A/N: Make sure to read 40b after this!
Madiha
Buick LeSabres are the type of cars that people often label as the most reliable ones they have ever bought. The 2005 model I sat in, trying to catch my breath, had absolutely lived up to that reputation. From hauling my siblings and me to school every day to getting dented and painted multiple times as the three of us learned to drive on it, yet never giving us any major trouble, it was the trusted companion that always gave more than it asked.
Yet, a Buick LeSabres was not a Porsche. No matter how many bells and whistles it was embellished with or how loyal it was, it could ever match the refined elegance and soft leather seats of the luxurious German car.
Much like the intelligent woman within, who had reached heights few had despite her middle-class roots, couldn't metamorphose into the fair and graceful embodiment of impeccable tastes and sophistication so cherished by Mrs. Khan.
Those were just the irrefutable facts.
A reality that had to be accepted.
A reality that I thought I had accepted, even if the tears silently falling into my lap begged to differ.
It had been less than 10 days since I was on the phone with Omar's mother pleading with her to accept me for who I was, because her son had with all his heart. It had been even fewer days since she had called me asking for help managing her husband's BiPAP because her son was too exhausted. Yet, it seemed that tearful apologies and heartfelt thank-you's were nothing more than a mirage - an ephemeral awakening of the conscience only when Mrs. Khan needed something from me.
Jo family Naeem bhai ki itni beizzati karsakti hai woh tumhari izzat kabhi nahi karegi, Abu's words came to mind. My father's instincts had never been wrong. I had desperately hoped they were this time. I had even convinced myself that he was just being overprotective. (The family that humiliated Naeem bhai can never respect you).
How naïvely wrong I had been, though.
A tap on the window drew my attention. There, in her peach chiffon dress adorned with delicate pearls intricately woven into the golden embroidery, stood the woman for whom Mrs. Khan had so lovingly acquired that jewelry set. Even I couldn't help but acknowledge what a vision she was, with her flawless wheatish fair complexion and sleek straight golden-brown hair.
Omar chose you, a voice within me argued.
Yet, there were those irrefutable facts again: he loved her first, then she tossed him aside.
"Could I sit with you?" she asked through the locked door.
"Yes, of course Noor," I hurriedly opened the door for her, embarrassed at myself for being so lost in my own thoughts. She had been nothing but a good friend and whatever issues I had with my in-laws wasn't her fault.
She slid in, and I heard her sigh. "I am really sorry," she said in a quiet voice.
"What for?" I asked. "You didn't make my mother-in-law hate me."
"No, but I could have warned you about her narcissistic personality."
"It's not like I didn't know, Noor," I shrugged. I had known it the moment I sat with Omar outside his research lab. "I guess, I just hoped she would have change."
"Few people ever change, Madi. Especially, when changing means losing their position of power," she replied solemnly.
Power. This was a power move, it finally sunk in. It was her putting me in my place. Reminding me that I may have made a place in her son's heart but I would never be a part of their family in the real essence, because I hadn't been born in the right family.
Every conversation since the night outside Omar's lab should have prepared me for this moment. The walls that I was so good at putting up should have come up preventing the hurt, but when it came to Omar they never had come up in the past. Why would they now?
"I know. I'll never be good enough for her. That's just something I'll have to live with,' I told my friend. But she simply raised an eyebrow.
"Why do you have to be good enough for her?"
Because you were, I silently answered.
"She is Omar's mother. Deep down I know he wants her approval, and she will never give it because I will never be you."
Noor's expression changed as quickly as I regretted articulating my thoughts. "I am sorry..." I started to say when she reached out and squeezed my hand.
"You're right, Madi," she replied softly. "You will never be me. I was merely a fleeting presence in Omar's life - nothing more than a passing blip. You are different. You are his wife - the one he gazes at as if he'll flip the whole world over just to see you smile, and speaks of as if the very air he breathes depends upon your existence."
I had no idea what to say, except for whispering to myself, "I am Omar's wife." A label put on me just that morning by an insignificant man, was now the band aid I sought for wounds inflicted by words.
"I know his mother approved of me," Noor was saying when I looked her again, "and maybe we would have had a decent marriage if we had gotten together. But you and him - " she paused, before her voice dipped.
"Gosh Madi, you two are magic together."
Magic? Isn't that exactly the word I would use for the last hour I had spent in his presence? From the way his arms became my sanctuary the moment I stood in front of him, to the warm embrace of his sweet smoky cedarwood scent that wrapped me in comfort, and the lingering touch that my skin still longed for, every moment had been enchantingly perfect.
"I can be no one but myself. Aunty will just have to accept that," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.
Though, the pride in Noor's voice elevated my spirits even further. "That's my girl," she said. "And you will have to accept that no matter what someone says, you are a part of that family. So act like it. Own your place and demand your rights."
She opened her purse and took out that crystal and diamond necklace. "You can choose to wear this, or not. But just know that this never belonged to me. It was bought for Omar's wife," she smiled, and placed it in my palm.
"It was bought for you."
As the sun approached the horizon, its fading rays embraced the meticulously arranged crystals and diamonds embedded in lustrous white gold. Despite everything, I found myself scrutinizing the intricate jewelry set.
It really was stunning with exquisite craftsmanship.
It was also nothing that I could ever have afforded on my own.
*******
Necklace or not, we still had a Rukhsati/Reception to get to. Noor was busy texting as I weaved in and out of Chicago's evening traffic. Luckily, it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated which was a relief because my own phone, conveniently left in the car while I gave in to temptations, hadn't stopped ringing either.
"Fifteen minutes, Maliha," I told my agitated sister. "I got late at work."
That was the truth, originally at least, but Maliha was quick to see right through it. "Whatever. I know what delayed you. I got married once too."
If hadn't been for Noor chuckling in the background while whispering, "There is nothing wrong with wanting to spend some time alone with your husband," I would have told my sister off. Instead, I told her to let me drive, and more importantly remind my parents that they weren't allowed to get angry at the bride - on her Rukhsati day - for being late to the said Rukhsati.
"Okay, stop laughing. You've turned into your husband," I took a jibe at Noor who was still obviously grinning under her mask.
"I can't help. It was just so cute the way you two ran through the foyer."
My cheeks were back to being on fire, this time because of embarrassment. "It wasn't my idea." I mumbled a blatant lie.
"Seriously, don't fret. Its all very understandable." Yet, her smile soon disappeared and she shifted her gaze out of the window.
"Besides," she let out a measured breath. "It gave me sometime with Salman, without Ayah."
She had mentioned that they left Ayah with the Neonatal ICU nurse who had cared for her during her admission as a premature newborn. That woman was the only one Salman trusted, apparently. Something that might have passed off as the idiosyncrasies of first time parents, yet as the silence stretched, it was obvious that Noor's grave demeanor wasn't because of her daughter.
"Is everything ok between you and Salman?" I asked quietly, unsure how much I should push for answers.
"We'll be fine. We have to be," came the equally hushed response.
She didn't elaborate, and I didn't expect her to. This wasn't my first time asking her that question, but she would change the subject or not say anything at all. Something I didn't really understand.
"Why don't you ever talk about what troubles you, Noor? It can't be healthy keeping it all inside."
She immediately shook her head, "You don't think I don't know that, Madi? But I just can't. Every time I open my mouth I imagine what others would think of Salman if they knew about our current situation. Then I think about how far he has come, and how hard he is working on getting better now. But none of that matters to people, right? All they'll see is a man who is struggling and judge him for it."
The quiver in her voice disappeared, suddenly replaced by steely determination. "I can put up with a lot and give him the space he needs. I can even manage taking care of Ayah on my own, but I will not, under any circumstance, let anyone think lesser of Salman or disrespect him because of something not under his control."
Tears threatened to spill out of her mascara lined eyes as she fought to contain emotions I recognized all too well. "I love him too much, Madi."
Love, a force often credited with giving the strength to conquer mountains and traverse vast oceans, took on a quieter, more nuanced meaning as I observed my friend's subdued presence beside me. It occurred to me that sometimes to be in love is to keep hidden your pain to save the dignity of the one you cherished.
The feminist in me argued against the notion that any woman should have to endure a partner's absence. Yet, the lover within me countered, love is a reciprocal journey — a pact where you become my sanctuary, and I become yours.
Omar
"She'll be there at the Reception, right?" I asked Salman, for the third time since he .
"Yes, she is. Noor said they left a while ago. How many times do I have to tell you that?" he replied in jest. "Stop freaking out. You're giving me a headache."
Setting Salman's feigned irritation aside, I found it impossible to quell my rising anxiety. Madi's anguished expression and her hasty retreat from our apartment replayed relentlessly in my mind. I had read and re-read the note my mother left, wishing it was a mere illusion. Yet, when I called her immediately after Madi's departure, her words were unmistakably real and resonant.
"I just stated facts, Omar. She needs to stop being so sensitive," Ami had declared unapologetically, shattering any lingering hope I held of normalizing my relationship with my mother.
Suddenly, memories I had once tried to rationalize surged back. Details like Ami's preference for dark monochrome colors for Madi's wardrobe and the shift from her usual upscale boutiques to more affordable franchises during her shopping spree to buy Madi's gifts now made perfect sense. I wondered if she would have put in any effort at all if it hadn't been for my father's insistence – a request especially made for his bahu, whom he credited with saving his life.
"Hey, what's the Urdu word for face?" Salman asked out of the blue.
"Shakal or chehra. Why?"
"No. There is one that starts with a 'bey'" he insisted.
I had to wrack my brain for a bit, but finally understood what he was looking for. "Bootha? That's a Punjabi word."
He shrugged, "Yup, that's it. What about donkey? What's that called in Urdu?"
"Gadha." I gave him a side eye, knowing exactly where this was going.
"Yup, yup. That's what I thought. And how do we say 'your' and 'looks like'?"
Now, there was no doubt in my mind about what he was going to say. Despite the N95 mask obscuring most of his face, I could almost envision a smug smirk underneath.
"Oh, grow up!" I exclaimed.
"What did I say?" His mirthful gaze fixed on me. "You're just manufacturing things in your head, man."
I shook my head, exasperated. "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?" He scoffed. "Effective at getting your mind off your difficult mother on the day of your Rukhsati? Because that, my friend, is called genius."
He leaned in, his eyes still gleaming mischievously. "You know what they call men who dwell on their mothers instead of their wives on the day of their Rukhsati? Mama's boys. You can thank me later for saving you from being one."
"Besides," he straightened up again, "if Madi can beat up that Faraz dude in front of the whole hospital, I think she is strong enough to put up with your mother."
I nearly slammed my breaks, "When the hell did Faraz come to the hospital?"
"Uh, this morning..." he said slowly. "I wasn't there but word got around. He handed her flowers and a gift. She threw them back at him and shoved him, then got the guard to throw him out."
He got flowers and gift for my wife? Rage coiled within me, my fists clenched tight. All I could see was red as I imagined ways to hurt the man who had the audacity to approach Madi. If Salman hadn't intervened, urging me to pull over, I might have impulsively turned around and headed straight to an ammunition dealer.
"Hey listen," he grabbed my shoulder. "It doesn't matter what that idiot did, all that matters is that Madi handled it."
"I am going to kill him," I blurted out, still reeling from the revelation.
"Okay, but how about you do that after your Rukhsati? Cuz, you know..." he scratched his head. "They kind of throw people in jail for murder."
For a moment I stilled, caught between acknowledging Salman's skill in bringing clarity to my clouded thoughts and recognizing the validity of his insinuations. "It's my Rukhsati," I murmured to myself, and I was unwittingly allowing my mother and an idiot to interweave themselves into a day that should have been one of the happiest in my life.
As if tapping into my thoughts, Salman spoke again, his tone unwaveringly serious this time. "No one understands the challenge of dealing with difficult parents than I do. So, trust me when I say this: your issues with them will not fade away easily, or at all. People like Faraz may enter your life again. But don't let them overshadow the moments of joy you share with Madi."
"What if those moments are not enough?" I had to ask.
"They will be," he replied in a hushed voice, a departure from his usual demeanor. Yet, as he turned to gaze out of the window, it became apparent how profoundly he believed in the enduring power of love.
"Sometimes, love is formidable enough to bind two people together - even in the depths of hell."
*******
Didn't want to leave lose ends or have a 7000 word chapter. So splitting this into two!
Don't forget to read 40b!