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I shrug, discreetly lowering my wrist so the bangles fall to the bottom. “That’s Pakistanis for you. The people here are very kind.” I pause. “Except for those guys who robbed us. They were jerks.”
He smirks, his stare shifting over the crowd. “I can’t believe the fanfare, even for a dawat. This is exactly the kind of thing my ex-wife and I wanted to avoid when we got married.”
“Was she Pakistani?”
“She was,” Sarfaraz confirms. “We met at university. I was Muslim and half-Pakistani, and that was good enough for her parents.” He gestures to the boisterous laughter amongst the crowd. “This type of thing—party after party after party wasn’t us. We didn’t even do the standard three-day celebration.”
The standard Pakistani wedding celebration is three days: the mehendi, the baraat, and the walima. Technically, the only days that really matter are the baraat and the walima; the baraat is when the nikkah—the signing of the marriage contract, which is the actual marriage ceremony part—takes place, while the walima is required because of the rukhsati—the official giving-away of the bride to the groom’s family. It’s also where the bride and groom are presented to the public as a married couple. “Really?”
“She wasn’t the flashy type, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not, either.”
My jaw hangs open dramatically. “You? Not the flashy type?” My mouth forms an O. “I’m shocked.”
Sarfaraz narrows his eyes at me, but the playful glint in his pupils betrays his amusement. “My stepmother was upset, because she wanted me to have the typical desi celebration, but there wasn’t much she could do. We got married at the masjid, and then had a small reception on the same day. I know her family would have preferred the Big Fat Pakistani Wedding, but we wanted to keep things as small as possible.” He scoffs. “Though I suppose it didn’t matter in the end.”
I hesitate for a second, then, collecting all my courage, I ask, “You said in Switzerland that your wife cheated on you. What happened?”
His chest stills briefly. I open my mouth to tell him to forget it, but eventually, in a soft voice, he replies, “I was more married to my career than I was to her.”
That’s all he volunteers, so I nod, glancing down to readjust my chudiyan again. “I can see how you legitimately think that marriages are destined not to work out.”
“I didn’t say that,” Sarfaraz says, and his comment makes me lift my head. He’s watching Sajjid and Naila laugh and feed each other sweets. “I think that statistically, marriages fail more than they succeed, but that’s not to say I think people shouldn’t get married.” When he looks at me, my throat closes up. “Sometimes you meet someone and you realize...you were living your whole life staggering around in the darkness and didn’t even know it. Not until you met them.”
When he looks at me, it’s with a tenderness he’s never had before. Soft, like the brush of a dandelion fluff blowing on the breeze and kissing your cheek while you’re lying in the grass. His dark brown eyes are no longer piercing, but hungry, deep, ready and waiting to consume but being forced to restrain themselves, a sharp contrast to the gentle expression he regards me with. His hair, just as dark as his irises, kisses his brows, tickling his eyelids, but he doesn’t move to brush it away. When he looks at me, a swoosh crashes against my chest, gripping it tight and shaking me with a realization I’ve never let myself think too long about.
He’s beautiful.
Like, not hot, but beautiful. Hot is for guys who are all hard edges and jagged lines, who wear their ruggedness like a badge of pride. Guys who wear leather jackets and pick you up bridal-style and tell you over and over that you’re perfect because it’s exactly what you want to hear. Beautiful is for guys who are soft and smooth, who wear their gentleness with an air of humility, like they don’t want to be praised for doing the bare minimum. Guys who wear shalwar kameez and let you lean on them, taking on extra weight even when they’re just as exhausted as you are, and who will tell you over and over when you’re being ridiculous because it’s exactly what you need to hear.
“Maya! Sarfaraz!” Salama’s voice breaks the spell. Sarfaraz and I both jerk out of our stupors and look over to where Salama’s voice came from. She waves from her spot by Sajjid and Naila. “Come here!”
We exchange an awkward look but go over to them. Salama nods to us. “You haven’t been formally introduced yet,” she says. She turns to the young couple. “Sajjid, Naila, this is Sarfaraz and Maya. They’re travelers from Canada who are staying with us for a couple of days.”
Sajjid looks to Salama. “Really, Phuppo? You’re picking up people from the street now?”
Naila whacks him in the chest. “Helping people in need gets you lots of sawab from Allah. Plus, the Prophet would always house travelers, so it’s sunnah,” she reminds him. He rubs the spot where she hit him while she fixes us with a sweet look. “Assalaam-o-alaikum. It’s nice to meet you both. Thank you for coming.”
I smirk. “Walaykum salam. Thank you for having us. Mubarak ho on your nuptials.”
“You, too!” Sajjid says. “Salama Phuppo tells us you two recently got married, as well.”
“We did,” Sarfaraz confirms, and he doesn’t even cringe when he says it.
“Well, then, can you give us some advice?” Naila asks. She looks eagerly between us. “I know you haven’t been married long, but you must have something to share. Anything would be helpful.”
I hesitate, looking to Sarfaraz. He gawks when he realizes I’m waiting for him to speak first, but he clears his throat and gives the happy couple a polite smile. “Well, one thing you should keep in mind is that you’re not going to agree on everything.” A mischievous spark twinkles in his eyes. “Sometimes your spouse will speak up when you tell them to stay quiet, even if it’s a dangerous situation.”
I scoff, my brows lifting in challenge. I turn to Sajjid and Naila. “And sometimes your spouse will reject a gift from you when you’re trying to be nice.”
Red pools in Sarfaraz’s face, but he says, “Sometimes your spouse will insist on buying things that don’t hold value, just because they think it’s pretty.”
I glare at Sarfaraz. “And sometimes your spouse will disagree with you just to disagree and then get confused when you get mad.”
“Sometimes your spouse will get impatient and dramatic, and you have to do your best to work around them.”
“And sometimes your spouse will act like a know-it-all who somehow knows exactly how to wind you up and make you cry.”
I expect him to say something else, but he grimaces. The silence lingers for a moment, and Sajjid clears his throat. The anger between us cools when we remember we’re not alone. Sajjid and Naila eye each other warily, but Sajjid still asks, “Okay...do you have any nice advice?”
