CHAPTER TWO
696 Words
"So let not this present life deceive you."
-Surah Fatir, 35:5.
…
|TWO WEEKS LATER|
I'm getting married today. To whom? I have no idea. Never even met the guy or his family for that matter. And I honestly don't care.
I don't have wedding aspirations like other girls, not anymore. I'm not naive. I've grown up now.
I'm getting married in a typical Pakistani way. Except for the fact that there is only a walima (dinner). And except for the fact that I refused to wear a head covering that barely covered any hair.
I'm clad in a slightly loose, maroon blouse and skirt, lined with fine golden brocade and diamond-shaped stones. My hijab has been neatly pinned up by the ladies from the parlour. The makeup has caked up my skin making me feel like ants are crawling up and down my face.
The jewellery has been tied around my neck and wrists like I’m a prisoner. Except that my ‘hand-cuffs’ are made up of emeralds and my ‘collar’ is made of some kind of gold that I’m sure costs more than a person’s soul.
I didn't want to get married like this. Sitting on a stage like a showpiece for everyone to see. And a huge event to show off how rich I am. But most of all, I didn't want to be a trophy wife.
But that's exactly what I feel like. My 'husband' isn't here yet. And I'm sitting alone on the stage with every man and woman's eyes on me. Looking at every inch of me.
Even though I'm completely covered, I feel exposed. So I cross my arms over my chest and let my mind drift off to Maha.
She stayed at home with Wali, who didn't come to the wedding so that he could take care of her. Since nobody knows about her, this had to be done.
I think about how hard it will be to live without her. I've grown so attached to her, and why shouldn't I? She's the biggest blessing of Allah (God) that I have. I love her so much. I love the way she immediately stops crying when I hold her in my arms and play with her.
And although it's hard to admit, but I love the fact that her features are so much like her father. No matter how ‘not nice’ he was, the man was devilishly handsome.
I jump out of my skin when Baba suddenly calls my name in that fatherly voice of his, filled with both command and love.
"What?" I ask him.
"Ayra, Rohaan's here." He says and takes my hands in his to help me stand up.
My gaze travels off to where Baba is pointing and I see that not even five feet away stands my 'husband'. His broad back is in my view. I look at his light brown, wavy hair for longer than necessary.
Then my eyes drift down to his suit that put my clothes to shame-and that’s something. That coat alone seems like it cost him a fortune.
I notice that he's laughing along with the person he's standing with. Head thrown back like he couldn’t be enjoying himself more than this.
How fortunate that he gets to be happy.
Baba saunters off towards him and lightly touches his shoulder so that he can come to stand with me on the stage because the photographer has been crying so that he can take our pictures and then get out of here.
My 'husband' turns around with a laughing face-
The whole world stops. I see his own smile fade as he looks at me. Or rather 'checks me out'. He scans my body with a sort of lazy perusal that is clearly meant to fluster.
He slowly walks towards me with assured arrogance; each step calculated, each move purposeful. But I cannot move, my feet are literally glued to the same spot.
I stop breathing altogether when he steps in front of me and looks me straight in the eye.
"Hello, Ayra," Sam says.
- Writer
