"I love you so much, Aqib."
Instead of a love confession that I prayed would mingle with my blood and become a part of me, an ice cold awakening poured into me instead.
Aqib?
All my life I had waited to hear those words, and when I finally had, they weren't even directed at me.
Was I just a stand in for Aqib? I wondered. Just a replacement? A body?
Indifference plagued me, numbing all the centers of my heart which would usually leap with excuses and reassurances, more often than not, pleading for me to forgive and forget. For so long I had been patient, for so long I had given her space to grieve and mourn, and to work through her past. I had held her when she cried for him, I had whispered comforting words to her when she would grow silent. I had trampled upon my own feelings to value hers. I had let another man, a dead man, enter into our marriage, and far too often direct the trajectory of our life. But no more.
"Aqib?" I questioned.
"Khaled," she uttered, realizing her mistake. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"
A knock on my side of the car broke through the moment. An MP glanced in through the window.
"Sir?" I rolled down my window.
"Why is your car parked here? Are you okay?" His beige military uniform contrasted with the thick trees surrounding us. His eyes fell on Rida. "Is that your wife?"
"Yes."
"Do you have your nikahnama with you?"
"What?" Annoyance laced my tone.
"Do you have your nikahnama with you?" He repeated.
Late night, parked car, a couple in a car. Understanding came to me, but that did nothing to diminish my annoyance.
If only he knew the opposite was happening here!
"She's literally in her Walima dress," I exclaimed.
Military was sacred in our country. Those who swore to protect the Islamic state, and would die as martyrs in its service, were often given far more respect than others, regardless of how low the rank.
I had never spoken to a military police officer in that way, but at that moment, I didn't care.
"Drive off," the MP said before walking back to his post.
"Gladly."
I flicked the indicator and pulled the car back onto the road. An inexplicable anger was slowly slithering into my veins, bringing along thoughts and whispers I never expected to entertain.
"Khaled?" Rida whispered, her hand looming near my arm.
"I don't want to talk right now," I said in a low tone, fearful that her touch would undo me.
I watched her mouth open, as if she wanted to say something, but she closed it and turned away, not speaking for the rest of the way.
Once we reached home, there were questions of where we had been, to which I truthfully confessed that we had stopped for paan.
"Next time, do inform us before you set out on your adventures," Mama said, "We were growing nervous, anything could have happened this late at night."
Something had happened, but it had no visible evidence.
"Baji, you live in Cantt. it's perfectly safe!" One of the aunts commented, driving my mother's attention away from us.
I took this opportunity to slip out of the flat and up to the roof, leaving Rida to interact with the guests. She was better at distracting herself with others anyway.
My old friend, the moon, waited for me. I'm sorry I was away for so long, I wanted to say. I thought I had finally found happiness. I thought I no longer needed your companionship.
The sounds of the night spoke back to me. We knew you'd come back.
"I wish I didn't have to," I said out loud, feeling the cold cement of the walls.
I had thought that being able to love Rida freely would be enough. I was wrong. I wanted her love too. I needed it. When we had only been cousins, loving her came with no expectations. Whatever I did, I did because I wanted to. But now having her as a wife, I had become selfish even without realizing.
A part of me reminded me that I knew what I was getting into before I said qabool hai. Back then I had thought having her by my side would be enough.
When did I begin to want her heart too? I guess you could step into any relationship with the best of intentions, with the strongest resolve to be selfless, but sooner or later you did start wanting things back; even in the smallest capacities.
Was wanting Rida to move on, to forget Aqib, too selfish?
I stared at the sky to check for clouds. My cheeks were moistening but there was no sign of rain.
Whoever had said love was euphoric, was wrong. Love was messy and testing and painful.
"I'm so sick of this love that comes with jagged edges," I said out loud, hearing my voice crack. My shoulders felt weighed by tonnes, my body slowly crumbling to the floor. I'm so sick of this love. I'm so, so very sick.
When the ribbons of dawn began to color the sky, I picked myself up and returned home.
I tucked my suit jacket under my arm as I carefully unlocked the front door and slipped into the dark flat. Light filtered out of my mother's bedroom, illuminating the mattresses strewn across the living room carpet, where my young cousins slept. I tiptoed across and very gently opened the door to my bedroom.
I wasn't sure what the logistics of last night had been, when I hadn't returned home, but I didn't want to draw unnecessary attention and make my mother or anyone, question why I had been missing all night.
Inside, I found Rida sitting on the bed, still in the bridal clothes she had worn at the Walima. Her head rested on the headboard, chin up in the air and a stream of drool running down her cheek.
She had waited for me, I realized.
I steeled myself before my heart grew soft. She did things like these and made me fall in love more.
After changing into casual clothes, I grabbed a prayer mat to take with me upstairs, and then called out to her.
"Fajr's getting late, parh lo." Her eyes shot open at the sound of my voice. "Fajr's getting late," I repeated.
"Khaled, can we talk?" She said, her early morning voice raspy.
"I think you should pray first," I offered, stepping away from her.
She reached out to grab my arm. "Khaled, listen–"
"The others are sleeping outside," I warned. "I don't want a scene."
"I..." she began to say, but stopped.
I studied her face. Remnants of make up were still there from last night. Did she not even wash her face?
Finally, Rida nodded and got up to go to the restroom.
Her silence was what I wanted, but it still hurt me somehow. I wanted her to fight me, to plead to me, to tell me how much I meant to her, and how my being cross was driving her crazy. At the same time, with how angry and disappointed I was, I wanted her to be as far away from me as she could.
The constant internal fight was making me sick.
I left the room, finding an escape again.
I knew I couldn't hide for too long. Some of our family and wedding guests were scheduled to leave soon, and the others were expectant of our attention to them. They would start waking up soon, and we would need to join them at breakfast.
I knew all that, that's why I tried to find peace in every second I could avoid facing my feelings. I distracted myself with the sights of the early morning; the vendors setting up their carts, those heading to appear for their shifts, the change of traffic police at the checkpoint. I took note of the sounds of the birds in the sky, leaving to find provisions. I distinguished the scents of the morning and the many foods that were being cooked throughout the building.
I distracted myself until I heard a familiar sound, that was accompanied by a familiar scent. The footsteps I had heard rushing up and down the staircase for years, the lingering scent of her jasmine lotion, and rustle of her dupatta and the way she dragged it.
I turned to her before she said anything.
Freshly showered, free of make up and now in a white suit that I recalled us buying from Liberty together, I watched her offer me a steaming mug.
"Breakfast's starting soon, but I managed to get us chai before anyone else," she said, clutching her own mug.
The sweet scent of elaichi and hint of clove was there. Either she or Mama had made it, I theorized. Mamoo and family rarely used elaichi.
"Thank you," I said, taking a sip.
She nodded, acknowledging my gratitude. "Did you sleep at all?" She eyed my dark circles.
"A little bit," I lied.
The look on her face told me she knew I wasn't being truthful, but she didn't say so. Instead she took a long sip of chai from her mug and stared at the world, reminding me of the time I had found her here on one of her worst days.
"You know..." she started. "You do know that Aqib passed away in a car accident, right?"
I had been informed about it, but I never bothered to ask the circumstances of how.
"A car that ran a red light," she said, as if reading my mind. "Just like the way the motorbike had yesterday."
She looked towards me now. "That's why I reacted the way I did."
Embarrassment hit me like a stack of bricks. How thick had I been!
"When I saw you hit the brakes, I thought I would lose you too." Her face was pained, and it hurt me more than it hurt her. No one deserved to justify their heartache in such an elementary fashion.
I felt like a fool. For so long I had been patient, only to lose my patience when it mattered most.
"Rida–" I started, but she didn't stop.
"The day I lost Aqib was the worst day of my life, and I didn't want a repeat of that." She stared at her mug. "I loved him, I really did, but what I said last night, I had meant it for you."
I love you so much, Aqib.
"Then why did you say his name?" I asked before I could stop myself. It was like a stab to my heart every time I recalled it.
"It was a slip of tongue," she confessed.
Anger poured into me. For someone so eloquent, so intentional, it was a pity that she had a slip of tongue when the situation asked for anything but.
Where else could I expect a slip of tongue next time?
"You have to believe me, Khaled." She inched towards me but I backed away from her touch. "I don't want to lose you too, Khaled." Her voice was heavy. "Khaled..."
"I can't," I whispered. "Where does my love lack? Where has it ever lacked? Not today, not yesterday, but for years. Why never me, Rida?"
"Khaled, please..."
"Are you not happy? Am I not enough?"
"That's...that's not it! I'm happy. I'm happy with you, Khaled. I really am. I love how you care, I love how open I can be with you, how broken I can be with you, and still know I am loved and cared for. I'm happy with you. But..." She struggled to find her words, "...there are times when I do think about him, how even if it was a fleeting moment, we understood one another, how even if it was based on nothing, we loved one another. I think of him, but that doesn't mean I'm not happy with you."
In the silence that filled the moments after, I tried to understand her words. To me, they were a declaration of a truth I had acknowledged far before we had united, but was something that I would have to work through my entire life; the fact that Aqib would always be a part of our marriage. He would be a presence we would have to acknowledge again and again, and still find happiness within each other.
She searched my face for a response, but there was nothing left to say. Where would I even begin? What was I even allowed to feel?
In this time while we stood in a vacuum, we heard my mother's voice from the staircase, "Kids, come down for breakfast!"
So we went without a word.
At the table, Nani khala laid out a request neither of us could reject.
"I'm not leaving unless the newlyweds drop me off," she said, reaching for her butterless paratha and sugar free chai.
"Then don't leave," Rida joked without meeting my eyes. She was testing me, I realized.
"Your wish is our command, Nani," I said, lifting my eyes from my chana puri.
"Aray nai bahi," Shahzad Chacha's wife said, placing a bakarkhani in her deep plate. "Nani, we will drop you off before we ourselves hit the motorway. The station is always crowded, and the traffic is terrible." She glanced at Rida and me one by one. "It's the last place I would recommend newlyweds to be."
"You're really considerate, Chachi," Rida commenced. "But if Khaled said we'll drop off Nani, we will."
I looked down at my plate. Itni farmabardari. She was doing too much to win me back.
There was no need, I wanted to tell her. I was already hers completely. There was no winning or losing when there was no competition. No one had ever competed with her position in my life.
"We'll drop you," I said, placing both of my hands on the table.
We wouldn't be dropping her off, I realized very quickly. Mamoo's little Mehran was the last car Shahzad Chacha was willing to put Nani on when his Civic was present.
"Ride behind us," he said, gesturing to my bike. In his starched shalwar kameez and dark waistcoat, the uniform he wore to intimidate his employees at his construction business, he was successful in intimidating me.
So Rida and I did just that. After weeks of going everywhere together by car, we were on my bike again, just like the time we had the days before she married Aqib.
"Hold tight," I instructed, enjoying the command a little too much.
"Try not to kill us," Rida said back, her arms slowly going around my waist.
Last time we sat like this, there was a stiff invisible wall between us. Now there was familiarity in her touch, as if it was not different from my own.
"Does this give you deja vu?" I asked, exiting the complex right behind Shahzad Chacha's car. "Does it remind you of when you were just Rida and I was just Khaled?" Before we were husband and wife? Before we had to carry the weight of being more?
"What? Did you say something?" Rida yelled, her voice distorted by the noise of the traffic and the flow of the wind.
"Nothing," I whispered, shaking my head.
She can't hear me, I thought. Which was a relief despite my need to be heard.
"I know you will always think about him, I've worked through that thinking. I understand it. Wallahi, if I was in your place and I had lost you, I would have never stopped thinking about you, no matter how content I would be with my spouse," I said out loud, the warm afternoon air slapping across my face. "But I wish it didn't feel like a competition sometimes. I wish it didn't feel like I will have to always compete; always wonder if it is a Khaled day or an Aqib day, if my love will be reciprocated or would I need to do more and more."
I didn't mind doing more. For her, I could show up until my soles wore out and my knees gave away. I could remind myself of how she was my destination and there was no other way than through.
I was only afraid of reaching the other end, exhausted and at the last of my strength, only to realize that I still was not the one on her mind. And although I would still live, it would break my heart forever.
With the direction of the wind, my words hit me before they could get to her, and then I would feel the gaping holes within my words. There was so much I wanted to tell her, so many musings to share out loud. But there was no use, there were so many things she would never understand, so many things I would never hear.
At the station due to the sheer volume of cars in the parking lot, we parked on what felt like the other ends of the lot. But we united with Shahzad Chacha and family near the ticketing counter, from where we walked together to the platform Nani Khala's train was leaving in an hour.
"Would you like something, water or anything else?" I asked, helping Nani sit down on a bench. "I don't know if there'll be bottled water in the train."
"There's no need," Nani said. "The train ride is only a few hours."
"You should have some water, regardless of whether you drink it," Chacha announced before going towards the little kiosk towards our left.
I admired him for being decisive and taking initiative.
Chachi shifted the baby on her hip, stepping forward to address Nani Khala.
"Ah, Khala, I'm going to take Pinky to the restroom. I might as well also quickly change Chotu," Chachi said, grabbing the diaper and bag, and dragging along the preschooler towards the hanging sign that pointed to the ladies restrooms.
After a few minutes, Rida said, "I will go see if Chachi needs any help."
As soon as Rida left, Chacha came back with water bottles and juice boxes for the kids.
The green and yellow train eased onto the platform tracks across us. Those waiting on the sides rushed in, luggage carriers, kulli, in tow.
"We'll get you in there in a minute, Khala," Chacha said, looking towards the restrooms to spot own women.
Chachi shortly came back with the kids, but no Rida in sight.
"She must have narrowly missed us. We didn't see her," Chachi said, confused when we asked her about Rida. "She'll be here soon, don't worry."
But the minutes passed and Nani was ready to board, and still there was no sign of Rida.
"I will go check," Chachi offered.
"No no," I insisted, eyeing the baby who had finally fallen asleep in Chachi's arms.
In a crowded station with men in varying shades of the same shalwar kameez suit, women with half covered faces with kids in tow, and luggage carriers in orange uniforms, it was difficult to spot my wife. The loud announcements over the speakers and metallic squeal of the tracks as trains came to a stop, added to my inability to focus.
"Where did you go, Rida?" I whispered to myself as I walked by the ladies restroom and gave a cursory look inside. A woman coming out with a toddler gave me a dirty look. "Excuse me, have you seen a young woman in a grey niqab go in? She smells like jas–she has dark henna on her hands."
"Everyone here's looking for a wife, get in line," the woman yelled, going away angrily.
I was too focused on finding Rida that I didn't have time to dwell on her insult. Instead I walked by and went towards the corner where a sign pointing to the cafe was. I was getting further away from the platform where the others were, but if there was something that could completely distract Rida, it would be food.
As soon as I entered the outdoors, the ringing of my phone pierced through the air. There were several missed calls on there, suggesting that my phone had been ringing continuously but the noise had blocked out the sound.
"Where are you?" I asked Rida, looking around.
"What? I can't hear you! I'm standing at pl..rm..."
"Which one?"
"T.." her voice was drowned in by the noise around her. "I'll text you!"
As soon as her text came, I went to search for her. She had gone to the ladies restrooms on the other end of the platform, I realized as soon as I saw the hanging signs.
I spotted Rida right away, rooted to the same spot as people bustled by. Perspiration was causing wet blotches around her temples. I could only imagine how suffocated she must have been feeling.
"Rida!" I called out, making my way towards her as people shoved and elbowed me while passing.
When she did finally hear me on the third time, her face lit up and she started to rush towards me, as I did towards her. The distance closed between us soon and to my surprise, Rida wrapped her arms around me.
Nani's train steadily railed by, the squeal of the metal on metal echoed above the chatter of the crowds. Passengers shouted last goodbyes to their families, station workers rebuked those on the platform to stay away from the speeding train, and mobile hawkers selling pappar and other snacks walked on, advertising their goods.
Rida and I stood in a bubble, untouched by the world. Everything felt right, complete.
Sweaty bodies in a constricted place had made the place far warmer than our 25 celsius afternoon, but despite that, Rida's arms didn't discomfort me.
"Kahan gaye thay?" She asked, stepping back. (where were you?)
"Looking for you."
"I was right here," she replied, rolling her eyes.
"Here? All the way on the other side? Really, Rida?"
She chuckled, a sound of relief in it which I hadn't heard in a while. "I'm glad you came for me, because for a second there, I was worried you wouldn't."
I studied her. Has this woman gone mad?
"I may not be your first, but I'm definitely going to be your last," I announced. "Let's go find the others." I held her hand this time so I wouldn't lose her.
With Nani safely gone, we said our goodbyes to Shahzad Chacha and family, who were going to take the exit for the GT Road and head home to Sukkar.
"Ishi tarhaan khush raho," Chachi said to the both of us. (Stay happy and blessed like this)
"Take care," Rida called out, watching them drive away. "God, I'm going to miss her baby."
The heat of the sun was starting to die down as the afternoon progressed. Now it shined down on us with a comforting warmth.
"I thought you said she cried too much." We started towards the lot where bikes were parked.
"Yeah but a little discomfort isn't all that bad when it comes to love."
I gave her a side eye. "You stubbed your toe last week and didn't stop complaining about it until Mamoo came to do ayadat."
"I'm his jaan." She gave a cheeky grin.
"You're everyone's jaan." I swung my leg over the bike and started it.
"Wo to hai," Rida giggled, settling down behind me.
Her hand gripped my shoulder, securing herself before I started the bike and eased out of the space.
The Lahore canal was full of ripples as children dived into the soft brown pool to cool off. Cars sped by on either side, going in flow.
Junior colleges had let out, and traffic was now increasing with vans, motorbikes and public buses. Young adults flowed out of the red brick structures, crowding around street hawkers selling shakarkundi (sweet potatoes), singharay (salted chestnuts), and ice cream.
"Ice cream khaani hai?" I asked, eying a Walls ice cream seller. (do you want to eat ice cream)
"Haan, please," came her instant reply.
I turned towards the side lane, narrowly avoiding the yellow and black lane divider. The ice cream seller was a short distance away from the college entrance, so I parked the bike on the uneven patch near the tall walls, an equal gap from both.
"I'll be right back," I said, leaving Rida leaning against the bike.
This college was several miles away from Rida's college, and yet the way students in white uniform exited the gate and crowded around the hawkers reminded me of the time Rida and I had gone to collect her transcript.
My love for her then was identical, if not more than my love for her today. The only difference now was that I was no longer hiding how I felt.
I looked over my shoulder to glance at her.
I'm happy with you, Khaled.
I've said yes every single time.
How can I be anything but happy?
"I'm happy with you too," I whispered to myself. I'm happy with you despite everything that lies between us.
I love you. I truly, completely do.
"What would you like, bhai saab?" The ice cream man asked when the group of girls left and it was my turn to stop before him.
"A Cornetto."
"One?"
"Just one."
"Where's yours?" Rida questioned as soon as I handed her the blue wrapped cone.
"I don't need one," I said.
"I don't need one either," she countered, tearing open the cover. "But there's no harm in enjoying one now and then. Besides, last time I checked, we could afford two cones."
I watched her take a generous bite before I turned around and swung my leg over the bike.
"You do this every time, Khaled," She whispered, which was followed by a light dip of the bike as she settled behind me.
I kicked the stand and got back onto the road to home.
Loving came easy, I thought to myself, feeling Rida's fingers grow tighter around my waist as she managed to hold onto me and eat the ice cream at the same time. Loving was as natural as breathing, we didn't need to dictate it, it happened on its own. We are creations of the All-Loving afterall, love is inside of us.
Loving came easy, it was moving on that was difficult. Moving on from people's mistakes, moving on from broken expectations, moving on from the realization that who you loved, was on a journey to move on from someone they loved. Moving on wasn't as simple as finding someone who loved you better, or who understood you without words. Moving on was like taking four steps forward and three steps back, it could take a lifetime, but at least you were trying.
"Khaled," Rida called out. "There's an ice cream wala right there, get one for yourself." She pointed to an ice cream cart parked outside an elementary school.
"There's no need," I announced, feeling my lips rise. "Apni chakha do," I said cheekily. She abhorred sharing her ice cream. (why don't you share yours?)
"Here," she said, surprisingly, reaching around me to offer a bite. I held back my chuckle, she didn't have the heart to offer more than a single bite. I took the tiniest bite I could manage while keeping my eyes on the road. "Kaisi hai?" (how is it?)
Love wasn't only I love you. It was also sharing something you weren't willing to, it was agreeing to something you wouldn't in any other circumstances, it was confessing truths about yourself you never did, it was being there even if you weren't doing anything. Love had many forms, and it was important to be willing to recognize them.
I licked my lips, enjoying the cloying vanilla. "Achi hai." (it's good)
Sharing an ice cream cone with my obsessed-with-ice cream wife could become a regular thing, I thought, and I would love every bit of it.
fin.
I'm having a hard time,
walking on this road of love,
it's too uneven and a little bit rough,
But I'm sure I can get used to it,
if the weather remains dry, and the wind stays low
if the storms don't come, and the days grow warm,
and the nights remain aglow with lights of hope,
Oh, but maybe if you hold my hand and guide me through,
it'll be alright,
even with all those uncertainties too,