Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
T he week closes out with Sadaf’s sister, Haya’s, wedding, which everyone is invited to, and those who aren’t (namely Jasmine and Emad) somehow manage to invite themselves. Sadaf invites Rizwan, for my benefit, since he’s still here, but I don’t feel particularly enthused by the prospect.
Even so, the main event, the baraat, is wonderful; Haya looks stunning in a red and gold outfit, and Carlos, her husband, looks handsome in a white sherwani. He’s Chilean but looks just as comfortable as a Pakistani in it, and from what I hear, he’s even learned a bit of Urdu to impress Haya’s parents.
We meet Sadaf’s cousins from Pakistan, Mina and Hamza, who are here for the wedding. Mina is vibrant and fun, while Hamza seems more shy. He’s a total cutie and engaged to a girl back home – his bachpan ki mohabbat and neighbor, which I love for him.
Such classic Pakistani drama tropes! I think there is something so romantic about knowing someone before really knowing them, something so fateful and divine. An invisible string.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Phuppo, sitting down beside her with a plate full of samosas for her to eat. She’s beginning to show a little now and wears her dupatta draped across her stomach, the universal Pakistani way of pregnant women.
“Not too bad,” she says, instinctively placing a hand on her stomach. I lean my head on her shoulder a moment. I know she is worried about the pregnancy because of her age, but my best friend Areeba is a genetic counselor and taking good care of her, so there should be nothing to fret about.
Even so, Zeeshan Uncle is not letting her do anything herself, and so she spends most of the event sitting down rather than walking around commenting on people’s outfits with me.
Dancing, I am sure, will be out of the question, which is just no fun.
The night is not very eventful, though I love to dress up for weddings and witness the general splendor, and I am of course pleased to see Haya so happy. I’m wearing this gorgeous long kurta and culottes by Dr. Haroon and am told by a few people that I am easily the most beautiful girl in the room – besides the bride, of course, they add in quickly.
I am not too moved by these compliments, even when one comes from Rizwan. I believe I am getting over him, which is disappointing, for I’ll have to find someone else to fixate on.
There is nothing wrong with him, but I need to be enthused about the man I am with – it must be someone who makes me awake, because I’m afraid I’ll spend my whole life in gray, asleep.
“Oh no,” Shanzay gasps, clutching my arm while we grab drinks from the bar.
“What is it?” I ask, looking to where her gaze is. Someone is entering, a tall, athletic looking girl, and it takes me a moment to register who it is: Madiha Raja – Huzaifa’s sister.
Shanzay ducks behind me. “Should I go over and say hello? Or is it best to avoid her entirely?” she chatters. “She must hate me!” She gasps. “Do you think her brother will be here, as well? I must go say salaam, it would be rude not to?” She nibbles on her bottom lip. “Or is it rude to say salaam? Like rubbing salt in the wound?”
“Deep breaths,” I instruct, breathing in and out with her. “There’s nothing wrong with saying salaam.”
“Yes, you’re right.” She nods. “I ought to go.”
I watch as she approaches Madiha hesitantly. Madiha’s face lights up when she sees Shanzay, then a bit of a reserved expression covers her initial excitement. Shanzay and she speak to one another, and I can tell Madiha is a bit withdrawn at first, and Shanzay a bit nervous, but as they begin speaking further, both girls warm up.
I’m pleased to see Shanzay opening up, back to her overexcited, rambling self. Madiha is really nice – I’ve met her a few times at the Chaudrys’s house.
Was I too hasty in judging the Rajas? Perhaps I was a bit harsh on Huzaifa. I think about what Emad said, how Shanzay wasn’t good enough for him, and how awful I’d thought him for it.
But had I not been equally snobbish in regarding Huzaifa?
Unease settles through me.
But there’s nothing to be done, not now at least. Anyway, I’ve given up matchmaking.
I join Naadia and the rest of the evening carries on. After we eat appetizers and the speeches are given, Naadia and I go to say salaam to Haya up on the stage.
“Thank you so much for coming!” Haya exclaims, grinning. She’s positively glowing, and my heart warms at the sight. I reach out and take her hand, squeezing.
Her gold bangles jingle, a little melody adding to the symphony of the wedding around us: the loud music, the droves of family members and friends chatting and laughing, the children running around screaming with glee.
“You look beautiful!” Naadia tells her.
“I’m so happy for you!” I say.
Haya introduces us to Carlos, who is grinning just as wide as she is. He is a real sweetheart, with golden curls and the deepest dimples. His attention is barely diverted from Haya; he is staring at her with open adoration, his hand entwined with hers in his lap.
I feel overjoyed for them, but something in my chest nudges with a twinge of jealousy, and once it comes, I make dua for her happiness.
There is enough love in this world for all of us, I remind myself. She has gotten hers, and I will get mine. I will. What is mine will be mine. I must believe it.
As we head back to our table, I pass by Papa, who is speaking to Haya’s father. My mouth drops at what he is saying, and I politely pull him away.
“Papa!” I scold, squeezing his arm. “You cannot give the bride’s father condolences on his daughter's wedding day! She is not dead !”
“This is a sad day,” Papa says solemnly. “I was merely wishing to comfort him.”
“Papa,” I tsk. “How would you feel if people gave you condolences on my wedding? Would that not worry you?”
He looks at me as if I am absurd. “Of course not. I would appreciate their solidarity in my time of grief.” He pauses. “Besides, you’re not getting married, anyways, so what a silly thing to say.” He shakes his head. “Honestly, Humaira.”
No, I am not, I think to myself sullenly, as I flit away.
Zahra’s brother, Ahsen, is here as well, so perhaps the night is not entirely uneventful, for Sadaf and he have history and might one day have a future.
From what I’ve heard from Naadia, they've been in emotional politics for years, only exacerbated by the fact that he lives a coast away in California and is probably afraid of commitment like most men.
“I wish I had some popcorn,” Naadia whispers to me when I join her. She’s watching Sadaf and Ahsen interact, and I follow her gaze. He’s a good-looking guy and tall; there’s a cool and confident air about him, but I catch the way his fingers drum restlessly against his leg. Not so cool then.
He and Sadaf are standing off to the side, nearly eye level in Sadaf’s massive heels. Sadaf is talking, and even from here, I can tell she is speaking a million-words-a-minute, mouth moving fast. Ahsen is listening intently, head cocked, amusement in his eyes and something deeper, too.
Sadaf lifts a hand to adjust her hijab.
“On no,” I say. Sadaf’s eyes widen when her bangle gets caught in the fabric of her scarf. Ahsen laughs – there is the endearing way his eyes close Sadaf has mentioned – then reaches over to untangle the bangle and scarf.
Sadaf looks like she is going to faint. Or simply drop dead.
“Hai Allah, let me go rescue her,” Naadia says, handing me her pi?a colada. I sip it, watching the scene unravel. It is unnerving to see Sadaf so flustered because she is ordinarily so easy-breezy with boys, putting them in their place and not dealing with their bullshit.
When Naadia reaches them, Ahsen steps back, and Sadaf clutches Naadia’s arm, before being whisked away.
Later, when dinner is served, there’s a bit of a mix-up with the seating. It is not a sit-down dinner, but a buffet, and everyone is moving around their assigned table, being chaotic.
Rizwan has saved my seat beside him, but when I sit down, I realize some chairs are missing from our table. Shanzay approaches and realizes the same. She waves a hand at me, as if to say, “It’s okay!”, then goes to find a place to sit at the table adjoining ours.
There is an open seat next to a suited gentleman, and Shanzay approaches him. But just as she nears, the gentleman turns, and it’s Emad.
Oh no . Shanzay freezes.
“You cannot sit here,” Emad says, putting Jasmine’s purse onto the seat, though I can see her coat on the seat on the other side of him. Shanzay looks to the other seat as well. “This seat is for her purse. It’s Louis Vuitton—a very expensive designer bag.” He laughs shortly. “Though I would not expect you to know anything of it.”
Anger cuts through me. What a dickhead! Everyone at the table notices the interaction, looking away in shame, and a few people even snicker. I can imagine what they are thinking: poor girl !
I get up, ready to put Emad in his place, wanting to do something, anything – but someone is already to the rescue.
“Come, sit here,” Fawad says, taking Shanzay’s plate. He sits her down at my table, where he was previously seated. I silently sit back down as Shanzay takes a seat quietly, her eyes brimming with tears, which she hastily wipes away. Fawad returns a moment later with a chair, setting it beside her.
I want to go to her, but Fawad beats me to it. He’s talking to her, and she smiles and starts laughing. They both laugh, and I feel a strange nudge in my chest.
I try to focus as Rizwan chats with me, but I don’t really hear a word he says and instead watch Fawad from the corner of my eye, the peculiar feeling never leaving me.
After the cake is cut, Phuppo and Zeeshan Uncle make their rounds of goodbye, since “the baby needs rest,” according to Zeeshan Uncle.
“What do you think the baby is doing in there?” Phuppo asks, laughing as she holds onto his arm. “An Olympic routine?”
Since they are leaving, Rizwan must, too.
“I should pack, besides,” he says. “My flight is tomorrow.”
“Yes,” I say. “Well, it was good seeing you.”
“Allah hafiz, then,” Rizwan says to me, lingering a moment. He opens his mouth as if to say something more, then stops.
With a final wave, he’s off, and I’m relieved when he’s gone and I don’t have to put up with niceties. Many others take their leave at this time, as well, the formalities of the night over. Papa left even before Zeeshan Uncle, along with many of the other older couples.
Naadia and I look at one another and grin.
“Showtime, baby,” she says, wiggling her brows. We get up, and I grab Shanzay, and we head to the dance floor. Since it is not a family wedding, we do not have to worry about our phuppos tsk-ing and judging.
“I don’t really dance,” Shanzay says nervously, standing stiffly.
“Come on!” I cry. “It’s Imran Khan! Everyone dances to Imran Khan.”
“This is the trash Punjabi music we love,” Sadaf says, joining us.
“Don’t worry,” Naadia says to Shanzay. “We’ll cover you.”
The girls create a group, Sadaf and Madiha and the other masjid girls joining us. Zahra brings Haya out and we all cheer, crowding around her. The steady beat of the dhol moves us, and we dance and dance, outdoing one another and laughing.
I love to dance, and I lose myself in the music, lose myself entirely.
After a little while, I go to grab a drink, my throat dry.
Fawad is sitting alone at our table, lights dancing off of his face. When I approach, he smiles, holding up his glass of soda in a toast.
“You don’t dance?” I ask, sitting down next to him, catching my breath. My feet are aching. I take a long sip of water. He says something, but I cannot hear him over the music. I lean close, and he shouts directly into my ear.
“Not if I can help it!”
I pull back to smile at him. We are nearly in an embrace, but we do not touch. My skin is warm from dancing, and something else, my heart beating exhilaratingly fast.
I lean back and shake my head, before motioning him forward. “What a terrible bore!” I shout in his ear. He laughs, shaking his head.
“You look like you were having fun, though,” he says, not quite screaming anymore. I lean back, looking at his face, looking at his smile. His dark eyes gleam with amusement and fondness.
“Were you watching me very closely, then?” I ask. The smile vanishes, replaced by a nervous knit of his brows.
“N-No, I wasn’t.” He looks away.
I frown. “I find it vexing when people cannot meet my eyes,” I tell him, furrowing my brows. “Am I so intimidating? Or just too beautiful?” The latter is said with mock arrogance.
It isn’t that I consider shyness to be a fault, but it is the looking away that I find entirely annoying.
He fixes me with the full heat of his gaze, and for a moment, it is I who wishes to look away. But I stand my ground, a chill running through me. I swallow.
A slow smile spreads across his face.
“It is not that, though surely you know you are excessively beautiful,” he says, and a thrill runs through me. “It is your soul. You are brimming to the surface with it.” My breath catches at the compliment, the words scoring on my heart. “Of course, people are free to admire you when you do not notice, but the moment you fix your gaze on them, it is frightening, and the intensity of your gaze is what forces their eyes away like a sudden burst of sunshine, painful and bright.”
Very purposefully, he does not look away as he speaks. He clenches his jaw; I can tell he is nervous – but he is brave, too.
He looks at me with open wonder, eyes wide with awe, unflinching and mesmerized.
My heartbeat matches the fast pace of the music beating through the wedding hall.
“I am beautiful,” I agree, not knowing what else to say. I suddenly stand, clearing my throat. “And ready for more dancing. Do not stare unless you wish to join me.”
I join Naadia and Sadaf back on the dance floor, dancing to Bollywood music, doing some steps from the dances Sadaf and I learned for Naadia’s wedding, then some from the dances for Phuppo’s wedding. We’ve forgotten half of it, but we dance until my legs hurt and my cheeks hurt from laughing.
We teach Carlos’s Chilean family some desi steps, and when the music shifts from Lollywood to Latin music, his family returns the favor and teaches us how to sway our hips and turn.
Naadia genuinely cannot move for the life of her, which makes me and Sadaf absolutely lose it laughing. We double over, clutching our stomachs, but Naadia is unabashed, continuing on. I take her hands and we twirl and twirl, the world a beautiful blur.
From the corner of my eye, I can feel Fawad watching. I risk a glance his way as I turn, and he smiles at me, unashamed.
An electric jolt runs through me. I feel at once over energized and faint.
Maybe it’s time to go. I’m not particularly interested in staying too late. Naadia will stay until the end with Sadaf, and Shanzay seems to be enjoying her time with Madiha.
So I say goodbye to everyone, hugging and kissing goodbye.
“You’re leaving already?” Sadaf asks, holding onto my hands.
“Cinderella must go!” I tell her with a laugh. She blows me a final kiss as I walk off the dance floor, smiling to myself. Fawad watches me, and when I near him, he stands.
“I’m heading out, too,” Fawad says, setting his drink down. “We can walk out together.”
I nod, and after the last goodbyes, we grab our coats and make our way out of the hall, away from the noise. Outside, I hand my card to the valet, waiting for my car to be brought around. Fawad stands with me, waiting his turn.
After the loud wedding, the silence is intoxicating. I tip my head back to drink in the night sky, staring at the luminous stars, twinkling down at me like glittering specks of snow.
My jacket hangs loosely on my shoulders, and a chill runs through me from the cold night air. Fawad looks as if he is about to comment, but I point to the sky before he can.
“Orion’s Belt,” I say, drawing out the constellation with my forefinger. “Big Dipper ... Cassiopeia.” I sigh. “That’s all I know.”
I turn, waiting for him to point out more, but he’s looking at me with an awed and amused look on his face. He holds up his hands.
“I don’t know any constellations,” he admits. I am positively shocked.
My jaw drops open as I gasp dramatically. He laughs.
“For such a know-it-all, I would expect you to know some,” I tease. Then I spot another familiar shape.
“There’s the Little Dipper!” I point, drawing the shape, but as I do, my jacket slips from my shoulder. I go to grab it before it falls, just as Fawad does.
His fingers close over mine on the fabric. An electric jolt runs through my arm.
“Would it kill you to wear this properly?” he asks, voice low as he adjusts the coat on my shoulders. Inadvertently, I step closer, looking up into his eyes, the curve of his lashes.
His hands linger on my shoulders, a sure and steady weight. In my heels, we are almost eye level, though I miss looking up at him. His gaze is warm enough to melt any ice in the air, his expression soft.
He looks at me closely, staring into my eyes.
“You have the most beautiful ocean eyes,” he says.
“But my eyes are black,” I reply stupidly. He’s the only one who ever gets away with making me stupid.
“Exactly. It’s like the ocean at night, dark and glittering with moonlight.”
My breath catches. I shiver.
Clearing his throat, he sputters back, and the air is immediately cold once more.
“Now wear your jacket properly,” he orders. “You’re going to get sick.”
“No I won’t,” I reply, tone indignant.
“Must you argue with everything?” he asks crossly. “You will get sick.”
Why must he always scold!
“What are you, Papa?” I respond just as tartly. “So what if I get sick? Let me get sick!”
He lets out a groan of frustration. “All you do is stress me out.”
I let out a sound of disbelief. “Rude!” I smack him with my purse. “I am a goddamn delight!”
“You’re goddamn frustrating, is what you are,” he says, shaking his head, but there’s a smile playing on his lips, and I laugh. The bickering is light-hearted, as if he does not seem to mind.
I don’t mind it, either, in truth.
This alarms me.
He steps closer, unraveling his neck-scarf.
“What are you doing?” I ask, brows furrowed. I lean away from him as he approaches.
“Hold still,” he orders. I do, and he wraps his scarf around my neck, covering my mouth so I can’t speak. He smiles. “There, much better.”
I open my mouth to protest, but when I do, I catch the scent of his scarf, his cologne embedded in the fabric, and it disarms me entirely. (I am convinced they put drugs in mens’ cologne; it is the only logical explanation.)
“Yes, much better,” he says, grinning now. His hands linger on the scarf ends, pulling me closer as if by instinct. His eyes are as bright as the stars in the night sky, just as magical, just as wonderful.
Something sharp turns in my stomach.
And I don’t understand.