, deep chuckle, and I know he would have just wanted to hold me close.
I cried that day, right here, feeling so full of love and loss all at once. I let myself imagine his strong arms around me, like they’d always been. And when I wiped my tears and looked up, he was gone, the moment slipping away grain by grain, like sand through an hourglass.
Nothing but a stone saying, Yusuf Arain: the first son, a devoted husband, and a loving father of three.
“Baba.” My voice scrapes out. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to be anything. A good daughter. A sister. A wife.” An unexpected breeze stirs brushes through my hair like a gentle hand. My chin trembles as I force out more. “Sometimes, I wish you’d taken me with you. It’d be easier than this. Than feeling like I’m . . . like I’m disappointing everyone. Over and over.”
It’s true.
In high school, I didn’t care about sports or fashion. I was the quiet one in the back row, scribbling in my lock-and-key journal, writing cringe-worthy love songs about everyone else—the soccer captain and his girlfriend who wore pink every day like it was a uniform, the chess prodigy and the goth girl sneaking smokes under the bleachers, the two rivals in English class who nearly came to blows over Shakespeare. Everyone else seemed to have these dramatic little storylines going on, and there I was, writing songs about their lives because mine just didn’t have anything worth singing about.
Then I got to university and realized I wasn’t even that unique. Everyone around me loved music just as much as I did—only they were better at it. Way better. I was a small fish, barely staying afloat, dragging myself through classes and assignments. Most nights I was crying into my pillow, running on no sleep, feeling so burnt out I thought I’d go up in smoke. Alone, miserable, trapped in this tiny, airless bubble I’d built around myself.
And on top of all that, I was still grieving Baba’s death.
By sophomore year, I couldn’t carry it all anymore. I had to let go of something. So, I unpacked the baggage, sifted through everything, kept my father’s memory, and tried to start fresh.
I signed up for coffeehouse open mics to sing covers. I stopped writing sappy pop ballads and taught myself to play classic rock and indie instead. I found friends who felt like family, people who made me laugh, who saw me. I broke out of that bubble. For the first time, I started to feel like maybe I had something to offer after all.
And then, just as I finally hit my stride, just as I felt like I was getting somewhere, I lost it all.
Sniffling, I rub my eyes with the undersides of my wrists, the lace on my sleeves grazing against my skin. A small, empty laugh sputters out of me. I must look so pathetic, standing here in front of the man who once kept the fragile threads of my life stitched together, who held himself together just for us.
In the end, maybe the only thing I’m really good at is falling apart.
I look down at the wedding photo.
“I know, Baba. I know Mama loved someone else. You never said a word about it—not to me, not to Nani or Nana, not even to her. But Shahzad found a picture once, a tiny photo of another man tucked away in her jewelry box. You knew, right? She never loved you the way you loved her, and yet . . . every day, you tried. You fought for her, even when it was hopeless, even when she kept her heart locked away from you. That’s the kind of man you were. You gave everything, knowing there was nothing for you in return. You were so patient with her. So patient. You would save every last dollar to buy her the things she wanted. You worked yourself into the ground just so she wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You put up with her complaints, her coldness, her anger . . . and you acted like it was nothing. Like it was a joke, something to shrug off.” I waver, choking on the words. “A part of her hated you for being so good. For being everything she couldn’t be. Maybe she thought she didn’t deserve you. Maybe she was right.”
I cough from overworking my voice and take out my water bottle, gulping down the cool liquid.
Do I feel sympathy for Mama? Yes. She was forced to leave behind the man she loved, pushed into an arranged marriage with a stranger. That wasn’t her choice; it was her family’s, and I can understand the bitterness that must have come with that.
But could she have tried to move on? To see Baba for who he was, to let herself care about him after everything he did for her? He promised he’d take care of her, uprooted his whole life to bring her here, to the West, away from the very family that had forced her hand. He did everything he could to give her a fresh start. She could have met him halfway.
And she should have, especially after she learned that the man she’d once loved had moved on—happily married, four kids, his own life miles away from hers. She should have accepted that, invested herself in the life she did have, in the husband who would have done anything for her, in us, her children.
But she didn’t. She didn’t even try.
She took it all out on Shahzad because he was the oldest, the easiest target. And she kept going back to the very family that ruined her life, clinging to them like they were her only comfort, pretending we didn’t even exist. Dua and I were invisible to her until we were “of age”—ripe for marriage, ripe for her to check us off her list.
Naturally, I was the first in line for marriage.
“You don’t think I’ll end up like her, do you, Baba?” I run my thumb along the rough ridges of the bottle cap. “I’m trying to be different. I chose a husband with qualities that remind me of yours. That’s why I said yes to him. But I can’t ignore the fact that it’s her blood running through me, too.” Another dry cough rattles through me, and I press a hand to my chest. “I did make progress today, though. I got up early and made him breakfast and lunch. He was so happy over something so simple. He looked at me like I’d given him the world. It made me proud to be able to give him that. It made me want to set my alarm and do this every day. To be that source of comfort for him, the way you always were for us. Even if I’m a mess inside, it feels good to give him a little bit of peace.”
I vow I won’t be like Mama in her marriage. I won’t take Raees’s kindness for granted. I won’t let him carry my burdens, or shoulder half of the work at home. If he keeps being the man he is, I know I’ll come to love him, in time. I’ll give him not just one child, but children—when I’m ready—and I’ll be there for them. I’ll grow old and gray beside him, and one day, we’ll be buried side by side. Because he’s my husband. Because I chose him, and he chose me.
Warmth springs in my chest, pooling down to my stomach, filling me with something I haven’t felt in a long time. These thoughts are breathing life back into a heart I’d almost forgotten how to use.
A chime pulls me out of my thoughts. I fish my phone from my pocket, pressing down on the security notification: the front door has opened.
My lips curve up.
I stand up, dust off my bag, and gently rearrange the flowers, tucking the photo snugly between the petals.
“My husband’s home now,” I murmur. “I want to ask him how his day was.” Oh, God. I’m only just realizing how much I want to do this simple thing. “Next time, I’ll bring him with me.”
I lean down, pressing a kiss to his gravestone, letting my forehead rest against the cool stone for a moment longer.
Then, with a deep breath, I turn and make my way out of the graveyard, heading home.
Raees is standing at the counter, dicing vegetables when I arrive.
He glances up, then does a double-take, and I brace myself to apologize—for slipping out without a word, for not texting him where I was, for the mess I must look with my braid half-undone and my lipstick barely there after all the nervous biting.
But he breaks into a smile that makes my thoughts scatter.
“Welcome back,” he says. Not a sliver of worry in his voice. Doesn’t he care that it’s eight in the evening and I was out alone? Or does he just trust me that much? “I noticed you didn’t take the car. How was your walk?”
I carefully approach him across the counter and type out a response on my phone: I went to see my father. I’m sorry if I was late. I’ll text you next time. I didn’t mean to worry you.
Raees reads it and his smile softens. “Or you could just take me with you next time,” he says, “so I can pay my respects to Abbu-ji.”
The first time Raees met my father was the day after I told Mama I wanted to marry him. I’d spent hours at Baba’s grave that morning, turning the decision over and over in my mind, picking apart every tiny flaw I could think of, looking for some reason to back out. But nothing came. After a year of talking—well, him doing most of the talking—I was so at ease with Raees that my very soul knew he was meant to be my husband.
It was a beautiful day, sunny with a breeze, as if Baba was listening. When I told him about Raees, it felt . . . right. And then the next day, when Mama told his family about my agreement, he surprised me by asking if he could visit Baba’s grave himself to get his blessing.
He showed up with a bouquet of roses and lilies, and asked if I’d mind giving him a few minutes alone. So, Dua and I stood at a distance, watching as he knelt there, talking quietly, a huge, earnest smile on his face the whole time. He didn’t stop smiling, not once. He looked so genuine, so open, like he was really trying to introduce himself, to say ‘ I’ll take care of her. ’
“You don’t have to apologize to me for seeing your father, Zinneerah,” Raees says. “However, I would like it if you text me beforehand for safety purposes.”
I should have let him know—I can only imagine how worried he might’ve been. I almost type out another “I’m sorry” on my phone, but instead, I delete it and send a little smiling emoji.
I catch his eye and sign, What is that?
Dinner for us.
My eyebrows rise in surprise. Learn ASL?
He taps his temple, then gestures toward me, that playful smile tugging at his lips. “For you.”
I swallow hard, suddenly feeling my face flush. He turns back to the stove, oblivious, and I press my hands to my warm cheeks, trying to calm the flutter in my chest with a few quiet breaths.
“I picked something up on the way home,” Raees says, heading toward his bag on the dining table. He must have gone straight into the kitchen when he came in; he’s still in his work clothes.
A wave of guilt sinks my shoulders. If I’d gotten home on time, I could’ve made us dinner. He’s probably exhausted, running on fumes, and yet he’s still somehow over-the-top enthusiastic about making dinner for us.
“Here we go.” Raees approaches, stopping just a few steps away. With a little flourish, he pulls something from behind his back— a diary? Bound in smooth black leather, with a gold lock and a tiny key dangling from it.
My fingers tremble as I take it from him, brushing my hand over its surface.
“I thought we could use it to share the things we’re too afraid to say out loud,” Raees says, a soft glow in his eyes. “It doesn’t have to be just the sad stuff. You could tell me about a childhood memory with your father—something that’s hard to talk about, maybe—and I could share some of mine.” His jaw tightens. “Though I can’t promise mine will be as lighthearted as yours.”
Ramishah once mentioned, almost offhandedly, that their father was still alive but had become a distant figure. I’d been on the verge of telling her she should visit him before it was too late. But looking at Raees’ expression now, and remembering the guarded look on his sister’s face back then, it seems their relationship with him isn’t like the one I shared with my father.
Not even close.
“Or, you could keep it all to yourself,” he continues on. “I’ve been writing since I could hold a pencil. Every time I couldn’t say something to my family, I’d write it instead. The good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly—it all went onto the page. It’s . . . cathartic, you know? Better than keeping it all locked inside.” He gives me a small smile. “There’s a reason it’s called ‘writing.’ Everything you write is right.”
I duck my head, hiding a smile as I fumble with the key, rolling its edges between my fingers before slipping it into the lock. With a soft click, the diary opens, and the scent of fresh paper wafts up. The spine creaks faintly as I turn the cover back. Just holding it makes my fingers itch to write.
I’ve brought all one hundred and twelve of my diaries—journals spanning every corner of my life, from childhood scribbles to adult confessions. But I haven’t written in one since . . . well, since the incident. Like Raees said, I’ve kept it all locked inside and sealed tight. Maybe pouring it out onto a page, like I used to, can help me find a way forward. Help me become someone new.
And again, like Raees said, I don’t have to write about sad instances. I can jot down random ideas, sketch doodles, scribble bits of song lyrics, even note recipes. Maybe this diary can become a way to tell him all the things I struggle to say out loud.
I want to share this diary with my husband.
I don’t want to be like my mother, who could have used words to express her anger but instead let her palms do the talking. It’s going to take time before I can fully open up to Raees, to sit across from him and speak everything that’s hidden in me.
But for now, I’ll start small. I’ll use the tools he’s given me.
Pen? I sign.
“Pen?”
I nod.
He tilts his head thoughtfully, then holds up a finger before reaching into his bag. A moment later, he returns with a black fountain pen, holding it out to me like an offering.
I take it with a small thanks, and flip open the cover of the diary, landing on the first blank page—the one that reads ‘ This diary belongs to: ’. I pause for a moment, then slowly write in the space below: Zinneerah and Raees.
When I look up, he’s already watching me. My heart skips, stalling in mid-beat. His lips are slightly parted, his dark brows drawn together, and there’s a flicker in his left eye.
What’s wrong? I sign, my fingers hesitant.
Raees inhales, then shakes his head, pressing his lips into a reassuring smile. “Nothing. Just . . . I’ll finish up dinner, and call you down when it’s ready.”
Help? I offer.
“I’m almost done, anyway.” He turns back to the cutting board, resuming his careful dicing of fresh mint.
I clutch the edges of my— our —diary close to my chest. Just as I’m about to leave, he glances over his shoulder.
“Oh, and the lunch you packed for me?” he adds. “Absolutely perfect.” His eyes light up with their usual childlike gleam. “Thank you for waking up so early to do that.”
You don’t have to thank me.
He blinks.
Shoot. I signed too fast.
“Apologies, Mrs. Shaan,” he says teasingly, “but I don’t take orders on this one.”
The title catches me off-guard, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning too wide.
Mrs. Shaan. That’s who I am now. Not Zinneerah Arain, but Zinneerah Shaan. It’s still new enough that it feels like a small miracle.
Zinneerah Shaan. I roll it around, tasting three tablespoons of sugar in my mouth.
It has a nice ring to it.