Leilah Usman awaits an acceptance from a university abroad so she can leave the country she never loved when she stumbles upon an ancient diary. Through the eyes of Mahrosh Irfan, she finds herself in a world so completely different from hers.
One w...
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Weddings.
Calendars in desi households are marked with upcoming weddings of cousins, family members and friends. Younger children talk about it with excitement while girls gush over the chance of dressing up — it is the time when distant relatives come to visit and the house is filled with life. There is laughter and chatter everywhere; a hundred things to do amidst taking turns to get your hands filled with mehndi or singing wedding songs.
The days passed like the quick skim of the pages of a book. And so did the big day; when it arrived. The men and the women remained separate throughout the function. Mithai was passed in trays, gajrays were worn, the sound of chooriyan clanging against each other formed the backdrop of the women's chatter while the men discussed politics over mutton karahi and palao.
When shaam turned into the dark of the night and the distant guests began dispersing, Mahrosh left her home to a place that too, was to become her home. She had told herself she would not cry at the rukhsati – but her mother's teary embrace broke all such resolutions, and Dadi's made it worse. But, like all desi weddings, even those cousins and aunts who she met once or twice a year cried at rukhsati; and so did Aleena, who was the happiest at having Mahrosh as a sister-in-law.
There was only one person Mahrosh did not see throughout the wedding, nor after she was taken to her new room.
Her husband.
Walid had not seen her either. The partition had been too heavily done; and any open displays of the relationship of a couple too heavily tabooed. And while the women were expected to hide behind their dupattas and shy away, the men pretended to be tough and unfeeling — as if a discussion on politics and economy was of greater priority to the groom on his wedding day.
Walid was kept busy with the guests who had traveled from afar for the sake of the wedding, aware every second of his bride waiting for him in their room. But without his father, it was Walid who was expected to pay the due rights of his relatives. Aleena explained that to Mahrosh, apologizing for his lateness.
"I can wait," Mahrosh reassured her, her eyes still moist after the rukhsati. Aleena gave her company for a while, before she excused herself to go change out of the heavy wedding clothes.
Mahrosh' henna filled hands toyed with the hem of her sleeves; the maroon lehenga spread about her as she sat on the bed. She read through the titles of the books on Walid's bookcase from where she sat. His briefcase was on his table, along with the qalams, parchments and pens – not organized and yet, there was an order and subtle beauty to the way they were placed. A half melted candle was on the other end of the desk, along with a matchbox that leaned against it.
Walid's room was so much like him, Mahrosh realized and this thought helped to subside the creeping homesickness that had begun to settle in.
She sat a little straighter, waiting for the sound of footsteps to alert her of his presence. But the minutes of waiting trickled by and her eyelids drooped heavily. She tried to focus on her mehndi, or the delicate work on her lehnga and the calloused hands that must have sown each bead; but the mehndi faded into brown sand paths and the motis to distant stars.
