Page 74 of If I Loved You Less
“And isn’t he coming for Haya’s wedding, too?” Naadia asks.
“I literally have no idea what you guys are talking about,” Sadaf says, fanning herself with a napkin. “Besides, all men are trash, you know this.” She waves a hand nonchalantly, but Naadia and I aren’t convinced and still giggle at her flustered state. Sometimes, love takes its time. “And Mama has me talking to this rishta, who might even be a little promising…”
She trails off, going into details, but I am distracted as Rizwan comes over, sitting beside me. I turn to face him, smiling politely as a good hostess should.
He asks me what television I’ve been watching and while we discuss various shows, my attention strays to Shanzay, to ensure she is alright. Rather than being alone and quiet, as she was before, she has moved to now be sitting with Fawad, who is listening tentatively as she launches into a story, words tripping over one another.
I furrow my brows. That’s strange.
Something sharp pierces in me as Fawad laughs. Surely Shanzay is not saying anythingthatfunny…
“Do you agree?” Rizwan asks. I realize I haven’t heard a word he’s said but smile brilliantly in reply, anyway.
“Yes, completely,” I say, turning my attention to him. “I think it’s a very interesting concept, in general, and liked how they explored it.”
“Exactly!” he says. “We’re so similar. I find it fascinating how the director…”
He goes on, and I listen carefully, not exactly to the words he is saying, but tohim: the way his eyes light up as he speaks, the way his voice sounds, the feel of him sitting close to me.
It’s easy and comfortable to be with him. But I don’t think I Love him, and I don’t know if I ever will. Shouldn’t this be more exciting? Why do I feel vaguely … bored?
It feels like I’m waiting for something to kick in, and every time I see him, I get this little jolt of excitement, in casethisis the moment, this is it, but then – nothing.
Perhaps I put too much pressure on True Love. And there is no such thing? Fawad would be the first to tell me so.
But the worse fear that comes creeping in from time to time is that loveisreal, and the problem is within me and my malfunctioning heart.
As if I’m incapable of love.
ChapterSeventeen
The week closes out with Sadaf’s sister, Haya’s, wedding, which everyone is invited to, and those who aren’t (namely Jasmine and Emad) somehow manage to invite themselves. Sadaf invites Rizwan, for my benefit, since he’s still here, but I don’t feel particularly enthused by the prospect.
Even so, the main event, the baraat, is wonderful; Haya looks stunning in a red and gold outfit, and Carlos, her husband, looks handsome in a white sherwani. He’s Chilean but looks just as comfortable as a Pakistani in it, and from what I hear, he’s even learned a bit of Urdu to impress Haya’s parents.
We meet Sadaf’s cousins from Pakistan, Mina and Hamza, who are here for the wedding. Mina is vibrant and fun, while Hamza seems more shy. He’s a total cutie and engaged to a girl back home – his bachpan ki mohabbat and neighbor, which I love for him.
Such classic Pakistani drama tropes! I think there is something so romantic about knowing someone before reallyknowingthem, something so fateful and divine. An invisible string.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Phuppo, sitting down beside her with a plate full of samosas for her to eat. She’s beginning to show a little now and wears her dupatta draped across her stomach, the universal Pakistani way of pregnant women.
“Not too bad,” she says, instinctively placing a hand on her stomach. I lean my head on her shoulder a moment. I know she is worried about the pregnancy because of her age, but my best friend Areeba is a genetic counselor and taking good care of her, so there should be nothing to fret about.
Even so, Zeeshan Uncle is not letting her do anything herself, and so she spends most of the event sitting down rather than walking around commenting on people’s outfits with me.
Dancing, I am sure, will be out of the question, which is just no fun.
The night is not very eventful, though I love to dress up for weddings and witness the general splendor, and I am of course pleased to see Haya so happy. I’m wearing this gorgeous long kurta and culottes by Dr. Haroon and am told by a few people that I am easily the most beautiful girl in the room – besides the bride, of course, they add in quickly.
I am not too moved by these compliments, even when one comes from Rizwan. I believe I am getting over him, which is disappointing, for I’ll have to find someone else to fixate on.
There is nothing wrong with him, but I need to be enthused about the man I am with – it must be someone who makes me awake, because I’m afraid I’ll spend my whole life in gray, asleep.
“Oh no,” Shanzay gasps, clutching my arm while we grab drinks from the bar.
“What is it?” I ask, looking to where her gaze is. Someone is entering, a tall, athletic looking girl, and it takes me a moment to register who it is: Madiha Raja – Huzaifa’s sister.
Shanzay ducks behind me. “Should I go over and say hello? Or is it best to avoid her entirely?” she chatters. “She must hate me!” She gasps. “Do you think her brother will be here, as well? I must go say salaam, it would be rude not to?” She nibbles on her bottom lip. “Or is it rudetosay salaam? Like rubbing salt in the wound?”
