Puranay Rastay ✓

chapter ‣ 22

Having the Walima on the second day after Eid had seemed like a good idea; family and friends would have days off, catering and matrimonial halls would be open, everyone would be spiritually high after the cleanse of Ramadan. It looked great in retrospect, but what we hadn't realized was how much it would take away from our time. Time that we could have spent on extra worship.

"It's the first wedding I'm conducting," Mama said, rushing down the stairs with me immediately after iftar and maghreb salah, "I don't know any better."

"Everything happens by the will of Allah," I said, more to myself than her. Time, distance, precautions, detailed agendas and schemes, none of them mattered in the face of Allah's Majesty and Grandeur.

If He wills for us to be back in time for taraweeh, He'll give us green light after green light, I thought to myself, pulling out of the garage and heading towards the restaurant that was supposedly going to cater at the Walima. They had asked us to come in for a tasting of the menu. With the one-dish rule in our city when it came to weddings, deciding which gravy, rice, carb, and miscellaneous dish was going to make it to the menu. Apparently, the decision between chicken karahi versus chicken taka tak, and biryani versus pulao, could cause discord between families.

"Astaghfirullahhil Azeem," Mama whispered, watching the long line of cars crowding outside the restaurant. Honks of impatience and brazenly thrown curses floated in the air. "Did fasting seventeen hours not teach them anything?"

I curbed my smile, parking into a spot that felt like a kilometer away from the building. Some people were at the part of their journey where fasting was nothing but staying hungry for them, I reminded myself. It was not on me to judge anyone.

"Let's go in and out," I announced, opening Mama's door for her.

Not only did I have to return home and change into a fresh shalwar kameez suit, I also had to collect Rida and bring her along with me to taraweeh. When I had told her that I would hold her hand and take her to Jannah with me, I had meant it.

"Did you use miswak?" I would ask, sliding her the other end of my miswak stick when we stood in the bathroom after suhoor.

"Be wudu-ed, I'm coming home in five minutes. We can pray asr together," I would say, running down the tuition academy's stairs at the end of the work day.

"I'll buy you a new abaya if you go to taraweeh with me," I bribed, watching her flip through the ones hanging in her cupboard.

It was all a repeat of what I had done in her iddat, but unlike back then when I would hope that things changed behind closed doors, away and out of sight, now I was there with her, watching her rolled eyes, her slowly emerging grins, her hesitant nods. I could now reach out and squeeze her hand, threaten to tickle her, tap her nose to stop her from making annoyed faces.

I enjoyed being a garment for her. But that didn't take away why she was grieving in the first place. I had thought four months, ten days would be the end, turns out the yearning never left. The Prophet ﷺ had gone on to marry pious, loving women, yet the loss of Umm ul Momineen Khadija, never left. Rida's being like this hurt me, but who was I to tell her to stop? I could only choose patience and silence, and watch as everything unfolded.

At the restaurant, the catering manager unfolded the tall menu of dishes, reciting each one as a sample was presented to us by the waiter.

A steaming bowl with meat as soft as jelly was left before us, followed by a bowl that fragranced the entire room with the scent of toasted button chillies and lingering nutmeg.

"The mutton nihari and lamb haleem are the most demanded," the manager said.

My eyes traced the menu he had given us. And the most priciest, I thought to myself.