Page 53 of If I Loved You Less
“Your husband needs to see a psychiatrist,” I whisper to Naadia, before she can say anything. “He is positively delusional.”
She bites back a laugh. “If you say so,” she sing-songs.
I pinch her side. “Behave. Or I’m telling Phuppo.”
(Phuppo was always playing judge between us, even when we were girls.)
We sit with the aunties, who fawn over us, the young blood. Unfortunately, this is not much better company, for as the only unmarried woman there, I get bombarded by questions. It is a full-on interrogation.
“Has your papa begun looking for a husband for you?” one auntie asks. “It must be so difficult without your mama here to do it herself.”
“But do not fret! We will help you,” another auntie adds. “I have a handful of eligible nephews.”
The eligible nephews in question all have secret girlfriends, drink, or smoke copious amounts of weed, so I’m not particularly interested. Naadia and I exchange a knowing glance.
“Thank you, but I am alright, at the present,” I reply.
“Yes, but it does take quite some time to find a good rishta,” the auntie replies. “You must start looking early. You are not getting any younger.”
I suppress a sigh. Some aunties can be simple-minded about age, believing women should be married off once they strike eighteen, and that they will expire by the age of twenty-four. Most of our social circle is more refined than that, but some are still of the old, backwards thinking.
“Did you not find anyone in college?” someone asks. “There must have been plenty of boys there.”
“Unfortunately, I did not realize I was there to husband-hunt,” I respond pleasantly. “Sadly, I was instead focusing on my education.”
I throw in an enthused smile so no one gets offended, and the aunties laugh at my mischief, though I am deadly serious.
Besides, boys in college were sostupid, for lack of a better word. Which was precisely why I was steering Shanzay away from Huzaifa.
All college boys are immature, with no idea of the future, or they are simply there to have fun with no intention of commitment. I knew plenty of boys with girlfriends who were actually engaged to their cousins back home, or boys who dated girls, then broke up with them just to date their best friends.
Overall, a terrible mess. Zero out of ten would recommend.
“Are you sure you do not have a secret boy hidden away you are not telling us about?” one auntie teases. “A pretty girl like you, I am sure there must be someone.”
“I wish, Auntie,” I reply. “Would that not make things simpler?”
We laugh, though I am positively mortified by the thought of having a secret boyfriend. Who has the emotional stamina for that? I love to read about forbidden romance, but in real life, the angst would surely kill me.
Besides, I agree with the Islamic ideals of no-dating. It is the most sensible course of action. People should only get involved with one another if they are serious and have intentions of marriage in mind. Of course, I do not judge others, I just know for myself, dating would not work, for I do not have the heart for it.
I am glad for the structure Islam gives my life. It is not just a religion, but a way of life – a mindset, an entire way of being.
When the aunties move on to interrogating Naadia as to when she’ll get pregnant (even married, you can never win with the aunties), I flee, but just as I do, Emad finds me.
He begins conversing with me over the pani puri bar, telling me random stories as I fill the little puffs with chickpeas, boiled potatoes, onions, yogurt, and tamarind chutney. And he does not mention Shanzay once! I bring her up a few times, but he is not interested in speaking about her.
Perhaps he is being shy.
From the amused look Asif gives me as he places another samosa onto his plate, I would say he disagrees.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I say to Emad, approaching my brother-in-law instead. I kick his leg with my heels.
“Ow,” he says, though I’ve only just tapped him. “You could kill a man with those.”
“They’re Aquazzura. I wouldn’t dirty them with a man’s blood.”
“Are you having fun with your new bosom buddy?” Asif asks. I make a face.
