The dress is very ill-fitting, and makes me feel out of place. Or maybe it’s the make-up or the black choker wrapped around my neck. Either way, I don’t like how I look. Or more specifically, I don’t like why I look the way I look.
Father says I look beautiful, and my little sister agrees. Mom says I would look better if I wore my hair down. I refuse to even consider it, so she resigns to making me wear silver earrings, with pearls hanging at the end of its thin chain. I must admit, it’s the only part of my attire I like.
“Here,” Maha hands me one of her lipsticks. “Mom said to put on this one.”
“This is a very dark shade of red.” I frown at her. “You’re just 16, why the fuck do you have this?”
She gives me a sideways glance while applying her eye makeup. “I’m 16, why are you cursing at me?”
My frown deepens. “Maha you can’t just-” I begin.
“Oh god, this isn’t even mine.” She shuts her eye-kit with a snap. “It’s moms.”
“Oh.”
She gives me a sarcastic nod. “The only lipsticks I have are pink ones.” She huffs. “Dad will pounce on me before you do if I buy anything darker then hot pink.”
My eyes flit through her outfit. It was light purple with dark purple laces at it’s hem and sleeves. She looked gorgeous, with her black hair down and a light red blush dusting her cheek bones.
“Do I have to tell you pink lipstick won’t go with this?”
“I know!” She whines. “I’ll just use moms.” She plucks the lipstick out of my hands.
“Maha no.” I growl, taking it back. “Use my brown one.”
She glares at me. “You might be blind enough to not notice, but others will. Brown doesn’t go with purple.”
“Then don’t use lipstick.” I snap.
“I’ll look bad without it! I’ve literally done a full face makeup, how do you expect me to ??? use lipstick.”
“Oh god Maha, why does it even matter? They’re coming to see me, and when I’m not bothering with much, why are you?”
She puts her hands on her waist stubbornly, glaring at me. “Well if they’re not here for me, then can I please do what I want?”
“No!” I snap, now pissed.
“Oh for heavens sake you’re impossible! MOM!” She shouts, storming out of the room. I notice she has the lipstick tightly wrapped around her fingers.
Sneaky asshole.
I storm out after her. “Give that back!” I shout at her.
Just then, the door bell rings. Me and Maha pause in our tracks, and mom and father come bustling out of their room.
“Are they here?” Mom whispers loudly, hurriedly readjusting her hair.
“Only one way to find out.” Father mumbles, going to open the door.
Mom quickly scans me and Maha up and down. “Why aren’t you wearing any lipstick?” She hisses at me.
I shrug. “Too red.”
Father indicates that he’s opening the door now, and mom gestures for me to smile.
The door swings open, and there they stand. A lady that looks very familiar, and Khizer, who looks up from his phone just as the door opens. He gestures for the lady to go in first.
Smiling wide, she enters, and mom walks over to greet her.
“Hello! I’m Laila, Khizer’s Grandma.” She says grinning, and envelops mom in a hug. That’s when I realize that she’s the one who was with Khizer in the parking lot.
Khizer approaches father, and they shake hands.
He’s wearing a suit, and I suspect that he came here straight from a business meeting.
Mom breaks away from the hug and introduces me and my sister, and we smile in response. The lady’s eyes fixate on Maha for a long while, before flitting over to me. My body stiffens.
She gives me a warm smile, and hugs me like she did mom. But the intention with which she looked at my sister was very obvious.
I pull out of the hug. “This is my sister, Maha.” I look at her, then at Khizer. Mom has already introduced her, but I don’t care. “She’s sixteen,” My eyes cut to Khizer’s grandma. I smile, and it’s anything but kind. “and still in school.”
She smiles. “Oh. That’s nice.”
I remember how when I was sixteen, ladies like her used to look at me the way she looked at my sister. Mom told non of them what age I was. And the next thing I knew, they were either calling or texting mom, asking her if she was interested in getting her daughter married. That they had sons or nephews, about 24 years old, who wanted to get married. Well earning, kind and just wanting a wife who can take care of his house and keep his family together and happy. It didn’t matter at all how she looked.
I’d do anything necessary to make sure Maha didn’t go through all that.
“Hello!” Maha exclaims, breaking the awkward silence I did not realize had fallen. She greets Grandma like she would an old friend, and invites her into the living room.
Mom ushers them in, and father follows along with Khizer.
Shaking away my thoughts, I follow behind them. Mom is talking animatedly, and I think it’s about the couches Grandma complimented.
Maha excuses herself and leaves the room.
“Mansha, why don’t you bring water for our guests.” Father chirps.
“Oh no, I don’t want any, thank you. ” Grandma says smiling.
Khizer turns to me. “Can I have some?”
I begin to nod, just when his Grandma coos, “Just look at the way he’s talking to her!”
He literally just asked for water. Even father asks for that.
Not even bothering to acknowledge it, I get up and leave the room. Grandma’s voice follows me into the kitchen. “I’m sure we’re both aware of what the deal with these two is, so maybe we should skip formalities? I really want to hear Mansha’s side of the story.”
“And I Khizer’s.” I hear mom say brightly. “Mansha wasn’t very elaborate.”
“Oh, Khizer went into deep detail.”
As he should.
“Then I’d die to hear it.” That’s Maha.
I take my time filling the glass. The last thing I want is to be a part of that conversation.
My eyes dart to the kitchen window as I put the glass in the tray, and a chill crawls down my spine, like it has been since yesterday.
My colleagues were talking once, about a case where they shot the lawyer through a window. He was dealing with a criminal case, and it was going in his favor. He wouldn’t give up on it, so he was shot in his house with a bullet that shot through his window and his head.
A sniper probably.
The killer was never traced, and the case went abandoned and forgotten.
I pick up the tray and rush out of the kitchen.
“-theres really not a lot to say.” Khizer was saying.
“Oh come on! You told even less then ??? did!” Maha objects.
??? is what you call your elder sister in urdu.
Khizer grins. “You underestimate my shyness.” Everyone laughs, and I put the tray on the table.
“Your water.” I say straightening up, my eyes immediately falling on Maha’s lips. They’re the deepest shade of red.
Asshole.
“Thanks.” Khizer reaches for the glass.
“Well, if they both won’t tell the story, I will! What do you say Mansha?” His Grandma says teasingly.
I look at her. “Please, I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Tell us about your business Khizer.” Father intervenes.
“Oh I own a construction company.” He puts down his empty glass. “It’s mostly contracts with conglomerates; factories, malls, tourist sites and the like.”
Father raises an eyebrow. “Any big projects?”
Maha grunts. “Please father, it’s not like the ones he mentioned just now are small. He literally builds malls.”
Khizer chuckles.
“He means bigger then he’s already doing.” I say pointedly.
“I am in the process of trying to acquire this contract to build the apartment buildings in a residential colony.”
Fathers eyebrows rise. “That’s a huge deal.”
“It is. It’s a step up from what I usually-”
“If you man want to do work talk, go outside and let us ladies do gossip in peace!” Grandma says laughingly.
“And take Mansha with you!” Maha jokes.
“Maha!” Mom reprimands, trying hard to hide her laughter. But Khizer and father do no such thing, and are laughing freely at my expanse.
I pinch the side of Maha’s leg. “It’s extremely stereotypical to assume that only man can indulge in commercial discussions, and so a female doing so is laughter worthy.” I give everyone a pointed look. “I don’t see what’s so amusing about discriminating women in such a way.”
“Yes, miss ‘big words’, we get it. You’re a feminist. You don’t have to bring it into every conversation and ruin the mood.” Maha sneers.
I open my mouth, just to tell her to shut the hell up, but grandma beats me to it.
“Mansha, you’re a feminist?”
I momentarily stop slaughtering my sister with my eyes, instead stiffly turning towards grandma. “I am.”
“Oh.” Pause. She has a problem with that, if her expression is any indication. “Will you be… uh-working? After marriage?”
“Yes.” From the corner of my eye, I spot Khizer listening, his expression blank. Mom fiddles with her fingers uncomfortably.
“Oh.” She turns to Mom. “Because you see, I want a bride who can look after the house. Khizer doesn’t eat restaurant food, nor a cooks. So I want a wife who can make sure he eats well.” She takes a long, pitiful glance at Khizer. “And he comes home late as well, so obviously we’ll need someone to stay-”
Khizer laughs. “You’re making it sound like I’m a child.”
“No sweety. You need that.” She glances my way. “I have no problem with you working dear. It’s Khizer, my poor child needs someone to look after him. He doesn’t take care of himself, so he needs a wife who’ll do it for him.”
I raise an eyebrow, contemplating whether or not to tell her how stupid she sounds, and how her words are degrading her grandsons worth, not increasing it.
“I don’t have a problem with her working either granny. But I suppose the choice is hers, not mine, nor yours, right Mansha?”
“Yes.” My response sounds colder then I wanted it too.
Khizer smiles. “It’s ok, don’t worry about my eating or sleeping schedule. Mansha’s is as awful as mine. We’ll either improve it together, or make it worse by overdosing on caffeine.”
Grandma’s lips fall into a thin line. “That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“But it is the kids descision at the end of the day isn’t it?” Mom says smiling reassuringly. “If Khizer doesn’t have a problem with Mansha working, I don’t see why we should.”
When Khizer said what he said, a warm feeling had enveloped me, bringing my irritation at this man down a notch. But Mom’s words evaporate that feeling into thin air. I’m being told that my freedom of choice depends more on whether or not my husband will approve of it, rather then on what I want for myself. It’s ridiculous and expected and I saw it coming the moment I stepped foot into this society. And yet, it being rubbed in my face so causally angers me to my core.
It’s this weird feeling of helplessness you get even though you’re not helpless, but are made to feel that way. Your opinion does matter but not in a room full of man.
Any other day I wouldn’t have tolerated it. But now I sit silently, letting them argue with frowns on their faces, about whether or not I should be working after marriage. Because I need this marriage desperately. I ???? to go to work tomorrow. I need to win this case no matter what.
And I can’t do that if my name isn’t connected with a mans.
Somewhere, somehow, this feeling of utter disgust and powerlessness gets attached to Khizer, and I have to physically restrain myself from smashing the glass sitting on the table into his head, or maybe bolting out the front door, when he slips the engagement ring onto my finger.
My entire skin crawls when I smile at his grandmother, every nerve ending in my body resisting the action. I can barely eat during dinner, and it doesn’t help that my entire life, my personality and my future plans are so openly being discussed all through it.
Khizer’s are too, but in a less conservative and critical way, with him smiling all through it, casually taking hold of the conversation and manipulating it in his favour.
It makes me wonder why I’m not doing the same thing. Is it because I don’t have a silver tongue? Or maybe I’m feeling more helpless then I actually am, because that’s how they want me to feel.