"Wa'alykum Salaam Khaled," I greeted him, letting go of Ami. "Kaisay ho?" (how are you?)
"Allah ka fazal hai."
I stepped back and glanced at Aqib walking in with my father. He effortlessly slipped off his loafers while balancing the fruit bouquet which he soon placed on the coffee table in the living room.
"Khaled here was helping us with the heater, we didn't expect you two to be on time," Papa explained, gesturing at my disheveled cousin.
I wouldn't have noticed Khaled's unironed kurta and paint stained jeans if Aqib hadn't stepped closer to shake his hand. Aqib's neatly pressed navy trousers, crisp white shirt and thin grey cardigan were worlds away from Khaled's usual attire.
It surprised me how I had never paid attention to Khaled's appearance before I saw him next to my husband. I vaguely recalled him always dressing up in light colored shalwar kameez or loose fitted button ups with straight jeans. Even at my wedding he had opted to wear his father's twenty-five year old grey suit, and black oxfords he wore to all formal occasions.
"Uncle, if you were setting up the heater for us, then let me assure you, we are okay without it," Aqib told my father.
"Yeah Papa, today's warm," I added, plopping down on my favorite couch. "Where's Kainat and Ifra?"
"Kainat's gone upstairs to get your Phopo, Nani Khala and the others, while Ifra's taking a shower."
"Phopo?" I shot up from my seat. "I'll go-" My mother threw me a death glare, halting me.
"Rida, perhaps you should sit with Aqib and we can talk about your plans for this evening," Ami suggested, using the tone she used when she was trying hard to sound polite.
I sunk into my seat slowly, nodding at her. Aqib settled down next to me on the red and blue couch, a good amount of space between us. My father sat down on the armchair next to Aqib, while Khaled returned to the AC/heater.
"Both of you must be recovering from the wedding frenzy," Papa theorized as my mother silently disappeared towards the kitchen. I wanted to go with her, help her with the refreshments but I knew she wouldn't allow it.
"It has been tiring," Aqib confessed. "My cousins only left yesterday, so we're still getting our bearings. With them it was a constant battle of going from place to place, having outings, meals in between and then late night talking sessions."
I agreed with a nod. Aqib's family was a lively bunch who knew how to milk every second for their pleasure. The two days and one night with them had been a constant battle of being present as they spent time together visiting the local party spots, eating out in newly opened restaurants and entertaining the children with arcades and gaming centers. I had struggled with keeping up with my prayers as they made plans without considering the time, talked about inside jokes I couldn't relate to, and felt like an odd one out standing in a niqab amongst a group of women in sleeveless shirts and capri pants.
Yet their love for one another was a display of affection I hadn't seen before, and although I had a loving family of my own, mixing up with them as one of them was a new experience altogether because they had solely accepted me for Aqib's sake, setting aside our stark differences to embrace me for who they considered their family's golden boy.
"Then you must be looking forward to the honeymoon for some peace and quiet," Papa said as the front door opened. "Where do you plan on going?"
"We have decided on a five day trip to the Northern areas before we leave for America," Aqib explained, straightening his shirt as he stood up to greet Nani Khala who hobbled into the hallway with my Mami. "I have taken a couple of weeks off after we land so I can show Rida New York city."
"That's a great idea, perhaps Rida can show you some of the city too."
I giggled at my father's reply, shaking my head with nostalgia as Aqib greeted my family. Leave it to my father to bring up how headstrong he had raised us.
In our short stay in America when Papa had been studying, Kainat and I used to walk to our school with Ami. Our little townhouse was located a few streets away from the local school, yet the ten minute walk would sometimes become an adventure. We would purposely run through the park, racing by the water sprinklers to see who reached the end without getting wet. Of course neither of us ever won because we would get wet one way or another in the dozen sprinklers watering the grass, but it was our favorite activity despite our mother yelling at us from the sidewalk, little Ifra on her hot pink bicycle, staring at us like we were animals at a zoo.
Those experiences may have been meaningless for others, but for us they were everything. They were an approval for us to be ourselves, to laugh, to explore without fear of being judged, while also being close to those we loved.
On days when our father wasn't studying, he would take us around the city, away from the suburbs we lived in. We didn't have a car, but we would take different buses, walk for miles and take the subway sometimes. He would keep us close, me leading the way, Kainat behind me, and then Ami Papa with three year old Ifra sometimes in Papa's arms, shoulders or walking on her own.
We would pick up bagels from the clearance section of grocery stores, cut them up to slather them with butter, or jelly or even chocolate spread before munching on them under the sky. Some days we would stop at the pier near my father's university, other times we would go further into the city, getting lost in one-way, dead-end lanes before venturing out to find another way.
Our mother would get frustrated sometimes, being unsure of where we were or how late it was getting being out on the streets with three young girls, but our father always had soothing words which calmed her fiery spirit within seconds. He would tell her that his girls were strong like their mother, that Allah Azzawajal was always looking over them. He would tease her that her tongue was enough to bring any man to his knees, oftentimes earning a glare and silent threats from her of what he'll get when we returned home.
Those uncertain moments which often felt like hours of anxiety, frustration and endless walking, were what we held on to. They were a reminder for us that we would reach home sooner or later, that we were invincible when we were together as one.
"Aur bacho, enjoying married life?" Nani Khala asked, huffing as she sat down between me and Aqib.
"It's too early to tell, Nani," I teased, squeezing her fragile hands.
She laughed out loud before addressing Aqib on her left, "Aqib betay don't mind this silly girl. It's difficult to understand her at first, but you'll come to love her for her remarks and feisty nature." Aqib exchanged glances with me, a grin already on his lips.
"I know, Nani," he told her. "That's why I married her, she's a firework." I gave him a funny look.
My mother walked out of the kitchen then, my uncle's wife in tow as they brought a trolley full of snacks. My cousins from Australia shyly followed them, marveling at our customs.
Since we had scheduled the wedding in December, many of our family members had returned home right after the wedding for their childrens' term exams, while those who had young children or those from abroad had chosen to stay for a few more weeks.
"Come here, Tania." I gestured to the English-speaking seven year old. She grinned before rushing over to me.
For years I had marveled at newly wed brides, feeling a need to sit next to them and stay near them because they radiated what young girls often desired; beauty, maturity and somewhat an accomplished air for getting married. I understood that feeling, being raised in a society that viewed marriage as an achievement, as well as knowing the religious importance of getting married timely, so for once, I wanted a young girl to experience the joy I often felt.
Tania giggled as I pulled her close on the couch. We weren't close because of our age gap, yet she was precious to me because she was the daughter of my youngest Mamoo.
"Tania, leave the bride alone," my Mami ordered, handing out plates.
"It's okay, Maliha Mami," I said, snuggling the young girl close. "I have a lot of things to talk to her about. I love your hair tie, Tania, did you pick it out yourself?"
We made small talk as we enjoyed our snacks, the family slowly crowded around us in whatever spot they could find to sit on. Khaled continued to work silently in the corner, my father occasionally looking over him to offer an opinion or guide him.
To my father, Khaled was much more than a nephew, he was his son. When Phopo had gotten widowed, her in-laws hadn't shown much compassion to eight year old Khaled. His father, my Phopa had married my Phopo despite everyone opposing it, so after his passing away they asked Phopo to go back to her own family. Over the years Khaled's paternal side did reach out off and on, but he was essentially left to grow with my father as the only male figure in his life.
Perhaps that was why we all loved Khaled so much, growing up with him he was far more precious to us than any cousin could possibly be.
"Eat something before you go," my mother told him when he got done with the AC/heater.
"Thank you, Mumani, I'm not hungry right now," he declined politely, quickly slipping out the door to dash upstairs.
"That boy never eats anything," Nani Khala commented to Phopo. "He's always on the roof alone."
"What does he even do there?" Mami wondered, pulling her chair close as the men chatted about politics and electronics.
"He studies there," Phopo told sheepishly.
"And feeds the pigeons," Kainat added from her spot on the rug at my feet.
I smiled to myself, knowing the real reason he was always here.
"Say, if I have to meet friends, should I wear the suits from my bari or more Western?" I asked, changing the topic.
"It's a segregated dinner?" my mother asked.
"Yeah, for my sake."
"That's really nice of them," Mami commented.
"I agree," Phopo added, putting another spring roll on my plate.
Ifra rushed to squirt ketchup on the roll, attempting to treat me like a guest. I pulled her towards me to give her a kiss on the cheek.
Nearly an hour later towards the end of our visit, Phopo led me to my old bedroom in the guise of praying namaz when she pulled me close and asked me if Aqib was treating me right.
"He is, Phopo jaan," I assured, giving her a hug. "He's very gentle and kind."
"I'm glad." She caressed my cheek before giving me a sloppy kiss. "We have missed you a lot in these few days. The house has been feeling empty despite so many people in it."
"Phopo, I missed you guys too! I have never been alone with so many people I don't know. It's scary even when it's me we're talking about."
"I know meri jaan, even when it's the confident, bold and lively you." She gave me a tight hug, saying the rest of the words without speaking at all.
My heart ached, but I dismissed it, instead breaking apart to pray and then return back to the living room. We had a dinner scheduled for seven pm, I needed a few hours at least to look good for the women I was meeting that night.
The drive home was sadder than I had expected. It felt good to finally meet my parents and family, to see the place I had called home for nearly my entire life, but saying goodbye to them was like another separation. It was being given a taste of my favorite candy, and then having it taken away before I even enjoyed it.
"Your Uncle was telling me about his company in Melbourne," Aqib started, steering a right away from a corner gas station. "He seems to be doing very well."
"Ma'sha'Allah," I nodded. "After Papa he was the one who encouraged me to take Economics in university."
"So everyone's more inclined towards Business and Commerce?"
"I guess," I said with a shrug. "Kainat's inclined towards English Literature, so I don't know if she'll continue the tradition. But Phopo is an accountant, and she made Khaled take Finance in uni."
"He did? He looked more like an Urdu Literature guy," Aqib said with a laugh. I bit the inside of my cheek, composing myself.
It's only been four days, don't get into a fight.
I took a deep breath, looking out the window to distract myself from his offensive observation. I noted the houses flashing by us on the way to Aqib's parents' house, the Mcdonald's on the corner next to a large park. An old school building rested on the other corner, the multiple floors and tall walls boasting banners that advertised their annual results in GCSE exams. I narrowed my eyes at the mosque across the road, trying to memorize it's exterior in an attempt to distract myself enough to not say what I wanted to. But I failed.
"You know, you need to ditch this elitist mentality," I snapped. "Even if he was studying Urdu Literature, there's no reason for you to look down on him. Urdu is our national language, studying it doesn't make one any less in status than someone studying English Literature. Speaking English won't make you White, and neither will rejecting our traditions make you any cooler."
There was an uncomfortable silence between us for the next couple of minutes, before Aqib apologized.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply any of that," he told, taking a final left before we entered the street where home was. "I only meant that he looks more like a person who's thoughtful and quiet, not someone who'll enjoy discussing politics and the economy."
"Both of those things are unrelated," I shot back.
"I...I'm sorry. He didn't sit with us for even a minute so I-"
"He's shy and reserved." I threw open the car door and exited, anger still coursing through my veins.
When my anger dissipated hours later, I regretted what I had said. Nani Khala had warned me to not mention other men in front of my husband, especially in the beginning, yet I had done the opposite—getting into an argument with him.
"Ya Allah, how can I be so stupid," I whispered under my breath as I applied an angled stroke of the black eyeliner.
My eyes darted from my eyelid to Aqib's reflection in the mirror as he exited the bathroom, dressed in black pants and a light grey shirt.
"Um," I whispered, catching his attention. "I'm sorry about earlier, I should have used gentler words." My husband stared back at me in surprise before his lips curved upwards.
"So you stand by what you said, but regret being harsh?"
"Of course," I announced like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Nothing I said was untrue. People do think that not following Western ideals makes them look backwards."
He let out a chuckle, holding his stomach like I had cracked a joke. He wiped a stray tear from his eye before saying, "Don't worry about it. I won't say anything about your brother anymore."
I nodded at him before continuing my make-up.
Brother. The word sounded odd despite it being the truth.
Aqib's friends that night had been kind enough to organize the dinner in their house where we could easily separate into a girls and guys group, but the others weren't.
In the days that followed the congratulatory dinners were mostly mixed, which meant that the only way to express that I was one of the chief guests of the party was to stay by Aqib's side. I wasn't wearing any ornaments—jewelry, fancy nails or even a brooch—but I did switch out of my usual black abaya to different colored ones. Aqib accompanied me in that by picking out matching shirts or even a tie, since my abaya collection was limited but he had several shirt options.
On the last dinner that week I wore a burnt orange butterfly abaya with a black khimar and niqab. It was a meal organized by one of Aunty's friends, so Aqib's parents accompanied us in the same car.
Aqib's father, or Baba was in the passenger seat while Aqib drove, Aqib's mother, or Aunty as she told me to call her, sat next to me in the backseat with her eyes closed and head resting on the padded leather seat.
"Put on some Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, will you? I'm getting a headache," Aunty instructed, rubbing her eyes.
I felt Aqib's gaze on me through the rearview mirror for the shortest second before he cranked up the car's CD player. I tightened my jaw, looking out the window while willing myself to filter out the music. My disappointment didn't last long because within a few seconds the music turned off.
"Why did you turn it off?" Aunty snapped.
"If it's a headache, I think some recitation of the Quran will be better," Aqib suggested. "Rida, would you mind connecting your collection with the car?"
"Uh, sure."
Aunty remained quiet for the rest of the ride, occasionally letting out deep sighs that did nothing to decrease the tension in the car despite the soothing recitation of Sheikh Alafasy.
I tried not to let her attitude get to me, yet by the time Aqib pulled up the car at the host's house, I was in a sour mood.
"Let's go?" Aqib asked, offering me a hand as I got out. I accepted it, pushing down the annoyance of my mother-in-law's attitude.
"My mother's friends may come off a little judgemental sometimes," he warned me, pulling me close before we entered the gates. "But it's only because they are ignorant and living in their own bubble."
I nodded at his advice, staring at his sincere face. He had advised me several times during the week about his friends and family, mentioning bits and pieces which allowed me to relate to them better, to give them a cushion of non-judgment, and to be more patient with them as I sublty educated them. I appreciated his advice because he was making an effort to make me fit in more, yet I wondered how long I had to be the understanding one.
I knew I made the decision of becoming part of a family far different from my own, however I wasn't the only one in the union.
It's only for a few more days. I reminded myself. After Aqib and I left for America, I would only have to focus on my relationship with him.
"Hello! Welcome," the host greeted us at the door.
"Assalamu Allykum," I replied, nodding my head at the older woman with dyed blonde hair and white tulip pants.
"Wa'alykum Salaam," she whispered back, air kissing me after letting Aunty and Baba in. "You look very...nice."
"Thank you." I smiled, her floral perfume wafting in the air I breathed in.
She led us into the spacious living room where more than a hundred guests already mingled amongst each other. A humongous glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, flooding the entire room with light despite the lamps illuminated little portions near the couches and armchairs scattered around for the older guests.
"Let's go meet Musa and his wife," Aqib announced, leading me across the room. I sighed a breath of relief.
Aqib's friend Musa was married to the only other veiled woman in the room, Aima. I met her twice in the past few days, and she was nothing less than welcoming and affectionate.
"Rida!" She exclaimed seeing me. We exchanged Salaam after a quick hug. "I love your abaya, the butterfly style is always a stunner."
"Jazakillah Khayr." I beamed. "You look beautiful as always." I eyed her baby bump under her flowy lilac dress.
"Wa'anta fa Jazakillah Khair. It's one of the ones I got from America." She did a twirl, showing off the matching lace embroidery at the hems.
Aima and I conversed for nearly two hours, discussing everything under the sun until the main course was served. She had done well enough with the numerous appetizers, but when the servers brought in the nicely roasted deer stuffed with mildly sweet rice and dry fruits, she got nauseated with the scent.
"I think I should head out," Aima whispered, struggling to pull herself together as the warm scent traveled all the way from the dining area. She nursed her bump, looking for her husband in the crowd.
"I'll call Aqib and have him bring Musa bhai." I assured, reaching inside my golden clutch.
"Thank you, love," Aima whispered, fanning herself.
It didn't take long for her Aqib's friend to arrive and whisk his pregnant wife away. Although he seemed to be a man of few words, he embodied his deep affection for his wife.
"They have been married for three years," Aqib told me as we saw-off the couple. "But their love for each other continues to grow every time I meet them."
Is that so. I thought, catching Aqib grinning at me tenderly.
There were many things my husband was silent about, especially when it was about him, but his compassionate side always seemed to shine through those closely guarded walls. They troubled me sometimes, because I wasn't sure how to judge him. Was he warm hearted under that enigmatic presence, or was he using that affection to hide something far sinister? Whatever it was, it was too complex for someone like me to understand.
He and I walked around conversing with other couples the rest of the night, making small talk, brooding over safe topics like places to visit around the world, climate change affecting the weather, and sometimes indulging in something as serious as politics.
It was while we were alone for a few minutes when one of Aqib's friends called out to him to accompany him to the drawing room. I gestured for him to not worry about me as I drifted towards Aunty.
Aunty was talking to her friends, the older women, as they sat together in the corner.
"Ah it's good that you came, Rida," Aunty said, holding an intricately designed tea cup. "I was telling these beautiful women about how disciplined you are."
I conjured a smile for her sake despite feeling no glee. "I believe whatever you have said is merely a reflection of your own beautiful self, Aunty," I said, looking around the circle.
"You have a talent with words, Rida beta," an older woman in peacock blue told. "But Sheena here was telling us that you refuse to listen to music."
"That's very virtuous of you, beta," a woman sitting next to her exclaimed. "When Sheena told us that Aqib was marrying by his choice, we thought you would be like him. But you are quite the mulani!"
I gulped the knot in my throat, smiling at them.
"Well, they do say gadhi pay dil ajaye to hoor kia cheeze hai. No offense to you, darling," another one pipped in, making the others laugh. (idiom that implies love at first sight regardless of how disagreeable the person of admiration is)
I tried to keep a smile glued to my face, but their words dug deep. They were quick to judge based on the little they knew about me, using their own perceptions of me as a way to define what box I fit in.
"Hey, don't talk about my daughter-in-law like that," Aunty admonished the others, but her smile didn't waiver.
Behind us a loud pitched noise drew our attention. When I turned to look I recognized a local singer setting up his musical instruments along with his band.
Ya Allah. They hired a celebrity singer for a house party?
"It was nice meeting you all," I politely said, getting up.
I walked through the hallway, walking past the guests populated the rooms and into the outdoors. The cold winter breeze welcomed me as I took a deep breath, whispering a silent prayer of thanks. The music started to boom through the walls as the singer began to sing, but the lyrics were a muffled mess from where I stood in the courtyard.
The radiant moon brightening up the night guided me as I walked further into the lawn, away from the vibrations of the music. A deep sigh left my lips as I stroked the moist leaves on a tall jasmine plant.
Music was like the jasmine flower, fragrant, quickly enticing and attractive enough for us to pluck it and take it home, yet once it became ours, it decayed within days, leaving behind a mess. No wonder it was forbidden, it only entertained us for a little while, calling us towards it with the promise of filling the holes in our hearts, but once we started listening to it, it made our gaping holes larger—which often spiraled into becoming ones which consumed us whole.
"Rida?" I heard Aqib call out from the door. He stood in the dark, his silhouette easily recognizable.
"I'm here," I muttered, knowing the silence between the songs would carry my words.
"You should be inside, the party is for us," he reminded, appearing in front of me. His amber eyes glistened in the moonlight, becoming pools of warm honey.
"If it's for us, I wish they had asked beforehand what we preferred," I whispered, knowing well that I sounded somewhat irrational.
"Aleesha Aunty always structures her parties like this, so she kept it the same way without thinking." His excuse did nothing to soothe the anger slowly rising inside me.
"I'm not going inside, you know I don't listen to music," I announced.
"I know, you told me," he uttered, referencing two nights ago.
That night after a dinner at Sara's house where my family was invited as well, Aqib had turned on music on our drive back home in an attempt to augment the tranquility of the rainy night.
"Can we please turn off the music?" I had asked, already reaching for the stop button on the radio console.
"Sure," Aqib said at first, briefly glancing at me as I turned it off. Then a few moments later he followed with, "Is there any in particular you would prefer?"
"No, I avoid listening to any."
"Why is that?"
I stayed silent for several seconds, measuring my words. When it came to something as sensitive as the topic of music, often others were hesitant to hear the reasoning in fear of not having the evidence to back their thinking or were ready to downright disagree with their own rational explanations.
"Aqib," I gently started, "Music is haram. It is mentioned alongside alcohol and illegal intercourse in hadith*. It is also agreed by all four of the madhabs that all musical instruments are haram."
My husband looked back at me, flabbergasted. "What? That's the first time I'm hearing about it," he informed, his hands tightly holding onto the steering wheel. "How is that possible, music is everywhere."
I took a deep breath, composing myself. With his tone I could sense that he wouldn't shy away from launching into a lengthy argument. Other times I would be more than prepared, but that night in particular, after separating with my parents again, attending several congratulatory gatherings and talking for hours as I introduced myself and went on about my interests, I didn't have the energy to engage in a discussion.
"Crime and discrimination is everywhere as well, but that doesn't make it permissible. What is forbidden is forbidden, even if the entire world is doing it," I said on a final note. "You are free to educate yourself using the countless sources online and at masajids."
"I will," he announced, ending our conversation.
We hadn't addressed the conversation again after that night, but somehow we agreed to disagree. And with how Aqib had honored my decision earlier in the car, I could see that he was being respectful about my choices.
"At least come inside to thank Aleesha Aunty, we can leave after that," Aqib coerced, taking a step closer to me to pluck a jasmine from the plant.
He slipped the small stem in a gap between where my niqab and hijab met, his hand resting on the side of my temple.
He's doing it again. Being assertive, and then quickly becoming soft.
"When the music stops," I told, taking his hand from the side of my face to hold it. He nodded after staring at me for a few moments.