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.
The waiter hurried to give my mother a plate of naan, from which she broke a morsel for herself and then me. As soon as I took a bite of the haleem, a fire erupted from my esophagus to my stomach. A fire that triggered memories from long ago.
Back in middle school, haleem stalls were a must at Eid Galas and Basant festivals. Once at an Eid ul Adha Gala, Rida had hunted me down near the photocopy shop, where my friends and I sat eating our bought lunches and sipping on coke and fanta. There was a staircase near the shop, which was where the guys in my grade usually hung out.
"I looked for you everywhere!" Rida had exclaimed, red faced and panting as she paused to catch her breath. Her bell bottom pants with tiny bells at the ends, and golden dangly earrings clinked with the movement.
"What's wrong?" I asked, concern rising in my stomach.
We lived in our separate worlds while at school. Having her approach me was never casual.
Her face changed expressions, as if she just remembered what she had came for. "Do you have some money? I want to buy haleem."
I dug a hand in my pants to take out whatever cash I had, not sure how much was leftover after buying russian salad in a cup and a seekh kabab with naan.
Rida peeked at the money and plucked a hundred rupees note. "Thanks!" She ran off to her friends who had been waiting for her.
"I told you, Layla, your Majnun never disappoints," one of her friends teased.
I felt my cheeks grow warm as the words carried over to me.
"Chup karo," Rida rebuked. "He'll hear you." (Be quiet)
"Essi mohabbat hi kiya jis ka ikrar nahi." (What's the use of such a love that you won't confess?)
"You need to stop watching Indian films."
"You need to stop crushi–"
"Rida, Saima, the line for haleem is getting long in your useless fight."
Ten minutes later she appeared again, this time with a styrofoam plate in hand. "It's bought from your money, so you should get a bite," she said, giving me an extra spoon.
"I'm good, thanks," I said, refusing the offer. Her friends were watching her again and exchanging odd smiles. I really didn't want any trouble for her. "Tum khao." (You eat it)
"One bite? Don't embarrass me in front of them, please?"
I looked towards her group and hesitantly reached for the spoon. As soon as I took a bite, my tongue burned and my throat clogged up. I had accidentally bit into a red button chili.
"This is really good," I whispered years later, meeting Mama's gaze. "But it's too spicy."
The catering manager gave us a knowing look, as if our reaction wasn't new.
"There's more," he announced, gesturing for the waiter to walk in with a long tray with steaming plates.
I eyed each one set before us and wondered to myself if I could possibly bend in ruku after tasting each one of them.
But the tasting had to be done, my bride was selective about her food. So we dug in.
"As long as the food is good, nothing else matters," Mama mused on the way back home. I chuckled at her comment. "Haan na, that's what everyone talked about at Rida's Bar–"
My jaw tightened at her slip of tongue, but I let it go. The new mantra of my life was becoming let it go. "The food was good, no doubt," I offered, keeping my tone leveled. The crisp roghni naan, melted palak paneer, lacey reshmi chicken boti, and juicy kulfi falooda had been the subject of conversation for days. I wasn't going to compete with that when I was dealing in rupees, and he had dealt in dollars. "We'll be fine." The tightness of my stomach attested to the fact. Each and every menu item we had selected was mouthwatering.
"May Allah accept our efforts," Mama said in a low voice.
The Walima was, afterall, a sunnah act. If we had the right intentions, even our partying would be a source of rewards. That was just one more reason why I love Islam so much, no deed was too small, no effort went to waste.
"May Allah accept your efforts," Mama echoed a few minutes later as Rida and I left the flat for taraweeh.
"Fee aman Allah, Phopo. Don't wait up for us, there's no telling about Khaled's moods," Rida called out, an annoyed undertone in her voice.
My insistence on praying all twenty rakats on nights I felt energized and motivated, annoyed her sometimes. She would text me at eight rakats and ask when we would be leaving, sometimes even as early as four rakats.
Let's try two more, I would text back, encouraging her. The intention behind bringing her to the masjid was so that she could meet familiar faces and reap rewards through voluntary prayer. If I left her at home with how detached she was these days, she wouldn't even be performing isha.
She would text me back an orange angry face, but continued with the prayer regardless. We only had a couple of odd nights left, and I was becoming comfortable with being a little assertive when it came to matters that affected us both.
"I'm telling you beforehand that I'm exhausted," she announced, lifting up the front of her abaya a little as she went down the stairs. It was the new promised abaya, a trailing style one. "Eight rakats and we're out."
"Deal," I agreed, glancing at her.
Rida used to observe itikaf every single Ramadan since the last five years, and here we were today negotiating how fast we would leave the masjid.
Ya Rabb, give me back my Rida. Give me back the vibrant and talkative and complaining Rida. Lighten her load, bless her with tranquility. Ya Rehman, shower your mercy on her.
"How's Kainat's preparation going?" I wondered, following Rida down another flight of stairs.
She had spent the entire afternoon at Mamoo's, helping Kainat study for her board exams.
"She's stressed, but you know how she never complains."
"Yeah." Each one of Mamoo's daughters were so different from the other, yet all virtuous and pleasant in their own unique ways.
"How did the food tasting go? Did you finalize the menu?" She asked. I knew how torn she had been rejecting the offer to go with me. She wanted to support her family, she had said. "I don't want to miss out on any important moments." Eventually Mama had agreed to accompany me in place of her.
"The tasting went well, but we can't finalize without your input," I confessed. I was still debating about switching the kunna with the haleem.
"Just do whatever, I don't care," she feigned indifference, taking the last step at the end of the staircase and releasing her grip over the outer garment.
I watched her from the corner of my eye, knowing exactly how to change that reaction. "That's good then, because for one of the dishes I was thinking Mirchon ka salan."
She whipped her head to look at me, the stars twinkling in the night above her head. "No! You can't."
For a brief time in her life, Rida had been obsessed with the cooked green chillies gravy. She had it for every meal, morning, lunch, dinner, until she had finally gotten a stomach ulcer and vowed to never look at the spicy curry again.
"You can't tempt me like that." Her tone was accusatory.
"You're right, I won't dare." I held up my arms in an amused fashion.
She punched me on the arm lightly, showing her displeasure.
A shadow emerged from the other staircase of the building, Faisal bhai followed. He must be on his way to taraweeh, I thought. Coming across him wasn't unusual—we prayed at the same masjid and lived in the same building—but it had been a while since we had talked or even met each other's gaze.
"How are you, kids?" he asked, eyeing us both.
"Allah ka fazal," I said, watching his eyes stray to Rida's hand, which still rested on my bicep. (Allah has been merciful and kind)
"Aur nahi to kia, you hit the lottery, Kallu." His tone was light, but it wasn't entirely kind.
Metaphorically speaking, I had hit the lottery in more ways than one but his comment stung.
I said nothing, deciding to let it go. But my wife didn't, she stood bewildered, making eyes at me to say something. When I didn't, she said, "He had to take after his elder, Faisal bhai. Sidra Api is one in a million, you really did get blessed."
Surprise went through his face before he burst out laughing. "Sad'a suhagun raho," he said and then left. (May you have a long married life)
His prayer felt like a double edged sword, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
"Now he's going to think both of us are rude," I said, watching him walk along the road towards the masjid.
"Let him. He shouldn't have talked to you like that," she frowned. "Why don't you ever defend yourself?"
"I don't need to."
"You can defend yourself, you are even permitted revenge."
"Within equal limits. Who can determine what the same measure is?" He looked away, finding his words. "An essential part of belief is having ihsan, the firm belief that Allah sees what we do. The belief that is supposed to push us to do actions in the best way we possibly can. I'm not going to threaten my rank with Allah for one snide reply, Rida."
She didn't say anything, choosing to start walking instead.
Around us the humidity was in full swing, hanging low like a dense cloud. Sweat was already moistening my back, sticking to my kameez like a second skin. I watched Rida and wondered how warm she felt in her multiple layers. It was hot outside in the fresh air, it would be suffocatingly hot inside the cramped masjid where there was no air conditioning.
Maybe she should pray at home, I mused. Prayers for women were better at home anyway.
"Rida? How about–"
"The other day you asked me what I want you to improve on," she burst out, cutting me off. "That." She pointed towards the hallway that housed the staircases, referring to what had happened with Faisal bhai a few minutes ago. "I don't understand why you refuse to change, Khaled. How will you continue this practice of staying silent when you should be speaking? You'll be a commissioner, deputy commissioner one day, you'll need to use your tongue then." I opened my mouth, wanting to speak, but not knowing what. She took this moment to continue, "I applaud you for staying true to yourself despite how cruel the world has been to you, but what will it take, you know? What will it take for you to become a little defensive?"
Was this love speaking or disappointment?
"I can be defensive," I offered.
"But not for your own sake," she countered.
It's love that's speaking.
I held the poker face while the butterflies in my stomach went into a frenzy.
I wish someday I get to hear her say the words directly.
"Letting others ridicule you, use you, mock you, ignore you. Walking away from spaces you have a right to be, surrendering what's already yours, shouldering what isn't yours to bear. When will it end?" Her anger, which had come out of nowhere, was starting to diffuse. "You're allowed to be vocal and assertive and participate in things." Now her voice grew soft before turning into a whisper. "You don't always have to be...an Urdu Literature guy." A what guy? She raised her gaze to meet mine. "I've known you my entire life, Khaled, and I feel confident in saying that I know you. Which is why, I wish you could allow yourself to feel deserving of good things. You aren't any less than others."
My mother would tell me day and night how I was a good child, how I was her chand, her dil ka tukra, how no one else compared. And yet, hearing Rida say, you aren't any less than others, breathed a special sort of confidence in me.
"Thank you," I said. Being complimented by someone you loved, having your strengths noticed by them, felt so good. Rida started walking again, but this time slow enough for me to catch up to her. "For you, I will try. I will try to feel deserving, and I will start speaking when it matters, when I have to say no."
"As long as you don't say no to me," she retorted instantly.
"I've never done that, and I don't intend to either." I gave her a reassuring grin.
"Yes you have." She stopped in her tracks and gave me a funny look. "You said no to me years ago."
"About what?" I couldn't recall a single incident where I had explicitly replied in negative to her. If she displayed erratic behavior or asked an odd question, I would recircle and work through without an answer. I always encountered a mental block when it came to verbalizing an n-o to her.
"Khushbakht asked you in truth and dare if you would marry your cousin, and you said no," she announced, the complaint coming so easily to her that it felt recent, as if she had carried it in her pocket all this time.
I studied Rida's face, realizing that she was being completely serious.
"Khushbakht? Like from sixth, when we would take the van? One of those numerous games of truth and dare?" We had found many ways to entertain ourselves in the twenty-five minute drive either way with a dozen stops while picking up or dropping off kids. Some games had been forgotten as soon as we hopped off the van, some were seared into our memories. This one in particular had left me, but stayed with Rida.
"Yes."
I watched her face sparkling with sweat. Her eyes waited for me to answer, like she was asking me to give the verdict for a life sentence. "Rida, we used to ask each other if we would eat a cockroach in those games. You're holding that against me?"
"She asked you, Khaled. She asked you if you would marry your cousin, and I was sitting right there, crammed on the torn leather bench, eating your leftover paratha roll when you said no."
Yes, how could I forget that image? Same stubborn spot against the barred window, hunched over either my lunch box or hers—or even a friend's sometimes—scarfing down food as if she hadn't had a fulfilling breakfast, lunch, second lunch and snack. Her whines of "I'm hungry," on the way back home would motivate me to leave off a quarter of my lunch just to satiate her complaints.
"She said cousin. It was a general question," I reasoned, glancing at our neighbors going into the masjid in droves. It gave me joy to see our masjids busy and full, but it also made me worry if we would get a good spot—or any spot—for prayer.
"I was your only female cousin then. Kainat had barely been born."
"She's only a few years younger than–"
"That's not the point. You said no, and I've said yes every single time," Rida told. "The time when Khushbakht asked me, the time Phopo asked me, and the time the Imam asked me."
Each pointer hit me like a rubber bullet, paralyzing me.
"Rida..." I whispered, catching my breath. "You can't say stuff like that so easily. My heart..." My poor heart. How it has ached and ached for you. I felt my knees grow weak. I've said yes every single time. My heart felt like it would burst with unexplainable feelings. "I'm going to pass out."
"Don't be such a drama," she said. The irony!
"I don't think I can go pray taraweeh. I can't stand."
"You decide you don't want to go after dragging me all the way here? Yes we're going to taraweeh." She reached out and grabbed my arm. "Get used to standing long hours, commissioners need to do that."
"Being appointed a commissioner is a long and laborious road, I don't know if I'm even going to pass the exam," I reminded, starting to walk arm in arm with her.
"Sure you will, you have your wife's prayers with you." She slapped my side in a half-reassuring, half-vengeful way.
My wife. I could never not grow excited about the word.
"Yes," I said. "I do have my wife's prayers with me."
A lifelong companion to share my sorrows and joys with, a companion who prayed for my success as if it was their own, a companion who knew me so well. What else could I ask for?