02 | Fault
After morning came, I felt stranger feelings for Hasan. I now hoped he wouldn't leave the room, as much as I hadn't wanted to see his face last night.
He lay an arm's length from where I sat now, after showering and freshening up. He was scrolling through his phone, silent.
Someone had brought in tea and fruits for us earlier, which we had eaten without much talking.
As per stern instructions by mamma, I had dressed up in a flowy dress, used perfume and make-up, and put fresh flowers in my hair. I looked more or less like a bride, just more modest than last night. The way I was warned against it, it seemed to be a criminal act to dress simply for a few weeks after your marriage.
I was now sitting idly, as he lay idly, and we were both avoiding conversation.
Why is this so awkward?
I started wondering why he was not speaking. From what I had gathered from the stories of my married relatives and classmates, the first night and morning were times when the husband and wife spoke a lot, and got to know each other.
Well.
I was not very enthusiastic about this part, because I was clinically depressed and had no will to do anything. But I wondered why he was not speaking either.
Maybe he is shy? Shyness is not a bad trait in men.
But he was speaking to me last night. I decidedly ruled that possibility out.
Did I do something to offend him?
If that was true, I was not sure what I could do to fix it. Apologise without knowing why he was mad? No, that was not something I was going to do.
But you will. You have to, as a good Muslim wife.
I closed my eyes, trying to drown that voice with the weird tone which was echoing in the walls of my brain.
Everyone finds themselves in a situation like this, at some point - when we do unexpected things, when we can barely accept our own thoughts.
When we can't recognise the person we've suddenly become.
Our thoughts and actions make us who we are, but they keep changing. So how can anyone ever claim to truly know themselves? It is not something you can sketch out at a go. Because our characters transform so rapidly that no one can ever keep a record.
It takes a minute to decide, for ever and ever, against something that hurt us once. The same way, it takes forever to realise, after decades of pondering, the haqq of a matter.
And while some changes stay forever, some things change every other day.
This morning, spotting a calmness in my chest at the spot where I'd felt a flutter of discomfort all this time, I had shocked myself.
Where all this time I had wished not to be under the obligation to be around him, now, after having spent a few hours with him, I now started worrying about going out alone. There would be a hundred more wedding things waiting for me, along with his parents, siblings, and Allah knows how many relatives.
Yesterday was enough spotlight for a lifetime, for me. I didn't want to go out there again.
But, I didn't have a choice.
I turned to where he sat across the bed. He glanced at me.
And then he smiled.
I looked away.
I stood up, deciding that I should do something.
I walked to the corner where my things sat in shiny suitcases. After sitting down, I started placing my clothes and other belongings in the empty wardrobe and shelves. My most treasured collection of books, some old and battered paperbacks, some newer ones, my brand new Mushaf. My daily essentials like shoes, abayas, all went in, one after another. My possessions took their places quietly between Hasan's things; my presence settling amidst his.
He had been stealing glances every few minutes.
I shuffled some books around for a few minutes, and straightened the last pile of books for the fourth time.
I turned to him.
"Am I...Am I expected to make breakfast?"
"Oh, no!" He chuckled.
I did not like that laugh.
Do I always have to put up with being laughed at, now?
"Of course not. It's just your first day. Don't worry about any such thing today."
Well.
"Wait," his expression changed. "Are you hungry? Let me go check if breakfast is ready."
"No," I said quickly. "Let's wait, please."
I sat down again, and looked down at my clothes, wondering if I could ask him if my clothes looked fine.
And then he spoke.
"You look pretty."
I stared at the ground. I didn't know how to respond!
Just then, there was a knock on the door. He walked over to open it.
"Bhai, you and Bhabi can come down for breakfast, it's ready." I guessed that was Hafsa, Hasan's younger sister by a year.
I had met Hafsa Ilmas only once, and that was before the marriage was finalised. She was the one who had been given the task to figure whether I was as 'good' a girl as my mom had made me look like.
Apart from being absolutely gorgeous, she had seemed really sweet to me. We spoke like college girls and got comfortable with each other.
"Okay, coming," he said, and turned to me. "Come, let's go."
I followed him outside, walking with slow steps, towards the dining room. With each step I was feeling more conscious and nervous.
Aunty Husna was drying freshly washed crockery. I said salaam to her and started helping with it.
"Oh, leave all this, beta. Please sit, and eat properly, child! Rumana must not think I am not caring for you enough," she laughed after mentioning my mother. "Remember we must leave soon after lunch for the salon, or we'll be late for the reception."
She turned towards Hasan.
"Oh, my little boy. All grown up, and now a husband!" Her excitement toned down as she whispered, "I have not seen a happier day."
The mention of the reception tonight made my shoulders ease. I would see my family again. I thought of mamma and Jebrail and Amaan, and wondered how they must be feeling at breakfast today, in my absence for the first time in all our lives.
Then Aunty Husna called Hafsa and the others, and several aunties and kids appeared. They caressed my cheeks, whispered masha Allah, and mentioned and how good I looked. Calculatedly, I blushed every few minutes.
They were now taking their seats one by one and sat. I just stood there, looking.
Again, I surprised myself, looking at him for an indication of where I should sit.
I didn't have to wait for long. Almost immediately he realised, and nodded frontways, telling me to sit with Hafsa and the other girls, across from him. One of Hasan's cousins, Faris, was sitting beside him. He gave me a look that I didn't like very much. I ignored it.
I sat beside Hafsa and we commenced eating.
I didn't make eye contact with anyone. Hafsa and Hasan's cousins Fareha and Ayesha were helping me, by dropping a piece of whatever they took on my plate, too.
"Rahima is going to be here after the reception tonight, insha Allah," Aunty Husna said. "She couldn't make it to the wedding because her flight was late, but she's arrived this morning and can't wait to see how radiant my son's bride is!"
I smiled. "Aunty Rahima is mamma's cousin," Hafsa told me. "She's a total sweetheart! She and Uncle Fahad live in the US with their kids, and so we meet very rarely. She'll be so happy to see you! She has always adored Hasan bhai."
"Rahima's son Fahim and Hasan were close friends in their early days," Aunty Husna said. "It's sad that they had had to transfer to America."
"You must be looking forward to seeing him, aren't you, Bhai?" Hafsa asked Hasan.
"Yes, I am. It's been very long since I last saw Fahim."
"I have heard his wife is pregnant! Masha Allah, Ruqya bhabi is just awesome, bhabi! I am sure you two will hit it off immediately. Oh, it will be so much fun once she's here!"
I just smiled.
I was trying really hard not to be too disturbed by the weird way that Faris was looking at me.
"Oh, Adinah beta," Aunty Husna exclaimed suddenly, making me jump. "Why aren't you eating properly? Here, have some of this."
And thenceforth began my agony.
Aunty Husna gave me a generous amount of everything on the spread, which was a lot of things. Although it wasn't a problem, exactly . . . until I noticed that I was the one with my plate filled with food when everybody else was almost finished with theirs.
I started panicking.
Now, what would've been more embarrassing? If they all finished and left me to eat alone, or if they politely waited for me to finish?
I began hyperventilating. Leaving and wasting food was no option. I concentrated on eating quicker.
"Can you pass me that?" Hasan said, startling me.
I gulped whatever was in my mouth and passed what he wanted. But instead of serving it to him, I just moved the dish closer to him.
He filled his plate with it. It was now as full as mine, meaning I wouldn't be eating alone when everyone was done.
Trying hard to suppress my smile, I looked up just to glance at him once to show gratitude, closest to the thank you that I couldn't say to him right now, but instead my sight fell on Faris.
Something about his gaze wasn't right at all. I bent over my food again.
I guess Hasan had seen it. Because when he was addressed by Faris, he ignored him.
"Didn't you hear me, Hasan? I asked, who is catering the food in the reception?"
Hasan acted as if he hadn't spoken at all.
It silenced everyone when they sensed it. A wave of weird tension passed the table.
Hasan's father entered the dining room, and cleared his throat loudly. "I am going to the reception venue to see how the preparations are going," he said to Hasan. "You have the responsibility of taking the women to the salon, and figure out how they are going to the reception later." He turned towards his daughter. "Fahad's family will stay here, so rooms should be made ready for them."
Hafsa nodded, and told him that they would be ready before they arrive.
He left after everyone had said salaams.
"I knew them from my days in Hyderabad; it was fun to be in a joint family!" Aunty Husna said. "Children nowadays don't know what that was like."
One of the other aunties joined in. "Children want their 'space' today, and how will that let any family be around? It's a shame!"
"I will never send my daughter to a nuclear family," the other aunty said, and I saw her daughter Fareha scowl at her food. "If she doesn't live in a joint family, she won't learn half the things that she must, and she won't have half the support that a joint family would offer."
The other two nodded and hummed in agreement.
"Well, I was thinking about calling Rahima and brother Fahad for a very long time, you know. Their son is grown, able, and masha Allah, well-mannered," Aunty Husna said, and I was immediately reminded of the time my own mother had brought up her distant cousin Husna and her son Hasan, on a family meal like this one.
I looked at Hafsa, and she looked very busy slurping water from her glass, avoiding talking but at the same time listening very carefully.
"I know where you are coming from, Husna! You must want to think about your daughter also, now that your son is settled with a wife."
"Oh, Hasan is not quite settled yet," Aunty Husna laughed, "but yes, I want to finish off my duties regarding Hafsa as soon as possible; she can cook and clean well now, and there are not much of her course left. If she wants, she can continue her studies after her marriage. She will not let an opportunity at a good family go because of studies. She is smart!"
An aunty lightly punched Hasan's arm. "Yes, she is smart, just like your new wife," she giggled.
It wasn't me who had made that smart decision, though; it was my mother. It had been imposed on me..
If I thought more about it, I would've stared crying, so I cleared my throat and stuffed my mouth.
"What if they had children, though?" One of the aunties pointed out, resulting in a coughing fit from me.
Now, rice grains were flying out of my mouth, but I couldn't stop coughing. The aunties showed concern and stopped talking for some minutes. I was thankful.
"Here, have this," Hasan said, handing me a glass of water. His water.
I shook my head no, and took a sip of my own.
I ended up finishing everything as they talked, Alhamdulillah for that, and I helped the girls clear the table afterwards.
"Everyone please pack your clothes and shoes and come outside, we must not be late for the salon," Faris directed, "and Adinah Bhabi, you must not make us too late. I have been told you are famous for it."
I ignored his report, which was completely untrue, and went toward my room.
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"Bhabi!" Hafsa said, "We will finally get to talk properly at the salon! I'm so excited! If you need help to pick out accessories or anything, call me, okay?"
I smiled at her. She was so sweet.
When I entered my room again, he was on the phone with someone. I went straight and took my clothes and went to the washroom. I stripped to comfortable clothes - shorts and a t-shirt, and then put an abaya over it.
I came out and tied my hair into a bun and wrapped a hijab.
And within seconds I was ready. I now packed my heavy reception gown and accessories for tonight.
"You're ready that quickly?" Hasan said, and I looked at him, and eyebrow raised as a question.
"Hafsa takes hours to get dressed! As does mamma," he laughed.
I didn't smile back.
Soon everybody else was outside with us, and they all betrayed me to go into Fareha's brother's car, including Hafsa.
I had to sit beside him alone.
Well.
I went and sat in the passenger seat and put on the seat belt. He didn't.
"Seat belt," I said, and he looked at me like I was crazy.
"What?" I said.
"Nothing," he said, and looked away. Then he put it on me himself.
The rest of the drive was slow and silent.
The salon ladies were delightful, but the treatments meted out to my hair and skin, as last time, were anything but.
I put up, though, because I was thinking about tonight - about my mother, my brothers, and the few hours that I could spent with them around.
Hafsa, Fareha, Ayesha and Sadaf would talk to me about random things as they got ready in the same room. They reminded me of my own life a year or so ago, when I had not been half as responsible about my actions as I was now, because of the marriage.
I pitied how they would all have to get married one day or the other, and divide their own time for people they were forced to care for.
Is it not odd? A family you're handed, that you know next to nothing about, to accept as your own?
After long hours of polite torture, I was finally dolled up again, and just one look in a mirror made it evident that I looked every bit as flawless as I had last night. I tried very hard not to think about how I would get all of the things off me once again, and sat another hour while the girls and aunties got ready.
Ayesha took pictures of everyone. I called her near me when she was done clicking one of her mother with Aunty Husna.
"Do you like photography a lot, Ayesha?"
"It's my passion, Bhabi!" The girl cried, her eyes all dreamy. "I want to capture each one of my happy moments, because perhaps I would never live similar ones again. I must keep them all!" She said, raising her shiny, heavy-looking black camera.
"Ask your parents to talk to your future in-laws regarding this" I said, knowing very well that she was possibly wondering if I was kidding. I didn't even know her properly. "I am sure that you will be allowed to continue it and also encouraged, if you asked them beforehand. Do you understand?"
I sighed. She looked skeptical.
Of course she would not understand! She must be thinking she would never marry a man who wouldn't let her click pictures after the marriage.
But sadly, she was wrong.
If one thing died on the auspicious wedding day of a girl of this culture, it was her ability to make her own choices. Her life ceases to be her own.
And this, most of them would not understand until they experienced.
When the artist would see her things remain packed and waiting until they weren't of any use anymore because she didn't get any time to use them after marriage...when the reader's books accumulated dust and rotted while she cooked in the kitchen... while the designer's machine rusted because she wouldn't use it anymore because her husband didn't want her to...that was when they realised. After a time long enough to convince them not to wish anymore.
The thing would become a part of her past; a thing she only used to do. She would tell herself to grow up and prioritise her family's needs over her wishes.
My heart ached to think about such women. I was probably going to turn into one of them.
I sniffed. I could cry; the make up was waterproof.
But I didn't cry for longer than two minutes, because a bride is forbidden to do even that. It is just her dreams that are in the grave, but her body is alive and capable of housework, so what is the crying for?
Nonetheless, I was caught. Ayesha told Sadaf who told Fareha who told her mother who told Hasan that I was crying, and soon enough I was made to laugh and talk with them until Hasan and Faris came to pick us up. Because, of course, they assumed I was just emotional and did not care to ask why I was crying.
When I was in the car and alone except for him, I started crying again. I cried, not caring that he would wonder why I was sad tonight, not caring that he would be annoyed, not caring about the stupid makeup.
I didn't care what he thought at all.
Because everything was his fault.