by Aisha Saeed
“Amin.” I look at him. “Let me explain. You owe me this much.”
“Is it true you were on a tonga with a man? Talking with him?” Amin rubs his temples. “Did you know him?”
“Yes.” I walk up to him. “Let me explain it to you in private. It’s not the full story. And this pregnancy . . . it’s yours.”
Amin lets out an empty laugh. “How can it be mine? Is that even possible?”
“It is.” I stare at him. “How can you, of all people, question that?”
His expression pales.
Nasim’s eyes are fiery. “You see? She knows him! You heard her, Amin! You know now we are not liars? And look at her! Admitting all of this, and instead of pleading for mercy, she talks to you like this?” She turns to me. “After everything we have done for you, you try to ruin us? I’m done being nice to you. You are worth less than the dirt on the ground I walk on, and now everyone sees it.”
I look at Amin. He looks back at me. I see the unspoken accusations on his lips.
I feel sick. Somewhere deep down, I had hoped Amin cared about me. That he would help me. But now, I realize, he will not intercede.
“You want me to leave, and I want to go,” I tell them. I watch Saba take the suitcase from Feiza. Green and blue pieces of fabric poke through the latch. “I’ll just take my suitcase and leave. You will never hear from me again.” I pull away, but Nasim yanks me by the arm, her nails digging into my skin.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? No, you will leave on our terms. Everyone is going to know we cast you out.” She turns to Feiza. “Call her uncle. Tell him to come get her. She’ll be waiting outside,” Nasim says.
“Amin.” Tears stream down my face. Nasim drags me by the arm. “Give me a chance to explain myself. You owe me this much after everything.”
“But you never told me.” His voice rises. “You turned me into a fool in my own home. You lied to me.” Shaking his head. “All this time, I always defended you.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Things are out of my hands now. They are beyond what I want, and what I can do. I can’t help you now. It’s too late.”
Saba’s hands shove me down the hallway and outside. The sun shines brighter than usual in the sky. A burst of air churns a patch of sand and blurs my vision; the heat of the road burns my bare feet. Grabbing the suitcase, Nasim throws it onto the dusty road. The force swings it open on impact. My clothes litter the street in blues, whites, and pastels.
“You think you can live in my house and deceive us?” Nasim walks up to me. Her face is flushed, power now squarely back in her hands. “How dare you take advantage of my kindness and ruin my family name?” I feel a blistering slap across my face. The force tilts my head back. I taste blood against my tongue. “I have an unmarried daughter in my house, and you bring shame to my family? You sully my name?” Nasim shoves me hard. I fall forward, tripping against the concrete step, my foot twisting when I land with a thud.
Nasim seems possessed by a demon. I try covering myself from Nasim’s feet—she kicks me with each curse. I try turning inward, but it’s no use.
I can make out people, a small crowd. They surround us. Small children, neighboring women, some who even came over to the house, who patted my hands as they thanked me for the tea I made them. They stand now at the edges, shaking their heads, whispering, watching.
How long has it been?
I no longer feel pain. It is as though I am floating above my body, watching events transpire on a screen. I’m numb as blood trickles down my nose, settling into my swollen lip. I think of my brother, my childhood bed with lace ruffles on the edges; I think of Saif, his dimple, his lips warm and soft, pressed against mine, the stubble tickling my cheeks. I feel a shadow, the world darkening, as I wait for everything to go black.
I wait for the next blow, but then—nothing. I hear voices. Looking up, I see Nasim; her body is suddenly yanked backward. Amin has pulled her off of me.
I try sitting up but wince—my wrists sear with pain. Just then, Amin’s gaze shifts. His jaw hardens.
“Who is that? Is that him? What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Amin shouts at someone marching toward us.
It’s Saif, but Amin doesn’t wait for an answer. Before I can process any more, Amin charges him.
I bite my lip and push myself up through the pain, but before I can do anything, Amin shoves Saif to the ground.
Who is this person? I can scarcely recognize Amin right now as he punches Saif.
I don’t pause to think. I don’t pause to reflect on consequences of any kind. Before anyone can move, I’m on my feet. Anger rises in me. It propels me.
“Stop.” A loud voice—my voice—stops Amin in his tracks.
He looks up at me. His breathing is rapid. He takes me in, but he hasn’t moved. I’ve never seen him so furious.
“I didn’t choose this, Amin. You know that. You know I don’t belong here. And you know you will be happier with someone else. What are you getting out of hurting him? What good can possibly come of any of this? Do you want to keep us here long enough for my uncle to get here and finish what you’ve started?”
Just like that, my words seem to deflate him. The rage in his eyes evaporates. I watch his shoulders slump. Something in him fades.
Just then, we hear the screech of tires. A car door slams. A yellow car pulls up just a few feet away. The brake lights glow red. A door opens, and Saif’s father jumps out.
“Let’s go,” he shouts, walking quickly toward us.
Saba’s eyes are large and round. She takes a step toward us. Nasim follows. They are marching up to us.
Saif stands up and walks over to me. He places an arm around my waist, helping me to fully stand. My foot throbs, but I no longer feel any pain.
“Are we putting on a circus act for all to see? What is this?” Nasim demands.
“This is us leaving,” I tell her.
“After everything she’s put us through, she just leaves?” Saba cries out.
“No,” Nasim says, her eyes never leaving mine. “She does not get to humiliate us this publicly and then just run off.” She takes a step toward me. “Over my dead body.”
“Enough,” Amin says.
His voice is quiet, but it silences them both. I wipe dirt mingled with blood from my face and look at him.
“Leave them alone,” he finally says. “Let them leave in peace.”
I look at him, and something inside me hurts. I want to tell him so many things. But I know that it’s now too late.
Saif and his father help me walk to the car. I get inside, and Saif sits next to me. I look back at the house of cement and bricks, the gravelly path leading to the door. Feiza stands at the entryway, holding Zaina tightly to her. My chest compresses when I see them. Zaina watches me with large eyes. The car jerks forward, turns right, and then, after so many months, after everything I’ve been through—they’re all gone.
“Are you okay?” Saif asks softly. “We’ll be home before you know it.”
I rest my head on Saif’s shoulder and close my eyes. I have gone to hell and back, but I’m okay. Finally, I am home.
Epilogue
I’ll get that.” Saif races to the stove to turn off the squealing teakettle. I watch him pour the hot water into the ceramic cups with tea bags and cover them as they steep.
“Are you nervous?” He puts an arm around my shoulder and kisses me on the head.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I just can’t believe they’re here. Probably just a few miles away.”
“You don’t have to do this. I can call them and tell them it’s not going to work.”
“It’s fine.” I kiss him. “They can’t do anything to me now.”
My brother, Imran, called me just last week. My mother is sick. Very sick. And she wants to see me
.
“It will be okay.” He pulls me into a hug.
It’s been two years since I left Pakistan and put my nightmare firmly behind me, but today is the first time I will see them. “Your parents are my parents now,” I had told Saif when I first returned. His father helped me sort things out at the American embassy. His mother held me as my body writhed with pain from the loss of my pregnancy, an unexpected grief that lingers to this day. His parents helped arrange the particulars of my divorce. And it was his parents who attended our simple marriage in court two months ago.
My life is different than I would have pictured it, but it’s a good life. I love the brick-front apartment just minutes from campus, with its low ceilings and dim lighting. I love my green curtains and the white lights I’ve strung around its periphery. It’s taken me time to work up to it, but this semester, I took my first full schedule. I lost my old scholarship and my spot in the medical program, but I’m thankful for student loans that help me make good on dreams I thought were long gone. Each day I feel more like myself. Each day the past feels more squarely placed where it belongs, behind me.
I look up at the clock on the wall. I don’t want to see either of them—but they need to see me now. With Saif. They need to see just how wrong they were.
I look out the window; two figures are approaching the building. The woman wears a green salwar kamiz and a black coat, and her hair is gathered in a graying bun. The man next to her has a bit of a stoop, his glasses thick and black, his hair fully gray now. No hint of black remains.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Something inside me suddenly aches.
“You can do this,” Saif says.
Any minute now, the doorbell will ring. I close my eyes as a tear slips down my face. Saif squeezes my hand. I look down at his hand and smile. Love is about the good moments, but it’s about holding on to each other during the difficult ones too. Coming out the other side, weathered but still holding hands, isn’t easy. It’s the most difficult thing there can possibly be, but I know now it’s the truest test of love there is. Life hasn’t been easy, but it gets less painful every day, and as I look at Saif, I know that love—in its essence, at its core—is the most bittersweet thing there is.
Author’s Note
When I was twenty-two years old, I married the love of my life. Both Pakistani-Americans raised in traditional families, our wedding was semiarranged by our parents. We met only once, surrounded by family, before getting engaged, and only a handful of times before our wedding day. Though I barely knew him, I trusted my parents and looked forward to getting to know him for the rest of my life. Eleven years and two children later, I am so thankful for the decision I made. It was a leap of faith, but one I am glad I took.
Not all couples, however, are as lucky as we were. Unlike my story—where we were equal partners making a choice to spend our lives together—forced marriages are brought about through coercion, pressure, threats, and sometimes, outright violence.
I personally knew girls, born and raised in the United States, who were pressured or coerced into marriages they never would have chosen for themselves. Because they were taught from very young ages that they would have little to no say in this matter, many grew up believing they could not go against their parents or turn to anyone for help. I’ve known too many people who have had to deal with abuse, failed marriages, and parents threatening to disown them if they tried to leave.
Naila’s story might be fictional, but the reality of forced marriages is unfortunately true for many in America and around the world. While this book is set in Pakistan, the issue is not limited to one particular culture or religion—it is a problem that transcends race and religion, affecting many diverse groups of people. Though every country and religion opposes the practice of forced marriage, it is real, it is dangerous, and it is happening in our own backyard. Many other countries have acknowledged this crisis and expanded their resources—the United Kingdom even has kidnapping rescue units in the most at-risk countries. In the United States, however, forced marriages remain a silent epidemic. It is my hope that this novel, like all good books, will transport readers to a new world, but will also provide a voice for so many girls who see themselves in Naila and who shouldn’t have to suffer in silence.
Resources
If you or someone you know needs advice or help, please contact:
The Tahirih Justice Center: Offices in Arlington, Virginia; Baltimore, Maryland; and Houston, Texas. http://www.tahirih.org/contact-us
Unchained at Last: [email protected] or http://www.unchainedatlast.org
US Department of State, Office of Overseas Citizens Services: 1-888-407-4747, or 202-501-4444 if calling from overseas.
Acknowledgments
One thing I’ve learned on the book journey is just how many people it takes to create any book readers hold in their hands. You do not hold the hard work of a single person, but the heart and soul of all the people who helped make that book a reality.
First and foremost, I am indebted to my amazing editor, Nancy Paulsen, for her incredible insights that helped take my novel to the next level. She is truly gifted at what she does.
Many thanks to Sara LaFleur for her help and guidance and to Lindsey Andrews for the beautiful cover art, as well as the entire team at Nancy Paulsen Books and Penguin Young Readers for all their support along the way.
I hit the jackpot by landing not only an amazing publishing house and editor but an incredible agent in Taylor Martindale. Many thanks to Taylor for believing in this manuscript from the start and for loving these characters like I do. A simple acknowledgment will never suffice to capture just how appreciative I am for all she’s done for me. My gratitude also to Stefanie Von Borstel and the entire team at Full Circle Literary.
When we got married, my husband promised to support me in all my dreams, and I will love him forever for keeping this vow. Thank you for believing in me and for babysitting little ones while I worked on edits. A writer’s journey can be an uncertain one, but I stuck with it because of his support every step of the way. Thank you also to our sons, Waleed and Musa, for being a piece of my heart and for being a driving force in all I do.
To my parents, Kalsoom and Anwar Saeed, thank you for the detailed feedback on this novel and for always being so proud of me. To my friends Ayesha Mattu, Sonya Choudry, and Saadia Memon, thanks for being my beta readers and helping me verify research along the way, and many thanks to Russ and Elizabeth Hetzel for being early readers as well. To my brothers, Ali and Aamir, thank you for always encouraging me to follow my dreams, and to all my family and dear friends (you know who you are!), thank you so much for being part of my life.
A very special thanks to Suzanne Staples for giving me feedback when this book was still in its infancy. Her novels featuring Pakistani protagonists showed me my stories mattered and deserved to be told. Thank you for encouraging me and for being my inspiration and mentor.
And last but certainly not least, thank you to Tracy Lopez for being there from the very beginning, when this book was just an idea living inside my head. She was the first person to read this story, and she’s been there through every edit and revision along the way. I can never ever thank her enough for all the heart and energy she put into making this the best book it could be. I am forever thankful for her support and her friendship.
GLOSSARY
abu: father
ami: mother
array: hey
beta: literal word for “son,” but often used for daughters as well
chacha: father’s younger brother
chachi: father’s younger brother’s wife
chai: tea
charpay: a traditional woven bed
dupatta: scarf
kamiz: long tunic with side seams, often worn with a salwar
khala: mother’s sister
kulfi: sweet dairy dessert similar
to ice cream
lengha: a long skirt worn with a blouse
maaf kijiye: forgive me
mubarak: congratulations
nahin: no
paratha: flat, round buttered bread
phupo: father’s sister
rupee: Pakistani currency
salwar: loose pajama-style pants worn by men and women in Pakistan, often with a kamiz
sari: an outfit worn by South Asian women that consists of a short blouse and a lengthy cloth draped around the body
sherwani: traditional South Asian male outfit with a long fitted coat worn at weddings and other important occasions
tamasha: spectacle
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