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“Like what?” he asks.
“Well, like the whole marriage thing. She wanted me to get married when I was much younger, but every time I mentioned wanting to date, she shut it down. But then when I reached marrying age, she was shocked that I was no good with guys.” I pause. “Of course, my curse contributes to that, too, but still.”
Sarfaraz rolls his eyes. “Your whole...curse thing aside, maybe she feels this way because your dad left. She worries about what’s going to happen to you after she dies; she doesn’t want you to be alone.”
I stop walking, causing Sarfaraz to halt a few steps away from me. “What’s so wrong with a woman being on her own? What’s wrong with her wanting to be independent?” I ball up my hands so tight that my nails dig into my skin. “Why does she have to be the one to give up what she wants? How much can a woman give before she has nothing left for herself?”
He stares at me, hesitant. “I don’t know what I can say to you,” he eventually admits. “From what I saw growing up, I get that the pressure the culture puts on women is incredibly unfair, but how are we going to change the mentality of people who grew up in a different time than us?” He steps over to me, and gently, he rests his hand on my arm. A spark shoots to my chest at the contact and I hate that it does. I hate that his touch still has such an effect on me. “All we can do is try to change our own way of thinking, and then pass that on to the future generation, and hope that it all works out for the best. You have to figure out how to assert your own independence, how to fight for what you want.” He shrugs. “It might not be in obvious ways, but you’ll figure it out. You just have to know what you want.” He gives me a once-over. “Do you know what you want?”
“I know what I don’t want.” I suck in a strangled breath. “As much as I believe a woman can find happiness on her own...” I kick a rock out of the way. “I don’t want to be alone. I have my mother and my sister, yes, but...it feels like I’ve been alone my whole life. I don’t want to feel that way anymore. Is there something so wrong with that?”
I don’t look at Sarfaraz as he says, “There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to be alone.”
This time, I snap my head up. “What did you say?”
“What?”
“It’s just...” A laugh of disbelief rumbles my chest. “Sarfaraz Porter, the guy who, not even a week ago, didn’t believe me when I said that humans can’t be alone.”
“Yeah, well...” He polished off his kulfi earlier, and now he plays with the bare yellow stick. A cloud of indecision practically storms above his head, but when he looks at me again, he has a polite expression on his face. “You’re annoyingly persuasive. Plus...these last few days have really showed me that while I like my independence, maybe...maybe I don’t want to be alone, either.”
An ache tears through my chest, so strong and so overwhelming that I nearly run into his arms and hold him tight like we’re in an old Shah Rukh Khan film. In a movie, we’d embrace, clutching each other for dear life, and that’s when our dream-song sequence would begin. Me dressed in a bright orange sari, frolicking in the fields, not unlike the ones in Salama’s village. Sarfaraz following behind me, wearing a snazzy black kurta and white pants. We’d meet in the middle and my dupatta would float in the wind as he dipped me.
But no. No matter how insane this past week has been, my life isn’t a movie. There would be no last-minute romantic declarations. There would be no one running to an airport or a train station or, hell, even a bus station to stop someone else from leaving. And the happy ending isn’t going to be one that I expected.
I look down at my fingers, picking at my nails. “Well, I hope you won’t be alone for long,” I eventually reply.
His expression is soft as he stares at me. “Yeah,” he breathes, his voice impossibly soft, strange for a man whose voice is usually sharp and stern.
I clear my throat, eager to change the subject. I curl a strand of hair over my ear. “Well, while I don’t want to be alone, I also don’t want to be defined by my relation to someone else. But sometimes it feels like people don’t know the difference.”
“You don’t have to care about what other people think, you know.” He gestures to himself. “Look at me—if I did what my father wanted, I know I probably would have been more successful, but I would have hated my life. I feel like parents equate money to happiness, but you could have all the money in the world and still be miserable.” He shrugs. “And even if becoming a family lawyer didn’t make me as much money as it does, I would have been okay with it. Because at the end of the day, at least it was my decision. I did what was best for me, and I know I can live with myself because of it.”
That’s the whole crux of the situation, I guess. “I don’t want to end up being seen as only someone’s daughter, someone’s mom, or someone’s wife.” I draw my shoulders back and hold my head high. “I’m Maya Mirza, and I’m whole on my own.”
Slowly, the corners of Sarfaraz’s lips turn up. “Thank God.”
I give him a once-over. “What?”
“I’ve spent the last few days watching you run around doing whatever anyone tells you to do. I thought the Maya I met on that plane was a fabrication, and that the real you was just someone who lives by the words of everyone else.” His smirk grows. “Thank God that first woman hasn’t faded away.”
Sarfaraz’s hand moves from my arm; briefly, I wish it were back, and then a rush of anger hits my chest at that wish. “And I can only hope she doesn’t fade away completely,” Sarfaraz adds, “because I know if she loses any part of herself, she’ll never be okay.” We reach the gate of the house, and he pushes it open for me. “You don’t need someone to find you, Maya. You’ll find yourself. It may take a while, and it won’t be easy, but when you find who you are, you’ll know in that instant.” The ghost of a pained smile touches his face. “And that’s when you’ll truly be okay.”
31
Maya’s Law #31:
Sweet things can never mask bitter truths.
When we get back home, Sarfaraz goes up to bed, and even though I just had kulfi, now I’m craving some chai. I don’t feel like going back up to the room with the other women yet, either, so I head for the kitchen.
It’s nearing 11 p.m. now, so I’m surprised that the light is on. I peek into the room, one foot poised to make an escape in case it’s someone I don’t want to talk to.
It’s Mr. Porter making himself a cup of chai. And like, not in the kettle with a tea bag, but the desi way; fresh ginger root, whole cardamom pods, and cinnamon sticks litter the counter while a pot boils on the stove. He looks over at the sound of my footsteps and grins tiredly. “Ahh, hello, Maya.”
I linger in the doorway. “Hi, Dad,” I say, though the word still feels foreign on my tongue. I haven’t called someone Dad in years, so to get into the habit of doing it again is difficult. I know it’ll probably take some time getting used to seeing these people as another set of parents, but it’s so strange.
I tap my fingers against the wooden frame, then gesture to the stove. “I see you’re making chai.”
