Part 4: Mehendi night
It is sometime before I'm smiling again. Like I have any choice in the matter when his mother - my to-be saas and hopefully, that way of familial relation would come to be because I was marrying her elder son and not the younger one - walks me around the courtyard, introducing me to half of Istanbul, as though I'm a mannequin - the likes of whom Ayan is to marry.
Just so, I'm not going to be asked to hug every elder at the function to exchange greetings, I sit down for the Mehendi much ahead of time than I had intended. Sure enough, he stands by the same pillar I'd chatted him up from the other side of the grill, with his hands folded, a look of apathy on his face even with the frolic that surrounds him. It is not that he is a particularly fun person, or is a guy of airy manners, to be around. For a while, I had believed that he carries a morose silence within himself, but, even without knowing him at length, I could tell now that is not true always. Perhaps, someday...and I sit wishing he would let me know the real him.
As I ponder, my gaze remains on him and as if he could sense that by instinct, he catches me watching him. I refuse to look away and he holds my gaze with the same challenge in his eyes. It is a long minute before I notice he hasn't changed since the first time I had seen him.
He is older than me by 7 years and that puts him at 31 years of age now. During the initial years, I had imagined the difference in our ages were a factor in why he never actively pursued me, why he never answered my emails. But, its only later I came to know from my Khala that Najma's father had discussed my prospect of being Ayan's bride within the first month of having met me - while they had come to visit Najma at my home, before they had moved to Istanbul.
Discovering that little detail explained everything else to me: his silence, his inactions and his withdrawal. And despite his restraint in the matter, he'd slipped that one night and finally given himself away - something that had me determined to come to Istanbul and confront him. It was not that he'd snagged on my dupatta by mistake, but, for the fact that I could not find it in the terrace room the next day, after he'd left for Istanbul.
Too bad, I think at times. He never should have taken my dupatta with him.
It is not until the mehendi artist asks me for the first letter of my lover's name - that she would draw inside the labyrinth of delicate designs on my palm - do I avert my gaze away from him.
I look at him and smile, as I tell her its the letter A.
Meanwhile, there is commotion at the other side of the courtyard and I hear women squeal and flutter like a kit of pigeons. There is music playing out of nowhere and I instantly recognize the dhol and the playful flute tunes. It's Kikli kalerdi and Ayan jumps high into the air from the side of the pillar and lands into the sunken courtyard. His shiny blue sherwani glares as the focus lights are directed on him and the scene falls into place for me. He is holding the dupattas of the few women who had run out from the same pillar Ayan had come from, while its still wrapped around their necks, as if they are only cows he is herding. Breaking into a dance along with other men of his age, he is suddenly everywhere after letting go of their dupattas: teasing a daadi and have her dance a step; pulling on a child's plait and then mostly circles the aunties who linger around Najma.
His energy is infectious and I find myself smiling when in the next second, my stomach curdles at the sight of Ayan approaching me. The mehendi artist is done with both my hands and I scoot aside to let the next woman in line take my seat. As I look up, Ayan is in front of me and shakes his head in line with the chorus of "Ha" that plays in the background, his face plastered with a drunken glee. I'm on my feet and try to evade him by taking a few steps in the direction where Asad continues to stand, but to my surprise my dupatta begins to slide and I realize Ayan is pulling on it from behind me. I step back against the wall, my hands with the still wet mehendi rise up awkwardly and I try not to appear self-conscious while he enfolds the fine cloth around his head and knots it above his ear. The next instant Ayan is gone, disappearing as one with the dancing crowd.
A flush of heat from anger - or it could be embarrassment - climbs up my cheeks, as the woman laugh wildly and call out teases that Ayan is only rightful in having exerted his pre-marital rights with me. There is a mist of tears in my eyes, upon hearing their words and a momentary weakness in my knees makes me want to grab onto something and sit down for a while. It is also then that I garner his attention and he straightens from his slack posture, unfolding his arms, his eyes fills with enquiry and concern for me.
What a challi I must be? I tell myself as I meet his eyes; to think I could talk my way into his life. If nothing, Ayan's harmless impropriety has brought into focus for me, the mire I have walked into in agreeing to come to Istanbul. It isn't just his rejection that I would have to painfully endure for the length of my stay here, but Ayan's advances too.
Ya Allah! I plead in prayer for a way out of the crossroads I'm at.
Even as he walks towards me, I close my eyes and draw a deep breath before I turn into a nearby hallway and take the stairs to get away from him.
[Added on 11/24]
Once upstairs, I enter the first dark room I come across and I stand inside the shadows. The lamps from the courtyard coat a yellow ripple of light inside the room and I find myself thanking wordless for the surprising solitude that I encounter in this room. Another look around and I discern that its his room. Footsteps and then he walks in with a sure gait as if he knew all along I would be here. My dupatta in his clasp and he has it wrapped around his wrist as if its crushed crepe paper.
"I want to be alone." I tell him as he hands me the dupatta.
Extending my arms for his view, I show him my temporary disability to touch or hold anything. To my surprise, I also find that the filigree design is still intact without smudges.
"Its ok if you cannot indulge him, but you cannot make him look like a monster." His voice is stern, chiding.
"Why?" I ask with a practiced scoff, "Its only the second time you brothers have taken the dupatta off me. I believe I should be used to it by now."
"Ever heard the term 'Smokes like a Turk'?" He throws his arms in exasperation and I have a feeling, he is explaining it to himself than me, when his voice reflects a latent ire. "Ayan is high on hookah and if that isn't enough, I'm positive he is drunk on Raki too.You are speaking without context, Zoya. You understand that it does not make sense to correlate that night with what happened today?"
"Well, thank Allah that you have finally acknowledged that that night ever occurred." Again, I muster to show sarcasm in my tone and his eyes fixes on me like I he had just given life to what he feared all along.
"That night..." And I close my eyes, lean my head far into the wall to brace against the assault of emotions that swell inside me. "Look, Zoya..." I hear him say softly and feel the touch of his fingers move aside the wayward strands that has fallen over my face.
Its nothing, I tell myself. I want to feel nothing, but his fingers linger by the side of my ear. A shadowless touch. A lasting imprint - a memory and I breathe in the moment. His quiet acknowledgement of us that will disintegrate with so much as a grain of movement from me.
"Tell me you love me, Asad." His fingers leave me with my first words. "Tell me that all these years...All this that I feel now is not just my illusion." My words race with anxiety, an unplaced yearning. "Doesn't the fact that we are talking like we have always known each other, tell you something? When in truth we have never really had a conversation beyond greeting each other."
"That should be telling you something, Zoya. Not me." My eyes flicker open and he looks as cold as his words are. A moment later, he drapes the dupatta over my shoulders and turns on his heel to head out the room.
"Asad bhai jaan, you are here!" Nikkat is in the hallway and that puts him halted at the threshold. For good measure, he closes the door partially leaving me in the darkened room.
There is relief in Nikkat's words. "We have a problem. Najma needs to talk to you and she wants to do it over phone."
He must have switched on the speaker, for I hear Najma now, an apparent tightness in her voice. "Bhai jaan, I'm getting married in two days."
"Of course, I know that pagli" There is a laugh in his voice, "I don't understand why I can't come down and talk you to directly."
"No, bhai jaan. I'm telling you this as a reminder, so you don't scream at me when I tell you what I want for my wedding gift."
"Go on." A quiet curiosity in his command, as if he has already sniffed out her request; the mischief that is in wait.
"I agreed for Imran's dare. I told him I will go with him for a night picnic in the woods before our wedding."
"What is wrong with you, Najma?" Without doubt, he is angry, his demanding authority that echoes in the room. "You are not leaving home tonight and that's it. Ammi and Abbu will chain you down to the cellar if they ever come to know of what you are proposing. This is not happening."
"They don't have to know, bhai jaan." She pleads. "Moreover, I'm not going to be alone. You will come and perhaps, Zoya can accompany us too. Ayan bhai has promised to remain at home and handle the people here in case anyone gets suspicious. You see, I can ask you to stay back, but you are not particularly creative like Ayan bhai is when it comes to lying. Please! bhai jaan. Please! please! please!"
Me? My heart picks up a pace all on its own.
"Hello? bhai jaan...Are you there?" Najma asks when there is no response for a while and I move close to the door. A beat and half passes.
He sighs. "Do I have a choice in the matter, Najma?" His voice is light and I already sense his acquiescence, despite knowing the details of the execution, despite knowing if he would take me with him.
"If you let me answer, bhai jaan, then its a no. So, Yes! Yes! Yes!" Najma shrieks.
The grey weight that had settled on me minutes ago disappears. Drawing in my lower lip between my teeth, I imagine the possibilities. One night with him. For now, I live in those possibilities.
Edited by 6th.Element - 12 years ago
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