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.
To be continued...
[This one is going to be a long update, so, will post in parts]
Edited by 6th.Element - 12 years ago
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