ASYA OS: Plan Isse Kehte Hain - Page 5

OH MY GOD RES!!!!

Previous part: 131177504

Shame and remorse were beyond him now. He was the architect of this exquisite hell--he should've known it would burn him up too.

"Were you raping me?" she had asked that night a year ago.

Did she think he was raping her that second night? On the night of Ayaan's engagement. Is that why her body had ... rejected him?

"You were raping me ..."

... you were raping me---

He didn't know whether he hated himself or her more when he saw Najma and Ammi leading her out for the party.

She was wearing her wedding dress. Was this her way of punishing him? Punching him in the gut? Reminding him of the original sin.

Her chin was high, her collarbones, unsheathed swords. The brocade and silk were too familiar. Those zari paisleys had branded his palms that night. His fingers remembered their taste, his mouth the feel of the sliding dori, his back the whorls of her fingertips ... the crescent scrapes of her nails.

But she wore it differently today. The bridal dress was no longer a three-piece lehenga choli ...

"You've lost weight, Bhabhi," he heard Nikhat say. "Don't diet so much!"

... it was rather a three-piece kafan.

"Oh my god, I hope I lose all this pregnancy weight after the baby comes," Najma wailed. "But I hate dieting! How do you do it, Zoya?"

"Don't worry Tamatar," Zoya pinched her cheek. "Running around after the baby will make you lose all the weight. But don't lose too much weight, OK? We love our regular-sized Tamatar!"

"You guys will help me, no?" Najma was really anxious about motherhood these days.

"Of course we will," Nikhat hugged her. "We won't even let you see the baby except for feedings. And you know Zoya Bhabhi will spoil the baby rotten. Look at how she spoils you!"

Asad saw Zoya square her shoulders. She knew what was coming next. So did he. He still flinched though.

"Now Bhabhi tell us, when will you give us the good news," Nuzzhat asked holding Zoya from behind.

She laughed effortlessly. "After your nikaah, of course!" she teased Nuzzhat who rolled her eyes.

"Never!"

"Aww, not even for the joy of being a Phuphi?"

"She'll be a Phuphi if Ayaan and Humaira decide to have a child."

They all went still. They didn't know how to respond to Raziya's veiled taunt.

But not Zoya. "Exactly!" She added as she hugged Nuzzhat sideways. "See how lucky you got? You can still be a Phuphi minus the nikaah blackmail!"

The girls laughed.

Good news.

Asad downed the flat soda in his glass. He didn't even grimace at the bitterness of the lime seeds.

He watched Humaira stare at her from across the room. He knew Humaira hated her. He knew Zoya knew it too. He'd seen her lower her eyes at every put-down or sneer. He could understand why Humaira hated her--he had hated her for the same reason after all. But he didn't understand why Zoya loved Humaira. At the munh dikhayi ceremony for Humaira, Zoya had gifted her a diamond-encrusted kada that had taken everyone's breath away. Later Ammi had asked him about it.

"It was really nice of both of you to give Humaira such a gift after all that's happened."

"Hmm?" Asad had been confused.

"The kada? It was beautiful. It must have been very expensive."

Asad said nothing. But he'd checked the credit card statements later. There was nothing on them. She probably didn't even touch the credit card he'd given her. Then where had she gotten the money from? She was doing some freelance work as a contractor for an IT firm, but this much money?

He watched women ooh and aah over Humaira's wrist. She must be wearing that kada.

Good news?

Asad turned away from the soap operas eddying around him. He tapped the counter to ask the bartender for a refill.

He knew why she thought he had stopped at the first talaaq. "You want to wait and see if I'm pregnant, right?"

That hadn't occurred to him at all; he remained still in stunned silence--why had it not occurred to him? What if he'd said it three times and she'd turned out to be pregnant? She had shown him the doctor's report.

"I'm not pregnant."

Then she'd waited--a goat at the slaughter.

The paper had slipped through her hands and fallen to the floor when he didn't raise the axe. Her shoulders had fallen too as she turned away. He thought that his silence was a clear sign of his intentions--that he had no intention of following through on the rest of the unvows.

He didn't know that she thought ... that she thought he wanted her to suffer more. She had once said in a fit of giddy abandon, "main iss nikaah ko ta umr nibhaungi." She had then used this self-vow to betray him. She'd had his love in the palm of her hand--he'd come back to get her. But she'd squandered it away for a promise she'd made to herself as a stupid young girl. She thought that now he was taunting her with another "ta umr" commitment--to honor the sanctity of an unmarriage--or better yet, a half undone marriage. The goat realized belatedly that the "ta umr" part was to be the real slaughter.

Isn't it ironic?

Asad watched her dance with his sisters. He watched her drag Ammi and Dadi into the mix too. She danced with Najma's detestable mother-in-law. No, the woman wasn't as detestable any more. Thank god. Between themselves Nikhat and Najma must have managed to charm the crone. He didn't know that lavish gifts from Zoya had paved the way and softened the crone first. He didn't know how Zoya spoiled their mother-in-law with shopping sprees, coffee and movie dates, spa treatments and jokes shared over whatsapp.

She couldn't help watch him too. Her eyes would stray no matter how tightly she leashed them and called heel. He was talking to that cousin again. Zoya felt a stab of jealousy. Sana was beautiful. Sweet. With polished shoulders and delicately smooth arms.

Arms that were scarless.

Surely at some time, someone must've thought of matching these two up? Were people blind? Couldn't they see---

Jeez. Here we go again. She better not throw herself a pity party right now or she'd be a snotty, blubbery mess. And she'd just had her cry session this afternoon. That was supposed to hold her for the rest of the night.

But she might need the hotel room for the hangover tomorrow.

Wildly, she looked around for Ammi and Najma. They were her methodone. She'd become addicted to them as self-prescribed pain management therapy.

She walked over and hugged Dilshad from behind. "Thank you, Ammi."

"Dekha, maza aa raha hai na?" Dilshad caressed her face. "And both of you were so reluctant." She turned to Dadi and the others. "They told me that we didn't need to have a party."

Uh oh. She should have known. She should have looked before leaping. Because the questions and comments came--rapid-fire--from the Khalas and Phuphis and Dadi and Bhabhis.

"Enough fun now, time to give Dilshad babies to play with."

This one was easy. She could deflect it with an isn't-it-ironic laugh. "Khala, in a month Ammi will have a baby to play with. Remember, Najma is expecting?"

"But Najma and her baby will be here only temporarily. She needs a full time baby to keep her busy 24/7."

Oof. Khala wasn't one to fall for trick plays. A seasoned quarterback, this one. A regular Peyton Manning.

Zoya just nodded in agreement. No, she wouldn't think about Ammi not having a pota or poti to play with right now. She'd be a snotty, blubbery mess. And she'd just ... the cry session and all that. That should have held her for the rest of the night.

She looked across the room at polished shoulders and scarless arms. They came with long silken hair that kissed the flare of her hips that tapered to a narrow waist.

No, she wouldn't--

She'd be a snotty, blubbery mess.

Zoya mock-frowned and pouted as she turned around. "But babies are so much work! What if I'm no good at it?"

That was a good play.

They attacked her with their reassurances. She was being silly, they told her. That's what they were for, they boasted. But some of the newer moms sighed in agreement. They compared notes.

Good girl, Zoya. This play was smoother. An ace serve. It kept them rebounding for at least 15-20 minutes. She held someone's baby in her arms in the meanwhile, not realizing that her actions were making a liar out of her--she was good at it. She missed Asad watching her. She missed him miss what Sana was saying.

But these women were good at these games too.

"Bas, ho gaya! No more excuses out of you any more."

"OK," she pretended to agree. "But first let me practice with Najma's baby. Then when I'm more confident of my abilities I'll give you all the good news. But you have to promise that you'll help with diaper-changing and baby-sitting!"

They cheered and made wild promises. They patted her back and squeezed her cheek. They blew the air around her head and whispered duas. Visions of dimpled and cooing babies danced--

She shook and bowed her head.

Qubool hai.

She needed all the duas she could stockpile. But the visions must be erased.

After all she had signed an MOU with Allah when she came to India: "Jo chahat hai, usko paane ki taakat dena; jo kismat hai, usse qubool karne ki himmat dena."

All the duas ... because she'd stopped trusting her kismat a long time ago. Well, not that long ago. Exactly a year ago.

Happy anniversary, Kismat.

Again her eyes strayed to the angular jaw, the powerful shoulders that rippled under a dark suit--

And next to them, petite, polished shoulders, a tiny waist brushed by silken hair ... smooth, unscarred arms resting at the counter.

Yeah, she'd need those duas and more. Her gut told her that Kismat wasn't done with her as yet. Because when she turned away from one pang, she met another regret head on.

A moody Ayaan was staring at his Bhaijaan.

Pain shot through Zoya. I'm sorry, Kismat. You aren't the bit*ch, I am. I came between two brothers. She saw Ayaan rebuff Humaira's fluttering concern.

And between two lovers.

I do deserve this.

She wanted to go up to Ayaan and say a word to him. Hello? I'm sorry. Something. But no. All eyes would follow her--misunderstand her. One pair would condemn her even more.

She squared her shoulders and just in time too. She saw Humaira's dad put an arm around her and kiss the top of her head.

Kismat may as well have thumbed her nose at her and cackled to warn her. But no. Kismat was a stealth bomber. It took on a human shape and dropped to earth.

"Zoya, stop wasting time here!" Haseena aunty came to drag her to Asad, and to loud cheers and applause from everyone, pushed them on to the dance floor.

Next Part: 131203822

RES

Ahh mann
You write exceptionally well
I'm a big fan of yours
Do continue writing this
And if possible do pm me

This has so much intensity
Hate to see asya in so much pain
Specially zoya.. She's such a sweetheart and yet is hurted the most..:(
Update soon..:)

Previous Part: 131188004

This was not the first time she'd danced in his arms since that word ... she'd done it a hundred times before.

But this time Asad felt her tremors rock him. If he leaned closer he'd be able to hear the animal sounds coming from her throat. Her smile was a red gash across her face. Instinctively he drew her closer. She was stiff and repellant as a waxed surfboard. She blinked her lashes and widened her eyes to stop the tears from spilling. Like an expert poker player he knew all her tells by now. He knew them as intimately as the contours of this bridal dress.

"Relax," he breathed in her ear as he turned to shield them from the family. "It'll be fine. Take deep breaths."

Thank god someone had dimmed the lights.

How well he could lie too! "It'll be fine."

Yes, as fine as women can be when their husbands grind them to a fine powder. His shamed hands burned from holding her. He had no right--

But he didn't know that his protective tenderness actually made it worse for her. Because he didn't know what her real anxiety was about this evening. Today wasn't the anniversary of their nikaah; it was the anniversary of the first talaaq. Would the second talaaq come tonight?

She swayed in his embrace letting him lead. Her gaze couldn't rise over her right arm that rested on his. Because her gaze remembered scarless arms ...polished shoulders ... She could see her scarred flesh through the net sleeve. Or at least she thought she could see it in the dim lighting.

Her knuckles whitened on his dark sleeve.

Yes, I get it, Kismat. You're the boss. I should have known better. My bad.

One stupid act and you took it all away. But I'd like to remind you, you took too much from me; for too long.

Fine, this I deserved.

But the other stuff? Or did I deserve that too? Sometimes, she really wondered ...

C'mon Zoya, no self-pity, remember? Snotty, blubbery ... cry session ... and all that bullcr*ap.

She gave herself a mental slap--smarten up. Focus! Her eyes looked for Ammi and Najma. They were smiling at them. Najma blew her a kiss. Zoya pretend-caught it and tucked it in her heart for reals.

She exhaled.

She saw Asad look at her intently and she smiled up at him. "I'm OK now, thanks." For a second it was nice to forget what could come later. I love you, Ammi and Tamatar. So much.

He felt her relax in his arms.

He reeled. He hadn't expected that smile. Or the thanks. But this was something else he didn't know about her self-therapies. She liked to imagine that this was real. That was the way she'd learned to survive the endless parties: Escaping to a fantasy where he loved her, held her tenderly as they danced--it was her way of making it through the night.

They parted when the music ended. Another hurdle crossed. But the sisters still had some manic energy left.

"Antakshari time!" Nuzzhat announced. Groans and cheers went up; teams of men versus women were segmented and stationed at opposite ends.

Both of them breathed sighs of relief. They could get lost in the gendered crowds. They could fall silent and no one would ask why. But neither had bargained for the songs that the teams would throw into the communal pot. The songs would stab and draw blood.

Like when some Chachajaan had sung "Patthar ke sanam." This uncle was a good singer and everyone egged him on to sing the whole song.

Isn't it ironic? Alanis Morissette sang in her head.

"Chehara tera dil me liye chalte rahe angaaro pe," sang Chachajaan.

"It's like rain on your wedding day," crooned Morissette.

"Sheesha nahin, saagar nahin, mandir sa ik dil dhaaya hai," serenaded Chachajaan.

She almost mewled out loud at that one. Oh god, this hit too close to home. Zoya cringed as she bowed her head to let her hair hide her face. Yes, that's what she'd done to him. She was the patthar ke sanam, the eternal bewafa bit*ch that every sad love song was about.

Isn't it ironic, don't you think?

Please, Alanis. Just shut up. Just this once.

God knows why her brain was channeling Alanis Morissette today. Or was that just Kismat, taunting her in a Canadian-American alternative rock avatar?

Whatever. You win. Well played.

But Kismat, nor Alanis, weren't done with her today.

Like every Antakshari played anywhere in the world, the usual letter they got stuck at was "ha."

"Tick-tick, one!" the men started the countdown and jeered. "Tick-tick, two! Give up, you lose!"

"Humein tumse pyaar kitna, yeh hum nahin jaante," sang Sana. Everyone clapped and joined in too.

"Yay," the women taunted.

Just shoot me. And she did have to choose the female version of the song didn't she?

Et tu, Alanis?

"Main toh sada ki tumhari diwani

bhool gaye sainyaan, preet purani

kadar na jani, kadar na jani

... ha ha, yes, bit*ch, it's highly ironic. We all get it.

koi jo daarey, tumpe nayanva

dekha na jaye moh se sajanva

jaley mora manva, jaley ...

Asad watched her excuse herself and leave the room. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out her crumbling mask. He rose to follow her but ...

So fine, she'd cheated. She'd had herself a bit of a cry in the women's room. But she had repaired her face afterwards--reapplied the kaajal and mascara. She didn't have the energy to redo the foundation and primer and all that face paint stuff. If the cracks showed, let them. She was drained. She dumped the spidery fake lashes in the trashcan. Turns out they weren't as water- or scrub-proof as the expert at the salon had led her to believe. Bummer.

She couldn't bear to go inside, so she walked around the gardens. She was craving a quiet and dark corner. But every corner was brilliantly lit up--Kismat had stopped by in advance to spotlight her grief-embalmed corpse. So much for finding a tomb she could creep into to sleep in.

"To sleep, perchance to dream ... ay, there lies the rub." Ahh, Hamlet. Go away, you're such a drag.

Alanis rubs the salt in better. She's ballsier. You, not so much.

She turned a corner and gasped out loud. There was no smothering or choking of the raw cry that exploded from her dead lips.

Asad looked up at Zoya's face and then down again to see the scene from her anguished eyes. Sana at his feet, hands at his belt ... his shirt ripped wide open ...

"ZOYA! No, stop!"

She ran out of the hotel parking blindly---as far as she could get away from him.

His heart was in his mouth, his feet leaden.

Into the open streets she ran and ran and ran.

She dodged an auto-rickshaw; it beeped at her in annoyance and huffed away.

Zoya stopped for a second but plunged on, seemingly intent on self-destruction, because embracing the maws of certain death was far better than being near him. He didn't know tears were running down his face. Or, that he'd raised a useless arm to stall her.

She stepped in front of a car.

Just as he had feared.

An unholy sound of tires screeching, or squealing, he couldn't decide ... her muffled scream ...

A sickening thud ... shouts ...

He staggered as if he'd been hit by the car, not her.

His brain shut down.

"NO! Zoya!"

Asad saw her body spin in slow motion before it slammed lifelessly to the asphalt. Horns honked in a hysterical chorus. He crashed next to her on his knees to gently sweep her hair off her face. It took him a few seconds to understand what the warm sticky substance on his fingers was.

A half-sob escaped his lips. His bloody fingers hovered over her face, too scared to check her breath or pulse.

Her lashes fluttered.

"Zoya?"

Bystanders crowded around them making futile noises about hospitals and ambulances, drunk drivers and careless pedestrians.

Asad gathered her in his arms and pressed his lips to her temple. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her heedless ear. "I love you."

He lifted her up and looked around him in crashing futility. Please ... someone ...

Some good Samaritan flagged an auto and gave instructions to take them to the nearest clinic or hospital. Asad held her broken body in his guilty arms. "I'm so sorry," he kept repeating.

They had to pry her out his tight grasp. The medics tried to hold him off as he leaped after her ... after throwing some money at the autorickshaw driver. "She's my wife!" he shook their hands off his sinning arm.

He gripped her limp hand as they attended to her. Once again his eyes blurred and his lips sought her temple.

"Please, be OK," he prayed. "Please ... forgive me."

If only he hadn't let his rage and self-loathing fester all these months. If only he'd been honest about his changing feelings. If only he'd told her that he was falling in love with her again. That he regretted spurning her ... that he wished he could undo that one word he'd said once--that one word which had echoed two times over in their hearts ... that he hated himself for turning his back on ... on everything good and pure and true. But how could he? She thought of him as her rapist, her executioner ... and he had become much worse than his father, hadn't he?

"Don't make her pay for my ego ... my blind hate," he pleaded with a god whom he'd turned a cold back on.

Her hand fell out of his grasp and he felt a chill run through him. Even unconscious, she seemed to be rejecting him.

"I'm sorry."

"I love you."

Next Part: 131216599

Previous Part: 131203822

Please come back to me ... I'll turn back time ...

... It wasn't what you thought ...

I would never--

Hollow thoughts on a treadmill to nowhere.

"Bhai!" Asad turned dull eyes and reached for Ayaan.

They knew. They were here. Ammi and Najma sobbed at his shoulder.

"What happened? How--"

Asad shook his head in a daze. He had no answers to give. Where would he even begin? For so long he had wanted so much to tell Ammi about what he'd done. But he was scared.

She would hate him. Just like he'd hated his father for all these years.

Yes, Ammi would hate him--ek masoom ko dard dena kahan se seekha, Asad? she would ask. Why couldn't you rise above your DNA, she'd demand. Kyun meri tarbiyat ka mazaak banaya, she would shake him by his collar.

He broke down, unable to answer her unasked questions. Because he was guilty of all those things she never accused him of. He was her culprit just as much as Zoya's. For a man who was a champion of his mother's rights, why did he turn tail when it came to his wife's?

"She'll be fine," an unaware Dilshad stroked his hair. "We won't let anything happen to her. We love her too much. Allah will keep her safe."

His broken sobs scared her. Did he know something they didn't know? Were her injuries more severe? But the doctor had told them not to worry. They'd patched her up and given her sedatives and pain medication. She'd be fine.

But she couldn't bear to see him so helpless; she couldn't understand his grief, nor plumb its source.

"Zoya? How is she? Is she OK?"

Everyone looked up at Ayaan's father-in-law in surprise. Why was he here and why was he so distraught? Asad watched Ayaan rise and guide him to chair. But the old man refused to stay put. He gripped Ayaan's hands and repeated the questions.

"I want to see her! Let me go to her ..."

"Only close family members ..." Ayaan's voice tapered off.

"Ya Allah," Siddiqui groaned.

Neither Ayaan nor the others could understand his behavior or concern. Why pop up here, out of the blue, in the middle of the night? He'd never been close to Zoya, then what was this about? Even when Zoya had lived in the same house, under the same roof, he'd been aloof, coldly disapproving.

"Zoya, meri bachhi! I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. Mujhe itni badi saza mat do," he buried his face in his hands and wept.

The others gasped and whispered. What was he saying? Did this mean--

Asad went dead still.

The pennies started to drop into the slots, slowly. Neatly. Ever since she'd returned home he'd never seen her with her music box. The music box from her father that meant so much to her ...

Asad moaned.

How had he been so blinded by hate that he didn't even notice her wounded spirit? Ask her--where's your father's music box that you loved so much? The father that you had hungered for all your life ...

They had known even before her nikaah to Ayaan that her father was still alive ... Together, they had even searched for him ...

Ayaan's engagement when she was crying in the storeroom ... it wasn't because she had feelings for him. It was because she saw this man shower his love openly on a real daughter"

He remembered now. Clearly. As if it was happening right now ... before his eyes.

Asad nearly staggered backwards.

And in a fit of justified vengeance he had coldly forced the family to have the ceremony at the house ... just because he wanted to hurt her. To twist the knife in deeper.

To make her feel like trash.

But this man had already done it long before him.

Why did he never wonder why a girl who'd promised to abide by a nikaah "ta umr" would walk away from that marriage? He, like the others, had assumed that it was Ayaan who had pronounced the talaaq (oh god, Zoya what have I done) and broken the marriage ... But could it have been Zoya who agreed to end the marriage? For Humaira?

No one had said anything. And he hadn't asked.

She loved Humaira like she did Najma. She never said a word in reproach even when the girl taunted or sassed her. She just smiled. He knew. He'd watched from the sidelines. Courtside seats. That's why he could never look at Ayaan the same way.

In a flash, his hands were at Siddiqui's throat. "You made her divorce Ayaan, right? She didn't want to. You blackmailed her for Humaira? For your legitimate daughter? You asked her to sacrifice---

Her father had asked her to obliterate herself. And her husband had finished the job.

Asad's voice was fading into a bitter whisper. He was having trouble breathing or getting the words out. He couldn't see through the tears of rage.

Or the tears of shame.

That's why she'd let him punish him. That's why she'd never fought back. She'd accepted his rejection because she felt that's all she deserved. First her father and then her husband ... she must not be worth loving. She had unfleshed and unblooded herself of this man ... and a sister. And then her husband had come along to slash open her new scars ...

He hadn't been blind to her desperate attachment to Ammi and Najma. She'd hungered for their love like her Abbu's---

For a year she'd walked around, a brittle doll ... eyes wide open, navigating a nightmare that refused to end ... slowly bleeding ... on the inside.

"... I thought I'd never be happy again ..." she'd said on their suhaag raat.

Because this man had convinced her that she was nothing. This man had turned his back on her ... she'd carried that around inside her. Never telling anyone. Never sharing.

Not even him?

Ayaan and Rashid tried to pry his hands loose. Somewhere Humaira was weeping hysterically. And everywhere he was coming undone.

His eyes focused and he saw the man's purple face. Asad flung him away from himself in revulsion and sank to his knees.

"... I thought I'd never be happy again ... but you took me back ..."

Oh god what had he done?

"Zoya ..."

Last Part: 131232412

Oh god this is so painful
But so awesome to read
Loving it
You are a great writer
And your stories are so gripping

Ahh you can't stop there!!! It all fits!!! Why didn't the damn CVs do this!!!! UGH!!

I do t know what to say!! Brilliant writting as always!
But my heart is crying. This was so sad and heart clenching. I feel so bad for zoya, and I'm not a big fan of asad in this story. So much anger and hatered in him, and he's taking it out on the poor soul that deserved it the least.
I hope ur not going to stop here, i hate sad stories but Must say that u got me hooked. I need to know what happenes.

Excellent writting!!

Previous Part: 131216599

Her body felt cold and tight but her right hand was warm, and soft and ... snug?

Alanis?

She struggled against her heavy lids to see a stark white room, semi-darkened. Her mind tossed and turned then laserpointed to her right hand. He stirred and gripped her hand tighter. She watched him press his lips to her hand and she smiled.

Their eyes clung.

Her lips moved and Asad leaped to her side.

"Water ..." she managed to squeak.

He poured her a glass and handed it to her. As she drank it in he tilted his head back and emptied the contents of the pitcher into his mouth. And all this while he hadn't let her hand go.

She looked down at the bandages in some confusion.

"You were hit by a car," he murmured. He didn't know how much she remembered.

"More scars?" he thought he heard her mutter.

"No, a car, because you were running away from me."

She looked up at him then. His mouth twisted. "It wasn't what it looked like, I swear ... she tripped. Her hand caught--"

"I know," Zoya said. He wasn't the type to catch nookie. That too so publicly, brazenly. That's not who he was.

He pressed his lips to her hand again and she shivered.

"Are you cold?"

Zoya nodded her head. He looked around. "I'll get the nurse to get you another blanket." He draped his suit jacket over her shoulders before hitting the buzzer.

"Zoya ..."

Waves of remorse lapped in his eyes. Her hand rose on its own to touch his face. He gripped her hand fiercely to hide his face in her palm. "I'm sorry--"

"I'm sorry too."

He looked at her in alarm. Was she getting ready to walk away from him?

The nurse peeked in.

Asad cleared his throat. "We need another blanket. My wife is cold."

The nurse got him one and he covered her up tucking it around her body to prevent further heat loss. But she shivered more. Her other hand was icy. Why? He felt her forehead. She seemed fine.

Zoya opened her arms and he slipped into them before questioning his good fortune.

May be time had turned back. May be this was a parallel universe.

She scooted to make room for him on the bed and he held her to him to stem the shivers.

"I love you," he dared to open his heart as she'd done. Because in an instant he knew what he had to say--I love you, not, I'm sorry.

She slept for the first time in months. He healed; the open wounds closed. Yes, there would be scars. But scars meant brute survival. They marked you but then you owned them and showed them who's boss. You made them your little bit*ch.

Or at least that's what Zoya would tell him later whenever he tried to say I'm sorry for that one stupid word. Because whenever he said, "I'm sorry," she would say, "I'm sorry too."

He knew what he was apologizing for but he never understood why she said it each time.

"Why?" he'd asked her a million times.

"Because I hurt you so much," she would finally work up the courage to say on their second or third anniversary. "It must have taken so much out of you to come get me that day--you stood tall against the world ... knocking down all walls and fences, a gladiator at the gates ... and I turned my back on you. Not because I was a coward but because I thought I was right and you were breaking taboos."

She would stroke his face, trace its familiar contours. He would pull her closer to him, kiss her, breathing life into himself. "I was the conservative fool that day and you were the trailblazing rule breaker. And I crushed you. I made you hate again."

And that was her real penance. Her real beef with herself. She had suffered the night she'd said no to him. Yes, she'd also suffered the time he said that word to her on their wedding night. But she would never forgive herself for that one sin against him.

All those days she hadn't slept a wink because she had burned in the fires of hellish guilt--how had he survived that night?

That night when he went back, stone-faced, empty-hearted.

Had he smashed the furniture in his room? Or had he gazed out into the heart of darkness though that cold window? Had he ripped his heart out and scrubbed it clean of her name and face? When had the acid homed in there? Was it right after she'd put his heart through the shredder, or was it when she'd said quboo--?

Yes, their anniversaries would forever carry that one scar. But to her that scar was justified--she deserved it for breaking her MOU with Allah. God was giving her everything back in spades that day when Asad had walked in to claim her as his. "Zoya sirf meri hai!" Allah was giving her her chahat and her kismat on a gold platter that day.

"Jo chahat hai, usko paane ki taakat dena; jo kismat hai, usse qubool karne ki himmat dena."

Asad had stalked in, victorious, glorious, reclaiming his chahat: her; laying it all at her feet as a sacred offering. And stupid fool that she was she had cowered under the skirts of kismat?

So yes, it was her badge of honor, a second-chance trophy, an incomplete tattoo. Wasn't it Rumi who said, "The wound is the place where the Light enters you"? So be it.

Isn't it ironic?

And for him?

For him that marital scar tissue was a promise. He would wear it as armor against the acid. Because it was a vaccine that inoculated them as they renewed their vows each year on that day. And it was a vow that he would be her gladiator again. And again.

Qubool hai.