Puranay Rastay ✓

chapter ‣ 21

Chapter ‣ 21

"If you don't say it, your face will," Mamoo would say.

"Is that why you were quick to start the niqab?" Kainat would tease, earning a smack on the arm.

Rida could never hide her feelings, but she was trying. She would show up on suhoor and iftar, cheerful and jolly, working on the dishes, having animated conversations with Mama. She would be running over to Mamoo's flat to spend time with the girls, flipping through wedding magazines planning for the Walima. She would be affectionate with me, going on and on about how much she looked forward to being a commissioner's wife, grooming my beard and hair, and chewing my head off about investing in newer clothes. She was putting on a good performance of normalcy, but it was there; the razor thin cut that pained her incessantly.

It was there in the way she lay awake at night, twisting and turning in bed. It was there in how little she ate, her playing with her food, pushing it here and there. It was there in how her face was tired, sockets sunken in. It was there in the troubled look her eyes often contained.

"It's happening again," Mama whispered to me one afternoon, gesturing towards Rida, who was nodding off on the couch while peeling boiled potatoes.

Mama's face was pained. She had witnessed Rida in the depths of depression during her iddat, and she was viewing the same signs again.

"What triggered her?" Mama asked, turning away with a quivering lip.

I didn't say anything. Neither I, nor Rida had mentioned to Mama that we had recently met Rida's in-laws. It was only going to hurt her, worry her, or worse, make her angry.

It was easy to think that starting over with someone new would bring enough joy and newness to distract her from past heartache, but that wasn't necessarily the truth. A heart that was still healing, still getting a hold of itself, was bound to be in two places at once.

I stayed mindful of these changes, these patterns of how Rida grieved. There had never been a moment in past years where she had gone through prolonged sadness like this, so I observed and studied this new facet of hers.

At night when she thought I was asleep, I would hear her cry silently. Her ragged breaths and contained sobs shook the bed gently. The scent of her salty tears would often linger long after she left the bed.

One night she cried all the way from taraweeh to suhoor, so much so that she couldn't open her eyes without the ice pack I rushed to get for her.

"Thank you," she said, forcing a laugh. "Allergies, maybe?"

I stared at her, my heart sad and my body numb. "Talk to me," I whispered. "You don't have to go through this alone."

She shook her head, dabbing her warm face with the edge of her dupatta as the ice pack slowly melted. "It's not on you to take on this burden."

"Before I was your husband, I was your friend," I reminded.

She shook her head again. "I'm...I'm just tired. It's a lot, you know? You don't expect to feel this much, but you do. They were just words, right? We say them all day long. I say stuff all day long, and I can't shut up sometimes. It's not a big deal."

"It is, if you've lost your sleep, appetite, and smile."

As soon as I said the last part, she burst into tears.

I wish the apology had come when it was needed, I thought, holding Rida in my arms, when it could have made a difference.

She had been called sabz qadam, jadoo garni, lalchi, and other insults I didn't even want to recall, when she was at her weakest. How could one apology make her forget what was said? How could she forget the faces—ones that she had trusted and associated with safety in the face of the world—that had said them?