He purchased Danish new clothes and books to use in his final MBA semester to remind him of the need to work hard and make the family proud. He was making us the ideal life to live; one he could manage even though he was thousands of miles away. And we, his loving wife and thankful brother, acted our parts very well.
The house was cold in the morning he left. He embraced me at the airport. "Be happy, Zeenat, he whispered. Educate those girls. Make me proud." He then gave Danish a hug, slapping him on the back. "The house is in thy hands, bhai. Take care of her." "Yes, I will," Danish answered, with a steady voice.
We saw his plane flying away into the sky. Then we drove home in such silence that it was like some kind of presence. The initial week was an avoidance exercise of the utmost levels. Danish is in his last year of MBA and did most of the classes on-line, with a few seminars. He spent his days in his room, studying. I dedicated my days to preparing to my new job that began the next week. We paced the house like two opposite-polar magnets, making sure to keep a distance of at least a maximum.
Silently meals were taken. We talked when we had to, when we had to say something--a low mumbled pass the salt, or when I was going to the market. His noise and plans had moved out of the house and left it large and echoing. Each squeak of the floor boards, each hum of the refrigerator was magnified. This was not a mere physical space that he had abandoned but an emotional vacuum and it was drawing us closer to each other.
I was in the kitchen one evening, a week after Zeeshan had gone, attempting a new recipe, frenziedly seeking to distract myself. I was so much concentrated that I didn't hear Danish come in. I swivelled around and nearly ran over him. Both of us stood still, less than a foot between us. "Pardon me," he said, and withdrew. "I was only going to get water." "Ok fine," I said, my heart racing.
He took his glass and went, yet the memory hung. It was the old proximity but not the same. It was not afraid of being caught by Zeeshan. It had the horrid information that there was no one to find us any longer. No longer could there be excuses, no longer a safety net. We were alone and the heavy burden of the trust Zeeshan had put upon us.
The following day was my first day in the school and a disaster. I felt bad and the students knew it. I reached home, tired, disappointed, with a sore head. I sat down on the couch, not even feeling the strength to walk up to my room. I heard the door of Danish open. He appeared, with two tablets in his hand and a glass of water. "You have a headache," he said. "Take these. You must be prepared for tomorrow."
I looked up at him. He was gazing at me with an old, constant anxiety. The thing I had been so glad to be safe about, was now causing me to feel something far more dangerous. "Thanks," I said. He shook his head and began to walk away. His name slipped out of my mouth, I said, "Danish." He stopped with his back towards me.
"Your studies," I said, thinking for something neutral to say. "How are they going?"
He turned around slowly. "They're fine. Final semester." Then added, "It's a lot of work. Staying home helps."
The implication was clear. He was home because of me. Because of Zeeshan's orders.
I was awake that night. I remembered Zeeshan's instruction: Be good to her. Danish was exactly doing that. He was being the good brother-in-law. And I was madly at him for it, and madly about him. At midnight, I gave up on trying to sleep, and headed for the kitchen for a glass of water. The house was silent and still. I noticed a crevice of light under his door. He was awake. Studying. Fulfilling his duty. I stood for a long time, in the dark hallway, staring at the light. It felt like a fire. And I knew, with a terror and excitement I couldn't explain, that it was only a matter of time before I stopped fighting the urge to go to it.
Time took on a new shape, dictated by my new school and his learning. I would head out for school, worrying about lesson plans and other school-related stressors. He would be sitting at the dining room table, already studying his MBA textbooks. We'd say a brief "Assalam-u-alaikum" and I would be off to school.
I had a challenging first week at the school. The children were loud, unruly and by the end of the day, I was exhausted, my self-esteem bruised.
Each evening, I would go to my room, headaches raging, trying desperately to gather strength for the next day.
One weekend, after a Friday afternoon, I arrived home and flopped down on the couch, not even switching on the lamp. I shut my eyes, and felt the weight of my inadequacy. I was a terrible teacher. I didn't know what I was doing. I could taste the sting of tears at the back of my throat.
I heard the gentle click of his door opening. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to sleep, hoping he would leave me alone. I heard him walk closer, and halt. I thought he might go, believing me to be asleep. But instead, I felt being covered with a light blanket. It was an innocent act of kindness. Something Zeeshan would have done.
But coming from him, it felt different. It wasn't the gesture of a husband; it was the observation of someone who paid attention. Someone who saw my exhaustion without me having to say a word. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, in the darkness. After a while he went back to his world. I was lying under the blanket, feeling its warmth, but it was the giving of the blanket that broke my heart. For once,
I wasn't guilty. I just felt... seen.
One day, a week later, the city was hit by a late afternoon thunderstorm. The lights went off and the house was dark. I had just come home from school, and was sitting in the living room when the thunder clapped. I hated storms. Whenever there were storms, I felt so tiny and powerless. Then I saw a flashlight on a phone making its way down the corridor. Danish emerged. "It's just the storm," he said, quietly. "The inverter must be dead." He went to the main switchboard near the door and started fiddling with it.
He stood there, silhouetted against the faint light from his phone, his profile sharp and focused. I stood and watched him, my fear putting aside. I saw the way he took control, the calm that he brought to the turmoil outside. He wasn't just a schoolboy. He was a man, a good man. He had turned on the emergency lights; the room was dimly lit. "That ought to do you until the electricity is restored," he said.
He didn't return to his room. He took a chair and put it at the dining room table, but not too near, not far away. It rained heavily on the windows. The rain engulfed all sound, except our silence. "It's a bad one," I said, quietly. "They're worse in the desert," he said, staring out the window, the rain having left streaks on the glass. "There, it's... alive." "Alive," I repeated. "That's a good word for it."
We sat there, not talking, for another hour. We just were together in the darkness, hearing the storm. It wasn't uncomfortable. It was... shared. I wasn't alone in this fear of the darkness and the quiet. He was there, a stoic presence. I began to notice how he'd often glance up from his book, looking around the room, checking that all was well. He was watching out for me, not in a dramatic way, but in a continual, subtle way.
A few days after the episode mentioned above, the incident that really changed him occurred. I was in the kitchen, exploring the refrigerator for some food after work. I was humming an old Hindi song that my mother hummed to me. It was a sad song, a song I hummed when I was feeling nostalgic or down. I didn't hear him come in. I stood up, shut the refrigerator door and bumped right into him. He stood there, only a couple of feet away, glass in hand. He didn't stir, so I knew he'd been there for some time, listening. My humming stopped abruptly. A flush of embarrassment crept up my neck. "I... I didn't see you," I stammered. He didn't move. He was staring at me, his expression unreadable. But I saw it. I saw it in his eyes. It wasn't the surprise or fear that he had before. It wasn't the shock or the panic from before. It was something softer. Something that made my breath catch.
"You have a nice voice," he said, his voice lower than normal. The compliment, so genuine, felt like a touch. No one had ever said that to me. Not my parents, not Zeeshan. It was a really personal thing to say. I didn't know what to do. I just stood still, my heart beginning to race. He seemed to feel the impact of what he'd said. He cleared his throat, breaking the spell. "I was just getting water," he said, turning to the sink.
As he drank his water, I remained rooted, thinking. That was it. So that was it. For him, as much as for me. He had looked beyond my "bhabhi" role, beyond my obligation, beyond the good girl. He had heard me. And in my being heard, so did his heart begin to beat. Our line was still in place, but not as a barrier. It was a string, vibrating, tightly strung between us in the kitchen.
After that, the rules were not only bent, they were broken. The distance between us shrank from a careful few feet to a shared breath. The intimacy was no longer veiled; it was in the light of our day-to-day lives, a defiance of the lives we were expected to lead. It all began with his hands. They started to discover me in the little moments.
When I was cooking, and I'd be stirring a sauce, he'd walk up behind me, and for a moment his hand would rest on the curve where my back met my butt, before he reached for a drink. It was a casual touch, but it sent a current through me every time, a silent claim that said, "I see you. I am here."
One night we were lying on the couch, reading. We had the TV on, but weren't watching it. I felt his eyes on me. He was looking at me, and when I stopped reading, he had a gentle expression on his face. He took my book from me and put it on the coffee table. Then he took my hand. He didn't entwine his fingers with mine. He simply held my hand in his, his thumb gently rubbing circles on my palm. It was the most chaste, yet intimate, gesture I had ever experienced. We were there for a while, not saying anything, just touching on that one point. The intimacy grew deeper, more profound. It was no longer about physical contact but rather about intimacy.
One night, I dreamt that Zeeshan discovered my secret. I awoke panting, with my heart beating fast. A few minutes later, there was a gentle knock at my door. It was Danish. He had heard me. He didn't ask about what was wrong. He just sat on the bed, the light from the window shining on his face. "It's okay," he murmured. "It was only a dream." I shook my head, tears welling in my eyes. "What if it's not?" I whispered. "Are we making a terrible mistake?" He didn't try to placate me. He looked at me with a honesty that was soothing and heartbreaking. "Maybe we are," he said softly. "But it's our mistake to make." He then wiped away a tear from my face with his thumb. "I would rather make a mistake with you than have a flawless life without you."
His words were a healing to my soul. I took his hand. "Stay," I whispered. "Only for a little while. Till I go to sleep." He didn't hesitate. He climbed on the bed fully dressed and gently wrapped his arms around me. It was the first time we had embraced without overpowering desire. It was pure comfort. I lay my head on his chest and listened to his heart, the sound of it beating, a constant comforting sound that drove away the demons of my dream. I slept like I hadn't in a long time.
It was a week before the real change happened. We were doing the cleaning up after dinner. A gentle, old tune was on the radio. He was washing, I was drying. He still had the last pot to wash, and shut off the water. There was music playing. He took the dishtowel from me and threw it on the counter. He took both of my hands in his. "Dance with me," he said. It wasn't a question.
I allowed him to draw me into the centre of the tiny kitchen. He wrapped his arm around my waist and held my hand. I laid my head on his shoulder, and we danced, at first unsure of the rhythm, to the music. I could feel his warmth and strength. I could hear his heart beating.
We weren't just a couple in the kitchen anymore. We were a family in their own home, dancing to the radio.
He pulled me closer to him, hugging me in his arms. I raised my head to look into his eyes. I was captivated by the love and desire in his gaze. He stopped moving. He lifted his other hand and tenderly caressed my cheek with his thumb. "Zeenat," he murmured, choking on the words. And then he kissed me. It was a kiss of desire. It was slow and intense. He kissed me with a soft pressure, a taste, a possession. I responded with all the passion I could muster, reaching up to grasp his hair, to bring him closer to me. The kiss intensified, a slow burn that flared to life within me. It was a kiss that promised a future, albeit a perilous one, and a love that could no longer be hidden, but could only be celebrated.
When we broke the kiss, we were panting. He pressed his forehead to mine; his eyes were shut. "I love you," he said, his voice barely audible. My heart stopped, then began to beat a mad, happy rhythm in my chest. I had longed to hear these words all my life, and never thought I would hear them from him. "I love you, too," I replied, my words echoing the truth of my soul. He looked at me and his eyes were open and in that moment the fear, the guilt, the doubts all disappeared. There was only him.
There was only us. And in our little kitchen, with the radio still on, we were home.
...to be continued