"We accept the love we think we deserve."
- Stephen Chbosky, Perks of Being a Wallflower
He heard soft sobs from the room adjacent to his. 'Is Najma crying?' He walked towards his kid sister's room and halted as he heard someone consoling her. Someone? It had to be his future begum, Zoya for sure. But what was Najma so upset about?
'Najma, please stop crying and listen to me. I wanted a perfect story too, you know. The perfect prince comes to take me away on his white horse and hide me away in a castle of my dreams. But it's true that if you keep looking for perfection, you'll never be content.'
'And now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next.'
She realized as she said these words to her sister in law, how deeply they affected her own life as well. Glancing at the ring on her finger, she smiled to herself.
Mr. Khan was nowhere near the Romeo she had conjured for herself in her dreams, but he was in his own way, the only man who managed to evoke such a multiplicity of emotions in her. He would shock her with his ridiculously orthodox beliefs and then surprise her with a simple sorry note and a pretty gift. He challenged her every thought and yet made her want to be a part of his world. Some days she wished for nothing more than a chance to spill hot coffee all over his shirt and yet there were days when she couldn't stop thinking about ripping his shirt apart and gaze at his hot six pack abs!
He wasn't the sweetest man with the nicest things to say, but he was the kind of person who would never think of himself before his family. He wasn't good with words, but some of his gestures simply took her breath away.
There was no doubt in her mind, that she was insanely in love with the man she detested so much but she simply couldn't get herself to admit it to him. She felt the thick crusty layer under her shirt and felt like crying.
'Zoya? What's wrong?' Najma asked.
'Nothing. I should go get ready for the photoshoot.' She hastily walked out of the room. She felt so disturbed at the moment that she failed to notice the man who had been eavesdropping on them. But Asad didn't miss the tears that had formed in her eyes. He wondered what had gone wrong and followed her to her room. She slammed the door as quickly as she could, but she wasn't fast enough. Asad pushed past her and entered her room.
'What's wrong Zoya? Why are you crying?' She remained mum.
'Zoya, what happened?' He was worried. Asad had never seen her crying so helplessly before. He was starting to get a panic attack. He put his hands on hers and tried to comfort her, but she pushed him away.
'Mr. Khan, please leave.'
'I'm not going anywhere until you tell me the problem.'
'The problem is that Mr. Khan that I'm not someone who deserves to be loved!' She shouted at him.
Asad stood shocked and bewildered because he had no idea what she was talking about. She walked towards the opposite wall and looked at him through the glass that reflected their faces.
'When I look in the mirror Mr. Khan, I know I'm looking at someone who isn't sure she deserves to be loved at all.'
He was too busy processing the flow of utter nonsense that was coming out of her mouth to notice that she had lifted the sleeves of her blue kurti. It took him a while to see the disfigured part of her skin, the part of her hand that she kept hidden from everybody. A long burn mark was spread across her right arm. He didn't even look at it for even a milli second before he walked towards her and turned her face to him.
'My God', he whispered. He thought, humbled. The spell was broken, but it wasn't sealed, and her soul was bare to him, the scars of her tragic past and her triumphs over pain and her aching need to find her place. He just wanted to hold her to him and tell her it would be okay, that she had survived and was beautiful. He racked his brain for the right phrase or the perfect thing to say to her but he felt like a one year old who didn't know the difference between A for Apple and B for Ball.
So he leaned down, far enough that the dark ends of his hair brushed feather-light against her face, caught in her lashes. She had just enough time to take in a breath, to blink, to part her lips before he took them with his own.
Time froze. Her heart ceased to beat. Her eyes fluttered shut.
The cool slip of the small metal loop pressed into her skin as he kissed her.
Urgent. Gentle. So slow. Sweet, soft demolition.
He tasted of cloves and coffee. And of something else. A farawat essence, familiar and yet somehow foreign, too. Something sere and arid.
A little like some. A little like decay.
After what felt like an eternity, he pulled himself away from her when a tiny neuron in his brain reminded him that he needed to breathe.
'So you want me, even though I'm not perfect?' she asked with her head bowed down. Asad lifted her face ever too slightly and looked at her in the eye and tried to express what he felt in words again. He had never been able to before, but he gave it a shot.
'You don't love someone because of their looks or their clothes or their car. You love them because they sing a song only your heart can understand. So what if your skin is imperfect? Our love is perfect. And even though we may not be, our love creates a bridge that spans over our imperfections and joins us where it really matters.'
He hoped to God that he had said the right thing and not blurted something wrong that would offend her as he usually did. But he knew he had hit the jackpot when he saw Zoya's lips curve ever so slightly into a smile and she leaned in to rest her head on his chest. He smiled and wrapped his arms around her and accepted the love he knew he deserved.
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