What Not To Do When You're In Love

11 | Art

"But do you know what Nadir liked to make?"

He dropped a couple set of toothbrushes onto our cart. I was too engrossed in knowing about Hasan's friend, the first he'd ever told me of, to roll my eyes at their unrequired arrival.

"He painted skies," he said, and grinned, almost a laugh. "His sky could woo you within seconds, even if he painted it in his sleep. It was perfect; there's no other word to describe his work. His paintings were calm, therapeutic, and so realistic they honestly made one remember how gorgeous Allah's creations are with the very first look."

"You make me crave seeing them," I said with a smile, but I did not tell him that what I craved more was to see his expressions when he actually saw his friend work. I could only imagine it, seeing the way Hasan was speaking about it after all these years.

I had never seen Hasan talk so animately about anything. I never knew it would be this wonderful a sight when I did witness it.

He smiled again, a sad smile this time. "Nadir was a bit silent. You can say he was the shy type. He barely ever spoke, and although it's never the same after graduation, you know how people still keep contact? They'll text you once in a while, if only to say so, what else is up, man every two irrelevant sentences.

"Then there's people that we lose, but you may run into them in a convenience store like this one, because, you know, they exist.

"And then there's people that disappear off the face of the Dunya," he concluded in a disheartened tone.

I could see the disappointment in his eyes, as prominent as his aquiline nose-structure. "I didn't think I'd miss him of all the people I sat and stood with, but well, I confess I'd love to meet him again once."

"Insha Allah," I said. "You still haven't answered my question, you know."

"Like you didn't answer mine when I asked you if you have any talents?"

That caught me off-guard.

"You said you'd give me time to answer that," I said in my defence.

"You've already taken, like, a week to figure out a way to disclose it to your own husband," he laughed.

I raised an eyebrow. "You sound too sure that I possess one."

"Because I am," he said. "Duh."

I smirked. "So I must make the declaration now that you aren't that good at reading people after all. Because in striking contrast to your claim, I don't really have any 'talent'."

He just made a weird, kinda smug, all-knowing face as he finally dragged our trolley full of unnecessary things towards the billing counter. It scared me a little.

"Lying is haraam, wifey," he said with a smirk of his own.

And now I was really scared.

Being a Desi wife has its perks. Not many, obviously, but some you can't really deny.

While Hasan loaded the dicky with the gazillion bags he'd ended up paying for despite my disapproval, I sat in the car like a typical idle Desi queen. My self-assurance and feeling of gender equality continually pushed me to get the hell up and help him, but because he probably wouldn't let me, and because if I was being handed the downsides of my position in his family I wanted to claim the meager upsides too, I remained seated comfortably.