Reyansh Carter
If you were to take my advice, I would say never make your best friend and your wife friends. Because one day that fucker is going to take her side more than yours, and while that is an admirable sentiment, it is going to come bite you back in the ass one day.
I know this because when I told Aarav that he would be the one to pick up Aisha because I had some work to finish, he called me names I can’t even say out loud.
The supposed work that I have is a surprise for Aisha that I didn’t want to tell anyone else before her because I am still in doubt whether she will like it or not.
My wife loves all things that can be or are Bollywood coded, but she also kind of doesn’t like me at the moment, so I wouldn’t be too sure.
But because that asshole wouldn’t leave me alone and threatened to not go and pick Aisha up, I had to tell him.
I am thinking of getting her name written in mehendi on the center of my right palm. I know it is cliché, and to be honest, I can’t even stand the smell of mehendi ; I only like it because she likes it, and I do whatever my wife says.
At least, he didn’t call me names after that and instead said that I was back to being a lover-boy.
“I never stopped being one,” is what I wanted to say to him. I just became stupid enough to hide it.
But now is not the time to mourn over the past, over my stupid mistakes that I made under the control of my fragile ego.
Now is the time to fix what’s broken—including my own broken heart and Aisha’s too.
It was hard for me to find a henna artist all of a sudden who had the time and the skills, even though the only thing that mattered to me was to get her name beautifully carved in the middle of my palm.
I would tattoo her name on my body if she would let me. But while she finds those attractive on other people, she isn’t really fond of the idea of one on me.
The henna artist wrote her name in beautiful calligraphy on my right hand, and now I am driving to the event location with it resting on my thigh as I drive with one hand.
I am actually excited to burst her bubble that I left her alone again because of my work.
I want her to understand that I am not stupid enough to repeat the actions that made me lose her—the most precious one in my life—again.
* * *
When I reach the venue, I am awestruck. I didn’t actually think these influencers were going to do anything worth looking at. Initially I thought that it was going to be like one of those stupid house parties that they organize and you see all over social media.
After all, only Indians know how to do justice to Indian wedding parties. No one can replicate that vibe easily. It is all about energy for them. But whoever made this party happen clearly didn’t come to play because even someone like me who isn’t so easily impressed is in awe of the decoration.
I just hope this Indian wedding party—even if it is fake—manages to bring me and Aisha closer.
I text Aarav to let him know that I am outside and will be there soon. I just need to get the dry henna off my hands and some courage inside me that she is in fact going to like this.
I really hope she does.
I make sure I am not wasting any time as I go into the men’s restroom to clean my hands and finish my business.
When men around me see me wiping my henna-covered hands, they surely judge by the way they keep staring at me. But do I give a fuck? Hell no.
Once I am out of the restroom, I take one last look at the name on my hand. It looks beautiful. Her name pairs well with my name—with me.
I don’t care if she looks good with someone else; as long as I am there, that’s simply not going to happen. So, we can consider the possibility non-existent.
I find Aisha in the crowd, and I feel my heart stop beating. She looks divine.
Like she is a goddess.
Like she was made just for me.
Like all my dreams have come true.
I keep a hand on my heart to tell it to calm down, but who am I kidding? It can never feel calm whenever she is around.
“Oh god,” I exhale as I take steady steps towards her. The pink lehenga looks so good on her tanned skin, her hair is in its natural wavy state, and her waist…is tempting.
Aisha doesn’t look back when I stand behind her, busy talking to some guy I don’t know that I am assuming is Aarav’s friend, and I really don’t like the way he is looking at her.
He says something, and she throws her head back laughing, and while I have always loved seeing her like this, envy like I have never felt before fills my chest.
I sneak my hands to her waist, not able to resist anymore, and she gasps, her elbow hitting my stomach in defense, and just because I have been through one of her “self-defense” nudges more than a few times, I taut my stomach so it doesn’t hurt me.
“Hi, baby,” I say, and her face relaxes, and I just bring her closer to my chest. The amount of relief this fills me with can never be described. I have never felt as much at peace as I do when she is in my arms.
It makes me feel closer to heaven.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless, and I smile. Aarav rolls his eyes at me, knowing fully well why I pulled her towards me all of a sudden.
“You are late,” Aarav says what I was expecting Aisha to say, and I give him a look. Is he my wife?
“I said I had some work,” I say. He is a prick for doing this right now while knowing fully well why I was late.
He just loves seeing me getting thrashed—verbally or physically—by my wife.
“It’s okay,” Aisha says, pulling my hands away from her waist, and I realize that she is, in fact, mad at me. God, I truly hate when I make her mad, but I also know no better ways to surprise her or keep my mouth shut.
“I want to show you something, Aisha,” I say, trying to save my ass in whatever way I can. Maybe she won’t be as mad if she knows I just made an excuse to surprise her.
Maybe?
God, I have never been scared of anyone as much as I am of her. Her being mad at me, her not speaking to me, her leaving me—all of these things give me cold feet.
“Meri jaan,” I start when Aarav’s friend—who not only didn’t care to introduce himself but also interrupted me—speaks up.
“There she is,” he elbows Aarav, who scowls at him.
“That is the girl Aarav is obsessed with,” Aisha says, her mouth wide open, and I follow her line of sight.
A woman who is shorter than Aisha in height and has shoulder-length hair walks towards us.
She is the one he is obsessed with? Why did I, as his best friend, not know about this first?
I am offended.
“I am not obsessed with her,” Aarav says, shrugging, but I can tell a man is obsessed when I see one. The way he straightens himself up, his biceps flexing through his kurta sleeve, says everything. He wants to look good in front of her, and only a man that cares does all of that.
I know because I have been there.
“She is beautiful,” Aisha says. “No wonder she can’t stand you, Aarav.”
“Thanks, Aisha,” he deadpans. “I love you too.”
She laughs, and I smile. “I am just saying that women who look like that actually know their worth, so surely she won’t be nice to you if you act as a dick towards her.”
“I agree,” I add. I agree with whatever my wife says. “Though I am a bit offended that you didn’t tell me you liked her before.”
“I don’t like her,” he says, and I can see how much he dislikes her. “I only said that we have been competing over brand deals for over a year. That’s it.”
“Yes,” she says. “And that’s why you know what she likes and doesn’t like, her favorite colors, her favorite places, what suits her, and everything. He is right, Raj. He doesn’t like her.”
So, this fucker’s name is Raj.
“Hi, Raj,” says the woman who is the center of Aarav’s world, and for someone who doesn’t like her, his eyes light up as if she is the only one he can see.
I know that look all too well. That’s exactly who I become when I see my wife.
“Hi, Riana,” she says, not even sparing my best friend a look, and the way he looks almost like a puppy at her makes me want to laugh so bad.
Sure, he isn’t obsessed with her.
“Hi,” she says, kind of forced to Aarav, who just gives her a nonchalant smile. For someone who gives me and everyone around relationship advice as if it is his job, he sure as hell sucks at following it himself.
“Riana, this is Aisha Kapoor,” Raj says, and the way he takes her name pisses me off. Maybe I am too jealous. Maybe I am too possessive. All I care about is no man being as close to her as I am.
“She is Aarav’s sister-in-law,” he says. “And this is Reyansh Carter—Aisha’s husband.”
Okay, maybe he isn’t that much of an asshole. I like the fact that he called me her husband.
“Hi, Riana,” Aisha says, taking her in a hug, and I chuckle. She is way too enthusiastic about him having romantic interest in some girl.
While Aarav has been popular among women, because the fucker looks too good to be true, thanks to his wonderful parents, he has also not been in many relationships.
He believes in that Bollywood-style romantic love and thinks he can find that. As someone who didn’t believe in it, I can say he isn’t delusional. Love like that exists. You just have to believe in it, believe that it will find you.
But I think the universe has a funny way of working. I never believed in love like that, yet the most beautiful, all-consuming, heartwarming, and wrecking love came into my life in the form of Aisha, and I have never been more grateful for anything as I am for her.
“Aisha,” I whisper in her ear, desperate to have some of her attention on me.
“What?” she says, her voice clipped, and my heart frowns.
“Can I talk to you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I sound like a damn kid being told no to his favorite ice cream. Just that I am being said no to by my favorite person.
She sighs, turning towards me, and I finally get to see her beautiful face.
God, she is magical.
“I am mad at you.”