Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
R izwan returns to England without an answer.
I don’t know what to say to him. Shanzay likes him, though I am sure she would not mind if I truly wanted to be with Rizwan, seeing as I saw him first.
I wish to discuss it with her at work, but she is distant and quiet, even when I bring her donuts from her favorite donut shop. With a stab of guilt, I realize she must have taken my comment from the picnic to heart, when truly I didn’t mean it as such.
I will have to visit her to make amends; I make a mental note of it, but to be honest, my mind is a bit jumbled, as it is. The Rizwan situation has certainly stumped me.
I did not think I loved him, but now that he’s proposed, perhaps I could grow to? Just as everyone said happens after marriage sometimes?
I cannot keep refusing offers forever; maybe this is as good as it was going to get. Rizwan is handsome, rich, clever, and likes me a great deal.
What else did I need?
I think about what he said, how I am sweet and good-natured, and yes, I am all of those things, but not only those things. He said I am perfect, but in a truth I rarely let on, I am not perfect.
Do I really wish to be with someone who sees me simply as a perfect doll?
Is that not setting myself up for disaster? I cannot bear to be put on a pedestal, cursed to be a performer forever.
Does that mean if I am not perfect, he will not love me? I would hope for someone to love me in spite of my flaws, not because they believe I have none.
People love me because of how they perceive me: amiable, sweet, good-natured, lively, and other such silly notions. They love me because of who I am to them: a kind face, a listening ear, a reassuring hand, a warm hug.
They love me because they do not truly know me. They see what they want to see, which is exactly what I show them.
I do not mind, it does not usually bother me, but sometimes it just makes me sad. As if no one will ever truly know me, will never truly see me.
Perhaps all I am is a glossy veneer, shiny and polished, to cover the coarser truths hidden just beneath the surface.
Perhaps we are all veneers – is that why I cannot seem to fall in love? Because I crave something that cuts deep, right to the bone, and no one can give it to me?
Or can someone? a voice in my mind teases.
The day passes in a wretched blur, and the weather fits my mood: cold and gray. I listen to sad music to further cement my miserable mood as I go to the dry cleaner’s to pick up Papa’s clothes after work.
“I’m sorry, we don’t have anything for Mahmud Mirza,” the girl tells me. I frown. That’s strange. I always pick up Papa’s clothes on the last Monday of the month.
“Did he not drop anything off?” I ask. The girl shrugs.
I head back to the car, driving quite slowly on my way home, something unsettling within me.
Did Papa change his routine without telling me? I do not see why he would. Unless he wishes to keep me even further from him.
He has been terribly distant since I caught a cold after the wedding, which is not what I wanted at all. It isn’t that he is angry with me, but it’s like he no longer has use of me, and so I scarcely see him. In the morning, he makes his own coffee, and I feel like he’s abandoning me.
But I am too worried about Rizwan to focus on Papa, just yet.
Am I being ungrateful if I refuse Rizwan? Do I think too highly of myself in imagining that I deserve true love?
Or perhaps I am just plain stupid, and what I seek does not exist.
What can be done? In matters of the heart, you cannot push, and I cannot accept defeat.
If I am hopeless, what is left? A life of gray.
I will not give up on love. I would rather be miserable than hopeless.
Mist rolls across the horizon, as haunting as I feel, as I pull into a coffee shop parking lot. More, I always want more; I am insatiable, never satisfied, never content.
Does it have to do with those encounters and memories and feelings with a certain someone that I have locked away? There is something in the back of my mind, a hidden box that I dare not open for fear of what will come out if I do – for fear of who will come out, to be more precise. Here is something – someone – that perhaps could not be mine.
I head into the cafe to grab a scone and tea, cold raindrops wetting my cheeks and eyes. I sit inside, sipping my tea, watching the rain fall. The sky is parchment white, the trees a subdued green and brown.
People pass by, students and parents and toddlers and lovers and old couples. I watch them, smiling warmly on instinct if our eyes meet. It unnerves me to see how well I can play pretend. I am afraid I will spend my whole life in pretense.
What is to be done?
Rizwan is great, there is no doubting that, but am I a fool for wanting more ? Am I a fool to wait?
I am afraid if I refuse him, I will lose this chance. He is so close to all I desire – perhaps time together will bring the rest. Will I regret refusing him if I do? I know marriage is a choice you make every day – that once you choose someone to marry, you must keep choosing to love them every day, despite difficulties that might arise - but the first time you choose someone should surely be the easiest, not the hardest, right?
I cannot come to a decision, so I drive home.
Perhaps a hot shower will help.
When I return home, Papa’s car is already there. I unlock the front door, and as I enter, I hear the sound of laughter – his and another’s – coming from the office. Heading to the door, I say, “Salaam.”
It’s Fawad in there with Papa. He looks at me quickly, returning my greeting, then looks back to Papa, who is not being exactly warm, either.
Something in me unravels, but I haphazardly push it back in place. I stay in the doorframe, not entering.
“I went to pick up your dry-cleaning,” I say. “There wasn’t any. Did you forget to drop it off?” My tone is gentle, bright.
“I switched places, did I not tell you?” Papa says, not looking up from his papers. “Fawad brought it for me.”
This startles me. I blink, looking at Fawad.
“It was no trouble,” he says easily. “I was picking up my own anyway, and we are neighbors.”
“Oh.” I stand stupidly for a moment, not knowing what to say. “Have you eaten anything, Papa?” I ask, voice sweet. “There’s nihari and naan.”
“No, that’s alright,” Papa says, looking at Fawad. “We were just going to get some sushi.”
My brows knit together.
“Will you join us?” Fawad asks me. I open my mouth to say yes, but Papa interjects.
“No, I am sure Humaira would like the evening to herself,” he says, voice even. “You and I will go.”
Tears fill my eyes, and I set my jaw, pushing them away. I can bear it no longer.
“Well, there is the son you have always wanted,” I say, voice hard. “I am glad for you, Papa.”
I leave before either of them can react, tears spilling onto my cheeks. I hastily wipe them away, letting out a wavering breath as I go to the kitchen for a glass of water. I drink it in slow sips, looking out the window at the rain, trying to relax, to stay calm.
It was an unfair thing for me to say, but I am feeling unstable, and cruel.
What is really unfair is how Papa is treating me. I was cross with him once – once! – and he has replaced me so easily! As if he has no need of me unless I am amiable and doting.
Naadia is always irritable, and Papa has never been so cold to her for such a long period of time.
At the sound of footsteps approaching, I clutch the edge of the countertop, trying to steady my features.
“What was that?” Fawad asks. I do not turn, unable to hide my trembling lip. “Uncle has never made you – or Naadia for that matter – feel he has lacked in his life from the want of a son. You know that.”
Suddenly, I am angry with him, too. I do not need him to be right, just now.
I whirl around to face him.
“Just because your father is not around does not mean you get to steal mine,” I snap.
His face shutters.
“I thank you for the reminder,” he says quietly. Without another word, he turns and leaves. For once, he does not fight, does not bicker – he just leaves.
And that hurts more.
Fawad and Papa leave soon after for food, and I am left alone in the mess I’ve made. I have been unkind and cruel and now I have hurt the people I love – Shanzay, Papa, Fawad.
They have seen the truth of me – how wretched I really am – and they have taken their leave. They love me for my perfection, and now that I have shown them my flaws, they have left me.
I am alone, soaked to my skin in grief.