If I Loved You Less

Chapter 1

Chapter One

H andsome, clever, and rich, Humaira Mirza lived nearly twenty-three years with very little to vex or distress her ? —

Yet, a pout is plastered on my face.

I am surrounded with the general splendor of a beautiful walima: glittering chandeliers, melodic Urdu music, candles and fresh flowers, laughing guests dressed in smart suits and shining shalwar kameez.

The stage is decorated with white gardenia and pale pink hydrangea flowers, along with hanging lights and greenery. At the center of the stage, on an ornate and plush sofa, sits my Phuppo: radiant and beautiful as ever – and the reason for my sour mood.

When Mama passed away, Faiza Phuppo, youngest sister of one Mahmud Mirza, my father, moved in with us. She was twenty-seven at the time and not yet married – a sort of self-declared spinster – and she came to the rescue, even though I was thirteen and my older sister Naadia was fifteen, and thus we didn’t exactly need someone to take care of us. We had cleaning ladies, and Papa always said we could hire a cook, but Phuppo wouldn’t hear it, and I was secretly glad.

Naadia didn’t care for the attention – goodness, she was a moody teenager – but Papa says I was more of a delicate sort and needed the extra consideration. Who was I to deny my concerned father?

In the decade since then, Phuppo became my closest confidant and dear friend, and now here she is, being married off! Leaving me, to live her happily ever after! Just like Naadia did the year before. From a technical perspective, you can say it was all my fault, since I was the one to set both of them up with their (now) husbands, but who has time to be technical?

I am too busy pouting and generally feeling sorry for myself. I flit my gaze over to Naadia, hoping for some sisterly support, but she’s busy chatting with her best friend, Sadaf Chaudry, who’s here with her sister Haya, and her best friend, Zahra Paracha, all friends of mine and Naadia’s.

I don’t feel like going over and socializing because I’m preoccupied with quietly sulking. (It really requires a lot from me.) Besides, they are discussing Haya’s engagement and impending nuptials this spring, and I am only slightly bitter that someone younger than me has found love.

So I stand on the side, looking devastatingly beautiful in a baby pink open-front gown and lehenga that I got designed by Elan in Lahore. It’s a very classic walima look, with Swarovski crystals set into hand-sewn embroidery, and weighs about fifteen pounds.

I’m wearing Mama’s diamond set, too, the one Papa got her for their tenth anniversary, but you can’t tell because it’s hidden beneath my hijab. At least you can see the teeka, glistening on my forehead, and a bit of the necklace, peeking out from under my scarf.

Sipping my pina colada (virgin, obviously), I look around, trying not to let my sour mood show. From the outside, I’m sure no one can tell. I stand poised, my chin lifted. My round black eyes are lined with kajal, my cheeks rosy and my cheekbones highlighted.

The wedding was all fun and games until today. I got new outfits made (Zara Shahjahan for the dua, Nomi Ansari for the mehndi, Bunto Kazmi for the rukhsati, all stunning and classic, of course). Phuppo didn’t want to have so many events – she felt it was crude of her at the age of thirty-seven – but I told her I simply had to have the outfits made, and unless she wished to have me change every hour, she would oblige me for the functions.

And of course, she did. She always did.

Phuppo had never really believed in love – blasphemous, I know – but she had always waited for companionship, and now she was marrying someone just as reasonable and kind as she was.

Zeeshan Uncle is really sweet. He’s sitting up there on the stage now, a massive smile plastered on his dorky face. He’s bald and built like a boulder and even at forty-two, he’s handsome in a cool-uncle way. He’s been a long-time friend of the family and is a pediatrician.

He went through an awful divorce over a decade ago, when some girl from Pakistan only married him for his citizenship, then ran off with her boyfriend the first chance she got (these are the horror stories that keep Papa up at night). He had been a bachelor ever since, until one day I was chatting with him when it hit me – he and Phuppo would be perfect together!

I’ve been out of college a year and am frequently quite bored, despite my full-time job as a civil engineer, and am always looking for ways to be useful to the ones I love most, so I decided to throw them together, with subtle hints and little suggestions, and it took me some time, but finally he took the bait and proposed!

And the rest is history. Oh, I was so overjoyed. Still am. (Mostly).

But the novelty wore off last night, after the rukhsati, when Phuppo didn’t come home with us. It hit Papa pretty badly, too. We stood in the foyer of our dark house, staring at one another, as the realization dawned upon us that Phuppo was really gone.

Her room was empty, and would remain so.

“Don’t pout,” Naadia says, joining me. My sister is wearing Faraz Manan, part of the outfit she wore to her own walima last year. The champagne and silver getup looks stunning on her. “It’s unflattering.”

“No, it’s not,” I reply. I know perfectly well I have a nice set of lips, and with a well-placed pout, I can convince many people to do things for me. She raises her brows and sips her drink, a Shirley Temple.

“And you know it, too,” I say, pinching her side. She squeals, and I smile. “What did that loser in college used to say?”

“God, there were too many losers in college,” Naadia says. She widens her eyes, recollecting the days.

“My lips were ‘a cushion he wished to sink into,’” I continue with air quotes.

“Ew, ew, ew, still so gross,” Naadia says. She scrunches her face, and then we both gag. Then, at the same time, our discomfort at the memory fades into laughter.

Everything is always funny with my sister. It doesn’t matter how awful or weird or absurd it is, when I tell Naadia, we always have a laugh about it.

Our mannerisms are the only thing that give us away as sisters: otherwise we look nothing alike. Naadia is an inch taller (an inch and a half, as she likes to tell everyone) and thinner, with a dark complexion, and runway-model beauty: thick brows, massive eyes, small face. I’m shorter and more curvy, with a round face and more delicate features: a small nose, pouty lips, and arched brows on a face that never lost its childhood chubbiness.

I look like Mama, at least, that’s what everyone says. She passed away when I was thirteen and horribly chubby, but now that I’m twenty-three everyone says I’m her spitting image. That’s a compliment; Mama was an absolute babe, regal and stylish as a queen.

“Cheer up,” Naadia says, elbowing me. “Look how happy Phuppo is.”

I can’t argue with that. We both turn to look at the stage. She and Zeeshan Uncle are up there holding hands and giggling as they chat with guests, shoulders touching.

“At least there’s that,” I say.

“Now give me your lipstick, I need a refresh.”

I search through my Judith Leiber silver clutch and hand it to her, holding up a mirror as she applies it.

“Did Darcy not show?” Naadia asks, adjusting her hijab around her face. She hands me back the lipstick and looks around. Tossing the lipstick and mirror back into my clutch, I shake my head.

Darcy is our codename for Rizwan Ali (I’m a massive fan of Jane Austen – personally, I relate to Emma quite a bit). Rizwan is Zeeshan Uncle’s twenty-six-year-old nephew and his protégé. The whole pediatrician thing is just a side thing for Zeeshan Uncle; he has his own booming business for medical devices.

Rizwan studied biotechnology at Oxford. He’s handsome, clever, rich, and has a British accent, isn’t that just the very best thing you’ve heard? Ever since Zeeshan Uncle mentioned him, I’ve decided Rizwan could be a suitable match for me and thus the great love of my life.

He was supposed to come for the wedding, but there’s no sign of him. Which only makes my pout reappear.

“I don’t see him,” I say, trying not to sound as disappointed as I feel. “He must have been busy with work. It’s not easy being wildly successful, you know.”

“But don’t I?” She wiggles her brows at me, then pokes my stomach. I squeal. Unbearably ticklish, always have been.

Because Rizwan isn’t there, there’s really very little entertainment to be had from the night. There are plenty of boys, some handsome even, but none that particularly draw my interest. I scope the crowd anyways, and there’s this guy with a fuckboy haircut who is very clearly checking me out. Gross.

Then, when I go to the DJ to tell him to play “Teri Ore” already, the DJ has the audacity to give me his card. Worse, he winks! Ugh, as if .

I’m just recovering from this encounter when I spot an actual cute boy turn his gaze toward me.

He looks decent enough, shareef really. I can see him mustering up the courage to approach. I pretend not to notice until he’s right in front of me.

“Asalaamualaikum,” he says. “You’re?—”

But I never find out what I am. In his enthusiasm, his hand convulses, and his drink teeters over the glass he’s holding. Accustomed to such behavior, I deftly dodge out of the way, my heels clicking on the ground.

The drink splashes across his shoes, narrowly missing the edge of my lehenga, forcing a little gasp out of me. Oh I would have been very upset if he got his drink on my outfit; this is Elan! It’s not a joke!

“Uh, e-excuse me,” he says, cheeks turning pink. I sigh, unsurprised and yet still annoyed.

I know I’m cute and that guys think I'm cute, but I want someone to have the guts to do something about it beyond checking me out, beyond fumbling for words, and beyond being nervous and acting like an idiot. I mean, really, people!

Is it so far-fetched to want someone who completely owns up to being infatuated by me and is confident in his feelings enough to go after me, despite how scary and nerve-wracking it might be?

Beside me, Naadia returns with a refill of her Shirley Temple just in time to catch the drink-spilling encounter, and the sound of her laughter fills my ears alongside Rahat Fateh Ali’s melodic voice.

“Damn,” she says. “Can you not go anywhere without scaring boys off?”

“I am not frightening at all,” I say, brows furrowing. It’s true. I’m only 5’2” and have been told I have a very kind face.

“Well, if you would only stop staring at them like that, maybe they wouldn’t get so nervous and make fools of themselves,” my sister says, waving a cherry at me.

“I don’t stare .” I scoff. “It’s unladylike to stare.”

I know I have an unsettling gaze, I can see it on the receiver’s countenance whenever I’ve fixated on them. But I can’t help myself; I love to see how brave the other will be, if they will be brave at all.

It’s a trick, of course, because I love to see but hate to be seen.

“God, you’re such a grandma,” Naadia says, rolling her eyes. “Quit watching so many period dramas. Things aren’t ‘unladylike’ anymore.” She air quotes with her free hand. “This is the twenty-first century!”

“I like period dramas,” I say. “And there’s nothing wrong with propriety.”

Mama used to hold propriety in very high regard. Something Naadia hated, but I never minded because it wasn’t difficult, it was really very easy. Mama would be so pleased whenever I enunciated my words while Naadia mumbled, or when I sat and walked with my back straight.

She would smile and stroke her hand through my hair, say, “Oh, my lovely girl, you could have been a princess in another life.” And I could feel the love in her voice, how proud of me she was.

“Well—” Naadia starts to argue, just like always, but she’s cut off as another intrudes into our conversation.

“Looking for Prince Charming?” a deep voice says. I suppress a groan. I don’t need to turn to know who it is that stands behind me, and then he’s walking to stand right in front of me, a self-satisfied grin on his otherwise beautiful face.

“Fawad! How did you know?” Naadia says, pleased to see him.

“Humaira is terribly predictable,” Fawad Sheikh says. This elicits a response from me. I snap my gaze toward him.

“I am not predictable!” I reply, realizing too late he’s only said it to rile me. His smile spreads, eyes glittering. I go back to ignoring him, though his is quite a presence to ignore.

He’s tall, lean, and immaculately dressed in a black suit tailored to perfection, his white shirt crisp, his tie straight as a ruler. His beard is neatly trimmed and accents the lethal lines of his jaw and cheekbones. His thick black hair is medium length and meticulously combed back, while still maintaining an artful air even as he runs a hand through it.

My eyes snag on the signet ring he always wears on his third finger. He has very nice hands, the fingers long and slender. He’s wearing contacts tonight, rather than his thin-rim gold glasses, putting his dark eyes on full display.

Which is all to say that Fawad is handsome (but don’t tell him I’ve said as much, he’s insufferable enough) and very rich, and at the ripe age of twenty-nine a very eligible bachelor indeed. I can see more than a handful of girls stealing glances and giggling amongst themselves, but I’ve been pursued by enough beautiful facades hiding lack of depth to not be swayed.

Besides, he is terribly annoying. Case in point:

“Did Rizwan not show?” he asks, unsurprised. “Don’t you get tired of the same disappointments?” His tone is both genuine and mocking. “You’re like a child who still believes in magic.”

I narrow my eyes at him, unimpressed by his condescension. “There is nothing childish about believing in love.”

“Well, if you are such a staunch believer, how do you know that poor guy with the drink wasn’t the love of your life?” he asks, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Why brush him off so flippantly? Or the DJ, for that matter?”

I make an irritated sound. He is right, to an extent, and I do try to keep my heart open to everyone – who knows who the Great Love of My Life might be hiding beneath! – but a girl must have some standards.

I won’t admit that to Fawad.

“I just know,” I reply lamely, suddenly losing all the wit I can usually be counted on for. Somehow, he is the only one who gets away with making me feel stupid.

He insists on being difficult and is somehow impervious to my charms, so I can’t even bat my eyelashes at him to make him shut up. I’m sure it’s because he has no emotions at all. Like a robot.

“Anyway,” I add crossly, “there is nothing wrong with seeking love.”

I bristle upon hearing how much of a child I sound like. I can usually be counted on for my maturity and wisdom and now I just sound naive, which I am decidedly not. Believing in love isn’t childish! What is the point of life if there isn’t love in it?

“No, there isn’t,” he replies, voice purposefully patient. I grit my teeth together. “Just as there’s nothing wrong with hoping to win the lottery, though you must admit it is unlikely and the ordeal unsavory.”

I scowl, opening my mouth with a retort, but stop when Naadia nudges me with her elbow. I turn to see her give me a pointed look, then snap my mouth shut. I remember why I must suffer Fawad’s company: Naadia is married to his younger brother, Asif Sheikh.

I am actually the one who set them up, but that’s beside the point. If I knew how much of a know-it-all Fawad was, perhaps I would have reconsidered the match. Though Naadia is absurdly happy with Asif, so I cannot complain.

I give Fawad a dismissive roll of my eyes. He and his opinion are irrelevant, anyway.

Just then, another man passes by, flashing a smile at me as he does. I smile back sweetly in response, batting my eyelashes to let Fawad know he hasn’t bothered me at all … and watch as the man passing by crashes into an auntie, who proceeds to curse at him in Punjabi.

“Don’t you get tired of making fools out of perfectly reasonable men?” Fawad asks, shaking his head with distaste at the scene before him.

“It is my favorite pastime,” I reply haughtily, lifting my chin. “I do so love to be desired.”

“It amazes me how you manage to carry around that head of yours,” he says, “when it is so clearly full of air.”

“I have excellent shoulder strength,” I snap. Fawad exchanges a glance with Naadia, and I hit him with my purse. “Now leave me alone, the both of you.”

They do, retreating back to socialize with the guests, and I head in the opposite direction to the bathroom. Once there, I repin my scarf, adjust the diamond teeka, and reapply my lipstick, though none of these things were an inch out of place.

I catch my gaze in the mirror and for a moment, the placid expression customarily found on my face melts away into a full-fledged frown. Rizwan really isn’t coming, and there goes another chance at love. My eyes quickly well with tears, a habit I’ve never been able to rid myself of since I was a child. I always cry much too easily.

I know what you’re thinking: poor little rich girl , she has everything, what else could she possibly need? Well, I’m looking for the great love of my life, thank you very much.

I have had many ups and downs with love over the years, and I know once I’ve found my love, I’ll look back and laugh at all this. But in the meantime, I’m left wondering and yearning and aching.

For me, it’s always been about love.

Naadia says I’m way too picky. (We won’t even get into Naadia’s romantic history because it’ll be anything but brief.) But since she’s had her heart broken by about a dozen different jerks with nice beards, she thinks she’s the Queen of Romance.

She’s always telling me that there’s no such thing as the one , and that it’s ungrateful of me to push away so many great guys. But I just know, deep down in my bones, that my soulmate is out there. And when I see him, there’ll be a little voice in my head that goes, it’s you !

Fawad is always telling me that I’m too romantic and real life isn’t like that – which precisely proves my previous point regarding the relevance of both him and his opinions.

Blinking rapidly to clear my eyes, I nod to myself in the mirror, then make my way back to the wedding hall, where people are beginning to say their goodbyes and leave. Dread settles deep in my belly, that feeling that comes at the end of a vacation, or on a Sunday night before school. I don’t want this to end; I don’t want to face what’s coming.

Since we’re family, we wait till the end to leave, so there’s a bit more time, but even then departure is inevitable. I measure my breaths, trying to calm the disquiet in me. I go to stand with Papa, holding onto his arm.

He’s a slight man, about a head taller than me, and even at his old age, looks quite dashing in his tuxedo. He’s still got a full (almost full) head of hair and a full beard, both of which are a dark grey colour that is entirely natural and not at all thanks to a special shampoo he uses to ensure his whitening hair looks naturally dark.

We watch as Naadia and Asif go to say goodbye to Phuppo and Zeeshan Uncle first, then Naadia comes to say goodbye to Papa while Asif gets her shawl. Papa sighs loudly.

Poor Papa. He is in as low spirits as I am, and Naadia coming to say goodbye only cements his mood.

Naadia was married last summer, and though she and Asif only live an hour and a half drive away, it hurt Papa terribly to let her go. I was happy to see her off for the fact that she was so happy with Asif, and I was glad to have matched them. Of course I missed her a great deal, but back then I still had Phuppo – and now she’ll be gone, too.

“Ai, hai, itne drame?” Naadia says, seeing Papa and my sullen expressions. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you soon.”

“You won’t go back home with us?” he asks, eyes sad. Losing Mama hit him hard, and most days, there’s always this lingering hint of melancholy in his eyes that I hate to see. There are a few too many wrinkles around his eyes too, more pronounced now by his frown. I tighten my grip on his arm, reminding him that I am here, and he pats my hand gently.

“No, Papa,” Naadia says, a little edge coming into her voice. “I have class.” She’s in her last year of medical school.

“But you can study from home, no?” Papa asks, specifically referring to our house as her home, not the apartment she shares with her husband.

Naadia sighs. “I could, but Asif has work in the morning.”

Papa gives Asif a dirty look from afar. Naadia and I exchange a quick glance, and I bite back a smile. The funny thing is, Papa used to adore Asif. The Sheikh family live down the road from us, and his parents were friends of my Dada’s. But then, one day, he asked to marry Naadia, and since then Papa is cross whenever Asif is mentioned.

It’s Papa’s opinion that there is no need for daughters to marry: they ought to stay with their fathers, in comfort, and live as they please. Nasty business, marriage, he always said. I agree , Mama would always say, giving him a pointed look. But it can’t be avoided , she always added. She always balanced his fussiness out with her own prudence.

“Sir,” Asif says, approaching with Naadia’s shawl, which is an intricate Kashmiri loom shawl, one of Mama’s. As Naadia drapes it across her shoulders, Asif very astutely does not look Papa in the eye.

Asif really is an amiable fellow (unlike his older brother). He’s a little bit shorter than Fawad, and more well-built, with floppy hair and a boyish softness around his face. He has deep dimples that always make an appearance.

He is sweet and utterly obsessed with Naadia, which is good because Naadia doesn’t have a spine, so it’d be a disaster if she had a strong-willed husband.

Papa makes a displeased noise and dismisses him. Naadia rolls her eyes in irritation and takes her husband’s arm.

“Allah Hafiz,” Naadia says.

“Allah Hafiz, beta jaani,” Papa says, and Naadia is off, holding on tight to Asif’s arm, a sight which makes Papa actually gag.

“Oh, Papa,” I say, leaning my head on his shoulder. I let go of his arm and he puts it around my shoulder. We go to say goodbye to Phuppo, where Zeeshan Uncle gets a similar treatment of distaste from Papa.

“Sir,” Zeeshan Uncle says, despite the fact that Papa is only a few years older than him.

“Allah Hafiz,” I say, reaching down to hug Phuppo. Tears flood my eyes, and I daintily brush them away.

“Oh, jaani, I’ll miss you so,” she says. Her eyes are misty, as well, but she’s grinning. I console myself with the fact that I had a hand to play in making her so happy, that even though she is leaving me, she has found her love, her companion, and she will never be alone again.

Even if I will be.

“Never mind that,” I reply. “Have the very best time in Europe, and send me a hundred pictures a day! And don’t forget to get me?—”

“The stationary from Florence, yes, darling, I know,” she says, laughing. “Now, give me a kiss, and I’ll see you soon, gudiya.” I do as I’m told and Phuppo squeezes my hands. My heart threatens to break. I don’t want to let go. “And remember,” she adds, “when we return, I’m only forty minutes away.”

I smile at her, though despair cracks within me. Forty minutes is much too far when I am accustomed to her being just across the hall. Of course, she is a doctor and works long hours, so it isn’t as though I saw her all the time, but still. She was always there when I needed a cuddle, and now she would not be.

But I won’t make her upset by mentioning it. I give her my brightest smile, though the tears in my eyes betray my true feelings, and then the ordeal is done with.

We must go.

So we do.

* * *

“Well, that was dreadful,” Papa says, sliding off his dress shoes when we reach home. “No more matchmaking, Humaira, my old soul cannot bear another departure.” He frowns, then meets my eyes. “You won’t leave me, will you?”

I help Papa out of his coat. “No, Papa, I won’t leave you.”

This is what we in Urdu call a jhooti tasali, but I don’t think there is harm in the false reassurance.

He plants a kiss on my cheek, then retreats to his office, where he spends most of his free time. The big house is empty and quiet and dark, like a museum after-hours, filled with magic but missing it all without the visitors.

I slip off my Manolo Blahniks and release a long breath.

While I don’t want to leave Papa either, begrudgingly I think about how I will have to fall in love for that to happen first, and at the rate this is going, who knows how long that will take?

My Prince Charming is certainly keeping me waiting.

And how I hate to be kept waiting.