Chapter 1: CHAPTER ONE

"'Adia jan? Fix your hijab, Wahab's family is here.'

I readjusted my white hijab at my mother's wishes. I thought my hijab was perfectly set, it had to be if the stiffness around my ear was any indication. The train to Delhi was an hour late and we were stuck in the platform, that was when abbu called Wahab's father— to let him know, he'd said. After all, as being my future to-be husband, it was Wahab's right to always know about my whereabouts and there I was sitting on the iron bench with a small duffle bag on my lap; all the reasons for my father to report back to Wahab. There was nothing important on my bag, not even my phone— abbu had it safely placed in his pyjama pocket, but I kept it close— just in case I needed something to fidget with— ummi had strictly ordered not to do the fiddling with my hands as it may come childish and impolite which was a fat no in front of my future in-laws. I was not raised to be ill-mannered.

Wahab's face was all happy and smiley upon seeing me or my Waaladen – I could never be sure with him, I stood up to greet his parents and returned his smile with a nod and he inclined his head back. He was smiling for me. I liked that about him— he never failed to pass me an acknowledgment. It was rare for the husbands to do, especially while in others' company. That was one of the reasons why I immediately accepted the proposal of marriage from his mother. It's been almost a year, she had come to my mother for my hand, she said it was Wahab's request to marry me. I couldn't forget the day— she sat there on the sofa, holding my mother's hands as she poured each and every word Wahab had said to her regarding the topic of marriage— I felt bad for Wahab as I listened to her for hours, he had probably trusted her with his words and there she was ratting her son out in front of the person it was all about. Then again, maybe Wahab did want me to know how he felt and thus sent his mother instead of his father because the latter won't have been so colourful and full of details while asking my father for my hand in marriage. She made sure to provide every good reason of why I would be a perfect match for her son— she said I would sensitize him. Make him more responsible and sensible. Not like he was not already a perfect example of a son. In every gathering, his name would be brought up with such respect from men and admiration from women. So, I said yes. Without a second thought, I said yes. I had already completed my graduation and sooner or later marriage proposals were bound to rain down on my head and agreeing to take Wahab as a husband was the best choice, I thought I would make. And I was not wrong.

Soon after the acceptance of the offer, he called my brother and made a wish to talk to me too. I have never been more terrified of a phone call but it was different— I was about to talk to my to-be fiancé and aside from my little brother and father, I rarely talked to any male, Akira, my cousin was once scolded for sharing a laugh with a cousin of ours— her mother said she might receive a marriage proposal from him and it was not sensible of her, he might change his mind about her and not give any chance to her at all if he saw how she behaved. Since that day, Akira maintained her distance from him and two years later, they married. Personally, I thought he wouldn't have married someone else other than Akira, the boy was so smitten by her.

I talked to Wahab on the phone. His voice was deep with a rasp to it and my heart skipped a beat just by hearing him say my name. For a few minutes, I couldn't speak. The words were stuck in my throat and he understood. I stayed silent and he did too, but I knew he was there by the sound of his breathing and I assumed he too knew I was there. He understood why I wasn't saying anything. Then after a moment passed, he greeted me, I sensed a smile in his voice. He was teasing without even a word of it and I felt my whole face becoming hot with embarrassment. My first word to him was his own name. Wahab? I was surprised he heard me, but he replied with only yours. Then it was easier to talk to him. With each passing day, we talked, and it became a second nature to just be in his company. I didn't see him, but I always kept his framed photo while I talked to him on phone. One day I asked him if he did the same, he just chuckled and said he didn't have to, I close my eyes and I see you there. It was so easy to fall in love with him, he made it impossible not to.

'As-salam aleikum, Ummi, abbu jan'

Wahab's mother's face broke into an eager grin and I was held in an embrace for a long, long time. My own mother hadn't hugged me, perhaps she was waiting for the last moment when the train was finally there to do so. Nonetheless, I allowed myself to feel at home in her embrace.

'Oh, look at you! I knew Wahab had made the right decision. Mashallah', her face seemed like she was about to cry, I held her hands in mine and squeezed them in hopes of comforting her. Wahab loved his mother more than anyone and anything, he had told me that in the first conversation I shared with him. He wanted his wife to do the same— all I ask of you is respect my Ummi and give her the love only a daughter could. I agreed, in fact, he had earned my utmost respect. A boy his age who loved his mother was a rarity in itself. Besides his mother was the sweetest woman I had met. And she gave the warmest hugs possible. Assuming, Wahab inherited at least a tiny part of him from her, I just could not stop loving her as my own mother. In my eyes, she was the reason for Wahab being so understanding and supportive and just perfect. Or maybe some of it came from his father. That— I would never know, not until I was actually married to him.

In the midst of it, Wahab's father coughed a bit. His 'Now listen to me' fake cough, everyone knew.

'Let's give some time alone to the kids, shall we?'

My face was warm again, instinctively, my eyes dropped down coyly. I heard Wahab's voice telling the elders it was not necessary, but his father had none of it and soon Wahab was standing in front of me, I watched his shoes move. After making sure, he was alone, I looked up and he gave me his signature smile.

My uncle had invited his family to a get-together after my engagement with him was announced to the extended family, of course, I was not present due to Wahab being there too, but a cousin of mine told me all about how he behaved and looked in real. She said he had a lopsided smile and long hair, sometimes a strand or two fell between his eyebrows and he laughed slowly and without much of a sound. If I was not in love with his talk and voice, I was defiantly in love with his description. But what she failed to notice was his crooked teeth. He had lost half of his canny teeth in an accident as a child and now when he laughed it showed. He was embarrassed about it but to me it was the cutest thing ever.

He inhaled soundly and then exhaled, smiled without opening his lips and rubbed his brow with his index finger. The station, the crowd and the faint smell of smoke and the public washroom—they all blended in the background when Wahab smiled.

'You wore the white shirt.'

Surprised, he shook his head and sucked his bottom lip in for a second before releasing it. He craned his neck to look at my hands and quirked a brow.

'It was a special request from someone. How could I not?'

'Someone? They have an excellent eye for colour then. It suits you.'

He laughed; his crooked teeth showed. One another thing I have noticed during our five meetings was he laughed more when it was just the two of us. I didn't ask him the reason, but I supposed it was because I found him cute when he laughed and somehow, he knew what I couldn't say. It was mesmerizing— his laugh and contagious—he often made me want to laugh too, he threw his head back and closed his eyes, it caused those loose strands of his hair to fall down on his forehead. He was lovely to me, though, he had his father's strong features but what made him beautiful was his warm and welcoming personality. The sides of his eyes were wrinkled and wherever he laughed, they deepened, and I always found myself loving every second of it.

His hand touched my arm and motioned me to walk back towards the bench. He walked a step behind me. As I sat down, he took my bag from my hands and placed it by his side— leaving only a small gap between us. My hands were folded on my lap and his were placed close to my waist, and a part of my mind wanted him to touch me properly and not just small caresses of the tip of his fingers. I craved his whole touch not a trivial fragment of the sensation. My cousins, who were already married and had gone through the ordeal of the first night joked how the concept was overrated. He was no Imran Hashmi or Thank Allah, he knew where to put it—and be done with it. I had watched a few movies when the girls gathered for a night in—of course, with warm ears and a loud heart. I had no doubt my Wahab would be better than any Imran Hashmi.

'I would miss you. A lot actually.'

I was aware of our parents wandering nearby and especially our mothers. I didn't look at him. My eyes, though, dropped on his profile for a millisecond before facing straight. He was looking at me without a hint of fear. He wasn't worried about the eyes of strangers in the platform, but I was, and I wanted to tell him to stop with the staring but then restrained myself from uttering a word.

'Then say and I won't go.'

'Couldn't you just say you'd miss me too?', he was smiling as he said those words. I could have but didn't.

'You know I would miss you. In fact, more than I'd anyone, but I am telling you— you make the final decision. If you have any objections or concerns then you own the right to say it', I glanced around the busy platform. Crowded and noisy. I felt the need to give him the reigns— I didn't think of the reason, instead said what I anticipated he wished to hear in that moment. Men want to feel they have the power over their own women. My mother's mantra and I intended to follow it. She had gone with it and my parent's marriage was a success—mine would be too.

This time his finger brushed against my waist with more pressure, I shivered, and he took it as a negative reaction because he retrieved his hand from my side. I almost told him not to, that I was just startled and not used to his touch. It was not a bad reaction but a good one, however, I chose to stay silent. How could I ask him?

'And you'd listen? Do what I say? Let me make the decision for you?'

There was something foreign in his voice— something I hadn't heard before. I couldn't help but glance at him. He hadn't stopped watching me. I took my time to answer, though, it was very clear in my mind and I didn't have to ponder on it but the expression on his face told me that he wanted me to think about it, so I did. Yes, if he asked me to stay, I would have; without a question. It was not because of the obligation. But for his respect. My mother never questioned my father's decision or choice, and he had the last say in everything— even regarding her own self. That was the appropriate behaviour and the right thing to do. And the best part about it was— I won't feel violated because I loved him and if I had to give up one dream to fulfil his commands, I would. And he was the reason why my father even allowed me to go to Delhi to study medicine.