Page 4 of If I Loved You Less
They do, retreating back to socialize with the guests, and I head in the opposite direction to the bathroom. Once there, I repin my scarf, adjust the diamond teeka, and reapply my lipstick, though none of these things were an inch out of place.
I catch my gaze in the mirror and for a moment, the placid expression customarily found on my face melts away into a full-fledged frown. Rizwan really isn’t coming, and there goes another chance at love. My eyes quickly well with tears, a habit I’ve never been able to rid myself of since I was a child. I always cry much too easily.
I know what you’re thinking:poor little rich girl, she has everything, what else could she possibly need? Well, I’m looking for the great love of my life, thank you very much.
I have had many ups and downs with love over the years, and I know once I’ve found my love, I’ll look back and laugh at all this. But in the meantime, I’m left wondering and yearning and aching.
For me, it’s always been about love.
Naadia says I’m way too picky. (We won’t even get into Naadia’s romantic history because it’ll be anything but brief.) But since she’s had her heart broken by about a dozen different jerks with nice beards, she thinks she’s the Queen of Romance.
She’s always telling me that there’s no such thing asthe one, and that it’s ungrateful of me to push away so many great guys. But I just know, deep down in my bones, that my soulmate is out there. And when I see him, there’ll be a little voice in my head that goes,it’s you!
Fawad is always telling me that I’m too romantic and real life isn’t like that – which precisely proves my previous point regarding the relevance of both him and his opinions.
Blinking rapidly to clear my eyes, I nod to myself in the mirror, then make my way back to the wedding hall, where people are beginning to say their goodbyes and leave. Dread settles deep in my belly, that feeling that comes at the end of a vacation, or on a Sunday night before school. I don’t want this to end; I don’t want to face what’s coming.
Since we’re family, we wait till the end to leave, so there’s a bit more time, but even then departure is inevitable. I measure my breaths, trying to calm the disquiet in me. I go to stand with Papa, holding onto his arm.
He’s a slight man, about a head taller than me, and even at his old age, looks quite dashing in his tuxedo. He’s still got a full (almost full) head of hair and a full beard, both of which are a dark grey colour that is entirely natural and not at all thanks to a special shampoo he uses to ensure his whitening hair looks naturally dark.
We watch as Naadia and Asif go to say goodbye to Phuppo and Zeeshan Uncle first, then Naadia comes to say goodbye to Papa while Asif gets her shawl. Papa sighs loudly.
Poor Papa. He is in as low spirits as I am, and Naadia coming to say goodbye only cements his mood.
Naadia was married last summer, and though she and Asif only live an hour and a half drive away, it hurt Papa terribly to let her go. I was happy to see her off for the fact that she was so happy with Asif, and I was glad to have matched them. Of course I missed her a great deal, but back then I still had Phuppo – and now she’ll be gone, too.
“Ai, hai, itne drame?” Naadia says, seeing Papa and my sullen expressions. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you soon.”
“You won’t go back home with us?” he asks, eyes sad. Losing Mama hit him hard, and most days, there’s always this lingering hint of melancholy in his eyes that I hate to see. There are a few too many wrinkles around his eyes too, more pronounced now by his frown. I tighten my grip on his arm, reminding him that I am here, and he pats my hand gently.
“No, Papa,” Naadia says, a little edge coming into her voice. “I have class.” She’s in her last year of medical school.
“But you can study from home, no?” Papa asks, specifically referring toourhouse as her home, not the apartment she shares with her husband.
Naadia sighs. “I could, but Asif has work in the morning.”
Papa gives Asif a dirty look from afar. Naadia and I exchange a quick glance, and I bite back a smile. The funny thing is, Papa used to adore Asif. The Sheikh family live down the road from us, and his parents were friends of my Dada’s. But then, one day, he asked to marry Naadia, and since then Papa is cross whenever Asif is mentioned.
It’s Papa’s opinion that there is no need for daughters to marry: they ought to stay with their fathers, in comfort, and live as they please. Nasty business, marriage, he always said.I agree, Mama would always say, giving him a pointed look.But it can’t be avoided, she always added. She always balanced his fussiness out with her own prudence.
“Sir,” Asif says, approaching with Naadia’s shawl, which is an intricate Kashmiri loom shawl, one of Mama’s. As Naadia drapes it across her shoulders, Asif very astutely does not look Papa in the eye.
Asif really is an amiable fellow (unlike his older brother). He’s a little bit shorter than Fawad, and more well-built, with floppy hair and a boyish softness around his face. He has deep dimples that always make an appearance.
He is sweet and utterly obsessed with Naadia, which is good because Naadia doesn’t have a spine, so it’d be a disaster if she had a strong-willed husband.
Papa makes a displeased noise and dismisses him. Naadia rolls her eyes in irritation and takes her husband’s arm.
“Allah Hafiz,” Naadia says.
“Allah Hafiz, beta jaani,” Papa says, and Naadia is off, holding on tight to Asif’s arm, a sight which makes Papa actually gag.
“Oh, Papa,” I say, leaning my head on his shoulder. I let go of his arm and he puts it around my shoulder. We go to say goodbye to Phuppo, where Zeeshan Uncle gets a similar treatment of distaste from Papa.
“Sir,” Zeeshan Uncle says, despite the fact that Papa is only a few years older than him.
“Allah Hafiz,” I say, reaching down to hug Phuppo. Tears flood my eyes, and I daintily brush them away.
