by Zara Raheem
“Do you still think he was the one for you?”
“A few weeks ago, I would’ve said yes. But after hearing stories of how my parents met, seeing Meena and Haroon together, and even talking to you—” I paused. “I’m starting to question a lot of the things I used to be so sure of.”
“The best part of life is realizing you don’t need to know all the answers. Sometimes you just have to trust that you’ll figure it out when the time is right.” Hisham smiled, popping a bite of chicken tengri into his mouth. I sipped my falooda, silently lost in my thoughts.
* * *
After our meal, Hisham and I walked outside to wait for a taxi. The rain had stopped, and the humidity left a stickiness in the air that was almost oppressive. We leaned against a wall, feeling full and lazy.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Sure.”
“Love—before or after marriage? What is your opinion?”
Hisham thought for a moment. “If I’m being perfectly honest, I’ve only ever seen it occur—successfully—the former way in the movies. But that’s not to say I don’t believe it’s possible. I think when it comes to love, anything is possible—regardless of what our mothers may tell us.”
“That’s because love before marriage is not the Indian way.”
“I know it’s hard for many people to wrap their minds around, but I guess I always considered the idea of love after marriage to be quite romantic.”
I gave him a look.
“Wait a second, hear me out,” he said with a laugh. “Think about it: two people who are willing to take a blind leap of faith and commit to each other for no other reason than for the intention of marriage—there’s definitely something special to that, don’t you think?”
I inhaled slowly as a warm breeze swept through the air. I had never really thought about it in that way before. The risks involved always seemed far too great, but I supposed there was something slightly romantic about such a giant leap of faith . . .
“Can I ask you something?”
I nodded.
“Zain. From what you told me, he wasn’t the one for you.”
“That’s not really a question,” I teased.
“It’s not.” Hisham smiled, leaning in toward me. “But I just thought you should know.”
“What makes you so sure he wasn’t the one?”
“Easy,” he said, gently placing his finger under my chin and lifting my face up to his. As he pulled in closer, my body instinctively gravitated toward his until we were no more than a few inches apart. I could feel the coolness of his breath. Hear the sound of his heart beating. Or maybe it was mine. I couldn’t really tell. “He let a girl like you go.” My knees weakened as I felt myself being swallowed in his soft brown eyes.
I turned away, suddenly feeling nervous. What is happening right now? Is Hisham flirting with me? Does he feel for me the same way I feel for him? Maybe it was the food, or the touch of his skin so close to mine, but I felt sort of in a haze, like my thoughts were all jumbled together.
“Leila,” he continued, speaking gently, “maybe all the answers you are looking for are right in front of you. You just have to be willing to take that leap.”
I looked up, this time allowing myself to get lost in his gaze. We stood there for a moment, our faces almost touching, the sound of my heart pounding against my ear.
Suddenly, a taxi pulled up. Hisham quickly stepped back and cleared his throat. We stood there awkwardly for a second and then got inside—the driver placing our bags in the trunk—as the sound of thunder roared in the distance, closely echoing the rumblings in my heart.
Bombshell
“I like him,” I whispered, sitting up on the bed. It felt liberating to actually speak those words aloud.
“What are you going to do?” Meena asked, rolling onto her stomach. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as the moonlight from the windows cast faint shadows across her face. It was one in the morning, and everyone else in the house was fast asleep. I had been thinking about Hisham ever since I had returned home from our afternoon together—the touch of his fingers against my face; the warmth of his skin; the sound of his heart beating against mine. I desperately needed someone to help me make sense of the feelings racing through me.
“I wish there was some way of knowing if he feels the same about me!”
“Maybe you should tell someone.”
“Who?”
“Your ammi . . . my ammi . . . someone who could speak to his parents for you.”
“No way!” I said, plopping down on the pillow. “Meena, I’ve gone that route before. It only makes things worse.”
“But this is India. This is how it is done here.”
“I think I’m just going to tell him.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, hesitation in her voice.
“Yes, I’m sure.” I nodded matter-of-factly. I was going to tell Hisham how I felt. No games. No waiting. No outside interference. This time, I would take matters into my own hands. I would blindly leap and trust that love would take its course.
* * *
The next morning, Meena had her nikkah ceremony. The local imam came to the flat to see the bride at her home. In the presence of several witnesses, the imam read selected verses from the Qu’ran, asked Meena a list of questions about Haroon, and once she said “Qubool Hai” three times, she was officially married. She signed the marriage contracts, and the imam left to deliver those same contracts to Haroon, who was already waiting at the mosque.
With the nikkah completed, everyone breathed a great sigh of relief and focused their attention on the grand reception that was being held at an upscale hotel that evening. As I helped Meena slip into her traditional red lehenga choli and watched her mother adorn her with lavish jewels, I had to admit she was the most gorgeous bride I had ever seen.
“Meena, you’re beautiful,” I whispered as I straightened out her headpiece—a gold-and-pearl tikka with a red ruby drop that came down to the center of her forehead. “Just like a Bollywood heroine, masha’Allah.” I stepped back to admire her.
“Thank you, Leila.” She smiled back at me shyly with red-painted lips. “How are you feeling? About you know . . .”
“Good,” I said, thinking back to our conversation last night. The more I thought about it, the more sure I was about my feelings for Hisham. I was ready to tell him. Tonight at the reception.
“You’re still sure you don’t want to talk to—” She gestured with her head toward my mother, who was helping Jamila aunty fix a pin on her sari.
“I’m sure,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile. Although I wasn’t certain yet of what I would say to Hisham once I saw him, I figured I still had hours to figure it out. Right now, my focus was Meena.
“She needs more liner around the eyes,” Jamila aunty was telling the makeup artist, a middle-aged aunty with bright pink fingernails and a gap between her front teeth. “And make the shadow a little brighter. Her eyes should really come alive.”
As the aunty quickly grabbed her brushes and got to work, there was a knock at the door.
“Salaam, Shabana! Come in, come in!” Jamila aunty motioned her in. “Nida, this is Haroon and Hisham’s mother,” she said as the two of them embraced emotionally.
“Yes, we met yesterday,” my mother said, leaning in to give her a kiss on both cheeks. “How are you feeling, Shabana? Were you able to get some rest?”
“Oh, it is impossible to rest with all this excitement!” Shabana aunty touched my cheek affectionately. “Salaam, Leila beti. Hisham told me you were of great help yesterday. Thank you so much.” I smiled at her. Just the sound of Hisham’s name made my insides flutter.
“Shabana, I was just telling Jamila what a nice boy she has found for her Meena, masha’Allah,” my mother remarked. “As mothers, what more can we ask for?”
“Yes, yes.” Shabana aunty nodded in agreement. “We are very
lucky to have gained such a lovely daughter as well,” she said, lifting Meena’s hand and giving it a kiss.
“So tell us, Shabana, is it true what we hear?” Jamila aunty interrupted with a teasing wink. “When is the next wedding going to be?”
Shabana aunty waved her hands and laughed. “We must get through this one first!”
I stood next to Meena as the makeup artist carefully applied another layer of dark kohl above her upper lash line. I tried to appear occupied, but my curiosity was eating away at me. What was this talk about another wedding?
“A second wedding? You never mentioned this,” my mother asked eagerly.
“Oy, everybody’s talking about the good news!” Jamila aunty exclaimed. “Shabana, you really must confirm . . . is Hisham engaged?”
Meena popped open her eyes and turned in my direction.
“Beti, you must sit still,” the makeup aunty scolded her, shaking her head in irritation.
“Sorry,” Meena muttered as she leaned back in her chair. I turned toward Shabana aunty, holding my breath, desperately waiting for her response.
Shabana aunty gave a sly smile. “Haan, it’s true. Hisham has recently been engaged!” She beamed with pride.
Jamila aunty squealed.
My heart dropped to the floor.
“Mubarak! Mubarak!” my mother exclaimed. “When did this happen?”
“Just less than a month ago, with a girl we have selected for him. Alhamdulillah. We could not be happier,” Shabana aunty replied.
“You are a very lucky woman indeed!” my mother said, a tinge of envy wrapped around her words.
I pressed my body against the vanity mirror. Every muscle tensed with shock. Hisham is engaged. He’s getting married. To a girl his parents have selected for him. The noises around me faded into one long whirring sound. My head spun in circles, and I started to feel light-headed.
“Leila,” Meena said, touching my hand gently, her beautiful eyes fraught with concern. “I-I-I’m so sorry. I had no idea—”
“I know,” I whispered, nodding weakly. Meena’s eyes glistened with tears.
“I’m going to get some air,” I said, rushing out of the room. My mother was so busy discussing wedding details that she barely took notice of the fact that I had left.
I ran to the living room and leaned my head through the open window above the ledge. The sound of cars whizzed past from below. I could feel the warm air against my face.
Breathe.
Breathe.
I kept repeating this mantra in my head.
Hisham is engaged! I can’t believe he’s engaged. It felt like I had been kicked in the gut.
What did you expect to happen? Another part of my brain screamed. You just met him two days ago!
I squeezed my eyes shut, drowning out the voices.
It wasn’t like I imagined us getting married tomorrow . . . I just thought . . .
I wasn’t really sure what I thought. I knew I liked him. And up until a few minutes ago, I thought he liked me back. I just never saw this coming. I focused my breathing, trying to ignore the lump in my throat.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Thunder clapped in the distance. He’s engaged. Engaged! Those words kept reverberating in my ears. Suddenly, I felt a drop of water plop down on my forehead. And then another. Plop. Plop. I looked up. The dark, ominous clouds stared back at me—chastising me for being so foolish. I shut my eyes again, breathing in the wet air. Even as the clouds split and neat, parallel sheets of rain threatened to drench me through the open window—I remained frozen, unable to move until the sounds of my heart eventually steadied.
* * *
The ballroom of the Trident Hotel was filled with guests. Beautiful ivory silks hung in loose, graceful folds, and the tables were adorned with elaborate centerpieces—gold vases filled with decadent white roses and jasmine blooming over the edges. There was a dance floor in the center of the room where guests were already celebrating under the warm amber lighting emanating from the ceiling.
I smoothed out the drapes of my sari and readjusted the pallu. My mother had initially been so resistant about my selecting this ensemble, but given that she had spent the majority of the evening bombarded with inquiries and proposals about her “highly desirable daughter,” I figured she may have had a change of heart. As I watched her converse with a line of aunties who kept glancing in my direction, I couldn’t help but think of the fresh stack of bio-datas that would soon be coming my way.
The mood of the room quickly shifted with the arrival of the bridal party. Haroon sat nervously on a stage, waiting to catch sight of his blushing bride. He was wearing a black-and-gold sherwani with a red turban on top of his head. As the clock struck seven, the double doors finally swung open and Meena entered atop a beautiful golden palanquin. She looked like Bollywood royalty perched on the shoulders of relatives and friends in her traditional red garb.
The moment her litter lowered to the rose-petaled ground, Haroon rushed toward it, extending his hand to help his new bride onto the stage. While the guests collectively whispered “Masha’Allah” under their breath, I stood off in the corner, watching the newlyweds as they merged into a couple right before our eyes.
Everyone around me seemed to be having a wonderful time, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do the same—not after the bombshell that had been dropped earlier. Every time I turned around, there was Hisham—running his fingers through his hair or smiling with that lopsided grin of his. As much as I wanted to remain cool and collected, inside I was a total mess. A part of me wanted to talk to him and get some answers, but I didn’t trust myself to do so without breaking into tears.
Our afternoon together kept replaying in my head: the way he held me close . . . the sound of his heart beating next to mine . . . Why wouldn’t he tell me he was engaged? We had spent so much time talking about love and relationships; I couldn’t understand why he would have withheld this information from me. Did he simply forget? Or was it intentional? Either way, I felt hurt. More than hurt, I felt foolish. Betrayed. Rejected. The knot in my stomach wound tighter and tighter.
“I found you.”
A thin voice broke up my thoughts. I turned to see Asad smiling broadly.
“Wow, Leila.” He took a quick glance over me from head to toe. “You look ravishing!” he exclaimed, touching the tip of his mustache.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, still distracted by my thoughts.
“I was actually hoping we could continue our conversation from the other day. We hit such a momentum, and it was unfortunate we got cut off.”
Unfortunate was hardly the word I would use, but I needed to get Hisham off my mind.
“Sure,” I replied. “What did you want to talk about?”
Asad’s smile slightly wavered.
“I just think you and I are very compatible, Leila. I think you feel it too.”
I forced a polite smile.
“We share the same values and worldviews. We have similar expectations when it comes to a life partner. I just thought with you and aunty leaving soon, perhaps we should consider moving forward with this. What do you think?”
“Moving forward? As in . . . ?” I knitted my brows.
“I already spoke with my parents about you.” Asad looked at me eagerly. “They would be open to an engagement. That is, if you are.”
An engagement? My heart pounded in my chest. This was it. My final chance to successfully meet my parents’ deadline . . .
Directly behind him, I noticed Hisham out of the corner of my eye. Hisham, the man of my choosing, versus Asad, my mother’s pick. The choices offered two very different futures: a life of arrangement versus a life of love. The only problem was, only one of these choices had selected me.
A sharp pang sliced through the center of my chest. Asad was my only chance. I opened my mouth to speak, but only a brittle sound escaped.
“What do you say,
Leila?” Asad pressed.
A wave of nausea washed over me. Was this what it had come to? Was this the only way to satisfy my parents’ expectations? I couldn’t believe this was the ending to my Bollywood fairy tale all along.
“I . . . I don’t know,” I stammered. My head spun in confusion. “Can I have some time to think about it?”
“Yes, of course.” Asad smiled; however, the disappointment in his voice was obvious.
“I-I’m so sorry,” I said, unable to look him directly in the eyes. “I think I just need to get some air.” I touched my hand to my forehead and took a step back. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I really have to go.”
“Leila? Leila . . . are you okay?” I could hear Asad’s voice calling out to me, but I needed to get as far away as possible. I moved past the crowd, pushing against a sea of bodies, refusing to look back. I kept moving, straight through the double doors and down the long carpeted corridor until I found myself outside in the hotel gardens.
Dizzy and breathless, I sat down, trying to regain my composure on the steps of the marble fountain. I shut my eyes, listening to the rushing flow of water—synchronizing my breath with the steady rise and fall of sounds. From across the gardens, I could hear footsteps walking in my direction.
Closer. And closer.
He must’ve followed me. My heart sank. I knew I owed Asad an explanation, but it wasn’t a conversation I was ready for. With my eyes still shut, I braced myself.
“Hey,” said a voice from the other side of the fountain.
I opened my eyes as he made his way around. Within seconds, I was staring into a set of familiar brown eyes.
It was Hisham.
“Hey,” I said softly. He kneeled down until his face was directly across from mine and grazed his fingers across my forehead, straightening out my tikka as the diamonds sparkled reflectively in his eyes.
“Something tells me you might be breaking some hearts tonight.” He grinned. “Or maybe you already have?”