05 | Gratitude
"Don't you freaking get it?" I screamed in his face. "My Allah, how stupid are you?!"
I continued after a small pause. "I do not want to have to go through all this. I hadn't wanted it!"
His expression then was somewhat funny. He looked like he'd received the biggest shock of his life.
"You didn't want this marriage?!"
"You imagine I did?" I said, placing my palms on my waist. I let out a laugh.
"If you're asking whether I didn't want to be a puppet in a strange family's hands? Yeah, I did not want this marriage. If you're asking if I did not want to give up literally my whole future to create kids and be a doll furnishing your house, with my degree framed in glass which won't be anything but a showpiece, then yes, I did not want this marriage, my friend."
His face was horrified, and he actually looked . . . shocked?
Was it really that hard to comprehend? The fact that girls who were wed off had once had their own wishes too?
"You know something?" I continued. My rage hadn't appeased in the least bit yet. "Snatching a puppy away from its mother and telling it how cute it is, and then not allowing it to be what it is, what Allah made it - it's not nice, Mr. Ilmas, and whatever you tell your conscience regarding it is all complete and utter bullshit!"
Was it just me, or did he actually wince when I cursed? In that moment, though, I did not care.
"No matter how well you claim you'll keep me, you've taken from me my right to a life of my own terms. It's not fair in the least bit, and you know it."
"I . . . I didn't know that . . . " He stuttered. I just stared. "I had not realised you felt this way about things," he finally managed. "I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?!" I screamed, losing it again. "And 'things'? Really?! You call this marriage, a deal of my life, 'things?!'
At this point I was hysterical; my eyes teared, and still I giggled between angry sentences. "He's sorry," I said to myself, unable to determine what difference his possibly fake remorse had any power to make.
He did not speak after that. I took a look at how calm he looked now, all the initial panic at my sudden rage long gone, and in its place, just patience. He was waiting for me to pacify, with all the peace on his face that I was having trouble mustering.
I sniffed, trying to control myself and speak in a way that was a bit more contained. Allah knew what things could take place if he became convinced that I was deranged.
"I had wanted my life to be mine, Hasan," I said, now somewhat calmed. I was taking his name for the very first time. "I wanted to study more, a lot more; to work, to be who I knew I was, somewhere inside. But instead, I'm here with you, after a nikah that happened with the bride under the conception that she'd be allowed to work afterwards, which obviously enough isn't actually going to happen."
I could actually see an expression similar to the of understanding on his face; it looked like he was satisfied that I was finally speaking.
I didn't stop. "I'm here, sharing with you a room that doesn't have a desk for me, no bookshelf for me, a room that I couldn't bring my cat to, a room that quite clearly isn't enough to sustain my life.
"My hands are red, Hasan. Look at this! Look," I pushed both my open arms in front of him. "These drawings on my fate, in the colour of a relationship I barely know the proper meaning of. This outrageously sweet scent of a life-long deal I was emotionally blackmailed into, and this ring of your name glittering on my finger for all my years now - your name wound tighter around me than my own is!"
Tears came again, and I was too tired to fight them now. "I'm not me anymore, Hasan, don't you see?" I sobbed. "I'm yours now, which would've been fine by me, Allah Himself is Witness I'd have sucked it all up for the sake of my Akhirah, but if only your life had the space to contain mine!"
With this I shut my mouth, a little more enraged that he wasn't saying anything, partially thankful for the same reason, all along with being a bit embarrassed about my shamelessly loud and vaguely barbaric outbreak.
Another thing which didn't let me speak out the rest of my complaints was that I was now realising that he'd probably never understand, simply because he was a he. He was physically incapable of getting half of my issues.
"I get it," he began, and immediately I chuckled.
"You can never get it. You're a guy," I laughed. "You don't know what it feels like in my body, which you may go ahead and call a 'cage', since the meaning is the same. Allah has blessed you with free will. You get to decide what you want. You get to go ahead and claim it. You're . . . lucky."
He clicked his tongue.
"Here," he said, again with a hint of the authorative voice that had caused me to rile up so much in the first place. "Come sit with me for a minute."
I hesitated. I did not want too much of proximity with him. Oh wait, I did not want any.
I gulped.
"I . . . I'm sorry I yelled at you, it wasn't right. Forgive me. But talking now can't give me anything, can it?"
He took my hand in his, a sudden motion, making me jump.
"All my life I've dwelled in this ridiculously sexist society, just like you have, albeit with all those privileges that you've probably been deprived of," he said. I stopped speaking.
I thought about all those things I had not been allowed, because mamma thought I wasn't fit for them because I owned a body that wasn't as strong as Jebrail's. I thought of how much that hurt each time.
"Whenever I saw my father order mamma or Hafsa to do something that he himself very well could, just because they're women and 'should' do menial things, each time he forbid them to do something with no rational justification, each time he demanded the respect that he never gave the women, my intention of keeping my own wife as the queen that she would be became just a little bit stronger."
He was still holding my hand, but not looking at me. He just held on to it, and kept looking straight ahead, apparently at nothing. It strangely wasn't even awkward or anything that his hand was touching mine, and that I was letting it.
But my heart was beating so fast.
"I know there's going to be problems, and I know there's going to be disputes. We obviously can't agree on everything; we're different people. But Allah, Adinah, I promise I'll try my best to make our relationship my priority. I am going to give you the rights that Islam has given you, and never ask of you anything that Islam doesn't give me the right to. You will always have the best, always have all that I can give you, insha Allah. Tell me, do you believe me?"
I waited for him to turn to me. When he did, though, my cheeks were too hot to keep my gaze up to his eyes. I spoke with him looking at my face, and me at the small distance between our feet.
"It's not about how you treat me, Hasan," I said in a low voice and sad tone. "It's about how I get to treat me. It's about my freedom to do things for myself. Tell me, does Islam not allow me to pursue my passion?"
"It does," he said, and went into deep thought. "Okay," he said after some time, "how many more years before all your courses will finish?"
"One," I said, "and after that, we can choose any veterinary hospital in the country to get our training, and in less than six months I can start practice at a hospital, or even begin work at a chamber of my own."
"Hmm," he said. "It will talk to mamma and abba about this, when the time comes. For now, let's focus on the school year." He stood up. "If you really need to study . . . "
Suddenly my hand wasn't in his, and he was going up towards the window. He began scrutinising the space where the sofa set was.
After a while that he kept measuring and calculating and planning, the time I kept fighting my own head, not letting myself hope for the best, he turned to me. "Is daylight fine for the desk?"
Is there not a phrase similar to "my insides melted" or something like that? No? Then I hereby create it.
I literally felt as if my guts liquefied when he asked me that. He was planning to get a desk here for me. In our room. I would be able to write and study.
I couldn't believe it.
I hated sunlight. The heat it brought and the sweat and tan it resulted in was not even remotely okay. But I was too satisfied with what I wanted to comlain about the baggage that I didn't want.
"Yes," I said, "I'm okay with it."
"Sure? Because if you want, the carpenters can make an adjoined desk with mine there."
I looked at the other corner of the room at his desk, and thought about sitting and studying right beside him. Writing while he would be that close, close enough to look, and discover my lame writing.
It was unthinkable.
"Oh, no. I love the sun, let it come to me!" I said in panicked urgency.
After I'd realised what I'd said and how little sense it made, I looked up at him, and when we started laughing at the same time and then realised we couldn't stop laughing at the same time, the stupid tears came again.
I guess that this time, it might be because of how unusually big my grin was, and how it didn't know how to straighten again.
When Hafsa knocked after a few minutes, I was thinking that I was, in fact, a little satisfied with who I had gotten for a husband. I mean, of course I had no idea what was in his heart, surely no one did except himself and Allah, but from his way of speaking and his actions, it seemed it wasn't nearly as bad as I had made myself think it was.
"Mamma said she's wondering what tea from Bhabi's hands tastes like," she said, and Hasan laughed.
"I'm also wondering the same, except I was thinking coffee," he said, and this time Hafsa giggled.
"Let's go, Bhabi," she said, and just when we were leaving I felt a tug at my dupatta and turned around to a grinning husband, with one hand scratching at his beard, and the other waving at me.
I left the room with Hafsa without a word in his direction, but I was smirking, and I knew he'd seen it.
Ruqya Bhabi was frying samosas in the kitchen when we arrived there.
"Oh, Adinah, why did you come? You go back to your room, I and Hafsa will see things here," she said, turning a samosa over in the bubbling oil.
"Oh no, please, Bhabi," I said, forcing away the frying spoon from her hand. "You need rest. And what am I doing all day in my room anyway? I'm dying to have something to do. Some samosas I can handle with the tea."
She reluctantly let me take the spoon from her, and when I smiled at her, she smiled back at me. "I'm so glad Hasan Bhai got such a beautiful wife. I really hope we get closer."
Putting water to boil for the tea, I felt my heart expand. I liked her so much, and here she was saying that she liked me!
Stirring the water after I'd put tea and sugar in it, I noticed the oven in the corner. "Who uses that?" I asked Hafsa.
"Me!" She said, taking out a jar of coffee. "I was forced to take cooking classes a couple of years ago. Almost none of what they taught stuck with me, but the baking recipes book they gave as a complimentary gift surely did. I love baking, it's just awesome!"
"Oh Allah, really?" I asked, excited. "I bake too!"
Now I noticed the bags of flour stashed neatly beside the oven cabinet, the same brand that I used in my buns. Just looking at them made me want to bake something.
"Wow!! Then we can bake Hasan Bhai's birthday cake together," she grinned. "Fun!!"
I laughed, even when I wanted to hide my face. "I'm afraid that's not what I do well. I only bake biscuits and breads sometimes, and they aren't even all that good."
"Oh that's what I don't," she laughed. "I do cakes and pastries and pies."
"Why don't we open a bakery? We could be a hit," I said.
. . . And then I regretted it, because all three of us had suddenly lost all our joy and laughter.
"Can you please pass me that cup?" Ruqya said, and I did.
All our exchanges were curt and related to the things we were making now, not because we were sad for our present and future losses, but because we were angry at ourselves for not speaking up against the injustice.
The tea and coffee where prepared and served, the samosas were had. Aunty Husna and Aunty Rahima and everyone else praised the crunch of the samosas and the way I made tea and how good the coffee tasted. Everything we made was enjoyed and appreciated.
Cooking was, it seemed, the only art that people appreciated in the case of daughters-in-law here.
When little Isra first peeked into my room, her pigtails appearing before her face had the chance to, I admit I had been overjoyed. And that was because I'd thought it was a cat.
But it was a human child, and she was here because she was just curious about the floral smell that the newly wed couple's room officially reeked of. And when she came in and discovered a woman covered in blood red embroidered clothes, with more bangles than the tiny girl probably knew how to count, she seemed horrified about something.
"Azlam Lakum," she said, plopping down beside me. She didn't even allow me a second to reply. "You are Hasan Chachu's dulhan?!"
"Maybe," I said, laughing.
"You don't know about his girlfriend?!" She said, looking shocked.
My eyes went wide.
As a matter of fact I had expected many indecent things as Hasan's could-be characteristics, non-mahram women and fornication amongst them, because it was common in men in our culture to do whatever the hell they felt like doing, since their mistakes were bound to be excused, obviously, because they were 'just boys'.
But for some reason, and I'm not sure if today's incidents led to the feeling, I did not want to believe he'd had such a past. I did not want to imagine him with other girls.
"He had a girlfriend?" I asked the kid, hoping for a negative answer.
"Yes! And he loves her very much! You should not have married a boy who has a girlfriend. He told me he was going to marry her! This is very naughty of you, I will tell your mamma. She will lock you in the bathroom for doing this! You are a very naughty girl."
Now Isra was near my feet, squinting down at me. She looked at my hair, my clothes, then back at my face.
I stared at her chubby face. What I was really doing was imagining a divorce because my husband wanted to marry his girlfriend. It was very possible.
This small child had shaken the world beneath my feet, and even she was mad at me.
Before I could string more terrifying thoughts along with the image of him with a prettier, haraam girl, Hasan entered the room, with Hafsa behind him, in her arms a toddler.
"Adinah, meet my nephew - " he started, but stopped when he saw Isra sitting with me.
"Hasan Chachu, we need to talk," Isra said. I wanted to say the same thing to him.
"Isra, my jaan!"
Now, I'd seen many children, and I'd seen many grown people meet them, and with much enthusiasm. But Hasan and Isra meeting was an unworldly sight.
He looked like he was about to burst with happiness when he looked at her, and she had a similar expression, and I wondered how long they'd been away.
"Did you miss me, girlfriend?" He asked, and she was almost crying.
I was almost crying. Hafsa looked at me from behind them, and smiled. I smiled, but not to return hers.
I smiled, because now I understood that Isra had been talking about herself when she told me he had a girlfriend. Which meant he didn't really have one. Right?
After what felt like an eternity, Isra untangled her body from my husband's, and he acknowledged me again.
"Adinah, this," he said, looking at the toddler with Hafsa, "is Ismail, my nephew. The youngest man of the house, my Phupee's son's son . And this beautiful lady here," he said, pulling Isra closer to himself, "is one of the most important women of my life; Isra, my jaan, my life."
"Those are lies! They're lies."
Hasan raised an eyebrow, facing her. "Is my baby girl angry?"
"Very angry! I don't want to talk to you!"
"Oh Allah," Hasan exclaimed. "What have I done to deserve your wrath, my queen? We just met after two months!"
"You lied!" She cried. "Who is she?!"
Now, looking at me, he finally seemed to understand the issue.
"Well. I see that you have met my wife."
"Yes. Your new jaan. I know everything, I'm not a child! You lied to me. You told me we will get married, and you married a big girl with long hair, who puts listik. You like her more."
Heartbreak was clear on her face, and she looked so adorable that I wanted to smash her with a hug. But if I dared touch her, I feared she'd attack me. I had stolen her man.
Now, Hafsa, Isra and I, all looked at Hasan. We were all very interested in what he'd say to her now.
But he didn't say anything to her.
"Who wants ice-cream?!" He said, and Isra was jumping, already forgetting her boyfriend's betrayal.
Isra let go of his answer. Isra did not deliberate more to know whether she was more important to Hasan or I.
Isra was just a child; she didn't want to know because she was getting ice-cream.
But for some inexplicable reason, I wanted to know what Hasan would say.