That
night they slept somewhat peacefully. Each
planned and plotted for tomorrow before falling into a hopeful slumber.
But their plans were to be interrupted by another master planner. At
breakfast, Dilshad informed them that they were to have company for a
few days.
Asad's face fell.
Company
meant having to be nice and social and sit together and entertain
guests. That meant lesser alone time with his bride. And he would be
joining work soon so that meant hardly any time with her. He kicked
himself for being so stick-in-the-mud about the honeymoon. And, it
would be embarrassing to plan one now. Damned fool! Serves you right.
Zoya
too repressed a pang of woe. How would she put her
mess-up-Mr.-Khan's-neat-little-world into action if they were to be
surrounded by guests? She'd have to play the dutiful bahu now instead of
a clumsy charmer. Yesterday's accidental half-embrace had fueled her
dreams of engineering trips and falls to end up in his arms.
She sighed.
Oh
well. May be tricking your bashful husband into love was not manzur to Allah
miyan. Given Mr. Khan's reticence, she may as well settle for at least
two years of him calling her Ms. Farooqui. Just her luck to fall for a
man who was as formal with his wife as he would be with his secretary.
"Kaun
aa raha hai, Ammi?" Asad asked trying his best to mask his
disappointment. Dilshad grinned, already catching his fake interest. I
gave you a chance to do it your way, now we'll do it my way, she smiled to
herself. She had to. If she left it to her son, she'd probably die grandchildless.
"Mehnaz
and family. Nice no? She's your favorite cousin after all. It's too bad
they missed the wedding, but she just got back from her in-laws in
Dubai," she explained for Zoya's benefit.
Zoya
felt a pinch, or was it a punch of jealousy. Jahanpanah had favorite female cousins? Was
she the only woman he kept at a formal and judgmental distance? Was it
because he still thought of her as the disruptive tehzeeb-less pardesi outsider? Her eyes pricked.
She was sure that this Mehnaz would be beautiful and elegant and
extremely proper. Even her name sounded beautiful. She must look like
phuphi and be just as graceful. And every minute he would compare his
plain Jane, disorderly and messy wife to his cousin,
and find her lacking. Zoya saw all her naive and immature plans
splinter at her feet. She felt gauche and graceless in her well-worn
jeans and shirt.
Dilshad
felt guilty looking at Zoya's expressions change from tentative
happiness to that of full-blown despair. She had hoped that Zoya would
love the company since Najma was away for some days with relatives
visiting Ajmer Sharif. She had hoped to see the old Zoya, excited about
meeting new people, planning sightseeing trips and fun food adventures.
Seeing her retreat into her shell made her question her own plan. Had it
been a terrible idea after all?
"Zoya,
you will love Mehnaz. She is so much like you. She loves talking,
street food, watching films. I'm sure you'll get along instantly." She rushed to
reassure her shell-shocked daughter-in-law.
Asad brooded and Zoya shriveled inside herself.
Dilshad's heart sank. Ya Allah! Please let my instincts be right.
Crossing
her fingers under the table, she soldiered on. "Zoya beta, I'm sorry,
but I will need your room. Because their son is so young I want to put
them in a downstairs room. Can you empty your closet and prepare the
room for them?"
Asad's
head shot up to look at his mother gratefully. Some of his pall lifted.
May be this would lead to one good thing. His wife would be less of a
temporary roommate now.
"Umm
... Ms. Farooqui," He missed his mom rolling her eyes, and her silent "Allah!"
"I can help you move your stuff to my ... er ... our room ..."
Good boy, Dilshad rejoiced. Baby steps. One thing at a time, she consoled herself.
"Yeh theek rahega," pushed Dilshad. "They'll be here in a
few hours, so you should start right after breakfast."
Zoya
looked at her husband under her nearly-wet lashes. He looked happy enough at
meeting his cousin. Her gut plummeted to her toes, already dusty from
the ashes of her dreams to make him fall in mess with her.
He
followed her nervously into her room
and Zoya was mortified at the disorder.
"Umm ... Mr. Khan,
let me pack my things first then you can help me carry the bags to your
room. You don't have to be here." Please, please stay. No, I'm so messy,
please go. You'll hate me.
Asad
felt punched in the stomach. She still thought of it as his room? He
almost left. But then he squared his shoulders. His chest puffed and
chin lifted.
"No," he said firmly and a bit too loudly. She looked up in
alarm and he hedged, "umm, Ammi is in the kitchen, and I told her that I
would help. I promise I won't get in the way."
He sat at the edge of the bed.
"Do you want me put some old songs on?" He asked hopefully. That had connected them the last time. May it would work again.
She
beamed at him, thrilled that he wanted to be here.
"Yes, that would be
great!" she said cheerily, the gloom evaporating. This time she chose a
medley from her playlist.
"Aapko gaane acchhe lagte hain, Mr. Khan?" she
asked as she packed the bag with her clothes. What a dumb question she
mentally facepalmed. Who doesn't? But then again, this was Mr. Khan.
"I
like old songs too like you. Rafi, Talat Mahmood, Asha, Lata. But I
also like Sonu Nigam and Rahat Fateh Ali Khan," he answered, engrossed
in his work.
He had brought an empty bag of his own to pack her
knickknacks around the room and came armed with a wet washcloth to wipe
them down before packing them carefully in the bag. Her heart melted.
This man was going to make her a soggy, weepy mess, if he didn't stop
being such a sweetheart.
"I love Sonu Nigam and Rahat Fateh Ali Khan too!" she squealed in delight. "And how ironic," she continued. "I have
songs by these two in this medley. But I haven't heard any Talat Mehboob."
"Talat
Mahmood," he corrected. "All old songs. May I?" he took her iPad when
she nodded yes and searched for one of his favorite Talat songs: Jalte
Hain Jis Ke Liye.
And
as the song started, he realized how appropriate it was. This song had
suddenly transformed into the ideal gift to her, perfectly weaving in
his declaration of love.
"Dil main rakh lena isse haathon se ye, chhutey na kahin,
Geet nazuk hai mera sheeshe se bhi, tootey na kahin."
Zoya's
eyes met his and she looked away hastily, her pulse hammering. Mr.
Khan, please tell me that this means what I hope it means. Her hands
tightened painfully over the iPad.
"It's
beautiful," she murmured dreamily as the song ended. Even if he meant
it only as a friendly neutral gesture, she would still cherish this
song. She saved and added it to her playlist. "I'm going to look for
more Talat Mahboob songs to add to my playlist. Thank you sharing this
with me."
"Mahmood,"
he corrected her again as she knew he would; she repressed a giggle.
His eyes would get serious and thoughtful each time he corrected her.
Mr. Akdu Ahmed Khan. All hers. Her smile dipped, but the song gave her
an ounce of courage.
"Mr. Khan?" she asked softly, looking away and pretending to pack her bag.
"Hmm?"
"Can you not call me Ms. Farooqui any more?"
Her hands stilled waiting to hear what he would say. She looked up at him. He had frozen too.
"Umm
... voh ... actually ... I'm sorry, it's just habit, I guess," he said
sheepishly.
His heart sang. In his mind he already called her Zoya. But
he had felt shy about suddenly calling her by her first name, when all
these months he had used her last name to distance himself from her and
dam his growing attraction to her.
"What would you like me to call you?" he asked.
She looked up in surprise.
"I
mean," he reddened, realizing how dumb it sounded, "would you like me
to call you Mrs. Khan or ... Zoya?"
The way he said her name, shyly and in
such a breathy whisper, made her go soft and gooey inside.
"Zoya," she whispered too, desperately hopeful and pathetically
upbeat.
"OK," he said after a brief silence. Thank you Allah Miyan! She rejoiced.
Bags
packed, she helped him clean up the room to make it presentable for the
guests. Together they changed the sheets and replaced fresh towels. He
gave the room a final onceover and noticed that Zoya had placed a small
vase of fresh flowers from the garden. It made him smile. The flowers
reminded him of the vase of roses in their room, which she had lovingly
arranged when they returned last night. While he took her bags to their
room, she gathered the bedclothes and towels for the laundry.
Dilshad beamed as the door closed behind them. Mission accomplished. She was finally all moved into his room.
"...ah ... um ... Zoya?" Her eyes softened when she heard her name on his lips. He cleared his
throat.
"Yes, Mr. Khan." She said happily, as she arranged her clothes in one of the drawers he had emptied for her.
"Can't you call me by my name too?" She had her back to him and hugged her clothes to her chest.
When she turned to look at him he looked so vulnerable. No Mr. Khan, you'll
always be Mr. Khan to me. Or at least until you kiss me.
Her
lashes fluttered over her heated cheeks. "Umm ... I may need some getting
used to it ... Asad."
He took a step forward ready to crush her in his
arms.
"But
is it OK if I call you Mr. Khan in front of everyone else?"
I don't
care what you call me in front of others as long as I can hear you say
my name when we are by ourselves. Say my name again.
"Say my name again," he didn't realize he's said it aloud. He blushed, and so did she.
"... Asad."
Once more, please. His eyes darkened.
"Allah
miyan, what's wrong with you Mr. Khan!" He couldn't decide whether he
was happy that she was back to her old self, or completely crushed that
she had gone back to calling him Mr. Khan.
"Where are all your shirts? There were so many yesterday."
"I don't need so many. Some of the older ones I'm going to give away. Now you can hang up some of your clothes in this space."
"What? Did you do this just to make room for my clothes?" He ducked his head, embarrassed. "That's so sweet of
you."
"But they were such nice shirts," she continued. "Can I see them? Can I keep a couple?"
"Why? I'll buy you new shirts."
No! I want your shirt. "Umm, no, I like the feel of old soft shirts. I could wear them for sleeping."
He
nearly passed out with the jolt of current that ran through his body.
Sleeping in his shirt? Taut with yearning, he imagined her in his shirt.
Just his shirt and nothing else. Her slipping into his shirt after they
had--"
Zoya!
He
clenched his fists and turned abruptly; she panicked. Had she offended
him? She nearly reached
out to touch his shoulder.
He bent to open the bottom-most drawer.
"They are here, you can choose whichever one you want. But you can
choose any from the ones hanging up there too."
She bent and rifled
through the shirts, messing up their folds and creases. He wanted to
kiss her fingers and then turn her palms up and kiss them too.
She
pulled out a snowy white shirt. "This is perfect," she announced. "But
Mr. Khan ... um ... Asad ... it's in such good condition. Why would you give
it away?"
"I was saving them for my wife," he blurted, surprised at his own audacity. Her shocked eyes clashed and entangled with his.
"Your wife is a lucky woman," she parried valiantly, and he blushed with pleasure.
"Really?"
he asked, bolder now, and taking a hopeful step forward. "I thought she
would find me boring and not want to be with someone so serious and
Akdu."
"What nonsense! She must be really stupid if she thinks that."
"No, you have no right to call my wife that. She's one of the smartest women I know."
Zoya gasped with delight and would have jumped in his arms.
"Oh really?" she demanded playfully, "I'll call her stupid if I want to."
"No! you--"