Page 50 of If I Loved You Less
I cannot even properly focus on Rizwan for all the irritation Fawad is causing me. It is unkind and unfair. This is the beginning of what could be Rizwan and I’s love story, and Fawad keeps meddling his way into my mind! It is insufferable! Unbearable!
He is the bane of my existence.
I stay in the shower until my heart calms.
Then, afterwards, I lounge in my bathrobe, doing a face mask to lessen the puffiness.
As I paint my nails, I reassure myself that Fawad is overreacting. I am right, as I always am, and there is nothing to worry about.
My mood has long since cooled off: the anger never lasts, it quickly fades, but gives way to something worse, to acute melancholy.
But no matter. We have guests arriving soon. I go to get ready.
Naadia and I are wearing velvet outfits from Farah Talib today: her suit is a deep green kurta and trousers, while mine is a deep red patiala shalwar and kameez.
We used to hate matching when we were younger (her more than me) but since we’ve reached adulthood, we wear complimentary outfits. We are each other’s best accessories (until she got married, but I still think I’m a better partner for her than Asif).
“Humaira, check on the oven will you?” Naadia says, sliding jhumkas into her ears in the bathroom. “I’m almost ready.”
“Okie,” I say. Nothing like dressing up to put me in a better mood. Something about it makes me feel closer to Mama, who was always dressed up in the best three-piece shalwar kameez suits and gold jewelry and pretty khussas to match.
Of course, with my hijab on, I am not as pretty as I am with my hair done, and the scarf does cover my earrings, but that is sort of the point: to privatize a woman’s beauty so they are sought after for something other than their physical looks, like their intellect and heart.
It is all I want: for a man toseeme, to see my soul. To truly know me. And then it will be all the more fun for him when I turn out to be stunningly gorgeous without my hijab (and without clothes on for that matter).
I head downstairs, and everything looks good. The rain has slowed to a soft drizzle outside. I am just lighting some more candles when the doorbell rings.
Checking my appearance in the mirror to assure I look just as good as I did a moment ago, I go to greet whoever has arrived.
The guest list includes our phuppos and whichever of their children and grandchildren can make it, plus Shanzay, plus Rizwan.
“Salaam, ao, ao,” Papa says to Mahum Phuppo and her husband. Behind them is Emad.
“Salaam!” I say cheerily, kissing my elderly phuppo’s cheeks, then greeting Emad. Before Papa closes the door, Asif arrives as well, and Papa lets him in with a curt nod of his head.
“Sir,” Asif says.
Papa takes the elders to the other room, while I am with Emad and Asif. I expect to see Fawad behind Asif, but he is not there.
He would not refuse to come, would he?
My heart sinks at the thought, but before I can think of it further, I realize Emad has been talking to me.
“Emad,” I say, tone warm, “Shanzay has had a bit of a tough week. Would you be a darling and spend time with her to make her feel better while I host?”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Emad says, frowning.
“She’s such a dear friend; I cannot bear to see her upset. You will help me, won’t you?” I bat my lashes.
“Of course! Of course,” he replies, then lowers his voice. “Anything for you.”
“Thank you, I do appreciate it,” I say, smiling one of my winning smiles.
“I’m so glad we’re seeing more of each other lately,” Emad says.
“As am I,” I reply. “Funny is it not, that we were never very close before the past few months? And I have a feeling we will only get closer.”
Emad is pleased by this comment, and I am sure he is mostly in love with Shanzay already. I knew I was not wrong to push him and Shanzay together.
