all we are is hopeless

prologue;

His name is Daniyal.

The first time I hear his name, it sits pleasantly on my mother's tongue as she sounds out the syllables, without a doubt pairing it with my own.

My mother often does this. Apart from trying new recipes from the various Youtube videos she's grown accustomed to watching, my mother's second-favourite hobby is finding new names to connect with mine, as if doing so will bring together the two people they belong to.

His name is Daniyal and my mother has chosen him as my future.

He is sitting across from me on the beige leather sofa my mother purchases on whim last summer. At the time, it seemed like a good idea – our extended family was visiting for my cousin's wedding, so impressions were important. But when we had to start paying off the debt we incurred due to the number of add-ons the saleswoman at the neighbourhood Hemingways tacked onto the original price, it wasn't such a good idea anymore. Yet now, when Daniyal sits across from us – from me – in his expensive Armani suit (the suit of choice for the rich South Asian men in our town, it seemed), I could tell my mother didn't regret putting us into debt for a new sofa.

Daniyal and his parents, an aging couple with curious eyes, arrived at our house ten minutes ago. In those ten minutes, I have seen my mother offer them every non-alcoholic drink under the sun. Qirat often complains that we never have anything to drink when she visits, but now all of Bloomberry's seems to have appeared out from under our noses. Bubbly peach tea, sweet apple juice and of course, milky, hot chai, is laid out on the coffee table (the same one we paid eight hundred dollars extra for). And while Daniyal's mother and father have treated themselves to the chai, Daniyal has politely excused himself from touching anything. It appears his wrist watch is far more interesting.

My throat is as dry as sandpaper, but I would not dare reach for a glass of any beverage. It will be a disaster when I reject the proposal undoubtedly coming my way, but the third world war will ensue if I drink anything that isn't meant for me. Even if it's our house and the same dishes I'll stand in the kitchen to wash an hour from now.

While the parents spoke, I learned quite a few things about Daniyal. Yet none of the information I received came from his mouth. He is as quiet as my mother was the day my father brought the divorce papers home.

Here's what I know:

Daniyal is an accountant. He works in the heart of the city, in Helmshire's infamous financial district. He drives a flashy red car, a BMW, and he plays cricket on the weekends with his college friends.

He's also seven years older than me and has two kids from a previous marriage, "a mistake," as his mother bitterly put it. Despite the atmosphere, I nearly guffaw at that. When my eldest cousin divorced her abusive husband, she was the mistake—an impatient woman, an angry woman, a divorcee who could not keep her man and will never find pleasure in finding another to marry her after she's been tainted. Because despite her education, her talents, and her passions, Qirat was just another burden on her family's shoulders before she married and a bigger bode to carry once the papers were filed.

In the longest afternoon of my life, Daniyal has refused to meet my gaze.

He sits with his hands crossed in front of him, next to his mother who smiles brightly at my own. They exchange words which are foreign to me, make plans for a future I want to take no part in. Through it all, I try to make sense of what is going through my potential husband's mind.

I want to ask so many questions:

Did your mother show you a picture of me before you came here?

Why did you agree to this?

Where are your children?

Do you even see a future with me?

Why are you doing this?

If only he would spare me a glance. But his stupid, damned wristwatch is the entertainment of the century.

It appears my mother has caught wind of my staring because as soon as I make motions to stand up and excuse myself, she latches onto the end of my kameez and halts any future movements I might make. I breathe in heavily, whispering a silent prayer for strength. 

"Ma," I lower my voice so only she hears me, "Please, can I go upstairs now?"

"Be quiet and sit down," she scolds, pulling me down by the sleeve of my kameez. 

And because there is nothing else I can do, I sit and I wait. 

...

As soon as the door shuts behind them, I am ready to protest. But my mother has other plans. She tends to the empty dishes, gathering them in her arms and carrying them to the kitchen. As she lays them in the sink, I utter my first words about the situation.

"I don't want to marry him," I tell her, keeping my gaze locked on her back as she moves around the kitchen picking up pots and pans and clearing an already clean countertop.

"Why not? He is a perfect fit for you."

I guffaw. "How do you know he's 'perfect?'"

If my sound of annoyance angers her, she doesn't let it show. "His mother and father spoke highly of him. Besides, what a respectable young man he was. He sat so quietly and listened to the elders speak. Didn't interfere once."

"That's just it then, isn't it?!" My voice has grown a level. I can't control the emotions bubbling within me. It only adds to the situation when my mother is as calm as ever. "He didn't say a word. We don't know the first thing about him."

"I know enough to see that he will provide for you, and keep you happy."

I huff, running a frustrated hand through my hair. "Keep me happy? How exactly will he do that?"

"With his salary. How else does one find happiness, beta? Don't ask such irritating questions." My mother has left the kitchen now. She approaches the living room, probably thinking about her late afternoon drama, but thinks better of it and heads for the stairs instead.

"Ma, have you ever thought that maybe a six-figure salary doesn't entice me? That maybe, just maybe, I want something more?" I say to her back as she takes the stairs one at a time. "You never even asked me my opinion..." I whisper the last part, too afraid to say what I really feel.

"What more could you possibly want, Aditi? His income is enough to support your family, our family, and his. You will never have to worry about missing a mortgage payment or fall behind on bills. Is that not a happy life?"

"Not for me."

My mother shakes her head, the usual way she does when she realizes that, despite her best efforts, I will always remain a few steps behind due entirely to inexperience. "You're still thinking like a child, beta. Life is not a fairytale. There's no such thing as 'falling in love.' People grow in love, together, after hard work and compromise."

And so I say the one thing that puts an end to our conversation in the only way I know will cause my mother enough grief to leave me alone. "It wasn't like that with Minnie."

Her nostrils flare. "That...that boy was not your future. But Daniyal is." With those parting words, she crosses over to her room, leaving me staring after her. Once again.

His name is Dominico.

It is a name my mother has never liked. It is a name she has never tried to sound out. A name she has never coupled with joyful speech. It is a name she refuses to pair with mine. It is a name that still sits bitterly on my mother's tongue, and sadly on my own. 

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author's note: 

this is the first piece of writing (besides poetry) i've posted online in years. i hope it was okay for a person who's been away from writing for a while, haha :}