After dinner Mehnaz had pleaded tiredness. And a headache. And cramps. Her husband was on an important call. Could Zoya please help with Rehan's bath?
Asad was on his laptop when he saw Zoya come into the room with Rehan. Rehan climbed up next to him and tried to see what Mamu was looking at. No pictures? Hmmpphh!
"I want Nemo!" he cried.
Asad glanced at him, suitably impressed. "You know about "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea"? Wow, must be a child prodigy, this kid.
Zoya was carrying his baby things to the washroom and laughed.
She turned around and corrected her husband, "Mr. Khan, he's probably talking about the Disney movie." Still chuckling, she went to run the water in the tub.
"Rehan, come," Zoya called from the bathroom a little later.
"No! No bath," he screamed bouncing on the settee next to Asad. His Mamu clutched his forehead in despair. Zoya peeked out of the door. And Rehan hid behind Mamu's back, bumping into him and trying to clutch his shirt with tiny grubby fingers.
"You can be Nemo, and I'll be Dorie" Zoya called softly.
Nemo peeked his head out, very tempted.
"Dorie!" he shrieked with delight. Zoya made her eyes huge and pursed her lips, "Elmo?" she asked, head cocked to the side.
"No! Nemo!" he corrected her.
Zoya came out smiling and tried to grab him. He squealed and jumped off running to hop on the bed wanting to be chased and played with. And Zoya chased. Within minutes the cushions were on the floor, the sheets were rumpled, and giggles, shrieks and laughter bounced off the walls.
"Come baby, and may be Mamu can tell you the story of Captain Nemo," she tried to entice both the boys.
A beguiled Asad couldn't resist stealing glances under the guise of working on the computer. When they had returned from shopping, he had brooded. With growing apprehension he had watched her at complete ease with Ayaan and his brother-in-law. She chatted and laughed with them breezily. They traded their usual nonsense shayari. Apparently his brother-in-law found this cloying bhabhi-devar banter so charming, that he felt compelled to contribute his own anti-poetic verse.
He was surrounded by imbeciles!
But each time it came to him, his wife had ducked her head, refused to meet his gaze and remained formal and distant. When asked by his mother to sit next to him, she made some excuse about feeding Rehan first. Damn kid had taken over. Center of everyone's attention, noisy and spoiled rotten by doting idiots. By the end of dinner, Asad had become a rigid block of tightly coiled anger and jealousy. He hardly tasted the food, every morsel was swallowed without chewing. If his fists had clenched any tighter, broken glass would have gone flying.
He had seethed. Couldn't she see that he was making an effort for her? Why did she have to be a frightened little doe with him but a carefree butterfly with everyone else? Did she think that poorly of him? Was she that unhappy with him?
But he melted now, watching Rehan evade Zoya, and the room come apart layer by layer. The kid even had the temerity to get into his closet. Enough! Asad finally got up and grabbed him in a swift tackle. He walked with him to the bathroom and plonked him on the counter.
"Stay," he ordered. "Listen to Mumani," he glowered.
Rehan remained unfazed by frowns and scowls.
Zoya followed and undressed the still fidgeting boy, and finally he slid gleefully into the tub. He splashed with his bath toys and sang to himself. Wetting a washcloth, she began to scrub behind his ears and down his back.
Asad lingered, arms crossed, unable to walk away. The smell of baby soap, the chatter and rhymes, the looks between his wife and nephew were slowly weaving a tight spell over him. He watched her lean uncomfortably to bathe the brat. And he returned with a small footstool for her to sit on.
Rehan was not too happy with his Mamu. There was something about this uncle he did not like. Ayaan Mamu was more fun.
"Tell me a story," he demanded, giving him a lifeline to redeem himself. Asad had been a fascinated spectator, watching Zoya first undress and then scrub Rehan. Now he gratefully sat at the edge of the tub, an invited participant in the games. "Umm, I don't know any stories."
Rehan frowned at him. Ayaan Mamu would know lots of stories. Zoya giggled. Asad loved that sound.
"Rehan, you like cricket baby?" she asked the boy to rescue the man.
"Yes! Cricket!"
"Then ask Mamu to tell you about the time he played cricket when he was in school," she prompted.
"How many runs did you make?" he demanded to know. May be this Mamu had some hope after all.
And an intense question and answer session followed till he was completely satisfied that this uncle was as good as Ayaan Mamu and Zoya Mumani. By the end of his bath, Rehan had extracted a promise from his uncle that they would play cricket tomorrow.
When Zoya leaned in to lift him out of the tub, Asad stayed her. Rolling his sleeves, he pulled out the dripping, squawking and flailing body to be enveloped in a fluffy towel held out by her. Rehan was tenderly passed from one to the other. His wet hands clung longer to Rehan's squirming body and their gazes entangled for a fraction of second before she turned away with a blush. The sight of her rubbing noses with the little munchkin and kissing him was irresistible. Powdering him, she slipped on his underwear. By the time she turned around with his pajama bottoms, Rehan had fled to the room and was bouncing on the bed again.
Asad and Zoya looked at each other.
"Aap usko pakad nahin sakte the?" she scolded half-heartedly.
"Umm, I'm sorry. I was distracted." He tugged the clothes free from her hands, "here, I'll dress him." He hoped to re-enter her good graces.
Asad went to chase him now while she cleaned up the bathroom. When she came out, she saw him struggling with the pajama top while Rehan wiggled and dodged. It was a perfect scene: A grown man pretending to resist the charms of a little boy. But even he couldn't resist inhaling the baby smell and Zoya felt a wild tug. He would make a great dad. Her heart twisted. Drawn to them, she sat down next to Rehan who promptly climbed into her lap. He was sleepy but didn't want to sleep as yet.
"Mr. ... um ... Asad," she called him softly. He looked up from watching Rehan's tiny hand clasp Zoya's.
"Read him something from one of your books. He's ready to drop off."
Asad pulled out his copy of The Great Gatsby. It sat cheek-to-cheek next to a raggedy copy of Pride and Prejudice. Not his. Hmm, an Austen fan had invaded his room. His heart knocked in his chest. It raced as Zoya beamed up at him.
Rehan listened intently as he looked into his now favorite Mamu's face while he read. He absently twirled a lock of Zoya's hair around a tiny finger. Soon, his big eyes drooped and his thumb edged to his mouth. A freshly-scrubbed, sleepy child between them, shoulders brushing against each other, Mr. and Mrs. Khan played house. One read, and the other listened, rapt, long after Rehan had fallen asleep. Neither wanted the moment to end. They pretended that reading longer would make the child sleep deeper. Zoya couldn't resist touching the dark lashes feathering the cherubic cheeks. Asad stopped briefly to watch, fascinated by the involuntary gesture.
But he couldn't stop reading. Because soon after Rehan's sleepy head fell limply in Zoya's arms, her own head swayed against Asad's shoulder. A sheepish Mehnaz tiptoed into the room and gently extracted her son. Zoya stirred. Asad's arm went around her waist. As Mehnaz carried her Cupid away, she smirked to herself. Gotta tell Khala about the successful completion of Phase 2 of mission Dil Duffer.
As the door closed behind her, he tucked Zoya's head in the crook of his shoulder. And continued reading aloud till her breathing became regular again. Her hair was inches away from his mouth. He bent to kiss the top of her head. He turned to the tempting pages that she had blushingly censored a day ago.
Just for you Zoya. And he dedicated their treasured passage to her by softly reading it aloud. It was a prayer, and a promise:
"He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete."
He didn't know how long he sat there not wanting to move for fear of breaking the spell. His heart throbbed in sync with the vibrations of the tuning fork. But finally, putting the book aside, he lifted her up in his arms. She curled into his chest. She smelled of Rehan and his heart constricted. His lips strayed to brush the top of her head again. "Zoya," he breathed. I love you.
He gently laid her down in the bed and covered her. Turning off the lights, he stretched out to (not) sleep on the settee. But only after having picked up each discarded cushion off the floor.
When Zoya woke the next morning, she was surprised that she was still in her heavy suit. How had she slept the whole night in this? And how had she even ended up on this side of the bed, covered with the light rajai? Mr. Khan?
No.
Asad.
She noticed her dupatta neatly folded at the foot of the bed and turned pink. He wasn't in the room or the restroom. Must've gone for his morning run. She'd noticed that he'd only recently started doing this. Just a week before they got married, in fact. She shrugged. At least it gave her time and privacy to finish getting ready.
When she stepped out, she was surprised to find Mehnaz in a dress. Zoya halted in her tracks. Whoa! Mr. Khan's favorite cousin in something besides a suit or a saree! Then why had he given her daily lectures about dressing inappropriately? What a hypocrite? Why was it that when everyone else did something it was fine, but the moment she did it, she became a criminal? Just like that Salman Khan song: "Apun karey toh saala, character dheela hai!" She nearly stomped her foot.
She was livid. But underneath that fury she was also terribly hurt. May be he just didn't like her and the clothes were just an excuse. But all this sweetness since their wedding? The flowers, the kulfi, the everything? It seemed as if he was making an effort at extending the olive branch. Or was that just pity?
She would have stewed more but Rehan came bounding and wrapped himself around her legs.
"Cricket! Cricket!" he yelled.
She picked him up in her arms and hugged him to her, hiding her face and inhaling his baby scent.
When Asad returned from his run she refused to meet his eye. When he joined everyone for breakfast later, she played with Rehan, feeding him at the counter and listening to his chatter.
But she couldn't help but eavesdrop on the sunny table conversation. Asad, no. Mr. Khan and Mehnaz were talking about summer vacations and family trips to the hills. An uncle whose snoring had kept everyone in splits. In the theater! The carrom tournament that they won against Ahsan and Abbas. How they all got yelled at for exploding firecrackers late at night which had set off the street dogs howling for hours.
He was actually laughing! Zoya felt alone and locked out of the charmed circle of family memories and fun. How cool to have a large family. Dilshad caught Zoya's expression of hollow longing. If she could only lock up these two in a room and not let them out till they had confessed their feelings for each other!
Seated at the head of the table, Asad had his back to her the entire time. But every second he was aware of her behind him. He could hear her with Rehan, answering his questions, softly reciting nursery rhymes, playing pat-a-cake. Was it possible to be jealous of a two-year old? Pretending to refill the pitcher of water, he got up to sneak a peek at her. Why wouldn't she look at him? He thought that after last night they were closer than before.
"Zoya, aap breakfast nahin karengi?"
She still kept her gaze averted and shook her head.
"Kyun?"
She put Rehan down and without a backward glance stalked off into their room.
What the hell? Why was she acting so huffy? He hadn't done anything. He had even left the room before she woke up so that she could get ready without him underfoot.
Enough was enough!
When he entered the room she was pacing up and down. She had changed into jeans and a kurti.
"Ms. Farooqui?"
"Oh, so it's back to Ms. Farooqui now, is it Mr. Khan?" She wanted to smash something in the wall.
"Umm ... voh ... actually ..." He couldn't believe he was stuttering like a fool.
She snorted.
"But hua kya? Why are you so mad? Did I do something?"
"Oh really? You want to know what happened! Your favorite cousin wears dresses and you have no problem with her. But when I wear jeans apparently I have no tehzeeb or manners!"
This was about Mehnaz?
"But I don't think so anymore. Aap chhoti is baat ka pahad kyun bana rahin hain? I don't have a problem with you wearing jeans. I said so that day."
"You said that because of Ammi!" But she realized that he was right. Lately he had been more accepting of her wardrobe. She didn't know why, but she was still mad at him.
Hold me.
"Zoya," he stepped closer. "What's going on?" He asked softly.
Tell me. I'll fix it.
She bowed her head, unable to answer him. I love you and want you to feel the same way about me. But I'm so different from you, why would you?
She moved to leave the room. He blocked her way. "You haven't answered my question yet."
"Mr. Khan, let me go!"
"Asad," he prompted. "You promised to call me by my name when we're by ourselves."
She turned her back on him, half-happy that he remembered. But still miserable for some inexplicable reason.
"Mr. Khan, why did you marry me?"
"Asad." He physically turned her around.
"Say it." He commanded, taking a step closer.
"Why?" she moved back a step.
"Just say it dammit!"
"No!"
"Zoya, tell me what the problem is."
"Why do you even care?" she lashed out.
"Because ... I do."
Her heart lurched. Stop making it sound so much like a vow! Just tell me that you care about me.
He moved another step closer. "Why are you angry with me? What is this really about?"
She looked up into his face, bleakly. She could have lied. "I don't know any more," she said miserably, taking another step backwards. He looked at her downcast gaze and made a split-second decision.
"Do you have a dress?"
She looked at him blankly.
"Do you?"
She nodded.
"Go put it on."
She gasped in shock.
"What?"
"Just do it. I'll wait here."
She did. When she stepped out of the restroom, he swallowed. She looked so young. It was a simple dress, modest in the sleeves but short in the skirt, ending just above her knees.
"You look like a schoolgirl," he blurted out. She looked up at him and frowned. Not the reaction she was going for.
"Get your bag and shoes." He ordered.
"Where are we going?"
"We are going to buy you more dresses, and heels and boots and whatever else you need to show off those legs."
She gaped. Who was this man? And where was her husband?
"Shorts and mini-skirts too?" She goaded.
He growled.
"Mr.Khan?"
He snarled, "Zoya!"
She licked her lips nervously and he almost groaned. Let me.
"I mean... Asad? I thought you didn't like me wearing western clothes."
"Zoya," he sighed. He itched to hold her face in his hands, and to lean his forehead against hers. "That was ages ago. I think you look gorgeous in Indian clothes, but there is something to be said about you in western clothes too. You look every bit the firebrand you are."
She gaped again. With Mr. Khan talking so much, and saying the most un-Mr. Khan-like things, she had been reduced to being a goldfish: big eyes, round mouth, no words. Mental headslap: She had become Dorie!
"Let's go."
"Like this? Let me change at least. What'll everyone say?"
He laughed. "When did that ever bother you Ms. Farooqui?" he teased.
She turned on him, "I'm not Ms. Farooqui!"
His eyes darkened. "You're right." He moved closer. "You're no longer Ms. Farooqui. Because you are Mrs. Zoya Khan! Yaad rahey!"
She was ecstatic at hearing this, but didn't want him to have the satisfaction of dictating it. A take-charge Mr. Khan did something to her heart and it thrilled weirdly.
"I don't have to change my name!" she declared.
"No, you don't. Keep your name if that's what you want. But, call me Asad."
"Why? Why is it so important to you that I call you Asad?"
Because I love to hear my name on your lips. It makes me hope that one day you'll say it in my arms.
"Because I like to hear you say it," he said softly.
She turned pink with pleasure.
Asad. Asad. Asad.
"OK, but I get to call you Mr. Khan when I'm mad at you."
He grinned. "Fine. But what do I call you when I'm mad at you?"
"It's impossible to be mad at me!"
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