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“He’s helping Kenan in our wheat fields.” She sighs dreamily. “Such a kind, good man. Allah doesn’t make men like him anymore, at least not as often.”
My mouth twitches. “I know.”
“You say you’ve come to Pakistan to visit family, right after your wedding?”
“Yes.”
A pleased smirk crosses her face. “I thought you two might be newlyweds.”
“You did? How?” I peer down at my hands. “Oh, could you tell because of my bridal mehendi?”
“Oh, no.” The look Salama gives me is truly gentle. “Because your husband stares at you with such love and care in his eyes. It’s the same way my husband looked at me when we first got married.” She pauses, then adds, “He still loves me, of course, but there’s nothing quite as special as the love between husband and wife right after their marriage.”
A shiver touches my spine and spreads through the rest of my body, all the way down to my toes. She must be mistaken.
I wrap my arms around my body. “Was your marriage a love match?” I ask, hoping desperately she’ll accept the subject change.
“No,” she answers. “Out here, they rarely are. But at least I knew my husband. He and my brother were friends because we grew up in the same area.”
I lean forward, too eagerly. “So, you fell in love with him after marriage?” I wonder, hope flickering in my chest.
“Yes.” Salama stirs something in the pot, then lightly places the spoon on the counter. “But it wasn’t easy.”
I deflate. “It wasn’t?”
“Of course not,” she says, facing me. “It’s not easy to love a stranger. Just because I knew of Kenan doesn’t mean I knew him. He’s older than me, and I didn’t have much say in if I wanted to marry or not. But we were a poor family, and I was the eldest child, so I knew it would be better if I married and left the house. I wanted to help my family more than I worried about being someone’s wife. I was scared when I came to live with him, worried if I’d ever be happy in this life.”
“But are you?” I ask, my palms sweating. “Happy?”
“Yes. My husband is a good man, very patient with me. It took us some time to get to know each other, and over time, I did find myself in love with him.” She shrugs. “But not everyone is as lucky as I am. Some people are forced into marriages through obligation and find they harbor so much resentment that it poisons the relationship, and they can never love their spouses.” She checks on the food. “Love isn’t always there in the beginning, but marriages are still something that need to be wanted. If you want it, then you can find happiness. But if you have doubts, if you think there’s the slightest chance you’re not marrying for the right reasons, then you will wake up every day miserable.”
I stay silent even when she pauses to taste-test the korma. “That’s why I think you’re very lucky, Maya,” Salama continues, drawing my attention back to her. “You found someone you loved whom you wanted to marry, so your chances of being happy are infinitely better.” She smirks at me over her shoulder. “Not to mention that he’s also a very handsome man. You two will make very cute children, should you want them someday.”
I manage to somehow find it in me to chuckle. “Thank you, Salama,” I say. “That was very...informative.” I glance down at my toes. “More than you know,” I mumble under my breath in English.
“Oh!” Salama’s voice draws my attention back to her. “I almost forgot! Tomorrow, we are going to my brother’s home. My nephew recently married, so we’re going to his house for the dawat.”
A dawat is a small party that people close to the newlyweds throw to celebrate the union. Marriage is a big deal in Pakistani culture; we party until we’re all tired. Sometimes we don’t even stop when we’re exhausted. “That’s wonderful.”
“You and Sarfaraz should come with us!” Salama gushes.
My jaw drops and I bolt to my feet. “Oh, no, no, no,” I hasten. “That’s not necessary at all, Auntie.”
“What no?” she admonishes. “It’ll be wonderful!” She comes over to me and grabs my arms, giving them a tight squeeze. “It’d be so nice to have you there. Why stay here by yourselves when we can all enjoy a party?”
I open my mouth to protest, but Salama interrupts by calling out for Aqsa, who pads into the room. “Stay here and watch the korma, I’m going to go pick out some nice clothes for Sarfaraz and Maya to wear tomorrow to Baqar Mamu’s.”
She’s gone before I can call after her. Aqsa passes by me on her way to the stove. “Your mehendi’s starting to fade,” she points out.
Sure enough, the redness has all but disappeared, and it’s now firmly in the yellowing stage; barely any of the original color is left. Mehendi isn’t meant to stay on your skin forever, and it doesn’t help that I’ve been picking at it every time I get nervous.
“I’m a really good mehendi artist,” Aqsa says. She peeks into the pot. “I can go over the design for you, if you want.”
“Thank you. That’d be nice.” I turn around. “Where are your father’s fields? I want to see Sarfaraz.”
She gives me directions, and I walk toward the fields we passed on our way here. I stop when I see Sarfaraz, his back stained with sweat, hunched over one of the stalks. I can’t quite see what he’s doing, but when he straightens up and wipes his forehead, he pauses. He squints, and then bursts into a grin when he recognizes me. Salama’s words from earlier drift back to me, and my heart stutters in my chest. The sight of his smile makes my stomach flip-flop, and I drink in a steady breath before I go over to him.
I catch the end of their conversation: “If you spread the crops out more, they should grow taller and more bountiful.”
